“Fitzwilliam would have left such matters to his family,” Lady Catherine waved a dismissive hand.
Elizabeth caught Georgiana’s eye, and they shared a mischievous smile. The girl tiptoed softly toward the writing desk that had become Elizabeth’s private work space. “I believe, my lady, that he did leave a signed directive here, and another copy with Miss Darcy’s solicitor. Is that it, that you have found in the writing desk, Miss Darcy?” Georgiana came round the desk, a folded note in her hand. She passed it silently to her aunt and then stepped back, shielding herself behind Elizabeth from the firestorm that was to come.
Lady Catherine had taken the letterhead, and her countenance washed white with rage as she read. Elizabeth knew perfectly well what it said;
“’Miss Elizabeth Bennet is to hold administrative authority over household affairs during my absence, her judgment subject only to Miss Darcy’s wishes. Any business affairs Mr Jefferson would normally report to the Master or Mistress shall be directed through my agent, Edward Gardiner of Cheapside, London.’”
The note went on to specify the dates and events through which his wishes should remain in effect, and even named Mr Edward Gardiner and Mr Charles Bingley as proxy guardians to Miss Darcy, should some accident befall him in his travels.
The note crumpled slowly in her hand as it fell, shaking and ice cold. “Lies!” came the savage whisper. “Impossible!” she ejaculated more forcefully. “You would deny the claims of family, of interest, in favour of this… this interloper! Georgiana Darcy, I—”
Georgiana was still cowering as her aunt warmed up to her tirade. Insults and threats continued to shower down, causing her to flinch with each one, but Elizabeth stood stalwart, her expression serene. After a moment, she nudged the young mistress with an elbow and whispered something that Lady Catherine did not trouble herself to hear. Georgiana gaped back in astonishment, but Elizabeth smiled, tipped her head, and whispered, “You can do it!”
Georgiana took a trembling step from behind Elizabeth and drew a galvanising breath. Lady Catherine was still raging. “—My sister’s daughter, and my brother’s own son, handing over authority that rightly belongs only to our family, to a tradesman and a country ch… what do you have to say for yourself, Georgiana?” She ceased her vitriol long enough to pause mid-insult and point an accusing finger at her niece.
Georgiana cleared her throat and dropped a nervous curtsey. “If you please, Aunt, I shall have Mrs Reynolds prepare your favourite room. I am afraid I was conducting some business with my steward when you arrived, which remains unfinished. I must return to it now.” She swallowed, blinked hopefully at Elizabeth, then curtseyed once more before walking quickly to the door. She summoned the footman and gave her direction, curtseyed a third time to her speechless aunt, and then disappeared from sight. Elizabeth had no doubts that the girl had broken to a run as soon as she could.
Lady Catherine turned slowly back to Elizabeth, her expression black and her jaw welded in fury. Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “Would your ladyship care for some refreshment after the long drive?”
The lady’s mouth worked and she spat out a sullen, “No!” before turning on her heel and swirling from the room.
Elizabeth released a shaking breath. She still could not decide whether it was for the best that she had been present for that particular confrontation. It had been Colonel Fitzwilliam’s wish, and Georgiana had been grateful for it. That would have to suffice, she decided, but she still did not like feeling the intruder in what ought to have been a family matter.
Lady Catherine had scarcely been gone a moment when Lydia’s furtive shape peeked around the door frame. “Laws, I thought she would never leave! Has she really gone?”
“Only above stairs. I believe she has determined to remain some while.”
Lydia entered the room fully, fanning herself as she had begun to do of late. “What a horrid woman! I thought she was going to eat poor Georgie. Is she always so friendly?”
Elizabeth chuckled. “She is more amenable if one compliments her, but her fireplace and her grounds were not at hand today for me to admire.”
