The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery

by Regina Jeffers

  “How long has Mrs. Fitzwilliam been missing?” Wickham asked the servants he had gathered in the smallest drawing room. He enjoyed the feeling of power this brief interlude provided him.

  “It be a bit over a week,” the housekeeper told him. “We spent multiple hours searching before we called off the hunt. The moor be unrepentant when it comes to givin’ up its own.”

  Wickham examined each hired servant. This could have been his life if he not moved so quickly to try to make first Georgiana Darcy and then Miss King his wife. With the latter, he would not have experienced such luxury as what he had found at Alpin Hall, but he could have had a country manor house and several in waiting. “Even if you consider a detail unimportant, I expect to hear of it. My cousin’s disappearance has greatly distressed the family.” The servants before him dutifully nodded their obedience. “Then I will require a horse. I will survey the area myself.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hurlbert,” the head groomsman responded for the small group.

  “I find it hard to believe my cousin could have lost her way. Mrs. Fitzwilliam is an excellent horsewoman.”

  The groomsman added, “It do appear peculiar. Even the lady’s horse be missing. A slip of a girl be one thing, but Bracken would have returned to the stable if’n he be alive.”

  “Where could an animal of several hundred pounds hide?” Wickham mused.

  “That be an accurate assessment,” the groom continued. “But it not be the first time a fine animal or a visitor to this area went missing.”

  “Have you seen to Mr. Joseph’s care?” Elizabeth asked as she and Darcy undressed for the evening.

  “I have secured the local surgeon’s continued services, and the man assures me he will contract with others to oversee Mr. Joseph’s recovery.” He shed his tight-fitting jacket. “I paid for the rooms for the next fortnight. Although I expect a week may be the extent of Mr. Joseph’s recuperative period, I wished to make certain that he has time to fully recover his strength. Miss Joseph and Mary may use this room when we depart tomorrow.”

  Before the simple dressing mirror, Elizabeth brushed her auburn waves. “I thought the Josephs might join the Bingleys at Drouot House. Matthew Joseph needs Jane’s mothering and my sister’s good sense. So does Mary. This experience has taken its toll on my friend’s easy nature.”

  “I am certain Mrs. Bingley’s kind disposition will restore Mrs. Joseph’s biting wit and spontaneity. Any woman who can enjoy reading The Heroine while preparing to deliver her child is quite resilient.”

  Elizabeth smiled with a delighted twist of her mouth. “By the way, did you finish The Heroine?”

  Darcy winked at her. “Would I deny myself the pleasure of knowing the ending?”

  “Absolutely impossible,” she said with assurance. “You are a Renaissance male, one accepting of the female perspective,” she taunted lovingly.

  Darcy bowed elegantly. “I am either a popinjay or the most progressive man of your acquaintance.” His shadowed smile relayed his intentions.

  “I choose ‘progressive.’” She walked into his embrace. “You would look quite hideous in a yellow waistcoat and pea-green breeches.”

  He kissed the column of her neck. “On the point of Mr. Brummell’s fashion sense, we agree,” he said on a rasp before returning to an assault on her defenses.

  “Fitz…Fitzwilliam,” she said hoarsely. “Are you trying to seduce me?” Her body tensed as his lips trailed fire along her jaw line.

  Darcy chuckled as he kissed her ear lobe. “If you must ask, my love, I am failing miserably.”

  Elizabeth slid her hands under his shirt and massaged the muscles of his back. She rested her cheek against his chest. “There is no place I would rather be than in your arms.”

  Wickham bent over the opening in the rock face where he had placed the few items he had managed to pilfer from the estate. Before he pretended to search for Georgiana Fitzwilliam, he had chosen several pieces of silver and a small crystal ornament to stow away as collateral. He would return later and add more to his cache. Wickham realized his time at Alpin Hall would be limited. He had taken only a few items with this first pass through the house. Before he made off freely with the Alpin riches, he would determine the staff’s routines.

  He covered the opening with brush and used a branch from a hedge to erase his few tracks. Looking about to memorize his bearings in the rugged country, Wickham remounted. “Back to the estate for my afternoon meal. Then a return to this place for a second deposit. By tomorrow afternoon, I should be on the road. Darcy or the Major General will arrive any day now. If either finds me here, I will face the gallows or transportation.”

  Georgiana’s eyes slid across the meager furnishings. For a few moments, she could not recall where she was. What was real and what was part of her imagination had blended into a refracted frame through which she viewed her world. What could she actually claim to know? “The room,” she whispered. “This room is real.”

  “Is it?” The familiar female voice said from somewhere behind and above her.

  Georgiana did not move–—simply concentrated on the wooden table and chair some six feet from her. Yet, try as she might, she could not bring the furnishings into a clear focus. “It must be real,” she argued. “Or else…I am dead, and this is one of…Dante’s levels of Purgatory.”

