by Webb, Brenda
In the large four-poster bed, Fitzwilliam lay asleep atop the counterpane, clad only in breeches and stockings. Miss Bennet lay next to him with her back to his chest, dressed only in night clothes and partially covered by a blanket. Not believing her eyes, Audrey crept closer, almost tripping on Mrs. Parker’s bag of remedies which lay on the floor. She blinked in hopes it would prove an illusion, but that was not the case. The stitches in her nephew’s head were plainly visible, though he was fast asleep. Taking a deep breath, the Mistress of Ashcroft Park tried to collect herself, knowing that she must work quickly. It was early, and there was still time to spirit Elizabeth back to her own bed before anyone realised that she had spent the night in Fitzwilliam’s room.
Nearing the side where Elizabeth lay, she reached to shake her lightly and was relieved to see her eyes fly open. Holding a finger to her lips to indicate that they should not wake Fitzwilliam, she watched as the young woman rose, looked lovingly at him for a moment, and then slipped off the bed. Before long, they were both ensconced in Elizabeth’s room without having been found out.
Once the scandal was averted, Elizabeth was left to face William’s aunt. Mortified, her head dropped. “It was not as it appeared.”
Lady Ashcroft stepped to Elizabeth, lifting her chin with a soft touch. “I know my nephew well enough to believe that. Besides, had anything more scandalous happened, I think you would have been under the covers and not lying atop them fully clothed,” she said with a sly smile.
“I confess that something might have happened, had Fitzwilliam not been so honourable. I should not have stayed with him, but I was so worried.”
“You love him and he was hurt. Naturally you wanted to be with him… to see after him.” She sank down onto a comfortable settee, pulling Elizabeth down beside her, and for the first time Lady Ashcroft noticed the ring on the young woman’s middle finger. She reached out to examine it.
“Fitzwilliam’s signet ring.”
Elizabeth offered shyly, “He asked me to wear it until he can give me a wedding ring.”
Audrey smiled lovingly at the woman who would one day become her niece. “That is so like him.” Then she became solemn. “You know it would never do for Gisela to learn that you have his signet. That ring has the Darcy coat-of-arms and is employed to validate letters, contracts and documents of import—it signifies his stamp of approval.”
“I understand,” Elizabeth hurried to explain. “We agreed that I shall wear it around my neck on a long chain so that it rests over my heart.”
“I have a silver necklace that would be perfect.” Audrey patted her hand. “Now tell me about Fitzwilliam’s injury? Parker mentioned that he had suffered a serious gash and that he could not convince my nephew that he needed stitches, but it is evident that he has them now.”
“I… I was able to convince him of that.”
“Thank goodness! But who did the stitches? When I spoke with Mrs. Parker, she was unaware that he had even been injured.”
Blushing crimson, Elizabeth focused on her slippers. “I did. You see, I have been stitching up my father’s hounds for years and—”
The sound of heartfelt laughter filled the room, and Elizabeth glanced over to see William’s aunt covering her mouth as she chuckled. It caused the tension in her shoulders to dissolve, and she began to smile. Then, she shared with his aunt all that had happened since she had seen Fitzwilliam returning from the stables.
Well… almost everything.
~~~*~~~
Chapter 36
Meryton
Longbourn
As Charles Bingley neared the front entrance of Longbourn astride one of his favourite stallions, he was surprised to find that no one came running to greet him. Most of the time the younger girls would be the first to spy his approach and alert the rest of the family. With Jane and her mother in London, he felt sure that Lydia and Kitty would notice his arrival and rush to escort him into the house as was their usual manner. However, oddly enough, today no one had appeared by the time he had dismounted other than a groom who materialized out of thin air to take his horse. Nodding at the young man who claimed the reins, Charles was surprised to find Mrs. Hill standing in the doorway when he turned towards the front entrance. She was intently focused on wiping flour-covered hands on her apron in an attempt to clean them.
“Mrs. Hill, how good to see you again.”
“And you, Mr. Bingley,” the elderly servant replied, standing back to allow him to enter the door she held open. “Mr. Bennet regrets that he is not able to greet you, however, he is waiting for you in his study, if you will follow me.”
“No need to show me the way,” Charles declared cheerily as he strode off in the direction of Mr. Bennet’s study. “You look as though you were occupied with more important things, and I can find the study. Besides,” he called over his shoulder with a big smile, “I shall no doubt benefit from whatever delicious item you are baking if I let you return to your work.”
