Mr. Darcy’s Cipher

by Violet King

  “Nothing trying, I hope?”

  “Please, Caroline.”

  “Meredith!” Caroline looked back at her maid. “This way, come along.”

  Caroline did not bother to remember the names of her servants. She addressed her male servants as John, except for Mr. Bingley’s valet, and called the maids Mary. Except for her personal maid, who was Meredith. As it was the rule of her house, Mr. Darcy followed it, but he did not institute such a tradition at Pemberley.

  When Miss Bingley and her maid had left, Mr. Bingley closed the door to the library and said, “There is a rumor in the gambling hells that a young gentleman made a bet with your estate at Pemberley. Bragg wrote it out in detail.”

  “Bragg is a fool.” Mr. Darcy held up the unread letter. “Is that what this says?”

  “Likely, and I would give rumor little credence, except he says he witnessed it himself. At Danny’s.”

  “Are you certain?” Mr. Darcy opened the letter and skimmed over the contents. “He says there was a seal involved.”

  “A forgery. It must have been. And everyone knows you do not gamble.”

  No, Darcy did not. Gambling was Wickham’s vice. A slow, burning anger settled in Mr. Darcy’s gut. “Wickham.”

  “Your foster brother? I know you two had a falling out but—”

  “Wickham grew up at Pemberley. And he knows how to spin a tale.” He also knew where Darcy’s father had kept his seal. “I must write to my solicitor.” If Mr. Wickham had his father’s seal, there was no end to the damage he could do. But if Wickham had been in possession of the seal, why had he seduced Georgiana? He could have at least attempted to take it to a bank and make a withdrawal in Darcy’s father’s name. Or used it to establish credit for another endeavor. Perhaps he already had. Or perhaps, until now, Wickham had been too careful and too craven to start such a ruse.

  Mr. Darcy did not know, but he intended to find out.

  “Darcy, relax,” Mr. Bingley said. “I know this is a serious situation, but talking with your solicitor should clear things up. That and a report to the constabulary. If he is using a seal in such a way, he risks hanging or exile.”

  That he did. And Darcy would be glad to watch him swing. Mr. Wickham’s seduction and attempt to ruin Georgiana had been disgraceful, and Darcy would have forced the man to pistols at dawn if he had not been intimately familiar with how good a shot Wickham was, and how broken Georgiana would be if her oldest brother died on her behalf. But now, this theft and attempt to defraud was not only immoral but also illegal.

  Darcy would make sure Wickham paid to the full extent the law allowed. He quickly penned an explanation to his solicitor, a second to the housekeeper at Pemberley estate, and a third to Georgiana, asking her in the most general terms to take caution. She would resent him for the warning, still having some regard for Wickham even after all he had done, but it could not be helped.

  Only when Mr. Darcy had finished this essential correspondence did he return to E. Bennet’s letter. Hand aching, he penned out a quick reply. “I know of no Lord Cunningham, nor does he have any acquaintanceship with my sister or myself.”

  Mr. Darcy stood.

  “Are you finished then?” Mr. Bingley, who had taken a seat on the armchair Caroline had occupied, asked. A writing desk sat over his lap, and on it, a game of solitaire was spread.

  “Yes.” Mr. Darcy wanted to tear off to London this instant, hunt Wickham down, and throttle him.

  “Good. It is fortunate tomorrow we have the Assembly to distract us.”

  “I wish to go to London.”

  “And skulk through gambling hells until you run the villain off to practice his villainy in another place?” Mr. Bingley shook his head. “It is better you leave this to your solicitor and the law, Darcy.”

  Mr. Bingley was right, but it did not make admitting that to either himself or his friend any easier. “This is Wickham. I know it in my guts.”

  “And your solicitor knows of Mr. Wickham’s description and tendencies?”

  Mr. Darcy nodded.

  “Good then. I had promised your dear sister I would show you a fine time and I will not shirk this duty.”

  “You spoke with Georgiana?”

  “Miss Georgiana wrote. She cares for you deeply.”

  Mr. Darcy swallowed. He should not allow himself to becomes so emotional about simple filial affection, but Georgiana was all he had left. He would do anything necessary to ensure her safety and happiness, and if that meant he stayed here a while longer and engage in frivolity, then he would grit his teeth and see it done. “Miss Georgiana... What is it you were telling me?”