  The voice chortled. “You are most assuredly not dead.”

  “But shall I die?” Despite her best efforts, tears formed in her eyes’ corners.

  “I cannot say. It is not part of my domain to change God’s plan for you. Yet, I believe a person has the ability to direct his course. What path shall you choose, Georgiana? Earlier, you demonstrated great strength of resolve, but now you regress.”

  She protested, “I am quite exhausted.”

  The voice countered, “As weary as Atlas with the world’s weight on his shoulders? Or is your lassitude more of Prometheus’ nature—a constant pain?”

  “Neither describes my state of affairs.” Georgiana sighed deeply. “I simply require some rest. This is so daunting.”

  The voice warned, “I expect you to not surrender to your disillusionment. Your circumstances have an egress. You must believe.”

  Georgiana’s voice trailed off as she closed her eyes once more. “I believe.”

  “Then sleep, my child,” the voice soothed. “I shall watch over you.”

  “Esme” forced herself to recall her latest dream. In it, she had pleaded with someone whom she could not identify to permit her a bit more rest. “You must believe,” she had heard the person say, but she did not know to what she must adhere. Her only conscious thoughts involved escaping from the MacBethans’ hold on her. With a shake of her head to drive away the last of her dream’s vestiges, the girl rose and made her way to the door. As she expected, a guard blocked her exit. If I were truly a guest, she told herself, I would have free rein of the house.

  “I would like to continue my tour of the house and grounds. Please send for Mr. Aulay,” she directed.

  “Yes, Ma’am.” The man bowed, but he did not move until she pointedly stepped backwards into the room. A heartbeat later, she heard the key turn in the lock. “Definitely a prisoner,” she murmured.

  Making herself complete the mundane tasks of repinning her hair and smoothing her gown’s wrinkles, she prepared what she would say to Aulay MacBethan. She needed him to share more on this excursion than he had on their last venture. However, those plans flew out the window when the door opened to reveal a man she instinctively knew to be Lord Wotherspoon.

  His obeisance offered her respect. “My Lady, I fear Aulay is unavailable. He and our mother are visiting with the vicar’s new wife. I am Domhnall MacBethan, Lord Wotherspoon. May I be of service?”

  She made herself swallow. Domhnall MacBethan was everything Aulay was not. Unruly dark hair, worn long and tied in a queue. Stern features. Green eyes, like those of a cat. A sensual mouth. Broad shoulders. He filled the door with his presence. “
I…I would not wish…wish to take you away from your duties,” she stammered.

  He stepped inside the room. “I would be honored to serve as your guide.”

  “But…” she began. Yet, she accepted his outstretched hand. When the man tucked hers in beside him, she gasped from his closeness. “If you insist.” Without another word, he led her from the room.

  “What did you see earlier?” He ventured to touch her arm, guiding her around the displays of ancestral armor.

  She glanced up at him. “Not much, I fear. My stamina is not what it should be.”

  “Then you will have the grand tour,” he said softly, almost intimately. As they strolled through the passageways, her escort explained some of the house’s history. “James III deeded the land to this branch of MacBethan family in the late 1400s, but the family has fallen on hard times. There be few of us remaining. My mother insists we each marry and have many bairns.”

  He led her up a narrow spiraling staircase. “There be three storeys and a garret. The grand hall consumes most of the second storey. Although we have recently seen to its repair, the original dais remains.” He pointed to the low raised platform. “As in most former Scottish keeps, to reach the upper floors and the solar, a person must cross the hall to the opposite corner to ascend a second set of stairs. Such construction deters a man’s enemies.”

  She listened carefully to what he said of the house’s design, but also she relished the man’s rolling accent. Unlike his brother’s uncultured speech, Domhnall MacBethan spoke as a gentleman. “Might I say, Lord Wotherspoon, that I note a bit of an English influence in your speech?”

  “I attended Eton and Oxford before making my way in English Society. With my father’s passing, I was summoned home,” he explained.

  “I find the mixture truly inviting,” she confessed.

  “That be very kind of you, my Lady.” As they strolled leisurely through the passages, he noted several of the differences between the original house and the current manor.

  Her’s mind raced with the knowledge he imparted. She made a mental note of the iron grilles still displayed on many of the windows and the number of niches possibly leading to secret passageways. However, her wariness had left her unprepared for the elaborately decorated chapel he showed her next. A consecrated cross hung over each arched opening, which led to the central altar. “This is magnificent,” she murmured.

  “This chapel was fitted up as you see it in James the Second’s time. Before that period, as I understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but my grandfather left it off.”

  “It is a pity,” she cried, “that the custom should have been discontinued. It served a valuable part in former times. There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house, with one’s ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!”

  “Very fine indeed,” said Lord Wotherspoon, laughing. “It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away.”