Charles had reached the door to Mr. Bennet’s study and hesitated for only a moment to reflect on the missive that had arrived at Netherfield that morning. It had been short and to the point, requesting that he come to Longbourn as soon as feasible and gave no explanation of why he was being summoned. Saying a short prayer that nothing important was amiss, he steeled himself and knocked.
A disembodied voice rang out, “Come in!”
Proceeding, the distinct aroma of liniment accosted his senses the moment he stepped inside, causing his nose to curl in protest. Expecting Mr. Bennet to stand as he normally did, Charles was surprised to find that gentleman still sitting behind his desk—his chair turned to the side. His left leg was stretched straight out and cradled upon another chair piled high with cushions, displaying a knee that looked several times larger than natural. It was wrapped in several layers of cloth that, without a doubt, contained the foul smelling ointment.
“Upon my word!” Charles exclaimed, moving closer to examine Jane’s father. “What has happened to your leg?”
Mr. Bennet shook his head in exasperation. “I was trying to secure one of the goats when I stepped in a hole and fell, wrenching my knee. Fortunately, I believe it is not as severe as it looks. I can hobble around with the aid of my cane, though it causes considerable pain, but I fear that I shall not be doing any jigs for the foreseeable future.”
Knowing Mr. Bennet’s reluctance to attend the local assemblies as he did not enjoy dancing, Charles could not help chuckling. “If there was a ball scheduled, you would have a perfectly legitimate reason not to attend. Even Mrs. Bennet could not fault you now.”
“Ah,” Mr. Bennet concurred, “but unfortunately, this impairment is for naught, as there are no balls to refuse at this time. And as you well know, my wife is in London with your betrothed. That is why I sent for you.”
“I wondered why I was summoned,” Charles said, before adding a bit worriedly, “Jane is not ill?”
“Oh, no, no!” Mr. Bennet declared, using his arms to lift himself up and shift his position in the chair. He grimaced with pain as he did so. “I did not mean to alarm you, but I have a request to make of you.”
Relieved, Charles let go of the breath he was holding. “Anything.”
“Take me to London.”
“But… but,” Charles stuttered, trying to make sense of the request, his mind whirling with the logistics of taking a man in his condition to London. “Why would you want to travel with your leg in such a state? Surely it needs to heal first or at least improve a great deal before you attempt such a journey.”
“I do not have the luxury of waiting.” Mr. Bennet said woodenly, opening the top drawer of his desk and pulling a letter from it. He tossed it across the desk to Charles. “I do not think that Jane will mind if I share this with you.”
Charles took the letter, and with one last glance at Mr. Bennet, began to read the missive. Other than his eyebrows rising, there was no outward expression of what he was thinking until he was through
. Refolding the letter, he handed it back to Jane’s father, saying, “I see your point. Do you actually think Mrs. Bennet would order Miss Elizabeth to marry someone she does not want?”
“I believe she would try, though I have serious doubts that she would be successful. Lizzy is undeniably my daughter, and she is not one to be pushed about. However, I will not trust her future to my wife’s plots and schemes, not to mention those of her aunt. It seems that Madeline Gardiner is as much a manipulator as Fanny. And apparently, I should not have believed all of my Lizzy’s reassurances of her well-being since she reached Town.”
Turning to look for a chair, Bingley found one and pulled it towards the front of Mr. Bennet’s desk. He sat down and began to run his fingers through his bright red locks as he considered the particulars of a trip to London.
“I suppose we can undertake the trip if we can improvise a way to keep your leg elevated and as motionless as possible—that is, unless you wish to exercise it.”
“I have given it considerable thought, and I have a small, square footstool that I believe will just fit between the seats. If I place a pillow or two upon it, it should be just the right height to support my leg. And, if we stop occasionally so that I may walk about with my cane, I believe I shall be able to weather the journey.”
Charles smiled. “You must know that I would dearly love to see Jane again, though your wife forbade me to appear in Town while they were ordering her wedding clothes. Mrs. Bennet alleged that I would occupy all of Jane’s time, and she would not be afforded the necessary time to visit all the modistes and fabric shops that she had in mind.”
“There is not enough time in the day to satisfy my wife when she is spending my money!” Mr. Bennet huffed. Then softening, he added, “However, I shall assure you that Jane shall have all the wedding finery she desires and still have time to spend with you. How else could I repay your generosity in assisting me?”
