No, she did not watch him run Reed through, nor see the other two men’s heads explode. And if what she did see was gruesome in and of itself, she did not tell her husband. She would let him believe her in a stuporous shock through the entire ordeal if that gave him a single moment’s peace.
It was, Elizabeth conjectured, unusual that her mind did not suffer more than it did as a result of such an attack. Her mind did suffer greatly, but not from that act. She had disassociated it from her miscarriage. That she dwelt upon in the privacy of her heart. Reed’s demise, however, she belaboured quite consciously and with no little rancour. She did not feel truly traumatised by his brutality. Was it that she could find no more heinous retribution to the man than he, as it happened, received?
Her husband seemed to suffer her ordeal more than she did herself. She suffered for his anguish. That was what she held against that cur, Reed, above every other outrage. His act demanded Darcy do something that bade him suffer.
There was entirely too much suffering. The one person who had not suffered was Reed. His end was merciful. And just. She refused to think of him beyond that.
It was decided that even family members would be denied the knowledge that there had been more than a simple robbery attempt. It would be futile to keep word of the attack itself from circulating by reason of so many witnesses. The Darcys, however, would proffer officially that it was but a robbery. (Elizabeth refused to submit her father and especially the expectant Jane to the added distress of the indelicate matter of attempted rape.)
Her miscarriage was duly ignored. This information alone was under their compleat regulation, for the few who knew of it could be counted on for discretion.
On hearing of such a brutal robbery, Lady Matlock insisted the family (her mother-in-law could come or not) take up full-time residence in London. The lady never enjoyed country society, announcing it bestial. Thus, belabouring fear was as good an excuse as any to do what she wanted in the first place. James and Eugenia’s immediate vacating of Derbyshire was usurped by another’s arrival.
For, not unexpectedly, in a little over a fortnight Pemberley was visited by the Bingleys. It was just enough time for Elizabeth to regain sufficient inscrutability to assure Jane that the robbery was but that.
Darcy did not tell Elizabeth that Bingley, who had greater opportunity, had heard a great deal about what mayhem Darcy had wrought that day. It seemed the entire countryside, indeed, knew of what he had wrought. And Bingley knew it had not been by duel, thus, no insult was incurred. He understood that it had been an execution of sorts. As well as he knew his friend, the one thing of which Bingley was certain was that Darcy never reacted by overreaction. If he had the blood of three men upon his hands, extreme injury must have demanded it.
Though he was as close a friend as Darcy had, even Bingley hesitated to speak to him about the dastardly doings. He chose simply to repeat what he had been told and wait to see if Darcy corrected it. Darcy had remained silent. This information by silence from Darcy was not new to Bingley. He understood exactly what his friend was telling him and he did not revisit the subject again. Nor did Bingley speak of it to anyone else either, especially his wife. He knew had Elizabeth wanted her sister to know, she would have told her herself.
Elizabeth recovered her strength with dispatch after her miscarriage, but at her husband’s request had waited a month before returning to the paddocks to take up with Boots. Actually, he argued for longer. (Indeed, had she allowed it, he may well have opted to have her toted about in a sedan chair for the better part of a year.) Although she knew herself perfectly healthy, in that he was guilt-ridden over the entire event she did not argue his solicitations for four weeks. She would do whatever she could to give his heart ease, be it invoking amnesia or keeping afoot.
But enough was enough.
The first time Elizabeth appeared at the stable, John Christie immediately brought her horse to her. (“Elizabeth, will you please reconsider that horse’s name,” Darcy continually bid her.) The entirety of this task was accomplished with the boy’s gaze cast directly upon the ground. As he legged her up, young John deliberately averted his face. Clearly, it was not a genuflection. She thought him perhaps embarrassed to look upon her, having heard gossip of the abduction. She refused, however, to bear untoward distinction from an act not of her doing and questioned John about this and that until his eyes flickered to her, then hastily away.
Whether it was because he was an orphan, he was bashful, or perchance she often saw him sneaking sugar to Boots, Elizabeth had become fond of her young groom. She had heard him as he talked incessantly and softly to the horses in his charge, which was a bit of an incongruity for his voice retained the vestiges of his harsh east London accent.
Therefore, when, in that brief glimpse of his face full, Elizabeth saw a stricken expression far exceeding simple sympathy, she was taken aback. Concerned, she dismounted and drew him aside. He was taller than she was, and howbeit rangy in build, slight of figure yet. Maturity had not yet thickened his bones nor firmed his chin. Indeed, it undertook an independent wamble that announced his composure was about to collapse. Elizabeth thought Darcy correct to believe him younger than he attested, for at that moment he appeared very much a child.
Her initial attempt to cajole him into looking at her resulted just in his abandoning the mumbling he had bestowed upon his feet. Yet it was still an astonishment when he burst into tears. Before that day, she had seen him betray no emotion beyond the kindness of sugar for Boots.
“Mrs. Darcy, it was me own doin’, it was me own fault alone!” he cried out.
“Pray, just what was your doing?”
“Whot ’appen’ to yer was me own fault.”
Assuring him he was quite innocent of the miscreant doings of highwaymen, she bid him to tell her of what he thought himself guilty.
“Reed! Aye knew ’e came back here that night. The night of the fire, and Aye din’t speak.”
Elizabeth exclaimed in surprise and disbelief. Clearly expecting it, John flinched all the same. They both knew that information would have led to Reed’s imprisonment.
He began to cry again and then stopped himself. Grasping his cuff in his fingers, he wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve.
Quietly, he admitted, “’e said ’e’d kill me.” He opened his mouth as if to say something else, but dropped his head repeating, “Them ’orses. Them ’orses.”
“’Tis done,” she calmed him, reaching out. “You should have told, ’tis true. Nevertheless, who among us can predict the future?”
“But that’s nothin’ to whot Aye caused by not tellin’. Them ’orses wouldn’t ’ave died. Reed wouldn’t ’ave been able to…rob yer ’ad Aye told Mr. ’ardin then.”
Thereupon Mr. Darcy appeared in the lane, ready to accompany Elizabeth upon her inevitable, and in his mind, detestable, ride (“Recalcitrance, Lizzy. Utter recalcitrance,” he had accused her). Upon seeing the master, John turned and bolted in a full-out run of terror. Innocent of the conversation, Darcy approached Elizabeth and looked in John’s direction in all good humour.
“Where does your groom go in such haste?”
Elizabeth, still stunned, recounted what John had told her. At first, Darcy looked upon her incredulously. Then he stomped his foot in fury and whirled about to catch sight of which direction John had taken.
“He bloody well better run, for were I to catch him…”
Abruptly, he stopped himself, realising he had actually issued a curse in Elizabeth’s presence. (He never cursed. Not even in the easy but often profane camaraderie of gentlemenly company.) Elizabeth, of course, did not think her virtue sullied by hearing the word. If anything, it was good that her husband had issued a profanity then, if just because it interrupted his anger long enough to reconsider the pursuit upon which he almost embarked. She raised an eyebrow at him and he shook his head a little, possibly to avert the ridiculous picture of himself that must have crossed his mind: running after a groom,
ludicrously waving his crop.
He hastily apologised to Elizabeth who had put her hand upon his sleeve to calm his anger.
“Oh Darcy, he didn’t have to tell us about it now. We should never have learnt of it had he not.”
When Darcy turned and looked at her, her countenance reflected a level of sympathy that told him it would serve no purpose to speak further of the matter just then. He patted her hand with a reassuring calmness he did not feel. It was test enough upon her health that she insisted upon riding. Adding the apprehension that he might inflict a hiding upon her groom would not be advisable. He legged her back onto Boots and mounted his own horse.
They departed upon a leisurely ride that lent no more conversation of the errant John, nor reminders of “that day.” Elizabeth knew no purpose would be gained by applying to Darcy for compassion upon John’s behalf then. He was in festering anger yet over every aspect of her ordeal. Moreover, she was uncertain if she would even be able to find John, so relentlessly had he run. Thus, until that was addressed, she decided it best not to advance the matter.
Therefore, their ride passed with little more than innocuous conversation (and one more enquiry by Darcy, “Lizzy, will you not reconsider the name of that horse?”). It was a refrain she had begun to enjoy. Refusing to answer, she invariably patted Boots’ neck in her negligence. It was a reassuring liturgy. He would implore. She would ignore. Yes, it was a reassuring remembrance of an easier time.
The next day John was not to be found at Pemberley and Elizabeth decided to ride alone to Kympton (eluding Darcy for this covert excursion was no easy task), where she knew his mother to have worked. As it would be unseemly for her to ride into town and up to the inn alone, she stopped at a short distance and bid a young boy to find the innkeeper’s wife. The woman, Mrs. Turnpenny, upon hearing who bade application to see her, hastily rid her dirty apron from her ample bosom. When she came, Elizabeth stepped down from her horse so as not to converse from a position of officiousness.
The pursy woman had come with all amplitude and rush, her somewhat immense proportions placing an undue exertion upon her breath. But she had placed a welcoming expression of agreeability upon, what appeared to Elizabeth, a decidedly disagreeable face. Elizabeth told her she had come in search of the boy, John Christie, whose mother had once worked there. Had the woman seen him of late?
So nervous was Mrs. Turnpenny of speaking to Mrs. Darcy herself, this enquiry excited her into a conversational tailspin. She began a rapid monologue embracing every single tidbit of information of which she could think that might be of assistance to the grand lady. Eventually this discourse did actually cover what Elizabeth bid her, but only after she learnt of the good health and/or illness of every man, woman, child, or beast in the village.
Eventually, the woman volunteered, yes, John had come there the day before. Although she had not given him shelter, she knew that he had stayed in their stable the night past. She expected no better, the woman told Elizabeth, for his mother was known as a drunken whore (“Oh, mind your shoes ma’am of them trottles, the sheeps broke the hurdles!”) and was not good enough to die in their establishment. Russet-haired trollop. Had Mrs. Darcy known that the boy John’s mother had once worked at Pemberley? Or so she said, but who could trust such a fallen woman’s declarations, certainly not she…
Exasperated, Elizabeth interrupted the woman to thank her with all due kindness and inquired as to the direction of their stable. That Mrs. Darcy had abandoned the conversation, it did not necessarily follow that the loquacious Mrs. Turnpenny would. Elizabeth could hear the woman babbling yet as a stableboy legged her up and she rode away. In that the stable was but a turn from the inn, Elizabeth was still within earshot when Mrs. Turnpenny quit her singsong conversational cadence for a more strident screech at her help.
The horse barn was a small, ramshackle affair that held the inescapable odour of sodden hay and manure. The hostler’s room was easy to find, although nothing more than a lean-to upon the side. John was not there, but he was not far off. Not unexpectedly, Elizabeth found him sitting upon the wet ground in a stall, one arm wrapped morosely about his knees. The other petted the nose of a sway-backed, once-white horse. The screw quite obviously was only recently unhitched from a plough and was apparently very appreciative of a gentle hand.
John scrambled to his feet when he espied Mrs. Darcy. His obvious misery gave Elizabeth a twinge, but she knew instinctively that he sought no pity.
Without fanfare and with little ado, she announced, “You shall return to Pemberley if Mr. Darcy would but think so. Come this evening and we shall see what his decision will be.”
John stood looking at her warily.
“Come, John,” she added gently. “The worst that shall happen is that you will be let go…formally. Nothing else.”
John looked up. He had reckoned few things in his life except that he could trust in no one. As to why he put his trust in Mrs. Darcy at that time could only be attributed to the same keen judgement of character that honed his mistrust of mankind in general. Mrs. Darcy was as kind as was her husband fearsome.
If there was any hesitation, John lost it when she smiled over her shoulder as she turned to take leave, saying, “If you do not, Boots will miss her sugar.”
Reluctant she was to reveal to her husband what had transpired without his knowledge. But she did. Not unexpectedly, his ire toward poor John was intractable. Certain enough hurt had come from that sordid episode, Elizabeth persevered upon his behalf.
