B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  The following morn, he called directly for his horse.

  It was a well-built gelding of handsome gait, but not his favourite. Not wanting to overuse Blackjack, he had left the horse at Pemberley. Nonetheless, that was the reason he would give should anyone ask. Truth was, he did not want to be seen on an easily identifiable steed. He could not keep his presence a secret, but he meant to be discrete. His mission was one that he would keep close to his breast. He hoped to avoid society altogether, so he set out early.

  Midday was when the most ardent of the haut ton betook themselves to the streets to be observed strolling the length of Bond. When visiting shops, ladies of the aristocracy could espy unaccompanied gentlemen quicker and more accurately than the finest sight hound could their prey. He had seen such ladies knock small children to the ground and lose shoes in order to cross the path of a gentleman who would then be obliged to offer them his arm. He did not care to suffer inquiries as to his health, sympathies for his loss, or be asked the whereabouts of his wife. He most certainly did not care to be accompanied.

  The Mall and St. James St. had the finest shops and were the smartest streets wherein to stroll. That was not his reason for taking that way. His powers of recollection had been keen at one time. He was uncertain that they were yet. The studio he sought had been in Pall Mall, but much had altered there in the past ten years. Facades had been painted, some replaced altogether.

  As before, he simply chanced on the place. It was nothing but luck that he had—or propitious fortune.

  He must have it in his hand so she would know he had not forgotten.

  Chapter 58

  Missed Missive

  Mr. Darcy did not receive the missive sent from his wife. The letter was delivered to his house, but not with the urgency that it deserved. Ultimately, that was unimportant. He was well on his way to fetch his family and, as his wife expected he would, he came by the Chiltern road. Weather was favourable until well out of London. Eventually, the roads became so boggy as to be barely passable. Soon his coach came to a stop due to an overturned stage.

  Luggage in the basket at the rear of a coach often rearranged itself travelling uphill and down. Indeed, cresting any steep grade was done gingerly. As it was not unusual for commercial coaches to have passengers clinging to the roof in addition to those riding inside, injuries were quite possible.

  Never particularly complaisant to be held back once he was set upon a certain journey; Mr. Darcy was exceedingly vexed to be halted under such circumstances. All roads leading to London had been increasingly congested. With more conveyances over-laden with products, travellers, and trunks: accidents were becoming evermore common. Unsurprisingly, a large crowd had heard of the accident and gathered to enjoy the prospect of observing a death or dismemberment. By the number of people gawking, Darcy determined that the road had been blocked by this particular mishap for some time.

  Indeed, two of four horses had become mired pulling a load. One had lain down in the mud and refused to budge one way or the other. Two husky farm-boys were jumping up and down on the shaft whilst one of the coachmen tugged on the downed horse’s halter. Another man had uncurled his whip and began laying it across the horse’s back. It was obvious that beating the horse would do no good. Parish men were already standing by with pick-axes and shovels to repair the damage to the road, but none of them moved to help clear it.

  Rapping his stick on the roof, Darcy caught his driver’s attention. A footman hastily opened the door and let down the steps. As he alit, Darcy instructed two of his men to see to the removal of some of the parcels on the disabled stage to lighten the load.

  Then, pointing to the man with the whip, Darcy told his largest footman, “Have that man desist with the whip. It serves no purpose here.”

  To another, he said, “See if there are any injuries.”

  Simultaneous to these instructions, Darcy spied a small bevy of passengers enveloped by gawking onlookers. From midmost of the group, came a familiar voice.

  “Papa!”

  Breaking Margaret Heff’s handhold, Geoff ran to his father and leapt excitedly into his arms. Mr. Darcy was altogether uncertain why his son and heir stood upon the side of a muddy toll road watching a man flail a horse. His son, however, was breathless with outrage.

  “Papa, that man is whipping the poor horse! You must make him stop!”

  “He will stop,” Darcy said, standing the boy down. Clasping his son’s hand firmly in his, he demanded, “Where is Mama?”

  Dutifully, Geoff pointed to the crowd of people. To his great relief, he spied Elizabeth and Janie. Next to them stood Franny Tupin; her eye was on Janie. Hannah had turned a basket upon its side and was surreptitiously eating a muffin. Having caught up with Geoff, Margaret breathlessly followed behind Mr. Darcy. Only when Geoff beckoned her did Elizabeth see that her husband chanced upon them. She smiled a greeting.

  Janie called joyfully to her father, “Papa!”

  Confounded, his expression begged an explanation as his daughter ran to him.

  The smile that had overspread Elizabeth’s countenance withered slightly. Obviously, the doings were beneath her station, but she saw little else she could do. Indeed, she shrugged. Suddenly aware that her skirt was six inches deep with mud (not unlike the day she hiked to Netherfield when Jane fell ill), she lifted the edge of it and shook her head in dismay. Her slippers were ruined and she wished she had had the good sense to travel in her other pair of boots. It was an awkward beginning to what she had hoped would be a happy adventure. Still, she was determined not to be ill-tempered about any of it. When one bechanced the unalterable, one must bear it with good humour.

