But again, Hatcher engaged him, even as Geoffrey was having trouble holding Gawain at bay. “That’s quite an assumption, young master. Even incisive.”
“I did not mean to be. If you had – ”
“If I had what?”
But this time, when Hatcher stepped forward, Gawain could not be held back. He was still a strong hound, raised for the hunt and of superior breed, and even Geoffrey could not contain him. He leapt at Hatcher, and bit into his leather shoe. “Damn mutt – ” Hatcher said, and kicked Gawain, who was knocked back with a wail.
Geoffrey was not the pansy of Eton. He could throw a punch, and it took a very strong arm to catch it. “Don’t touch my dog!”
Unfortunately, Hatcher had a strong arm, and he held Geoffrey’s arm in a tight grip. “Don’t touch me, Mr. Darcy, unless you want to face the consequences.”
Mr. Jenkins hobbled up next to Hatcher. “Please, Mr. Hatcher, don’t do– ”
But by then Gawain had recovered, and now mercilessly leapt at the man holding his master’s arm. This time, Mr. Wallace, who had been watching the exchange, drew his gun and fired.
“Gawain!” Geoffrey screamed as he pulled himself free of Hatcher at the sound of his dog’s cry. From the corner of his eye, he could see Hatcher grab Jenkins’ cane out from under him and raise it to strike, but that did not register until the blow came down, fast and hard on his head, and he still had not reached his dog.
Somewhere between the slam of wood into his temple and the completion of his fall backwards Geoffrey saw it all – the limping dog running off, the men shouting, Mr. Jenkins grabbing the wall for support. It all became a haze as Gawain disappeared from his vision entirely. “Go,” he whispered, and hit the ground. The shock of it was too much for his head to take, and everything went black.
Chapter 11 – The Tale of Sir Gawain
Breakfasting that morning at Pemberley was later than usual. Nearly everyone had been up late to their own degrees, and there was no particularly pressing business. Darcy did some paperwork before the rest of his family rose. To his surprise, the first ones at the breakfast table were his nephew and father-in-law.
“Goodness,” Mr. Bennet said, “I thought we would be all alone.”
“Mr. Bennet. And George – I see you weren’t up too late.”
George just gave a tiny smile and continued salting his eggs.
Elizabeth joined them, followed by Sarah, and eventually Anne Darcy. “Papa,” she said, “have you seen Geoffrey?”
“I have not. I believe he is on an errand,” Darcy said as she took her seat.
“He should show you his ring.”
“What ring?”
“The Bingleys got him a signet ring,” George clarified, “with his initials. It is very nice.”
Darcy commented that it seemed like an appropriate gift, and breakfast continued.
“Mama,” Sarah said, “are Sir and Lady Maddox coming over again tonight?”
“No, dear. We are invited to Chatton House instead and shall see them there.” The Maddoxes were staying at Chatton House, and it was a rare opportunity for Anne and Sarah to see Emily Maddox, to whom they were both close in age. The only one closer was Edmund, but he was a boy, and the only one who played with boys was Georgiana. Finally, Isabel appeared for breakfast, followed by the youngest Darcy, Cassandra, who was learning table manners in the relaxed setting of a lazy morning with family. As she climbed into her seat next to her grandfather, there remained only one empty.
In fact, it stayed empty until the completion of breakfast, when Elizabeth offered to escort their daughters to Chatton House and kissed her husband good-bye. Darcy, who had actually been quite surprised that his son had it in him to do his chores so early, after what he had been informed was a very late night, was beginning to get an unsettled feeling at his son’s non-appearance. Reynolds could only offer the time Geoffrey had left.
Lacking better options, Mr. Darcy asked for Mrs. Annesley, and found her in the kitchen, supervising the new serving maids.
“We’ve not seen the young master for some time now, Mr. Darcy,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder. “He left out that way, sir.”
He nodded his thanks and opened the servant exit to the bright, clear morning outside; a perfectly good March day. So why was he so unsettled? He had been fine when he sat down to breakfast, and it was often enough that Geoffrey was not present, either sleeping in or already off with his cousins, but something unnerved him.
Maybe the boy had simply gone to Chatton House and not –
A whimper interrupted his thoughts. “Gawain,” he said, squinting in the sun as he recognized the hound approaching with a visible limp. He had known that sooner or later the dog would injure himself and have to be put down – just as Darcy’s dogs had been, one after the other – but he did not imagine him that old yet, surely?
Gawain bowed his head and made his way over to Darcy, nudging his nose hard into Darcy’s knees. “What is it, boy?” He knelt down to the dog’s level, and that was when he noticed the blood. Gawain had a very dark brown coat, and so it had been obscured until closer scrutiny. “What happened to you?” His second question was automatic. “Where is your master? Where’s Geoffrey?”
Of course the dog could not answer him; he chided himself for thinking otherwise. But Gawain continued to nudge him, and whined as Darcy’s hand found the wound. The dog seemed to have been grazed by something on his foreleg – he had been shot.
And Geoffrey was nowhere to be seen.
He did not want to send Pemberley into a panic just yet. If the servants panicked, he was more likely to, and Elizabeth was all the way at Chatton House – her calming influence so far away from him now. He did not go inside. He picked up Gawain, carrying him in both arms as he would a very large puppy, and headed straight to the house for the huntsman. “Geoffrey is missing.”
His huntsman nodded gravely, unquestioning, and handed him a rifle.
******************************************
The team was assembled with all expediency. From the house he grabbed Reynolds, and with him came George Wickham, too clever to be left out of anything, even if he held a gun like it was a foreign object. Darcy wondered if he could even fire it.
Gawain’s leg was splinted as a quick-fix by the huntsman, and with a party of five they started off. To no great surprise to those who knew of Geoffrey’s morning errand, the still-limping Gawain headed down the hill that lead to Mr. Jenkins’ land. Even though he was obviously in pain, he managed to keep ahead no matter how fast they walked, and growled when they did not keep up, eager to get on.
“Show us the way, Sir Gawain,” Darcy said softly, only speaking so that some noise other than feet in the grass would be louder than the sound of his pounding heart. When they at last reached the house, all was quiet, with no smoke from the chimney, and the door closed.
The huntsman actually stopped Darcy from approaching and knocked on the door first. “Mr. Jenkins?” When there was no immediate response, he did not hesitate to open the door and enter, rifle raised.
There was no one home. There was no appearance of a fight, or anything amiss, but Gawain entered and whimpered, sniffing at the floor. “Searching for your master, are you?” George said as the men searched the house.
“It’s empty, sir,” the huntsman said. “’cept the coals in the stove are still warm. Someone was here this mornin.’”
Darcy charged into the kitchen, and checked the coals for himself, finding them warm but not hot, and the dirt beneath them wet, as if someone had quickly doused them. The bag of Pemberley coal was on the ground, untouched – doubtlessly the one Geoffrey had been asked to bring, as a sign of goodwill, from landlord to tenant.
“Uncle Darcy,” George said, calling him back to the entrance. “Look.” He pointed at the floor. “The rug.”
It did not belong there. It was a nice rug, probably made by a local weaver, not the type meant to walk over with dirty boots, but it
was right by the entrance, although it had probably come from the bedroom. Darcy and George knelt down and lifted it up.
On Mr. Jenkins’ floor beneath it was the real mat, soiled from use, and stained with blood. The huntsman leaned over and scooped up some soil, smelled it, and confirmed that the blood was most likely not canine, but human.
******************************************
Darcy briefly weighed his options for the most immediate decision – to go out with the huntsman and every other available man with the hounds to scour the woods for a trail, or to wait for Elizabeth’s return from Chatton House, which would no doubt be imminent. How much practical help could his wife provide, versus how much comfort she would have to be included from the first moment? But could he really wait at home now, sitting in his castle like a useless tyrant?
