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Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Mr Darcy was gone. I was not particularly concerned, for he always rose early, and I had wakened later than usual. It was not until Mrs de Bourgh gloated at breakfast that I realised what it meant.
“You have driven him away,” she announced. “It is as I expected. The only surprising part is how quickly you were able to accomplish it. He tired of you so swiftly, but then, men are like this—they act on impulse and then live with regret. My daughter and I often laughed about their natures. ‘Men will do anything to have what they want from a woman, and then spend the rest of their lives whining into their cups that they got it,’ she’d often say. I suppose he will live at his house in London, for the most part, from now on.”
I was alarmed. Had he truly left the estate for more than just the day? But I knew better than to let her see it. “If that is true,” I said easily, “at least I have Pemberley to comfort me.”
She turned white—whiter than I could have imagined possible since she was already so pale. Hers was a fury that burned cold. Immediately she stood. “You will never belong here,” she said. “Never.” She swept out of the room.
I tried not to be anxious, but I returned to my rooms to search for any sign of a note. There was nothing. I looked out of the window; the weather was not so awful as yesterday, but the roads would be slick, and in some places, mud and snow would be a danger. It was dreadfully cold. Had my little defiance been such a terrible thing that he felt he must flee? It seemed ridiculous.
Mr Williams arrived for his breakfast, and this time I waited until he had eaten and was departing before approaching him.
“May I speak with you, sir?”
He was instantly wary. “I…that is, I have an engagement very soon with—”
“I shall not keep you. Allow me to walk you out.”
He nodded, and I pulled my shawl more tightly around me as we stepped out into the chill. As soon as we were out of earshot, I asked him my questions.
“Has Mr Darcy left the estate? If so, where did he go?”
His discomfort was obvious. “Er…he had business in London. Unavoidable. Could not be delayed.” He flushed, a poor liar.
I stopped, peering at him. “Is he really for London?”
“Oh, yes. To be sure.” His expression conveyed an earnestness that would be difficult to pretend.
So at least that much was true. “Do you know when he intends to return?”
“As to that, ma’am, I am sorry. I do not.”
“Was this trip planned before yesterday?”
“It…er, that is, I am sure he…it was business that has been urgently awaiting his attention.”
Liar. Mr Darcy told me only the day before that we would go to London the next time the weather cleared, implying a wait of at least a month or two. He had no intention of leaving, yesterday. The only thing that had changed was that I had gone shopping and heard some foolish gossip. Incredible.
“Does everyone in town, with the possible exception of Miss Bickford, believe he murdered his first wife?”
Mr Williams actually halted in his tracks, his expression a picture of alarm and dismay as he stared back at me.
“Did you think I would not ask about it? I would have asked him, had he remained long enough. Now I am asking you. Do me the credit of answering truthfully, if you please.”
There was something angry in his expression now. At Mr Darcy, or at me, for pressing? “He is the best landlord and the best master,” he said grimly.
“That is not an answer to the question I asked,” I replied, exasperated. “I will make this simpler. Do you believe that he killed Anne Darcy?”
I do not know what I expected him to say—but at a minimum, a vehement denial, followed by, perhaps, an expostulation upon the stupidity of the population of Hopewell. Instead, he opened and closed his mouth several times, started to speak, his cheeks stained so red that I knew he was about to lie again. And then, he turned around and walked away without saying a word.
* * *
I stood, staring after him. I felt sick, actually, physically ill. Despite the cold, I set off in the other direction, covering a good distance in ground-eating strides. What could his lack of an answer mean? Why would he not defend Mr Darcy? The path I was on led steadily upwards, for Pemberley was set between two sets of higher, forested peaks. I barely noticed the climb; I was too upset, too appalled. I needed to talk with someone, but whom?
The bare branches of trees mocked me, snatching at my hair, pointing at my distress—reminding me of the claw-like hands of Mrs de Bourgh, always watching and waiting, hoping for my downfall.
My path crested at a lookout, of sorts, and there I stopped, the wind at this higher elevation whipping my skirts around my legs and my hair from its neat coiffure. Mr Darcy, a murderer. They might just as easily have accused him of being a leech hunter or a resurrectionist, for all the sense it made.