  “There are many opportunities to acquaint ourselves with fine, local ladies, including Saturday’s Assembly. You have already set sight on one of the Bennet sisters, have you not?”

  “Miss Elizabeth.”

  “And she is handsome?” Mr. Bingley put the writing tray aside. His cards slid to the base in an unruly pile. He stood and stretched his arms in front of him. “You have been remarkably circumspect in speaking of her virtues, which is not how one friend should behave towards another.”

  Mr. Darcy sighed. Bingley was always falling in and out of love, caught between shallow infatuations and even shallower miseries. If he hadn’t been so good-natured in temperament, Mr. Darcy would not have handled the shifts in emotion. But Mr. Bingley was like a stone who gleefully skipped over the surface of a lake to the opposite shore. He might experience love as a brief tap of liquid against his soul, but it vanished when he caught flight again.

  “She was handsome enough,” Mr. Darcy continued. “But unremarkable.” Except for her eyes. And the way she had challenged him, making him feel like a cad while also wanting to prove himself more.

  Mr. Bingley walked to his friend and gave Mr. Darcy an affectionate punch on the shoulder. “Then perhaps you will find another, more attractive lady to occupy your interest over the course of your stay?”

  “I have no interest in balls or finding a wife.”

  “Who said anything of finding a wife? One can converse with a lady and enjoy her company without seeking to wife.”

  Or so Mr. Bingley told himself. Mr. Darcy wondered what it would be like to have such an uncomplicated view of the world as his friend. For Mr. Bingley, every person was a delight and every gathering an opportunity to find convivial friends and conversation. He enjoyed dancing and flirting, though never to excess. He excelled at shooting and other sport, but not so much as to cause others consternation. He fluttered through the world. A good friend. A good confidant. A good man.

  Mr. Darcy did not flutter. He did not soar. If pressed, he might call himself a still lake, deep and cold, sustaining the surrounding land with little fanfare. When he took a wife, as with everything else in his life, it would be for duty. The bonds of love he had to his sister, to his late brother, were already, at points, too tight. With time, affection would grow in his future marriage, slowly and with calm dedication. That was for the best. A lake was not well served by a tempest at its core.

  7

  The morning dawned gray with dripping skies. Elizabeth crept out of the house early. The weather offered a fine opportunity to work on Mr. Darcy’s code, and an even finer opportunity to tromp through puddles beneath dripping leaves as her mind worked, untangling some of the more troubling pieces while the hems of her skirts grew waterlogged.

  Inspiration hit her suddenly, like a beam through the breaking clouds. The water spots on the letter had seemed odd to her. Why would they start on the second and third page? And why in the page’s middle but not the edges, where water had damaged the envelope?

  What if they were a part of the code? The letters were not oddly capitalized, but the water damage marked a clear differentiation. It might mean something!

  Elizabeth hurried back, shaking off droplets from her shawl before sneaking through the servant’s entrance into the kitchen. Mrs. Hill had a bowl full of apples prepared to cut for the afternoon’s tarts.
Elizabeth grabbed one and took a large bite.

  “Miss Elizabeth!” the cook admonished, but there was no heat in it. Elizabeth had been stealing fruit and bread ends from the kitchen after her walks for many years. The cook added, “Hang your shawl by the stove to dry it out, and pray you wipe the mud from those boots!”

  In that, Elizabeth did as she was told. She spread the shawl out on the stool next to the stove and gave her thanks again before stepping into the main house. If she worked at it through the afternoon, she’d be able to have the cipher decoded before dinner. That would show the odious Mr. Darcy!

  When Elizabeth stepped into the hallway, Mary slipped out from behind one of the curtains “Come here,” she whispered, beckoning Elizabeth to her side.

  Elizabeth was so shocked by her staid younger sister’s behavior, she hurried over. Mary pulled the thick velvet drape over both of them as Mrs. Bennet’s voice echoed from the main hallway. “The carriage is here but where is Lizzie!”