  She feared, however, her husband did not share that philosophy.

  When he arrived at her side, he held Janie protectively in his arms. Franny Tupin punched Hannah on the shoulder to alert her to Mr. Darcy’s arrival. When Hannah stood, crumbs fell from her skirt.

  Elizabeth said, “Well, there you have it. Your wife needs rescuing once again. I fear I cannot be left to my own devices for a moment without finding calamity and bedlam.”

  Her cheerfulness in the face of such upheaval was a reassurance for her husband. He hoped that she was on the way to recovering her spirits. He displayed his joy by wiping a spatter of mud from her chin with his thumb.

  Looking back at him with saucy eyes, she said, “I must look a fright.”

  “Upon the contrary...,” he replied.

  Hastily reclaiming himself, he asked, “Were you and our children aboard this public coach? Pray, tell me not.”

  With a determined smile, she said, “No, our coach is over there. Our way was impeded, as was yours.”

  He looked up the lane and saw their livery. His expression told her he had not received her missive.

  “We took leave from my mother’s house. Do you contend that we should have stayed?”

  The question did not deserve an answer and she was chagrined to have introduced it.

  “What could have possibly influenced you to remove yourself with such haste?”

  One raised eyebrow reminded him that, although he had asked a simple question, it was almost too complicated to answer. She had held out hope that if all went well, she would not have to speak the name so often abhorrent to them both. When she spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

  “Lydia arrived at Longbourne one day ago.”

  That told all. Bearing an expression of both defeat and commiseration, he nodded his head curtly. Janie clasped her father’s cheeks in her hands, begging him to speak to her.

  She said, “Papa, those horses are stuck fast in the mud and one cannot stand up.”

  “Our footmen will help them,” he replied.

  Then he turned his attention to Geoff who had been yanking upon his father’s coattails.

  “That man is still whipping the horse, Papa!”

  Mrs. Heff held Geoff by one hand as he tried to wrest himself from her grip.

  “Yes, son,” Darcy said
evenly. “See there, now he has stopped.”

  Then he handed Janie over to Franny, saying, “Take the children immediately to my coach.”

  Although it silenced upon his approach, talk began to buzz again of how the accident came about.

  Darcy turned to Elizabeth and asked, “What is this I am hearing? Was this coach deliberately run off the road?”

  Not in a position to see oncoming wayfarers, she replied, “I cannot say. Perchance the driver can give you an accounting....”

  Darcy took her elbow with insistence, saying, “Nonetheless, you and the children should not have taken leave of your coach.”

  He escorted her directly to his coach. As he handed her in, she endeavoured to explain that they had been stranded for hours. She would have stayed in the coach, but the twins had seen the commotion and were wild with curiosity. Mr. Darcy did not hear her. He turned and strode to the group of parish men leaning on their implements—jabbing his walking stick into the muck with irritation as he went. They stood up straight ere he reached them. Thereupon, he gave them several orders. Whatever he demanded, it sent the men nodding with subservience and springing into action to help to put the stage and the horses to right. When he returned to his wife’s side, Mrs. Darcy’s hasty explanations were not listened to with forbearance. Because of that, she was a bit miffed. When she had his full attention, her words were clipped.

  Indeed, she said defensively, “I did not, sir, take these measures without thought. I betook our coach and footmen to meet you at Chiltern, wherein I have let an apartment of rooms for us to stay at our leisure for the remainder of the week. Did my letter apprising you of this alteration in our lodgings not reach you?”

  “No, it did not....”

  Darcy did not tell his wife of his present worriment, for he did not want to alarm her unduly.... However, he was not compleatly satisfied that the accident was just that. He had his man make inquiries of the particulars of the encounter and whether something more malevolent was afoot. A man named Duff took it upon himself to approach Darcy’s coach to reassure Mr. Darcy personally that no highwaymen were involved. (By the time these exchanges were made, everyone in the parish knew that it was Mr. Darcy—who had ten-thousand a year—and his family who had been entangled in the mayhem on the Chiltern Road.)

  “Only resurrection men come here!” said Duff. “Body snatchers they are! Even this far from London, they come looking for fresh dead! If a young lad, they can get nine guineas for ’em at the dissecting room at King’s College. Good set of teeth will bring ye another five. If ye die in these parts, ye best hire a watcher....”

  Everyone who read a newspaper had heard of this atrocity. However, Darcy discounted Duff’s information, if for no other reason than the distance to London. Putrefaction would make transporting a body that far unlikely. Intent as he was upon hearing and gauging this information, Darcy was unaware that Geoff was listening as well.

  Elizabeth clapped her hands over the boy’s ears and hissed at Darcy, “Pray, take heed!”

  Noticing Geoff’s wide eyes, Darcy realised his error.

  He told his son reassuringly, “Just country nonsense, my son. Pay it no mind.”