Eventually a bargain betwixt them was struck: John could stay, but no longer groom to Boots. Exile from the horses was a severe punishment, but it was better than a bastinadoing. Elizabeth was not of a mind to quibble with the decision. For she knew without the words being spoken that Darcy would be reminded of the hellish incident each time he looked upon the piteous boy.
In the aftermath, John was gradually readmitted to the stables, but kept his head down and made certain he stayed out of Mr. Darcy’s eye.
Having managed to elude Lydia at least temporarily, Wickham located one of London’s better grog houses. Trumbell’s Gentlemen’s Club was distinguished but not exclusive. It also boasted better gambling, faster wenches, and finer gins than any other and he expertly wended his way through the mass of patrons to locate which table emitted the unmistakable sound of dice.
After standing a few moments at the back of the crowd surrounding it, he moved on. Wickham favoured dice for pleasure, but this night he passed them by. The card tables were more lucrative and he was in need of some quick money.
In queer street yet again, Wickham was desperate. If funds could not be found to anoint the palms of the right people, Major Wickham was in fierce anxiety (if not outright panic) that he would find himself supporting the faltering British troops in the Peninsular War. True, there had been some heroics. However, unless Wellesley could re-supply his elite, but dwindling, troops, his great offensive against Napoleon’s vast army would fail.
Wickham might have favoured visiting Madrid, but he was quite certain any endeavour that included the military tactic called “scorched earth policy” was not something of which he wanted any part.
He wished the British commander well in his quest of laying waste to the Spanish countryside. Most decidedly did he wish the commander well in combat against the French. For if Wellesley could not stop Napoleon in Spain, there would not be enough money nor enough palms to grease to keep Wickham’s easily provoked sense of self-preservation becalmed.
Having no influence over Wellesley at that moment, Wickham reminded himself to address immediate needs first and he took quick assessment of the card players.
There were a number of well-dressed men. Wickham had learnt (from being left without a feather to fly with) that England could count amongst its citizens of rank and wealth at the gaming tables more than a few sons of smugglers and bootblacks. This second generation of new money had a veneer of refinement, but that gentility was often betrayed by an
ever-so-slight coarseness in manner. If Wickham was to be successful at cards, he must cull those who gained position by sleuth rather than by birth. An advantage at cards would be found only amongst those who were in the happy circumstance of being wellborn and holding little sense.
Wickham expertly sized up the women as well. Practise told him that the two fetching chits eyeing him most zealously were likely to be much less interested in his countenance than the possibility of lifting his watch. He passed them by. Romance at that particular moment held little allure.
Having finally finagled his way into a company quartered in London and away from dreaded Newcastle, Major Wickham had looked forward to society again. Society did not quite reciprocate that happiness of acquaintance, for when he hied to London, his baggage included his wife.
Lydia, once merely a nettlesome flibbertigibbet, had somehow mutated into The Devil’s Sister. The single most reliable trait she had was inciting mayhem. At the previous night’s ball, he had dedicated his entire evening to the seduction of a rather comely young article only to have Lydia dash it all. Had he not been there to unfurl his wife’s fingers, the poor girl might have been snatched bald-headed instead of merely having her turban deplumed. (What with Lydia bellowing and the young woman shrieking, the orchestra actually stopped playing mid-note and looked on incredulously at this exceedingly vociferous contretemps.) Knowing it was quite futile to reason with a witless woman, the attempt Wickham made at quieting her as he drug her outside was solely for appearances. Telling Lydia not to make a spectacle was much the same as telling a rooster he must not crow.
He had fled the ball with Lydia redirecting her wrath from the amorous woman to her husband. It was his brief consideration that a battlefield in Spain might be somewhat more peaceful. That he could neither quiet nor outsmart his dim-witted wife was becoming less a nuisance and more a humiliation to him day by day.
Indeed, Lydia had him by the short hairs. Hence, when the diversion of Trumbell’s presented itself, he embraced it unequivocally.
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