The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery

by Regina Jeffers

  She shrugged from his grasp. “As you wish, my Lord.”

  Domhnall brought the back of her hand to his lips. “I told my mother that your door was to remain unlocked, but promise me you will lock it from the inside, and you will keep the key with you.”

  “I promise.”

  With the break of dawn, Darcy and Edward prepared to ride out; Elizabeth had insisted that both men have a proper breakfast, and to ensure their doing as she asked, she had filled their plates and had sat beside them to encourage their appetites.

  “You did not say what has happened to Mrs. Wickham,” Edward remarked as he consumed the ham Elizabeth had placed on his plate. Although both he and Darcy had argued against the necessity of the meal, they each ate heartily.

  “My mother has escorted Lydia to Carlisle. Of course, we all assumed Lieutenant Wickham had returned to their let rooms. As we erred in that assumption, I am certain Mama and Lydia are at their wits’ end.” Elizabeth placed preserves on her toast. She had begun to think with assurance that her pregnancy was real. Of late, the smell of certain foods affected her hunger or lack thereof.

  “Perhaps you should send Mrs. Wickham news of her husband’s true nature,” Darcy observed with bitterness.

  Elizabeth scowled. “Neither Lydia not Mrs. Bennet deserve our censure. Let us please direct our disdain to my sister’s husband. I certainly cannot send word of the man’s attack or of his thievery without bringing on a case of the vapors. What would you have me say, Fitzwilliam? Instead, I think it best that I send word to Papa. He should travel to Carlisle and speak to Mama and Lydia personally. Someone must take control of the hysterics that are likely to follow. We would not want news of the man’s perfidy to become common knowledge.”

  Darcy said flatly, “For my satisfaction, I would not mind seeing Lieutenant Wickham receive his due.”

  Elizabeth set her teacup down with emphasis. “Fitzwilliam, despite your contempt for Lieutenant Wickham and despite Lydia’s naïveté, it would not serve either the Darcys or the Bennets to have the situation become a court issue. You have fought for over a decade to protect the Darcy name from Lieutenant Wickham’s schemes and prevarications. You may have washed your hands of the man, but the Darcy family has not. Bennet’s name and the names of any future children with which we may be blessed shall not be associated with that of a convicted criminal. I shall not have it. You must set your mind to a solution.”

  Darcy’s lips turned up in amusement. “As you wish, Mrs. Darcy.”

  Elizabeth sighed impatiently. “I despise how easily you read me, Mr. Darcy.”

  Darcy placed his napkin on the table, stood, and then leaned down to kiss the top of his wife’s head. “Not easily enough, my dear, but I am very aware of your familial loyalty and am blessed by it.”

  Elizabeth smiled brightly. “Be off with you.” She stood as the Major General finished his meal. “Ride safely, Fitzwilliam. Please bring Georgiana home to those who love her.”

  Darcy caught her hand and tugged Elizabeth along behind him. “Kiss Bennet for me.”

  “And me, as well,” Edward added as he accepted his hat and gloves from Mr. Jacks.

  “Send word if you are delayed,” Elizabeth ordered.

  Darcy kissed her fingertips. “You will know what we discover.”

  The early morning light had invaded the space, and although she had fought for sleep, the day brought her a flicker of hope. Would this be the day? The day someone would find her? The day someone would rescue her, and she could return to her family’s bosom?

  During the night, she had dreamed of a dark evil chasing her through the blackness. Georgiana had never felt such fear, but then Edward had stepped from the shadows and had taken her into the safety of his embrace. The alarm had not disappeared, but with her husband’s acceptance, she had known love.

  “It is time to escape from the confines of these walls,” she chastised herself. “Edward would expect it, Fitzwilliam would require it, and Elizabeth would challenge me to follow through. Yet, where do I begin?”

  Wickham had found a secluded setting where he could observe the comings and goings of those residing at Normanna Hall. He had observed a young man, likely the one known as Aulay, depart with an elderly lady in a farmer’s wagon covered with a heavy canvas. From the descriptions Kerr had provided him, Wickham recognized the woman as the MacBethan mother. Strangely, rather than the young man, the woman picked up the reins. “Namby pamby,” Wickham grumbled. “What man permits a woman to handle a ride? Maybe if he is wooing her, but never otherwise. And why does the lady of the house drive a farmer’s wagon—one meant to carry supplies?” The lack of reasonable answers to his many questions draped heavily about his shoulders.

  After the wagon’s departure, for the next hour he simply watched the staff going about its business, but finally a man and woman appeared on the upper ramparts. Wickham sat back against the rock cropping so the pair could not observe his presence. He would like to know of what they spoke, but he could not safely move in closer to listen. Instead, he drew from his pocket a small spyglass he had taken from the blue bedroom at Alpin Hall. At the time, he had removed the glass on a whim, but now he was pleased with his choice in doing so. Bringing the glass to his eye, he focused his attention on the woman.

  He could not decipher many details regarding the woman’s appearance, but he could see her face. He recognized the golden blonde hair and striking facial features of Kerr’s earlier description. “Well, well,” he said to himself as the man bent his head to kiss the woman’s lips. “Not what I had expected, but perhaps there is a way to profit from this information.” Closing the glass, he eased backward to hide more completely from view. “Who might be interested in a man stealing a woman away from her family? And who might be interested in recovering their loved one? I suspect I know the answer to both of those questions.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to walk with me,” Domhnall said as they reached the lowest level of the house’s parapet. He had thought to revisit the upper floors where last evening she had accepted his comfort after the confrontation with his mother.

  “It is my pleasure, my Lord.” She had yet to look at him, and Domhnall feared he had lost her.

  He held her hand fast to his arm. “We should speak honestly of what happened last evening.”

  Surprisingly, she raised her chin in a regal manner and stilled him with her gaze. “I spent most of the night trying to understand how you could permit men to be held as prisoners in your home. I thought I had taken a measure of your merit, but I erred completely.”

  Domhnall’s heart slammed into his chest wall. “I am not the ogre you describe,” he protested. “Again, you must believe that I was unaware of my mother’s actions. When I discovered her deviousness, I put an end to her designs.”

  “I do believe you did not participate willingly in what is happening here, but you have done nothing to release those imprisoned below,” she declared.

  Domhnall caught her hand and brought it to rest above his heart. “I wish you to hear that my heart speaks the truth. I have not released those kept below because to do so would be to see my mother brought before the courts. She has committed a great crime, but I love her. She is my family. Yet, I have ordered extra food and blankets to increase the others’ comfort until I can determine how best to proceed.”

  Her countenance darkened. “It was you,” she rasped. “You brought me the extra warmth.”

  Domhnall nodded. “And was mesmerized by your exquisite beauty.”

  She blushed, but she did not look away. “Would you tell me how I came to be at Normanna?”

  “I assume in the common way. My mother gathers those who travel alone. Some have lost their way and have sought shelter behind these doors. I was not in residence when you came here, but I understand that one of those loyal to my mother found you alone on the moor. It is supposed that your horse had thrown you. The animal is housed in the Normanna stables if you care to see it. Perhaps it will ja
r your reminiscence.”

  The girl appeared to be searching for the memory he had provided her. “Why does Lady Wotherspoon take them? Not everyone who is lost has someone who could pay a ransom for his return. What of those who have no families?”

  Domhnall could not speak of the horrors he had discovered below stairs. Instead, he said, “It is complicated, but for now know that I will not condone what has happened previously as the normal for my household. I will make things right. I have pledged myself to see it so. Please say that you will permit me to demonstrate my sincerity.”

  She touched his cheek in a tender caress. “I shall allow you time to recover your honor.”

  “Would you also allow me the favor of a kiss?”

  She grew quiet, and Domhnall knew her mind searched for a memory upon which to hang her hopes. Finally, she rose on tiptoes in acceptance, and he lowered his head to touch his lips to hers. Pure joy, the first he had known since the day he had learned of Maighread’s being enceinte, rushed through his veins. Esme would accept him. Even with her doubts, Lady Esme would stand beside him. Just the idea of her brought contentment. Her lips held her doubt, but they also held gentleness. Warmth surrounded her, and Domhnall felt her innocence in his bones. His groin reacted to her closeness. He warned himself to go slowly. Instinctively, the girl pulled back, and Domhnall’s gaze sought hers. Passion flickered but did not flare. He would have to wait to know the depth of the lady’s desires, but he thought it possible that they could find happiness together.

  “Thank you, my dear.” He motioned her toward the stairs. “I will return you to your room. We will dine together, but I suspect that you could use some rest after last evening. Meanwhile, I will proceed with my plans to unravel what this house hides.”

  The girl allowed Domhnall MacBethan to escort her to her chambers. With his withdrawal, she locked the door, as he had suggested the previous evening, and then she collapsed into the nearest chair. “Oh, my,” she gasped. Overcome with emotions, she dropped her head into her hands. “What am I to believe?” she moaned. “Who am I to trust?”

  She had not asked Lord Wotherspoon why the man cried out last evening. What had Dolina MacBethan done to the prisoner to bring on that agonizing scream? And what had the woman meant by “I expect no more trouble; I want him prepared by mornin’”?

  “Prepared how?” she whispered to the empty room. “And for what purpose?” She knew of only one way to prepare a person: prepare a body for burial. Had Lady Wotherspoon permitted her henchman to kill one of the prisoners? Or worse yet, had she done the deed herself? “I would not place such an action outside the woman’s realm,” the girl declared.

  Silence surrounded her. Instinctively, she looked about the room for some sort of weapon with which she might protect herself if Lady Wotherspoon came for her. “It is time to escape the confines of these walls,” she declared as she stood reluctantly and walked toward the bed. For reasons she did not fully comprehend, she remained bone tired—barely able to move. “Is it the realization of what I must face within these walls? Or is it the weariness of not knowing my future? Or recognizing my past?” She glanced as the unkempt bed. “A few hours sleep while I design a way to leave this madness behind.” She stretched out on her back and stared at the ceiling. “Lord Wotherspoon already trusts me. I can build on that. Perhaps I can convince him to take me away from here.”

  “Where is my mother?” Wotherspoon demanded as he entered the final passageway leading to the cells. His heart thundered in his ears. All the anger and misery of his childhood had exploded before his eyes. Over the years, he had schooled his emotions never to show the feelings of loneliness. Of his mother’s scowling indifference.

  The man known as Blane scrambled to his feet. “Me cousin and Aulay take out the wagon, m’Lord,” the man said in that mocking attitude that Domhnall had come to hate.

  Without thinking, he spun the man about and placed a dagger to his throat. “Permit me to make myself clearer to your side of the family. Perhaps my mother’s father raised simpletons,” he growled in the man’s ear, “but the MacBethans do not sire half men.” Domhnall tightened his hold. “I am the master of this house. Whether you like it or not, you remain at Normanna only with my good graces. It would not be wise to cross me.” The man clawed at Domhnall’s hold, but Domhnall never gave the slightest notice. “I want to know what happened last evening. I want to know why my mother has taken out the supply wagon this morning? Nod if you understand what information I seek.”

  Blane’s face had turned first red from anger, then pale from fright, and finally an ashen color as Domhnall increased his pressure on the man’s throat. With the slightest of nods, Blane surrendered to Domhnall’s wishes. Hating to release his maternal cousin, Domhnall gave Blane one more tight squeeze before physically shoving the man from him. “Now tell me what you know.” He brandished the dagger at the man for whom he had never cared.

  Blane rubbed at his neck, and with some satisfaction, Domhnall noticed a trickle of blood from where his dagger had left a cut. “A man…” Blane began hoarsely. “A man…passed during the night. Dolina…takes the body…where no one…sees it.”

  “Did the man pass of natural causes or did my mother aid his leaving this world?” Each time Domhnall thought the situation could not become more troublesome, it did.

  “The man…be sick,” Blane offered lamely.

  Domhnall groaned. “I see.” His mother had lied to him. Even though he had vehemently warned her against continuing her evil ways, she had defied him again. “This will be the last one. Make no bones about it. The last one!” His voice echoed from the stone walls. “I mean to have this house cleansed of blood!” He stormed away. When his mother returned, he would deal with her. Perhaps, he might even place her in the prison she had made.

  “Damn,” Munro growled when he observed the wagon making its way toward him. He had purposely circled the series of lochs and had approached from the east. He had stopped only twice after he left the card game in Cumnock: once to question several of the temporary workers at Alpin Hall and then again in the late morning hours in Ruthwell. Some of his clansmen thought him foolish to leave his meager savings at the Ruthwell Savings Bank, but Munro had tolerated their taunts because he had his eye on a small piece of land near where Islav MacBethan had settled. He desired to be far from his aunt and the power struggle between her and his cousin. Domhnall had seen the evil too late to fully take control of Aunt Dolina’s schemes. Once Munro had saved enough to purchase the land he had previously scouted on his journey to Crieff, he would leave this craziness to his aunt. She might fight her own societal wars without his assistance.

  As he approached the Awful Hand, he had thought himself safe, but Aunt Dolina and Aulay had made their way along the Hand’s Merrick appendage, and in the moor’s open terrain, a person could easily pick out his movements.

  The Awful Hand, a series of north-south mountain ranges, had earned its unusual name because from Waterhead, the mountains formed a gnarled hand: Minnoch, Tarfessock, Kirriereoch, and Merrick made up the fingers and Benyellary the thumb. Kirriereoch and Merrick were some of the highest peaks in the Southern Uplands, but Munro realized Dolina was not out for a pleasure ride. His aunt had business on the moor.

  “Ho!” she called as she brought the horses to a halt. “Ye be back early,” she noted suspiciously. “Ye found wot I ast?”

  Munro knew better than to look away—to show any weakness. His Aunt Dolina observed him carefully for any signs of betrayal. He also knew she would have no qualms in killing him where he sat in the saddle. He had promised Domhnall to report his findings to his cousin before sharing them with Dolina, but neither he nor Domhnall had anticipated this scenario. “I did.” He brought his horse closer to where she sat upon the wooden bench.

  “And?” she asked emphatically.

  He could likely find a position on another estate, or he could borrow money from Lilias Birrel’s husband. Domhnall’s only sister had marr
ied well, becoming Lady Carmichael, the lady’s husband heir to a viscounty. Lord Carmichael had always welcomed Munro to his home. The decision was made: he could no longer tolerate what went on under Dolina’s reign at Normanna. He wanted away from the madness. Never one to walk away from a fight, he, at first, thought it admirable that his aunt had discovered a way to make the estate profitable, but then he had discovered what Dolina did to innocent victims; now, he just wanted distance between him and Coll MacBethan’s widow. He would leave for Knovdart tomorrow. He would no longer be a pawn in Dolina’s games. He circled the horse in place so he might have a moment to school his countenance before facing her again. Should he tell her the truth? Tell them both the truth, he chastised himself. Allow mother and son to fight it out while you escape north.

  He cleared his throat before saying, “I met a man in Cumnock.”

  “Playin’ cards?” Dolina interrupted.

  “We each cherish our own games, Aunt,” he said testily. “Do ye want to hear wot I discovered or not?”

  She grudgingly said, “Go on.”

  Munro smiled smugly. “This man speaks of a cousin he seeks from over near Kirkconnel. The girl, she leaves the estate and does not return at dark. They search for two days, but no one has seen her.”

  “Be the gel Lady Esme?”

  Munro shrugged. “If she be so, the gel’s name be not Lady Esme. She be Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and her husband be a great war hero.”

  “The gel say her husband be dead,” Dolina protested.

  Munro thought to prevaricate, but he reminded himself of the pledge he had just made to leave the others to deal with the turmoil of their ultimate confrontations. “The estate be closed, but the gel bring in workers because she expect her husband’s return. Unfortunately, she received word from his mother, an English countess, that Major General Fitzwilliam was among those lost at Waterloo.”