  Geoff turned to Janie and whispered, “Do not listen. It is just twaddle.”

  Elizabeth almost, but in the end, could not, correct her son for employing such language. Soon enough their children would learn of the horrors society suffered. It was much easier to think of it as twaddle than what it truly was.

  It was dusk by the time the stage was drawn upright and the Darcy coaches were on their way to Chiltern. Both the children believed they had quite an adventure. Janie had given her father an explicit accounting of each and every moment of it. As she did, her father tapped his finger impatiently for he was not much of a mind to speak further of it.

  Nor did he notice Elizabeth’s gaze. That was just as well, for it was a bit unforgiving.

  Chapter 59

  The Mews

  When in town, Mr. Darcy had taken care of several pieces of business. Unsure of her feelings on certain matters, he chose not to share all of his intentions with his wife. He felt right about that judgement after his business was done, for that visit to London was at great cost to his sensibilities. Indeed, it looked to be quite a task to raise his spirits, for they had plummeted to near maudlinness. The only remedy at hand had been to cast out those relentlessly unhappy thoughts through that well-proven destroyer of sentiment—financial affairs.

  Mr. Darcy’s money drew a solid five percent—hardly enough to pay the many newly-assessed taxes. With all the rancour against those who sat in power, he was much in want of reassurance that the liquid portion of the family fortune was not in jeopardy. To do so, he reluctantly betook himself to the blessed ‘Change.

  When his business was compleat, his solicitor bade him listen to what was perilously close to a lecture upon which streets were safe and which were not. In the midst of this recitation, Darcy replaced his hat, touched the brim, bid him good day, and took his leave. His solicitor followed fast on his heels, offering a plethora of apologies for possibly overstepping his place. Darcy waved him away. He could see the mayhem lapping at the periphery of Mayfair for himself.

  Relieved to be free of his solicitor’s vexatious interference, Darcy inspected his watch to see if he still had time to visit the Bingleys. They had been in town a fortnight whilst Bingley visited several physicians seeking just the right potion to cure his long-predicated case of gout. He promised Elizabeth that he would pay them a visit whilst in town. When he was announced, Jane met him on the landing and led him directly to Bingley’s sickbed.

  Charles was a sorry sight indeed. It was difficult not feel sorry for him and his misery, whether it was all his fault or not. Propped in bed, he wore a puce chamber robe that was bespattered with wine. One foot was propped up on a pillow. His big toe was wrapped with so much gauze it was the size of a fist. Initially, unwitting that Darcy was there, he continued to moan and, betimes, he swore.

  It was poor Jane, however, who was most distressed. She had dithered herself into a rash that swathed her décolletage and ran up the length of her neck. It was swathed with dried lotion and she had a difficult time keeping her nervous hands from worrying it. Still, all Jane’s sympathy was with dear Bingley. Such was her disconcertion, Darcy undertook the office of her consoler.

  “There, there,” was all he could say.

  With that small an act of sympathy, Jane burst into tears. Bingley moaned.

  “My poor Charles,” Jane fretted. “What is there to do? Where is there to go?”

  Upon seeing Darcy, Bingley cried out, “My toe! My poor toe! I feel as if I am walking on my eyeballs!”

  At this, Jane ran from the room, her face in her hands. (Fortunately, a maid was there to guide her lest she knock herself senseless on the doorpost.) Bingley spied her and held out one helpless hand.

  “Poor Jane,” Bingley cried out again. “She cannot bear my suffering.”

  “Have pity on your poor wife, Bingley,” Darcy scolded.

  Brought to his senses, Bingley begged his apologies. His sincerity was somewhat in question. It was clear he believed himself to be supremely wounded and entirely unaccountable for it. Darcy’s compassion was compromised. He restrained himself from gloating over having forecast the impairment. Bingley was far too wretched. As he continued to howl, Darcy’s vow against rebuking him was strained by Bingley’s self-pity and a strong desire that Jane not be further injured by her husband’s indulgences.

  “You have only yourself to blame, Bingley,” Darcy told him at last.

  Bingley grimaced.

  Dolefully, Darcy asked, “Do you know what physicians call gout?”

  Bingley shook his head.

  “Rheumatism of a rich man’s toe.”

  Miffed, Bingley said, “I am told that only men of pre-eminent intellectual ability contract it.”

  Darcy allowed him that fantasy and spoke of it no more. Bingley, how
ever, wanted Darcy’s advice on matters of business, not recuperation.

  “Your mines, Darcy,” he gasped. “Whereby did you divest yourself of your mines? What agent did you employ?”

  Surprised at Bingley’s sudden lucidity (and unusual interest in his own business affairs), Darcy took a moment before answering. He had not sold his mines. Unwilling to bear the blight on his land and its general inhumanity at large, Darcy had simply closed them down. He told Bingley that.

  “I did not sell them, I had them closed. It was my duty to find work elsewhere for the miners.”