  The sound of footsteps moving towards them. Elizabeth held her breath. Dust tickled her nose, and she pinched it, trying to hold off a sneeze. She could not see through the drape, and the thick fabric caused the voices to sound off-pitch and strange. Hopefully neither would see her or Mary’s feet poking out from beneath the velvet.

  “Lizzie does not need another bonnet, Mama,” Lydia said pointedly. “She is more concerned with her codes than fashion anyhow.”

  “But Lizzie ought to have her fortune told. I must learn if there is hope for her.”

  “And if there isn’t? Lizzie has no care for marriage.”

  Elizabeth knew why her relationship with her mother was strained, but Lydia was a mystery. As a child, she’d been sweet, following Elizabeth out for walks on fair days. Lydia has always been fastidious about her clothing and concerned about her own beauty, but the past two years as she’d grown into a womanly form, Lydia has become difficult, uncommunicative, and prone to outbursts of meanness. Jane assured Elizabeth their sister would grow past these fits of temper, but Jane always saw the best in everyone. It was a virtue of the highest order. It also blinded her to people’s faults.

  Lydia begged. “Please, Mama, Lizzie’s walks can take hours. We want to get back home before the rain starts again.”

  “And our dear Mary.”

  “You can ask Mme. Godiva about her. Do you really think Mary’s entreaties to the Lord against wickedness and false worship will please Madame Godiva?”

  Mrs. Bennet sighed. “There is some truth to your words.”

  “We should leave. If they want to join us, they can come along on our next visit to town.”

  “Yes, quite right. It will be Kitty, Jane, you and I. That may serve better. We do not wish to overtax the Madame’s powers.”

  Or her patience, most like, Elizabeth thought.

  Their voices faded. Elizabeth and Mary hid behind the curtain until after the others had left the house and then for a few minutes longer, just to be certain Lydia or Kitty hadn’t forgotten a parasol.

  Finally, Elizabeth pushed the curtain aside. “Achoo!”

  “God Bless you,” Mary said.

  Lizzie looked up and gave her sister a bright smile. Who would have known staid Mary had such mischief in her? “Thank you. The curtain was inspired.”

  But Mary was not at all pleased with her own cleverness. “I know it was wrong of me to hide.” Mary clutched her hands together. “It is wrong to deceive one’s parents who we are supposed to love and obey, but it is also wrong to engage in witchcraft. Perhaps we should have gone to entreat them against such wickedness.”

  “No, Mary,” Lizzie reassured her sister. “Nothing we said would have altered their intentions. Perhaps... umm...you should go upstairs and pray for them a while. That would be enough, I think.”

  Mary nodded. “Yes. I will do that. Thank you, Lizzie.” She took Lizzie’s hands and squeezed them. Her eyes were shining. “Yes, and I will not amuse myself with the pianoforte, but instead immerse myself in dutiful study and reflection.”

  No, alas, Mary was, even in this, completely herself. If she’d been born a man, they might have sent her to the priesthood for study. Though, despite her avowed piety, Mary had never claimed to have any special vocation.

  Elizabeth shook her head as her sister left. Some ciphers, like her sister, were too challenging to solve.

  That afternoon, to Elizabeth’s delight, the water-damaged sections yielded fruit. She marked the water damaged words, not counting the last two lines which were wholly illegible.

  DELIUERTHISTOLORDCUNNINGHAMANDREMEMBERTHEBUTTERFLIESUUPBMOAKERZYFOLRACDBUKPLDABOUILALBOUAILTIBATOHUETTELIKEPOUBAMAKELEAUSSUIFRE

  Separating them from the rest of the text yielded:

  THEUORLDUILLUAILTHEELIKEAMAKELESSUIFE

  Elizabeth nibbled at her bottom lip. Latin did not distinguish U, V, or W.

  She sounded it out to herself. “The world will wail thee like a makeless wife.”

  “Huh?” Mr. Bennet looked up from his encoding. “What is that?”

  Elizabeth explained how she had separated out the water damaged sections of the code. “This is what it says. ‘The world will wail thee like a makeless wife.’”

  Mr. Bennet laughed. “Brilliant, Lizzie. And threaded with seeds of truth.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Sounds like the Bard. Perhaps it is from one of his plays.”

  A soft knock sounded at the door. The housekeeper, Mrs. Adams, said, “Mr. Bennet, a letter for you from Netherfield Park.”