  She declared, “That is hardly my idea of a family assembling. If the master and mistress do not attend themselves, there must be more harm than good in the custom.”

  Wotherspoon endeavored to show himself the lord of the manor when he responded, “At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go his own way—to choose his own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time—altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in this gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of MacBethan did many a time repair to this chapel? The young and pretty virginal ladies—starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different—especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at—and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now.”

  Having permitted his anger toward the chaos surrounding him to invade his words, Domhnall needed a little recollection before he could say, “Sometimes I think my mother could reside here,” he said nonchalantly.

  “Then Lady Wotherspoon is very religious?” she asked. The idea set in sharp contrast to what she suspected of the woman.

  Wotherspoon’s frown lines met. “My mother practices her beliefs, but I would not necessarily call her religious.”

  She blushed. “I did not mean to pry. I am having some difficulty in remembering the details of my relationship with your brother. It is as if I am learning everything for the first time.”

  “Who says you have a history with Aulay?” he asked with a bit of irritation.

  She reacted immediately. “Are you saying that my acquaintance with your brother is a new one?” Indignation flared in her chest. She did not necessarily want to be engaged to Aulay, but if she had no prior understanding, when had it been decided that she should conjoin with him? And who had made that decision? Did she have family in the area? Had they turned their backs on her? Simply left her under the MacBethans’ care? She thought of the child. If she carried another man’s issue, she must be an independent woman. That only made sense. Did she possess a widow’s pension? If she had accepted Aulay’s plight, was it out of desperation? She had hoped this tour would answer some of her questions. Instead, the number of unknowns had increased.

  “I be saying, Lady Esme, that few marriages are based on love. You require a husband for your protection and a father for your child. My mother has long wished to see Aulay with a woman who possesses a kind heart.” He turned his back on her, symbolically closing the conversation.

  As he directed her steps toward her chamber, the girl’s mind raced with the new knowledge: as she had earlier suspected, the person who had been her savior, Lady Wotherspoon, was a force with whom she would have to deal. The MacBethan family matriarch ruled her house with a granite fist.

  Domhnall had not anticipated his reaction to the woman his mother had chosen for his youngest brother. His years in England had taught him to appreciate Lady Esme’s classic beauty. Even through her current disheveled appearance, she was ethereally elegant. Her golden tresses called to have someone run his fingers through them, and her creamy white neck and shoulders begged to be caressed. The lady was not tall, especially when compared to his stature; in fact, her head did not quite reach his shoulder. Yet, she stood tall, with an air of authority that both amused and intrigued him. The lady deserves better than a life with a feebleminded man, he told himself. Unfortunate as it was, his youngest brother had never achieved the maturity expected of a man of two and twenty.

  Aulay’s birth had been a difficult one for their mother, and the family had, at first, rejoiced with the boy’s survival. However, that joy was tempered by Aulay’s inability to make his own choices. In many ways, his brother was brilliant—smarter than the lot of them. In games of strategy and of topics with a scientific slant, Aulay was very clever, but when it came to the simplest social interactions, his brother struggled. Only with their mother’s assistance could Aulay make the most basic of social conversation.

  At first, he had laughed at the hours of practice from which Aulay had suffered at their mother’s direction, but now Domhnall envied that time if it brought the lovely Lady Esme into closer contact. He should not be having such t
houghts. After all, his beloved Maighread and his child were but eight months in the grave, but, like it or not, he had reacted in a very male manner to their guest.

  The girl was very aware of the man whose muscle flexed under her fingertips. This walk through the house was quite different from the earlier one with Aulay. Instead of being exhausted by the experience, she was completely exhilarated. This was an attractive, yet dangerous, man by her side. She possessed no doubt that he could dispose of another with his bare hands. If she was to survive this situation, she would need to make Lord Wotherspoon her ally.

  “You have been kind to show me what is to be my new home,” she said softly.

  “Then you will accept my brother’s proposal?” He brought their stroll to a casual pause in the grand hall’s middle.

  Bewilderment graced her face. “It was my understanding that I had previously agreed to Aulay’s plight.”

  He said seriously, “A woman can change her mind. Until the vows are spoken, you are not bound to Aulay or to any man. As we are both aware, only death can end the marriage bonds.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Although I am certain of my husband’s demise, I admit with my recent injury that I am experiencing difficulties in recalling our marriage’s details.”

  “Perhaps the locket you clutch holds a clue,” he suggested.

  “It contains a picture of my husband, but no other identification,” she confided.

  “Then perhaps it be best if you postpone your nuptials until all uncertainties are resolved.”

  She said candidly, “I do not expect that Lady Wotherspoon would appreciate the delay.”

  He looked off as if seeing something she did not. “I will tend to my mother’s dudgeon if it occurs.” Turning his gaze on her, he said confidently, “I will protect you, Lady Esme. Even from my mother. I am still the laird of this keep.”