She took him by the shoulders. “What mean ye on the floor?”
“Lyin’, Mam. Beside her bed,” he said with urgency.
“Be she breathin’?” his mother demanded.
Aulay shivered. “Not knowin’. I not be touchin’ her.”
The woman turned on her heels. “Come along,” she ordered as she rushed from her room in the solar. She hurried past arched openings to the chapel and down the narrow muraled stairs leading from the upmost rooms of the former castle to the rooms below the cellar, those which were part of the original monastery. Aulay tripped along behind her. Her youngest son had never moved with the grace that his older brothers possessed, but he had the kindest heart of her four children. Her husband had ignored the boy—leaving her to see to Aulay’s upbringing. “The boy be too soft,” he would accuse. “And not ret in the heed.” Then Coll MacBethan would blame her, saying, “If’n ye not be a bastard’s daughter, then yer chillen wudnae be ill born.” But she had shown him. Coll had used his fist on her one time too many.
Dolina MacBethan rushed into the girl’s room. “Bring the candle closer,” she told Aulay as he knelt beside her. She bent her head to hear the girl’s heartbeat. “She be breathin’. Go git Blane. We need to move her.”
“Yes, Mam.” Aulay clumsily staggered from the room.
Dolina lifted the girl’s head into her lap. Fishing the key from her pocket, she removed the manacle from about the girl’s wrist. “Wot be ye doin’?” she whispered as she brushed the hair from the girl’s face. “I’ll nurse you and the child ye be kering. Then ye kin marry me Aulay. He not be the smart one, but he’ll treat ye well.”
Edward bedded down for the night in a second-class inn. He would have preferred to ride farther, but the rain had come down in sheets of wet blindness. He could not continue on. The thunder had reminded him of the crash of the cannons. The sixteenth and seventeenth of June echoed in his memory, leaving an indelible mark. “Not as torrential as Waterloo’s prelude,” he grumbled as he stared out the room’s small window. Edward could see it clearly in his mind’s eye. The storm of monumental proportions had taken its toll on both armies. “Thank God the rain delayed Napoleon’s approach and gave the Prussians time to reach Wellington’s lines. If not, I doubt the Duke would have known success.”
He forced himself to return to the bed. “When the storm breaks, I will be on the road again,” he declared as he sought a comfortable position on the lumpy mattress. Concentrating on conjuring Georgiana’s face, he attempted to drive away the horrors of those days on the battlefield: The roar of the guns. Rain beating off his shoulders. Thunder. Misfired muskets exploding in the soldiers’ faces. Flashes of lightning. The harsh smell of blood. The roar of the cannonballs. The shrill cries of fallen horses. Deadly silence. Over the years, he had seen too many men die. Fate’s fickle hand had chosen who was lost, and he was sore to understand the why and the wherefore. For a few moments, the utter chaos of the day dominated his memory, but then the exquisite beauty of his wife’s countenance took over his breathing; and its shallowness came from a deep desire to know her again, rather than from the bone-melting fear of battle. “I am coming for you, Georgie,” he whispered to the darkness. “Wait for me, my love. I swear that when you are once more in my arms that I will never allow anything or anyone to come between us again.”
He had remained in Carlisle only long enough to pack a change of clothing before continuing north along the London Road. He knew himself to be several hours ahead of Darcy and the clergyman, who would reportedly accompany his old enemy to Scotland. As he crossed into Gretna Green, George Wickham thought of the irony of finally entering the infamous Scottish village. Mrs. Wickham had repeatedly begged him to take her to Gretna Green when they had made that ill-fated flight from Brighton. Little did the lady know that it was a pressing need to escape his creditors rather than Lydia Bennet’s charms, which had induced his speedy withdrawal.
Thoughts of those troubled hours plagued him still. One evening, having imbibed in too much drink, he had unburdened himself to his only intimate acquaintance, Lieutenant Jules Norwood. “I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time I cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge— that because she was a guest of the Forsters she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, she must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding—I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment; and I often, with great reproach, recall the tenderness, which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish—I heartily wish it had never been.”