  “Is it from Mr. Darcy? Come in, Mrs. Adams.”

  The housekeeper bustled in. She was a round, gray-haired woman with a large, bulbous nose and bright blue eyes. Her apron was well starched, and she walked with the posture of a militiaman. “Mr. Bennet, Miss Elizabeth.” She handed the letter over. “I trust you will have return correspondence. Shall I let the boy know when to expect it?”

  “A moment,” Mr. Bennet held his hand up. “Read it out, Lizzie.”

  Mrs. Adams handed it over, and Elizabeth skimmed it. “Mr. Darcy knows nothing of a Lord Cunningham,” she read. “That is odd, is it not?”

  “Perhaps Miss Darcy is looking to take a husband, and her brother was warning her off?” Mr. Bennet suggested, and then shook his head. “The younger Darcy put a lot of work into disguising a second code within the first. Try adding the letters up and see if they could be a part of shift cipher.”

  Elizabeth did as she was bid, but she had little confidence it would be helpful. Mr. Reginald Darcy used those specific words for a reason. Perhaps Miss Darcy was serving as a conduit between her brother and someone doing ciphering work for the Navy or Wellington. The thought filled Elizabeth with excitement.

  If Reginald Darcy had been doing work of a more clandestine nature in France, his sister would be someone he could trust and who he could write to without raising suspicions. She would not even need to understand how to decipher either code if he had given her a key for the primary one and the second was for Lord Cunningham’s eyes only. But even if she wasn’t a decipherer, by decoding and passing the letters along, she was more than she appeared. Perhaps she was a kindred spirit.

  After about fifteen minutes of fiddling with permutations, Elizabeth pushed the paper aside. If anyone knew what work of Shakespeare this sentence came from, it was Mary. Instead of beating her head against permutations, she might make more progress simply to ask. “Excuse me, Papa,” Elizabeth said.

  “Taking another walk?” Mr. Bennet said, looking up. He knew his daughter’s habit of walking through her thoughts.

  “I need to speak with Mary.”

  “Mary? I thought she was out with your mother.”

  “She did not wish her fortune told.”

  “I am glad to see her exhibiting some sense,” Mr. Bennet waved her off. “Go. See if you cannot get Mary away from that pianoforte and into the fresh air.”

  Elizabeth doubted she would be successful at that, but hopefully Mary would answ
er her question. She found her sister at the pianoforte. Mary had her eyes closed and she was playing, as usual, with measured precision. Elizabeth knew how much her sister loved music, but the enthusiasm never made it into Mary’s performances. She had technical perfection but little heart. Elizabeth knew this frustrated her sister, which led her to practice more, assuming it was some calculable fault that led to others’ disinterest in her performances.

  Elizabeth, who practiced infrequently and only had a small selection of pieces she could play with any accomplishment, still drew more applause on the rare occasions she took to the instrument, much to Mary’s quiet self-flagellation. Elizabeth had tried to push Mary once to a more extemporaneous attitude in her playing, but Mary had panicked and the composition had fallen apart after less than a minute. From there, Elizabeth did not give her sister further advice but instead tried to support her as best she could.

  When Mary had finished, Elizabeth applauded. “That was lovely.”

  “I missed the third and the seventh note on the second stanza,” Mary said. She pulled the lid of the pianoforte over the keys with a light thump. “Had you wished to practice?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You should practice. Your keying sometimes gets garbled in more complicated passages. Not that I intend to imply a lack of talent or grace, only that practice will serve you in the pursuit of beauty, which is in itself reflects God’s grace.”

  “Yes...er…” Mary could sometimes be difficult to talk to. “I will. But not at this moment. I had hoped you could help me with a literary reference.”

  Mary turned around on the stool. “Me? Yes I will do my best, but…what is it you wish to know?”

  Elizabeth repeated the line of code, “‘The world will wail thee like a makeless wife.’ Papa believes it might be from one of Shakespeare’s plays.”

  “Sonnets.” Mary closed her eyes. “It is the ninth, line three...no, the fourth. It is about the importance of bearing children.”

  Mary recited, tapping her finger on the stool at the end of each line to punctuate the words: