Mr. Darcy’s Cipher

by Violet King

  “No. We were robbed.” Lydia sobbed against her sister. “Papa must have awakened and went to his study in the middle of the night, and—” Lydia’s breath caught and she let out another sob.

  “Is Papa alive?”

  “He lives, but he has not awakened yet.”

  Mrs. Bennet looked over at Mr. Darcy and said, “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for seeing our daughters safely home. We will not trouble you further.”

  Darcy, at a loss, stared.

  Elizabeth said, “Mr. Darcy needs his sister’s letter,” and with no further words dashed into the house.

  “Lizzie!” Mrs. Bennet ran after, and Mr. Darcy followed, feeling very much like an imposter.

  Had Elizabeth the presence of mind to notice Mr. Darcy, she would have insisted he remain in the parlor. But she was far more concerned for her father and the tragedy that had befallen them.

  Robbed?

  Would not a thief have availed himself of the silver candlesticks in the dining room, or any number of the small, yet valuable keepsakes in the hallway? Elizabeth’s eyes blurred with tears as she ran. The thief had been remarkably inept. Or at the least, uninterested in ordinary valuables.

  Elizabeth was reminded of Mr. Dowding’s sudden apoplexy. He’d had no history of such episodes. And now, just after Mr. Bennet had taken over Mr. Dowding’s encoding work, Mr. Bennet was assaulted and “robbed.”

  When Elizabeth entered the study, the room was a mess. Papers had been moved about and tossed carelessly. At a glance, many of her and her father’s notes were missing. Fortunately for England, Mr. Bennet had sent his most recent and clearly written work to Elizabeth at Netherfield Park, which meant whatever the thief made away with would not endanger the war effort. But any comfort Elizabeth might’ve taken from these facts was wiped away by the pale, still form of her father propped up and yet unconscious, on the library couch against the study wall.

  Mrs. Bennet sat beside him on a chair, holding his hand. She was uncharacteristically silent, her face drawn and almost without color. He had a gash on his right temple which had been cleaned and stitched.

  Elizabeth said, “How long has Papa been like this?”

  “I found him this morning,” Mrs. Bennet said. “I went to call him for morning services, believing once again he had forgotten the time—” Mrs. Bennet swallowed. “And then, he was collapsed! On the floor by his desk. I thought he had died! I screamed and Mary came.”

  Mary sat on the floor beside her mother. Though books surrounded her, she stared down at her hands. Kitty was balanced on the thick arm of the couch, running her fingers over her father’s thinning hair.

  Elizabeth took her mother’s free hand. They were not always at ease with each other, but in this time of grief, Mrs. Bennet took comfort from her daughter’s touch.

  “Oh Lizzie! What if he does not wake?” Mrs. Bennet hugged her arms to her chest, head bowed, shoulders shaking.

  The door opened again, and Jane and Lydia entered. Jane, taking one look at the group, asked, “Should Papa not be moved to his bed?”

  “Mr. Jones suggested the same, but all the stairs—” Mrs. Bennet sobbed again. “He tried to help us but with his leg...”

  “If you have another set of hands, I can carry him,” Mr. Darcy offered.

  Elizabeth had forgotten his presence. Mr. Darcy stood at the edge of the room, his hands behind his back. Elizabeth did not like the idea him manhandling her father, but leaving Mr. Bennet here for a long period was also not ideal. His neck developed a very painful spasm on the occasions when he fell asleep in his study; it would be far easier for him to recover in comfort in his own bed.

  Jane said, “If you please, Mr. Darcy, but I will call Mr. Avery from the stable.”

  “Billy already went to his mother’s?” Elizabeth asked. Mr. Avery was elderly and had a limp from being kicked by a tenant’s mule a few years ago. He had breathing attacks when pushed to excessive efforts. His son Bill did the heavy lifting in the stable at his father’s direction. Unfortunately for the Bennets, the younger Avery joined his mother every Sunday for services and to help around her house.

  “Last night.”

  Elizabeth said, “I will take father’s feet.” Elizabeth might be a woman, but she was young and in good health.

  “Is Mr. Avery out?”

  “He is older and cannot breathe well when he tries to lift things,” Elizabeth explained.