He entertained himself watching the head gardener, who was too old for a chase, properly splint Gawain’s leg. George carried Gawain’s mat from Geoffrey’s room into the study so the noble hound could rest, though the dog remained agitated.
When he had decided to await the arrival of his wife, trusting his men to begin the search competently without him, Darcy chose to go from one horrible option (watching the men leave with the hounds to search for his son) to another (informing Mr. Bennet of the situation). As usual, his father-in-law was in the library, reading, not quite ready for his mid-morning nap. “Mr. Bennet,” he said with a grave bow. “I should inform you that Geoffrey is missing.”
Mr. Bennet’s mind was sharp, but sometimes his response was a little slow. “Was that all the commotion with the men in the hallway?”
“Yes. Elizabeth is on her way back from Chatton House. I wanted to tell her myself, but I fear the man I sent may tell her anyway.”
“And you’re sure this is not a prank with Miss Bingley?”
“Geoffrey is too old for pranks.” He added, “Though, I wish I could say he wasn’t too old, and that it is all just a joke.”
Whatever Mr. Bennet had to add to that was interrupted by a cry, as Elizabeth Darcy leapt into her husband’s arms as she would have when they were younger, but for much more different reasons. There was no regard for her father’s presence as he embraced her tightly. “He will be all right.”
“They’ve found him?”
“They will.”
Even though she was quickly followed by her daughters and most of the Bingley clan, no one interrupted this exchange between husband and wife, as Elizabeth sobbed into his chest for several minutes before they finally separated. Darcy wiped his eyes before turning to face his guests. “They’re looking for him now. I was going to go out with them – but I wanted to be here for you all,” he said, turning to his three daughters. “Your brother is going to be all right.”
“Then why do you have to keep saying it?” Cassandra Darcy wailed, and grabbed her father’s waist. He didn’t stop her, gripping her shoulders as he turned numbly to Bingley.
“I’m at your disposal,” Bingley said before Darcy could speak. “As are the Maddoxes.”
“Good,” Darcy said, suddenly realizing it was promising to have both a doctor and a warrior at his side. “I’ll need both.”
******************************************
A second party was organized, this time containing both Darcy and Bingley, along with several of Bingley’s own men, to go out in the opposite direction and cover more ground. The woods around and beyond Pemberley were not like the great forests of the mainland, but they were big enough and today they seemed to go on forever. They crossed land where tenants were working in the fields or sitting on their porches, and who rushed to hear the news of why a very exclusive hunting party was out in their fields, obviously not chasing a stag. Unfortunately, none of them had seen Geoffrey Darcy that day, or Mr. Jenkins. Darcy immediately mentioned Hatcher, as he suspected that this mischief, as had all the other recent problems, somehow led back to him. If they were false suspicions, let them be so. His son was missing and that was all that mattered.
“We’ve seen him around,” Mrs. Robinson said, “but not today. And he doesn’t bother with the likes of farmer’s wives. It’s the men he’s interested in.”
“Any men in particular that have been attaching themselves to him?”
She rolled up her apron and said, “Oh, I couldn’t tell ya that – I hardly leave my own house. I do wish I could tell ya somethin’ Mr. Darcy – he is such a sweet boy.”
“He is,” Darcy said, enjoying her use of the present tense. “Thank you.” That it might be inaccurate was in the back of his mind, of course, upon seeing the blood on the floor, but the notion was too terrible to begin to contemplate. Yet.
When they returned, the sun was already going down. The day was just too short. He sent another group out with lanterns as he entered, but even his men had been searching for hours now and were exhausted. The first one to the door was Georgiana Bingley, but the look on his face must have told her everything.
“Papa,” she whimpered, and fell into her father’s arms. Darcy had never seen her so emotional – not since she was a child. “I want to help.”
“You can help by comforting your aunt and cousins.”
“I want to really help. I can’t sit around.”
Bingley frowned. “Georgie,” he said with a swallow. Darcy wondered how he would find a way to refuse her; Georgiana had never been an easy child and she had not softened with age. “We’re not letting any of the children help. If someone went after Geoffrey – ”
“I’m not a child!” she said, and abandoned him, leaving him with his arms empty.
“Mr. Darcy,” said the doorman, “A Mr. Hatcher to see you.”
“Get me my rifle.”
His servant bowed and handed over the gun. Darcy had only just relieved himself of it, and it was still loaded. He raised it at the figure in the doorway.
“This is the greeting I get?” Brian Maddox said, entering. “The other fellow is still outside. Not that I’m not accustomed to having a gun pointed at my head.”
Darcy called for the huntsman on his way out, and told his manservant to keep anyone else out of the front hallway. He did raise his rifle again, as did the others (even Bingley) at the man who entered, as unaffected and confident as ever, even facing three men with rifles and one with a sword.
In fact, Mr. Hatcher didn’t seem the least bit concerned at the number of weapons pointed at him. “Mr. Darcy,” he said with a bow.
“Where is my son?” Darcy said, his voice only bordering on calm, as he pointed his rifle at Mr. Hatcher’s forehead.
“For a member of polite society, you’re sure not being very polite with your guests,” Hatcher replied.
“No, I am not.” Darcy cocked the rifle for emphasis. “Where is my son?”
“So you’re to assume I’ve done something so terrible as taken him? Do you always assume the worst of people?”
“Am I wrong?”
Hatcher grinned viciously and reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a ring that shone in the lamplight. “I believe this will be familiar.”
Darcy lowered his weapon long enough to snatch it from him. He had never seen it before, but it was a signet ring with the initials G.D., so he could only assume it had been the aforementioned birthday gift. How long ago that wonderful day seemed now. “There’s blood on it.” There was a little, smeared into the engravings.
“He’s alive. If you wish him to stay that way, you might want to lower your weaponry, Mr. Darcy.”
“The constable is on his way,” Darcy said, “but he won’t be here in time to save you from me if you don’t tell me where Geoffrey is.”
“And if I don’t return in full health to my men, you won’t be in time to save Master Geoffrey.” Everything about Hatcher was cool and composed. He was holding all the cards and he knew it – and how to play them. “Now I will make my final request for an assurance of my safety by the repositioning of your many expensive weapons, and if you value his heal
th, you might want to consider the request, and the idea of a polite discussion instead of a threat.”
Everyone was waiting for Darcy – Bingley, Mr. Maddox, Reynolds, and the huntsman. The silence was so heavy that one could hear one’s own breathing. At last, Darcy huffed and lowered his rifle, and the others did the same, though they were hardly set aside. “How much do you want?” he said.
“Immediately we come to the question of money,” Hatcher said.
“A gentleman does not waste his guest’s time,” Darcy sneered. “You have your price. Name it.”
“If you think I can be bought with bank notes, you are mistaken, Mr. Darcy. I am a representative of the people, and their demands are more complex. Yes, money is involved. Money, land, and rights. And in order to not waste my host’s time, I have prepared the people’s list of demands.” His hand moved to the inside of his coat, and though some of the guns went back up, he did not pause, withdrawing only a scroll, tied neatly with a ribbon. “I will give you the evening to consider them.” He offered the scroll to Darcy, who snatched it up but did not open it. “Obviously some of the points are negotiable. I have noted those with a mark. The others are not.”
“I want to see my son.”
“Then I would advise you to peruse my literature.”
Darcy huffed. It was clearly taking all of his self-control – and he normally had quite a bit of it – to keep him from throttling the man before him. “I need to know he is alive.”
“That you will have to take my word on,” Hatcher said. “I do not believe you have another choice at this time. Yes, he is alive.”
“Then why is his blood on Mr. Jenkins’s floor?”
This time, Mr. Hatcher appeared to search for the appropriate answer before giving it. “He bled when we struck him. He is a more fragile boy than hard working men are used to dealing with. He has a wound on his head, but the bleeding is stopped. Nonetheless, I would not draw out these negotiations beyond what is absolutely necessary. For his health.”
The Knights of Derbyshire Page 12