Lydia made a face. “I can see why she likes that nit-wit Collins for a parson. Only think, Lizzy, if you had married him! You never did back down from a match of words, and you never fake a compliment. It makes me laugh to think how she would have had to put up with you all the time! Oh, better yet, think if you were to marry a relation of hers—Colonel Fitzwilliam, for example. I think he likes you well enough, and would it not infuriate her? Better still, if you had married her favourite Mr Darcy—oh, how terribly funny it would have been! I daresay she would have driven all the way to Longbourn in the middle of the night, just to have her say—oh, I think my side shall split from laughing!”
Elizabeth sighed, her shoulders drooping. “Surely even Lady Catherine would not do such a thing. Come, dear, let us look in on Georgiana. I believe this day shall see even more trials before it is over!”
32
Leicester
Bingley’s horse was a drastic improvement over the hired mounts Darcy had ridden into Hertfordshire, but all too soon he had to part with it. With regret, Darcy watched as it was led away. Bingley’s gelding would be rested, fed, and sent back to its master on the morrow. Had he been willing to travel more gently, he could perhaps have done without changing horses for a while longer, but he did not dare tarry. Fortunately, the loan of the horse and the purse—not to mention the attire—had done some little to improve Darcy’s status at the coaching inns, and he was thereafter able to secure better horses and better accommodations.
Bingley had seen him go with some alarm. “Truly, Darce,” he had pleaded two days earlier, “you mustn’t leave all at once! Stay, and at least see my wife and take a meal with us. You look dreadful, old chap, and my Jane would be horrified to know that I let you go on so.”
“That is to her credit, particularly considering the injustice I once did her, but I hold you to your promise, Bingley. It is chance enough that one of your stablemen might have recognised me. You mustn’t tell your wife.”
“Not even she!” Bingley had mourned. “Certainly, I shall be true to my word, but must I keep this even from Jane? She would be as pleased as I that you have returned, and I would dearly wish to share all with her. You know Jane, she is discretion itself, and would never reveal a word, nor even a hint of one. Why, I recall a time when even you could not discern her thoughts!”
Darcy had paused here; half-turned away and staring at the ground. “Forgive me, Bingley,” he had spoken in a hushed voice. “I was wrong about her. You have done well, and I am pleased for you.” He had turned back to his friend, sorrow creasing his brow. “I nearly cost you the very greatest happiness, and it was naught but arrogance on my part.”
Bingley had smiled in that modest, boyish way of his. “If you were not just returned from the dead, I might find it in my heart to be cross with you—and Caroline as well, for I know what part she played. I ought to be infuriated at the deception, but you did send me that last note, which I take to mean you had come to think differently on the matter. Yes, let the past be buried. Do not think on it any longer, I beg you, for I do not count it arrogance that you attempted to guide me as you thought best. It was I, after all, who heeded when I ought not to have. Certainly, I have not profited by my marriage in aught but matters of the heart, but in that respect, I am as rich as Croesus.”
Darcy had dared to look his friend full in the face then, and what followed might have been a moment of such vulnerability as would have done him much good. Instead, he had simply given a brisk nod and turned away, taking a handful of mane and stepping into the saddle. “I thank you, Bingley. I shall write as soon as I may.”
He had sorted the riding crop in his hand in preparation to ride away when he had sighed and looked back down, a conflicted expression on his face. “I would take back my request—as regards Mrs Bingley, that is. I would be gratified to know
that she was aware of my circumstances and wished me well. Such a blessing from a woman as generous as she cannot do me harm.” Bingley had beamed his satisfaction, and Darcy had ridden away, leaving much unsaid.
By this, the third day of his travels, Darcy had begun to recover some little of his physical strength. It came at a price—every muscle screamed in protest whenever he dismounted, and his once-strong thighs could barely grip the saddle from exhaustion. It would be a temporary state, he comforted himself, and he would be once more hale and robust ere long. For that reason alone, he would have continued on horseback as far as Pemberley, but his desire to avoid the close interior of a carriage—however private—added incentive to his desire to ride.