  With Elizabeth and Kitty’s help, they got Mr. Bennet up the stairs into his bed with no sign of further injury.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Mrs. Bennet whispered as Jane settled their father on the bed of pillows.

  What if her father died? Her throat closed. Their mother was always opining about the possibility, but Elizabeth had never considered it imminent. Mr. Bennet, aside from his eyesight, was in excellent health, and Mrs. Bennet was so prone to exaggeration only a fraction of her dire prophesies came to any effect.

  But anyone, no matter how healthy, could succumb from a blow to the head. If Mr. Bennet did not wake, everything was lost. Their home, Elizabeth’s work, and most importantly, her beloved father who accepted and understood her in ways no one else could match.

  It was as though Mr. Bennet and Jane formed between foundations, with Elizabeth making the third post of a tripod that kept her life firm and grounded. Without him, how could she stand?

  Mr. Jones advised them to feed Mr. Bennet small amounts of broth and, when he woke—if he woke—to ensure that he did not sleep for more than two hours at a time before waking him again.

  “Mr. Bennet has a hard head,” Mr. Jones said. “I felt no cracking, though whoever knocked him out did it right firmly. He may not remember the incident.” Mrs. Bennet nodded.

  “You can send for a physician from town, but they won’t tell you much different. A blow to the head will settle up on its own.” Or it wouldn’t, but Mr. Jones did not need to say that out loud. “I don’t hold with bloodletting for leeches for this kind of trouble.” Mr. Jones gave them some draughts for the pain and to strengthen his blood and then left.

  Mr. Darcy asked, “Has a constable been called?”

  “Yes. He came after morning services. The window to the study was open. It must have been left unlatched. I am always reminding Mr. Bennet to latch it before dinner, but he often forgets. Especially with Lizzie away.”

  “So it is only you ladies here?”

  “And Mr. Avery.”

  “Who is not well enough to help carry an unconscious man up a flight of stairs.”

  It was a testament to Mrs. Bennet’s discomfiture that she did not immediately beg Mr. Darcy for help, instead explaining, “I have sent for my brother in London.”

  “Your brother will be of little use to you tonight, should this villain return. I shall stay.”

  Elizabeth’s shock at the offer was such that it overcame her grief and fear. “You? Mr. Darcy? Why?”

  “I know of my duty,” Mr. Darcy said. “This miscreant likely came in through the study and stumbled upon your father, clubbing him and then making away with what he could. Now, sensing you undefended, he may wish to return to the scene of his crime and glean for himself greater treasures.”

  Ordinarily, Elizabeth would have found herself in a doubt of such a theory. A household, once robbed, would be on guard against a second attempt. It would be easier for an ordinary thief to try his luck elsewhere, preferably in another village.

  But nothing about this theft was ordinary. Longbourn was not a wealthy estate, and it was well known to be entailed. Mr. Bennet’s income went to uphold the expenses of a wife and five unwed daughters. A thief would have been better served to rob the Lucases, or another, wealthier family. But considering that the thief had focused his attentions on Mr. Bennet’s notes, his goals had not been for monetary gain, but instead to pilfer her father’s work, it was likely the thief would try again.

  At the same time, the last person Elizabeth wished to have stay as their guest was Mr. Fitzwilliam Da
rcy. But before Elizabeth could raise an objection, Mrs. Bennet said, “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. We will have a guest room prepared for you. You have our very deepest and most heartfelt gratitude.”

  22

  Elizabeth and her sisters took turns giving Mr. Bennet sips of broth through the rest of the day. Mr. Bennet stirred after a few hours, opening his eyes and speaking, though his words were garbled and it was clear after a few moments he was not aware of his surroundings.

  The second time he awoke, after dinner, he was more sensible. “Lizzie!” he called out, and Elizabeth leaned closer to the bed, putting a hand on her father’s forearm. “Papa?”

  Mrs. Bennet, who had sat fast by his side, took his hand. “My dear Mr. Bennet. By all that is good and holy, you have awakened at last!”

  Mr. Bennet said, “Amelia? Are you here? Is it time for services already?”

  “Do you remember, Mr. Bennet?”

