As Mr. Darcy again read that line, he laughed to himself. On the surface the line was most complimentary of his mother-in-law. The deeper meaning referred to a shared distaste for shopping with his wife, unless it was for books or gifts for his beloved.
Ravenous, Mr. Darcy ate the meal brought to him by tray and sought an early night. He was not so young as he once was, and the long days of travel were finally catching up to him. Sleeping in one of his favorite beds, in a room he had long decorated to his particular tastes, were other incentives to give up lingering any longer. Until the man Mrs. Potter identified could be questioned, and he coordinated with his uncle about the motives and machinations of Northumberland, there was little else Mr. Darcy could do. As such a position of idleness was not his preferred status, for good measure, he took a handful of piled correspondence up with him to bed for review.
12
The next morning, Simmons woke his employer just as the sun was rising. While Mr. Darcy was never a man to sleep a good portion of the day away, unless he had allowed his drink to run away from his regulation the night before, he gladly accepted assistance in his dress more so than usual. He didn’t feel fully awake until the splash of water from the basin shocked his senses with the cold.
“Wise, Simmons,” Mr. Darcy understood his valet’s aims. He hadn’t needed such tactics since the winter when he thought Elizabeth was marrying another.
Choosing to wear one of his finest suits, Mr. Darcy skipped breaking his fast to leave with his man before much of Mayfair stirred. Word arrived just before daybreak that Mrs. Potter's keen senses of observation had proven fruitful. The soldiers apprehended the loiter and kept him in custody. But there was a complication due to the identity of the man’s employer
"You're sure they said they will hold him?" Mr. Darcy asked Simmons as his fastest and lightest carriage had been rigged for the morning’s errand. Simmons reassured Mr. Darcy.
"He did not take very many hours to break, either. So there is always the chance the man is not telling the truth." Simmons was never fond of using tactics of torture to urge a confession.
Mr. Darcy’s valet, and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s former batman, had spent much of the night ferrying back and forth between the garrison holding the prisoner four blocks away and the town home on Mr. Darcy's orders. With his family's reputation and financial security on the line, Fitzwilliam Darcy could leave nothing to chance. He trusted Simmons. And he felt grateful to the man who could go places and witness things that a fine gentleman like Mr. Darcy had no business attending. In exchange, Simmons’ family of his mother and younger siblings wanted for nothing in their tenant home on the Matlock estate where Simmons grew up.
"Tell me all that you know, again, if you will." Mr. Darcy closed his eyes, not to go back to sleep, but to think clearly. Simmons began:
"The man claims to be in the employ of Lord Strange. He was to watch the movements of the household and had been doing so for many months. Originally he followed George Wickham, but after that man died,"
"Was murdered," Darcy corrected, and Simmons nodded.
"Yes, after the murder of George Wickham, he claims that no one told him to do otherwise. He was assigned to watch the town home and nothing else."
"Did he say who he reports to?" Mr. Darcy asked and Simmons shook his head.
"He took his beatings, and then I believe he realized the game was up. I would hazard to guess he realized any more information, his life will be forfeited," Simmons paused and his employer finished his thought.
"But he would be open to financial persuasion," Mr. Darcy said not as a question, but as a declaration.
Simmons did not need to respond as the carriage came to a halt. Mr. Darcy did not await ceremony before opening the door and exiting the vehicle while Simmons hurried behind him. Despite Mr. Darcy's long stride, the shorter man with years of experience in both the army and service, found a way to outstrip Mr. Darcy and reach Lieutenant Cross first.
"Lieutenant," Mr. Darcy greeted the man who scarcely looked old enough to hold a pint, let alone hold a commission. But the many wars had drawn boys as young as fourteen and fifteen into the landed ranks when they most often had still been in school.
"Mr. Darcy, sir? I was instructed to wait for you. This way," Lieutenant Cross led Mr. Darcy and his man Simmons through the rectangular maze. They passed cells of commonly drunk soldiers and a few other men isolated for whatever crime they had been accused. To Darcy’s surprise, they turned a corner and his uncle was there.
"Darcy!" the Earl of Matlock greeted his nephew while Fitzwilliam stared utterly bewildered.
"How did you know–"
The Earl of Matlock clapped his nephew on the shoulder and interrupted the odd greeting. The officer in charge sitting at the crude table poised over a logbook with a quill pen dripping ink, raised an eyebrow.
"I was just having a conversation here, with the most courageous and brave Lieutenant Colonel, how there was no need to formally document our presence this morning. We just have a few questions, after all," the earl winked at the surly man, rather round in filling out his robin’s breast colored uniform. He was not dashing like the other officers who moved up the ranks, and it was no wonder that he had been sat at post in the far corner of a derelict prison in the heart of London.
The earl and Mr. Darcy followed Lieutenant Cross further down the hall while Simmons stayed a good few paces behind. When at last they were brought into the room with the prisoner, the extent of the man's injuries were quite visible as the sun's rays pierced between the bars over his head.
"Gracious me!" The earl exclaimed, covering his mouth with a handkerchief for the stench. Darcy raised an eyebrow at his uncle rather amused at his weak stomach. He reasoned the earl might have a stronger constitution if he had followed his son, Richard, to all of the seedy places Fitzwilliam had visited over the years.