Unfortunately, his exhaustion forced him to dismount for the day much earlier than he might have liked and far sooner than would have been possible in a proper carriage or for a hardened rider. Thus, he was still just under two full days from Pemberley when he drew up at a small coaching inn for the night. He wearily applied for a room and a meal and drew himself into the darkest corner of the long board to wait. A private room would have been preferable, but Darcy had reasoned that taking one would make him the more conspicuous, not the less, and so he retreated as far as he could in the large open room and tried to adopt the air of the most ordinary of men.
Some while later, another traveler staggered in. He approached the tap, and though Darcy could not hear his voice, his gestures spoke of urgent requests for a drink and bed. Darcy caught an accidental glimpse of the horse he had left outside just before the door closed again, and the poor beast looked to be wrung with sweat and still breathing hard. His rider seemed to be faring little better, wavering where he stood. He was slight of build and not tall, his speech and clothing marking him as one of the lower denizens of London, rather than a country oaf such as one usually saw in these parts.
Darcy narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to catch another glimpse through the window of the traveler’s horse as the groom led it past in the growing dusk. A thoroughbred, and a fine one, too. Certainly, it was no hired post horse, but a gentleman’s mount, and probably not one accustomed to such riding.
How could this rough fellow have obtained such a creature? It seemed unlikely that anyone would dare march in to a public inn on a stolen horse, but the cost of the animal would have been far beyond the means of most. Perhaps the man was on a mission for some patron or master, but he would never have countenanced one of his own emissaries treating his horses in such a fashion, nor would he have lent one of his fine mounts for the task. Darcy sighed and let his curiosity rest when a greasy platter dropped before him for his meal.
He picked at his food—not for lack of appetite, for he was famished from his travels, and no longer above even the admittedly humble efforts of the inn’s cook. His dark eyes roved the room as he tried to eat, the food forming a lump in his throat every time another glanced in his direction. He considered taking it to his room to eat in privacy, but the stifling confines of whatever dark chamber had been assigned to him for the night were not to be borne a moment longer than necessary. Indeed, half his nights he had spent pacing the stable yard or even sitting upright in one of the private drawing rooms, once they had been abandoned by paying customers for the night.
Darcy swallowed another tasteless bite—it might as well have been sawdust—and at last thrust his plate aside. A fashionably dressed couple caught his eye as they walked up to their room for the night, the gentleman taking a folded bit of newspaper from his lady to unburden her hands. He left it carelessly on the board near Darcy’s elbow, assuming some other traveler would also wish to read the headlines.
Darcy lifted a brow. It was the Society pages, always popular with the ladies. It was a publication he typically abhorred, but surely much must have occurred in his absence. With a mixture of curiosity and boredom, he flipped the pages open.
Lord Ashby was removing from London to Bath, and letting out his country estate to some retired naval admiral. Small surprise there. Lady Blackthorne was at last engaged to marry again—a relief, he decided.
His eyes scanned down banal announcements and gossip until they locked in horror on one particular entry. Stunned, he read the lines thrice over, until his hands had involuntarily crumpled the entire paper in rage. Georgiana and Richard to marry!
All the room turned to stare at him as he stumbled clumsily to his feet, shaking in fury. Betrayed by Richard! After all his staunch defence of his cousin to that cursed Vasconcelos, to return home and be slapped by the cold truth of it all! Richard who had ultimately stabbed him in the back, Richard who had orchestrated his “demise,” Richard who now controlled Georgiana and Pemberley, and Richard who had charmed Elizabeth into coming to Derbyshire to sway his sister—what lies had he told her?
Darcy hurtled through the front door of the inn, wishing to be far from human eyes. A horse! He needed a horse, and immediately, to gallop away his frustrations and race instantly to Pemberley. It was not too late! The wedding had not yet taken place; it was only the engagement that had been announced. Instantly, he cursed himself for a fool—he had not checked the date on the top of the paper, and did not dare make another appearance indoors to search for it.