  “Remember, I must remember.” Mr. Bennet’s voice trailed off. After a long silence, he said something about an Alberti Cipher. “Take down these numbers Lizzie, exactly as…” He mumbled, but Elizabeth could not make out his words.

  Mrs. Bennet shook her head. “He is on again about codes.”

  Elizabeth said, “It must be because he was in the study when it happened.”

  “Foolish man! What code could be so important to have him shuffling about in the middle of the night?” Mrs. Bennet closed her eyes. “When Mr. Bennet and I were courting, he would slip me love notes in code. We danced, and he would press it into my hand at the start of the dance or slip it into my sleeve when handing me a glass of punch. The rascal! Mr. Gardner would translate them for me, and I would pretend that I had understood them from the beginning. It seemed a harmless ruse. And now...” Mrs. Bennet’s voice hitched. She swallowed. “He should never have been awake.”

  Elizabeth felt torn in two, caught between worry for her father and the pain she heard in her mother’s voice.

  The evening progressed. Mary curled up like a child around the Bible she clutched to her chest at the foot of her father’s bed. Kitty and Jane sat in chairs brought up from the dining room across from Elizabeth and her mother. Kitty embroidered a cushion until her eyes drooped and she swayed, waking in time to catch herself before she fell from the chair.

  Lydia sat closest to Mary. She stared down at her hands, tugging at the fingers of her mitts, glancing at her father and swallowing at the sight of his injury.

  As the hour grew later, Lydia’s glances split between her father and the clock on the wall. Lydia’s head dropped forward, her chin resting on her chest. A the clock chimed once at half eleven Kitty startled, her eyes flying open, “Papa! Is he—”

  “I should take Kitty to bed,” Lydia said.

  “And yourself,” Jane said. None had the heart to move Mary.

  Elizabeth was tired too, and Jane, though she tried to hide it, had not yet recovered from her illness. She did her best to smother her coughs, knowing how much the sound of coughing troubled their father,.

  “Jane,” Elizabeth said. “You should lie down a while. It will do no good for Papa to recover only to have you bedridden. Should anything change, I promise on my heart I will wake you.”

  “I should stay—” Jane began, but Elizabeth shook her head.

  “Rest a while. For me.”

  Eventually, Jane also did as she was bid and followed her sisters from the room.

  At some point after the midnight chimes, outside Mr. Darcy shouted, “You devil!”

  Elizabeth jumped to her feet.

  “Lizzie!” Mrs. Bennet tried to grab her but Elizabeth was already running. The sound had come from near the servants’ entrance. Elizabeth dashed down the stairs and grabbed a poker from the fireplace in the kitchen.

  A gunshot sounded and someone screamed. Elizabeth’s guts turned to ice. Her heart beat hard and painful. Poker in hand, Elizabeth shoved open the servants’ door. Mr. Darcy knelt, his back and a part of his arm visible as he stared down the sight of the rifle at a figure fleeing in the distance.

  Elizabeth saw that Lydia was on the ground, struggling with her skirt twisting between her legs to stand. “Stop!” she shouted as Mr. Darcy fired the second shot.

  23

  As in all things, Mr. Darcy took very seriously his duty to protect the Bennet household. He first ensured the delivery of prompt meals to Mr. Bennet’s sickbed, also taking care that the remedies he had asked for Jane at Netherfield Park were sent in her own home.

  “My, Mr. Darcy, you are a kind and generous young man,” the cook said.

  The generosity of the cook’s praise made Mr. Darcy uncomfortable, and he demurred, falling back on the excuse of duty even as he recognized his making special efforts to see the Bennet ladies’ comfort was a step beyond what duty required.

  Mr. Darcy also received instructions from the housekeeper about where to find the family’s rifle. The gun was dusty and showed signs of long disuse. Though Mr. Darcy was not an adept shot like his cousin, he well understood the basics of using and maintaining a firearm. He disassembled, thoroughly cleaned, and that afternoon went out on the grounds to practice firing the rifle to ensure it worked.

  According to the staff, a constable had been called that morning. It was presumed the miscreant had entered through the unlatched study window and proceeded, likely as a prank, to wreak havoc through the room. Mr. Bennet, as was his occasional habit, had been unfortunate enough to visit his study and get bludgeoned by the startled miscreant before he took his leave.