Mr. Darcy took a few paces toward the man that had been ordered to watch his home, then crouched down where the man lay in a heap on the floor.
"Are you conscious?" he asked. The man moaned quietly. Fitzwilliam continued. "My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy. It is my home you are ordered to watch. I have no interest in seeing you pay for the crimes of another. If you can give me information on your employer, I shall make sure that you disappear and never have need to call on such work to make a living again. Do you understand?"
The injured man moaned again and Darcy stood up, utterly exasperated. Why had the soldiers beaten him to such an injured state? And then it dawned on him. It was no accident this man getting caught. This was a setup.
The Earl of Matlock talked excitedly with Lieutenant Cross, asking for much of the information that Darcy received from Simmons. Ftizwilliam had to think fast. He motioned for Simmons to come into the cell and whispered quietly to his valet. Simmons nodded, as he followed Mr. Darcy's logic. He dashed out of the cell and down the hall. Lieutenant Cross almost started after the valet, but then remembered the other men in the cell. His hesitation was all Mr. Darcy needed to see for confirmation.
"Where the devil is he going?" The earl asked as Mr. Darcy announced he was finished and wished to leave.
"We need information, Darcy. Lieutenant Cross here was just telling me that they would be ever so willing for us to take custody of this lowlife."
"That's not possible, my Lord. Come, we must leave. At once." Mr. Darcy turned to leave but Lieutenant Cross blocked his escape.
"Mr. Darcy, I was to understand that, that is," the Lieutenant stumbled on his words as Mr. Darcy moved closer to the young whelp of an officer and gazed down at him.
"Let me make a few hypothetical statements. Someone might have been given instructions to abuse this man within an inch of his life. And also instructed if my uncle or I appeared, suggest that if we paid a pretty coin, the prisoner was ours?" Mr. Darcy asked and his uncle let out an exasperated sigh.
"Well of course, Nephew. That is how it is done." The Earl of Matlock spoke harshly and softly as h
e neared his kin but Mr. Darcy did not break his gaze with Lieutenant Cross.
"I thank you for your time, Lieutenant. But my uncle and I will be leaving now, unless you would like a lot more trouble than necessary. I appreciate a soldier taking his orders, but do not make the mistake of inventing orders yourself and holding a member of Parliament, and a well respected gentlemen of this country, in this prison," Mr. Darcy explained in such a venomous tone, his uncle became very nervous. Thankfully, the Earl of Matlock kept his mouth shut and just as quickly as they had entered the garrison, Darcy escorted his uncle to his waiting carriage. Inside, Simmons was already seated.
The door was slammed shut and they were halfway back to Darcy House before Fitzwilliam would answer any of his uncle’s questions about what on earth had just occurred. Then he gave his uncle a further slight of disrespect by addressing Simmons first.
"Is it done?" Fitzwilliam asked and Simmons nodded.
"Done! What's done? Nothing is done! We had the proof in our hands that Lord Strange was behind all of this, and you let him go!" The bombastic Earl of Matlock continued to vent his spleen while his nephew sat silent upon the bench across from him. When at last the earl had ran out of breath and they had arrived at the Matlock town home, Mr. Darcy finally explained.
"Is of the utmost importance that you do nothing until I come tonight for dinner. Promise me you will not seek out any contact or more information?" Mr. Darcy asked earnestly and the earl began to nod, but then shook his head.
"Not until you explain to me why on earth we left that garrison!"
Darcy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was no wonder his family was such a mess of inquiry and scandals. The men of his uncle’s generation were so accustomed to universal deference and plain appearances, that they could not fathom an opponent two or three steps ahead of them.
"I had Simmons write our names to the logbook," Mr. Darcy said and his uncle held his breath until his face turned violently red with rage.
"Are you daft?" The Earl yelled, and the carriage lurched a bit as yelling from inside must have startled the driver and the horses had readjusted their position.
"No," Mr. Darcy said coolly. "I refuse to be set up. You should thank me. Did it not occur to you the man who had George Wickham murdered would love nothing more then to make you or me responsible for the act? All they need is a link between us and that ledger. Because there is none, they will manufacture it. So they left that man watching my home, with who knows what things he has signed his name to that is in Lord Strange's position. Then we go to the garrison, giving our names, but not signing the visitor log, and bribing him out–"
"We could have been ruined," the Earl said quietly as his nephew's words sunk in.
"That is why I am asking you to do nothing today. Meet no one, aside from remaining with a staff member at all times so that you have an alibi," Mr. Darcy said and finally his uncle began to nod.
“But if you do not want us blamed, why did you have our names written in the bloody book?”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “The truth is the truth, and it will out. If this goes to a legal body, I had every right to question a man apprehended on my request. The prisoner did not disappear, and perhaps, God have mercy on his soul, Lord Strange will still snuff him out. But he would have to count on both soldiers to keep the secret, and we already know Lieutenant Cross holds some scruples.”
The earl sighed as it was still very early in the morning for so many crosses, double crosses, and Lieutenant Crosses. But he suddenly felt very unneeded.