His teeth were set into a terrifying snarl when he approached the stable to demand a mount in the middle of the night. He cared not if it were in the dark—his vision was black with fury anyway, and if his horse took a fall, perhaps it would end his torment. Except then, his nostrils curled in contempt, Richard truly would have no one to stop him! How inconvenient for Richard if Darcy presented himself at Pemberley, very much alive and spitting vengeance!
He had to kick a snoring stable boy to wake him. The boy had tumbled into the straw at the feet of the exhausted horse ridden in by that late traveler, and Darcy, still shaking his savage ire, paused a moment to rest a hand on the poor beast. He would need a clear head, and stroking dog or horse had always held the power to calm him in the moment.
At once, his eyes narrowed. He lifted the forelock of the horse to examine its marking, then bent to look over the rest of the animal. Half sock on the left hind, small white circle on the right fore coronet…. This was his horse! It was one of the young hunters he had in training last summer—a promising jumper, if Darcy’s trial rides were any indication. What the devil was it doing here, ridden like a common hack by a mad urchin? The poor horse jerked its head away in protest, and Darcy realised his fingers had clenched painfully through its forelock. He released it with an apologetic pat.
Darcy gave terse orders to the stable boy that he would ride this horse, and no other, exerting his claim of ownership. The lad protested, as was only right, that the horse required rest, but Darcy was too shaken to hear of it. He would lead the animal, if that was what he must do, but he was putting a stop to the plundering of all that was his. And now, for the horse thief himself!
Darcy’s mind spun, alive now to what he had not noticed earlier. How could he have not recognised it? He had seen that rat once before!
He stormed back within the inn, unconscious of how his frame seemed to have grown a full six inches to the awed spectators. Where before they had scarcely bothered to notice the modest gentleman who kept quietly to himself, now they beheld a man of some great account, seething in wrath before them. Darcy searched the stunned onlookers until he beheld the cowering little man in the back, just ducking behind a bar stool. “You!”
The man leapt up and tried to dart away like a frightened rabbit, but the innkeeper intercepted him. Darcy was clearly a man of power and import, and such a man’s patronage was far more valuable than one ragged traveler. Darcy was upon the man in an instant, collaring him and dragging him out the door.
“Don’ ‘urt me, suh!” the coward yelped through his broken teeth, kicking and straining at the clothing Darcy gripped. “’T’weren’t my fault, suh! Whatever ye want, it were Jakes wha’ did it!”
Darcy dragged the fellow back toward the st
ables and flung him on the ground—or rather, on a carriage-sized mound somewhat softer than earth and undoubtedly warmer. The man complained, but did not dare roll away, for Darcy had leaned threateningly low. “Do you know me?” he demanded.
The man took several seconds to verify what he saw, the voice he heard, then his eyes widened even further. His mouth fell open helplessly.
“The docks! Do you know me?” Darcy bellowed.
The man nodded wordlessly, as little whimpers trembled from his throat.
“You were working for someone! Tell me his name!”
“I don’ know, suh! Jakes, it were ‘e what talked to the gen’l’man. A dandy, ‘e said, ‘e never gave ‘is name. I swear it suh, tha’s a’ I know!”
“And what did they pay you?”
“I—I got a ‘alf crown. Tha’s a’!”
“And spent it on your whore, no doubt. Was she a part of your scheme too, to distract me while you came from behind to strike?”
The man’s mouth dropped open again and he spread his hands. “Dinah? She’s too ‘igh and mighty fer the likes o’ me now, she says. A fine job o’ settin’ ‘er up yo’ did, suh.”
Darcy shook his head and held up a hand. “What I must know immediately is why you ride from the north as if the fires of hell rode behind you. You come from Pemberley, if I am not mistaken.”
The man’s silence answered for him.
“Then someone still required your services! Out with it, man. What were you to do at the estate?”
The little man gulped, his eyes wide and blinking until Darcy lifted him by the collar once more and shook him. “Why where you there?”
These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 37