  A simple theory for what appeared to Mr. Darcy to be an odd crime. Why vandalize a study and ignore the obvious valuables in the rest of the house?

  Whatever the villain’s reasoning, should he return, Mr. Darcy would make certain that no harm came to the Bennet ladies. As furious as he had been about Miss Elizabeth’s overstep regarding Georgiana, he would never have wished on Miss Elizabeth the crushing pain and worry her father’s injury had caused.

  It was with that thought in mind he made himself nap for two hours before sunset and then awakened to begin patrols.

  Darcy’s cousin, now Col. Fitzpatrick, had taught both Darcy brothers the basics of stealth in enemy territory. Darcy put those lessons to good use that night.

  Just after midnight, as he made a circuit of the lower floors, he heard whispers.

  “You should not be here. Did you hear what happened?”

  It was one of the younger Bennet sisters, though which one, Darcy did not know them well enough to guess from only a whisper. From his location, the angle was too poor to note either her or the other’s face. Mr. Darcy crept closer, hoping to glimpse the sister and who she was talking to.

  “What happened?”

  “My father.” A hitch of breath. “I left the door open, but you never came.”

  “I got called on patrol. Mr. White was ill and—”

  “We were robbed!” The young woman’s voice grew louder at that word. “A robber entered our home and beat my father...”

  A sharp intake of breath. “Miss Lydia, my love. I am—”

  “I know you have no fault in this, George.”

  George? Mr. Darcy came close enough to see the partial silhouette of a man in dark trousers and coat, and he recognized the profile, fair hair and voice Darcy had known since childhood. Wickham. “You devil!”

  The man started, and without pausing to explain himself, shoved through the servants’ entrance and tore off a mad dash. Darcy followed, grasping the stock of the rifle and drawing it into a firing position as he ran outside onto the estate grounds. Wickham was moving as if the devil himself was after him. Mr. Darcy felt like the devil, all fire and rage as he dropped to his knees and, looking along the barrel sights, positioned himself to fire.

  Miss Lydia crashed into Mr. Darcy’s side, and the gun went off. “No,” Miss Lydia cried, “pray, do not hurt him!”

  Mr. Darcy shoved Lydia away. She grabbed at his arm again, and it took more precious time to extrica
te himself. By the time he drew the gun to fire again, Mr. Wickham, in the crescent moon darkness, was a vague silhouette. He dashed down a hill, the faint halo of his fair hair the only thing marking him from the shadows. Then he was gone.

  “You fool!” Mr. Darcy said, turning on Lydia. The gun was still in his hand and Lydia took a step back, wringing her hands, her face pale.

  Mr. Darcy forced himself to breathe. His heart was pounding, and the smell of powder filled the air.

  “Was that Mr. Wickham?” Miss Elizabeth stood in front of the servants’ door. She was still in her day dress. With her dark curls displaced from their pins and framing her face, her eyes glittering and cheeks—even in the darkness—in full color, appeared the perfect mix of a warrior and lady as she swung a fireplace poker over her shoulder. “Why in the devil was Mr. Wickham here?”

  “Mr. Wickham was not the thief,” Lydia insisted. “He means to court me plainly, but he has duties and you, you would not understand.”

  Mr. Darcy lowered the rifle. “Mr. Wickham had designs upon your sister’s virtue. And she on his, such that remains,” he explained. Miss Lydia was too caught in Wickham’s thrall, but Miss Elizabeth was a sensible young woman.

  “Lydia, is it true about Mr. Wickham? Was he here?”

  “It was only because Mr. Wickham gave the signal, and I knew Mr. Darcy might see him and hurt him and I needed to warn him.”

  Mr. Darcy wiped his sleeve over his forehead. He was sweating, and the lingering remains of his rage mingled with his current annoyance, leaving him thoroughly spent. But he could not, in good conscience, allow Lydia to walk the same painful road that almost destroyed his own sister. Mr. Darcy said, “Wickham does not love you. He is using you for some purpose of his own. That is his character.”

  Lydia, eyes wide and face red with obvious temper, stomped her foot on the grass and said, “You are an…! Odious! You are an odious man!”

  Lydia tried to storm past her sister back into the house, but Miss Elizabeth barred her way. “You will not see him again.”