"And what will you do?" The earl asked as Fitzwilliam allowed the door to be opened for his uncle to be helped out of his carriage.
"I need to meet with some friends of my father. It's time I took advantage of the Darcy connections. Tell Aunt I will be at dinner."
And with that, the Earl of Matlock was dropped off at his town home, and Fitzwilliam was whisked away back to his own.
Henry Fitzwilliam's steps faltered for a moment as the true weight of what happened, and what so nearly had happened, fully registered in his mind. He accepted a footman’s assistance up the steps into his home, and then walked to his study. It didn't matter that it was not even 8 o'clock in the morning, the Earl of Matlock poured himself a stiff drink and sat before the fire.
Then he stood up and fetched a pen and parchment. His mind raced and he scratched names and dates of anything to do with Northumberland and his deal for the loan. Based on what his nephew caught just at the right moment, Henry Fitzwilliam believed he had been an unwilling participant to the Duke of Northumberland's most dangerous game for a long while. And he wanted out before it was too late.
13
The Dowager Cottage of Rosings had sat neglected for over thirty years before Anne and Richard Fitzwilliam made it their sanctuary. Their routine had become a very simple living for a married couple in the country. Having given up his commission in the cavalry, Richard Fitzwilliam spent a great deal of his free time riding his horse through the grounds of Rosings. When the familiar parks and runs no longer challenged him, he ventured further into the surrounding countryside. Where he had once been at odds with his aunt and overseeing the accounts and ledgers of the main house, their retreat to the Dowager Cottage had taken the former soldier away from the battle.
The peace and quiet was nice for two months, a healthy respite. But the last action one of His Majesty’s Finest had seen was fetching a wretched, confused, and spoiled young woman from London and that hardly boasted any danger at all. On days they were plagued by rain, Richard stalked the floors of the cottage, desperately trying to contain his sour mood. Born the second son of an earl, in his adulthood there had not been much time for leisure; Richard had had to earn his keep. And now that he was to play the country gentleman but with nothing to manage, apart from the love of his wife, Richard desperately missed his commission.
Anne’s preferred pastime was reading, though it had been over a month since she had procured anything new. Most of her life, since her early teen years when her father perished and she suffered a horrific bout of pneumonia that permanently weakened her lungs, Anne's mother had confined her to a bedroom for rest. Anne had not attended any balls, or seen any shows at the theater. In fact, she had never truly left the Rosings estate in over a decade.
And therefore, tea in the small home had lately grown into a tense affair with two attendees wondering if this was all a married life would offer. Theirs had been a love match after many years courting through letters and sparse visits by Richard whenever he could manage to attend with his cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy. But now that their battles with time, distance, and parental approval to wed were over, the Fitzwilliams found themselves in discomfort with the settling part of settling down.
"I went to see Mrs. Collins before they departed," Anne announced, and she saw her husband scowl. But Richard was wise enough to not voice his displeasure that Anne had gone to the Parson’s cottage without him. “Declan was there, I was perfectly safe. And now they are both gone to Hertfordshire.”
Richard tilted his head to one side. “Why have they left?”
Anne shrugged. “It appears Mother learned Longbourn is not to be rebuilt.”
Richard’s jaw slacked in understanding. His last letter from their cousin Darcy had outlined that the Bennet home had burned, Mr. Bennet was grievously injured, and the Bingleys were about to lose their home due to the lease expiring.
“Can you imagine Pembereley? The house sits practically vacant for years and now it will house three families!” Richard found humor in his cousin’s lamentable position of host.
Anne had been but twelve the last time she had visited the estate in Derbyshire with Mother, as they rarely traveled up north. She had never wondered why before, but now that she knew the truth of George Wickham’s parentage, she couldn’t blame her mother for never wishing to go and risk seeing her father’s bastard. Still, the idea of so much family and people to sit with in pleasant company w
as a yearning she felt keenly.
“I imagine it will be a welcome party for Elizabeth; how nice to still be close to your sisters even after marriage,” Anne said, wistfully.
Richard changed the subject to some fencing he noticed in disrepair on his morning ride, and Anne interrupted.
“Oh, please do not see the steward. You know how Mother gets when she thinks we have meddled in her affairs,” Anne begged, but Richard snorted in disagreement.
“Let her be angry. If our son is to inherit this estate, I shouldn’t want him to be in the same situation as Mr. Collins!” Richard’s tone was slightly harsher than he intended, a default to barking orders at his inferiors. When Anne did not respond, he realized he had hurt her feelings and promptly apologized.
“I am sorry, I didn't mean to let my temper show.”
“No, no, it is quite alright,” Anne dismissed her husband’s apology. “I was stunned because you are absolutely correct. I am the first in line for this estate, not Georgiana. And yet she sits by mother’s side, probably planning new furnishings for the first floor parlor and future improvements to the outbuildings past the south pasture,” Anne continued enumerating many parts of the estate, some in need of desperate attention and repair, some less so.
Amused, Richard drank his tea and listened intently to his wife’s pique, so long as it was directed at someone else.
“And what have I done? I let that girl chase me off, make me uncomfortable in my own home. The home of my childhood!”
The Miracles of Marriage Page 7