Of course, Norwood had pressed him for details of said regrets, but even in his most inebriated state, Wickham had not elaborated on the twisted panic that had plagued him daily. When he thought of his lifelong relationship with the Darcy family, he hated the pointy little spears of jealousy that impeded his ability to breathe. The prospect of rejection had reigned supreme, and he had done everything within his power not to be found wanting. Yet, wanting he was. His critics would address him with rather an injudicious particularity. In a situation such as his, he had done everything to be done to prevent a rupture. His actions were couched only to one end. He had recently conceded, “My business was to declare myself a scoundrel; and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance. I am ruined forever in Society’s opinion. I am shut out forever from their companionship; they already think me an unprincipled fellow; my actions will only make them think me a blackguard one.”
He snarled in contempt as he dismounted before a small inn. “I made a terrible error in judgment when I allowed Mrs. Wickham to convince me that Darcy would once again accept my presence at Pemberley,” he grudgingly told himself. “Darcy could never understand my world: that limbo between the working class and being a titled gentleman. Never belonging to either,” he grumbled as he handed off the reins to a waiting hostler. “But he will learn the depth of my resolve. Darcy will pay dearly for this latest slight. No one offers George Wickham a disoblige and walks away unscathed.”
Chapter 8
AS HE TRAVELED NORTH, Darcy could not shake the feeling that he should turn around and race home—that Elizabeth needed him—that Pemberley needed him. As he followed Matthew Joseph through yet another village, he closed his eyes and pictured his wife’s countenance. He could easily imagine Elizabeth’s eyes—those fine eyes, sparkling and beckoning, a bit of mischief playing across her lips. His heart had engaged long before his mind accepted her reality.
Now, as he shared his afternoon meal in a small clearing northwest of Lochmaben with the clergyman, his desire remained with a sprightly figure in Derbyshire. “I had thought all Galloway cattle to be black,” Joseph noted as he unwrapped the large napkin holding the hard cheese they would share. They had observed more than one of the animals grazing on the open ranges as they crossed the Scottish Uplands.
“Nay,” Darcy said. He distractedly watched the road they had traveled. “I have seen them with coats of red, brown, and dun. They are nothing like the Aberdeens.” He accepted the knife Joseph handed him and began to slice the cheese and bread that would compose their meal.
They ate in silence for several minutes before Joseph observed, “This journey appeared prudent at the time, but I admit to feeling deprived of seeing young William throughout the day. We could be away from our families for weeks.” He paused and offered a silent prayer over the food before he took his first bite. “Will my son even recognize me upon my return?”
“Yours is a thought that has crossed my mind during these travels. I have made it my practice to never spend more than eight and forty hours from Pemberley. That is why Mrs. Darcy accompanied me to Newcastle when we first met.” Mr. Joseph nodded his empathy. “We have been away longer than that already and have yet to achieve our destination. My only consolation is that my actions will benefit my son�
�s future.” It was Darcy’s turn to pause in reflection.
A profound silence filled the moment. “It is a decision designed for a man. Women are too practical to search for the golden apple.”
Darcy leaned back against a large rock formation and tried not to look smug. “Mrs. Darcy would declare herself content with what we possess and would refuse to leave Bennet behind.”
“This plays to accepted stereotypes. Men remain the hunters and women the nurturers,” Joseph declared.
He watched as Joseph’s mouth twisted bitterly. Companionship had never been easy between them; they were very much of the same nature. Darcy and Matthew Joseph had butted heads in the beginning. It was only through their wives that they had come to respect each other. With a deep sigh of resignation, Darcy stood. “I suppose we should continue. I will bring the horses around if you will see to the remnants of our meal.” Catching Palos’s reins, he led the gelding to where Mr. Joseph’s mount munched on a tuft of grass. “Easy, boy,” he said softly as he stroked the animal’s hindquarter. He had sent a string of horses north when he had made the decision to investigate Parnell’s business proposal, but the horse Joseph rode was a relatively new one from his stables. In fact, Darcy had never ridden the large-shouldered roan. “Come along, boy,” he coaxed. Running his gloved hand along the horse’s neck, he reached for the reins. “Time to continue our journey.”
Turning the animal in a tight circle, Darcy brought it alongside Palos. “Not much farther.” Holding the horse’s head still while Joseph tied the sack to his saddle, Darcy stroked the roan’s nose and fed it a small apple he had saved for Palos. “Good horse,” he said softly as the animal crunched away at its treat.
Finished with his task, Joseph said, “Let us be about it.”
Darcy swung up easily into the saddle. Not as accustomed to traveling by horseback, Joseph moved stiffly to set his foot. Darcy turned his head to the waiting road, and then he saw him: a lone gunman set for the shot. In that moment, everything moved in slow motion. Darcy’s heart lurched with dread. In the blink of an eye, he had recognized the man, but before he could react, the sound of exploding gunpowder filled the air.
Her head throbbed with a sharp pain behind her left ear, but with gritted teeth, she managed to open her eyes. The room felt familiar, but she could not recall when or where she had seen it. The stone walls and meager furniture said it was not a place in which one would wish to dwell, but, somehow, she realized that was exactly what she had done. Yet, she could recall no details of her most recent stay in this unwelcoming place.
Slowly, her wakening awareness spoke of a hard, rough surface, likely the floor. Even without a point of reference, she knew, instinctively, that she did not belong in these surroundings. She had never experienced such conditions previously.
“She stirs,” a nervous female voice said from somewhere above her. Yet, despite the comfort of being cradled in another’s arms, she knew not the woman’s purpose or identity. The realization of that fact sent a shiver down her spine.
“I have you. “ A familiar feeling of safety filled her, and she awoke to find herself lying on the hard cot. She could not recall how she had regained the safety of the crude bed, but she assumed it had something to do with the person with whom she shared the small area. Opening her eyes wider, Georgiana could see the dust flakes as they danced in the shaft of light streaming through a filtered opening. The space appeared more organized than when she had first sought her safety within its walls.
A shadowy figure moved about the room, and she gave her head a shake to bring the person into focus, but try as she might, the edges of the figure’s outline remained blurred. Forcing liquid to her dry mouth, she murmured. “Please. Please tell me…to whom…I owe my gratitude.” Although the lines stayed in shadow, the familiar figure came nearer, and Georgiana breathed a sigh of relief.
“You know me,” the voice said. “I have watched over you for years.”
With difficulty, Georgiana turned onto her side. “How did you find me?”
Even without actually seeing the woman’s expression change, Georgiana felt the figure smile warmly. The gesture told her that she would survive. “Finding you was never the issue. The question is how to return you to your brother’s arms. That may be more problematic.”
“But now that you are here…” Georgiana ventured.
The woman corrected, “I have protected you from death’s claw, but you are still not completely safe. We must wait for Fitzwilliam and Edward to come for you. Until then, we shall do as best we can with what we have.”
“Edward?” Although afraid of the answer, Georgiana breathed the question.
“Is safe,” the woman whispered close to her ear. “Rest now. Your husband and your brother shall arrive soon.”
For a brief second, Darcy’s brain told him that his vision had betrayed him. It could not be George Wickham aiming one of the military’s best personal weapons at him, but he rejected that erroneous assumption immediately. It was Wickham, and Darcy was the target. He spun his horse to charge the man, knowing he must stop his old foe. As he had always done, he would intercept his former rival’s machinations. He would protect others from Wickham’s deceit, but then from the corner of his eye he saw Matthew Joseph’s body lurch first backward from the bullet’s impact, and then forward, slumping over the roan’s neck. Frightened by the noise and suddenly loose reins, the horse sprang forward and galloped away.
With a curse of alarm, Darcy abandoned his attack; turning Palos, he gave chase. The roan raced helter-skelter over the rocky terrain, bucking and twisting, trying to dislodge his rider. “Hold on, Joseph,” he shouted as he urged his gelding closer. Luckily, the skittish horse turned back the way he had come and galloped toward Darcy. As the horse swung past him, Darcy reached out and caught the flailing reins with his left hand, while simultaneously pulling tightly on the bits of both animals. His arms and shoulders revolted from the action, but he gritted his teeth and held on. He now fully understood the concept of being drawn and quartered. Thankfully, Palos ceased his battle with Darcy’s right shoulder and turned enough on his own to permit Darcy to tighten his grip on the roan. “Ho!” Darcy grunted as the animal stopped fighting him and came to a halt.
With a shake of his aching arms, he reached for Joseph’s reeling body. “Easy, Joseph,” he coaxed as he slid from his horse and braced the clergyman’s body to the ground. Resting the man against the slight rise of the rolling terrain, Darcy began to search Joseph’s body for his injuries. Ripping the handkerchief from his friend’s pocket, he said, “Looks as if it is only the shoulder.” He pressed the cloth to the wound. “I will escort you to the village. Just stay with me.” Blood quickly covered Darcy’s fingers. Racing to the roan’s saddle, he unrolled the napkins, which had held the remains of the meal they had recently shared. Using the heavy linen as a bandage, he placed it over the wound.
“We need assistance,” he grunted as he edged Joseph to his feet. Using his gelding for support, he lifted Joseph’s limp body into the saddle. With one hand steadying Joseph, Darcy swung up behind the man he had learned to call “friend.”
Allowing Joseph to lie limply in his arms, Darcy turned Palos toward the road where Wickham had staged his ambush. Needless to say, the scoundrel had escaped.
With his head on Darcy’s shoulder, Joseph stiffened and caught at the gelding’s mane. “Tell Mary I love her,” he rasped. “Her and William. Promise me.”
Darcy used one hand to press harder against the wound and the other to control the horse’s reins. “You will tell them yourself, Joseph. My Elizabeth would demand nothing less, and I am not of the habit of disappointing my wife.”
“How much farther, Mrs. Darcy?” Ruth Joseph asked as she shifted in the coach’s seat.
“Mr. Simpson reports that we should be in Gretna Green within the hour. We shall spend the night. I would like to share some time outdoors with Bennet. I miss walking about with my son in my arms.”
“From Gretna, where to next?” Mary asked as she searched the landscape.
“Tomorrow, we shall turn toward Dumfries and then onto Thornhill. The next day we shall arrive at Kirkconnel.” Elizabeth, too, stared at the changing scenery. “The land seems so hard,” she said as she thought of her home. “I once considered Derby and the Peak District quite savage, especially as compared to Hertfordshire. Yet, it was not wild, but wonderfully majestic and as old as time. Now, I look at this rugged terrain and wonder about those who live here in the Scottish Uplands.” Elizabeth sighed deeply. “Will these people have nurtured Mr. Darcy’s sister? Is she safe among those who eke out a living in this rocky soil? Will such people treat kindly a girl who until not two years prior shrank from her own shadow?”
“There, there.” The woman took her hand. “Ye be safe. We let nothin’ happen to you.”
The girl opened her eyes wider. The room was cleaner and larger than she had expected. “Where am I?” She attempted to sit up, but the woman pressed her back.
“Might be best not to move too quickly,” she said.
The girl sank into the soft cushions. “I am thankful for your consideration, but I would prefer to know the name of my rescuers and of my current direction.”
The woman took her hand. The warmth felt good against her chilled fingers. Yet, a warning rang in her subconscious. She could not pinpoint the exact moment that betrayal manifested itself upon the woman’s countenance, but it had made a brief appearance. Her breathing shallowed in response. “We be the MacBethan family, and you be at our home in Ayr. Me oldest son is the current laird. Of course, ye know me youngest Aulay.” She gestured to a young man in his twenties waiting patiently by the door. “One of arn men found ye and brung ye to arn home. Do ye remember any of wot I tell?”
The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery Page 13