“I would have aided you in any event, especially to help Miss Elizabeth, whom I already regard as a sister.”
“Then we are agreed! We shall leave in the morning, if that suits you.”
“My coach shall be here at dawn.”
~~~*~~~
London
Grantham Townhouse
Fran tiptoed to the door of her mistress’ sitting room and as quietly as possible, turned the doorknob and peered inside. Breathing a sigh of relief at seeing no one about, she pushed open the door and slipped inside. Her arms were full of clean linens, while in her pocket were the keys she had purloined from the dresser last evening. She proceeded to the large closet to place the sheets and was unnerved to hear Gisela’s slurred voice come from somewhere behind her.
“Where the devil have you been? I have been calling for you for over an hour to help me with my toilette! You know that I have a ball to attend tonight!”
Fran was very aware that Gisela had not even been awake an hour, and as she turned to find the lady in question standing in the door that led into her bedroom, she was not surprised to see her still wearing the nightgown she had worn for the last two days. More often than not, Mrs. Darcy no longer changed clothes or bathed unless she intended to go out. And the last time she had left the house, she had returned forthwith, complaining about not being received. From what she had gathered, her mistress had called on a long-time acquaintance who no longer wished to be associated with her.
Fran certainly could not fault whoever it was. She would not want to associate with her mistress either, given a choice. Taking in Gisela’s dishevelled appearance, she was pondering how much trouble it would be to comb out the knots from the tangled mess that was her hair, when she realised that her employer was awaiting an answer.
“I was fetching linens, madam. If you had rung, I would have known you needed me. As it is, if you just shout for me, it is unlikely I will—”
“Silence!” Gisela spit out. “Do not be impertinent, or you shall find yourself looking for other employment.”
Fran stiffened. This position had turned into a nightmare that she no longer wished to experience, but she had no other recourse at the moment than to endure the abuse. She had a job to complete.
“I need to select a gown for tonight! The Farnsworths will expect me to attend.”
Fran had no idea to which ball her mistress was referring. Invitations to soirées and such had almost halted entirely, and Mrs. Darcy had declined to attend the one she had been invited to last. “The Farnsworth’s ball was two days ago, madam. You decided at the last minute that you would not attend.”
“Two days ago?” Gisela sank into a chair, rubbing her forehead as she mumbled to herself. “That cannot be. Why would I send regrets when I need to be seen at these events?” She stood to rail at Fran. “You failed to keep me apprised of the day, so now you make excuses to cover your error! Why was I not informed in time to attend?”
A knock at the door kept Fran from having to think of an answer, and she opened it to find Mr. Boatwright, the elderly butler, standing without. He looked as though he expected the Mistress to be angry with whatever news he had to impart.
He flinched as Gisela bellowed, “What do you want?”
“Mr. Wickham is in the parlour, madam. He insists that you are expecting him.”
“Expecting him? That pompous—” Calming, she said unemotionally, “Tell him I shall be down directly.”
Mr. Boatwright bowed and left without further comment. Gisela turned, retreating into her bedroom, calling out, “Quickly, come help me dress!”
Fran sighed and followed her. Unnoticed, she laid the keys back on the dresser as she walked past. However, as she entered the bedroom behind Gisela, she noted that the safe on the wall, where her jewels were kept, was still open from yesterday. Her hopes rose.
Perhaps if she forgets the safe once again, I will find what I have been looking for inside there while she is occupied with Mr. Wickham.
~~~*~~~
The parlour
George Wickham was tired and in dire need of a bath and a good meal. His appearance had changed dramatically from only a week prior. No longer the image of a confident gentleman, his hair needed cutting, he needed a shave and his clothes were wrinkled and filthy. And if one got close enough, one would soon learn that he smelled of stables and sweat.
He had spent endless hours on the road, hiding from those duty-bound to find him—minions he was certain were employed by Darcy or were colleagues of Colonel Fitzwilliam. He had no doubt that every available means was being used to ensure his capture. Just avoiding those who looked suspicious and the uniformed soldiers at almost every stop on the way back to London had been exhausting. He had not had a decent place to lay his head or a hot meal the entire time, having been reduced to paying scullery maids to slip him a sandwich and stable hands to rest with the horses. Even then, he had often rushed from the stables, fearful of being handed over by those same servants seeking to collect a bigger reward by exposing him. And he had slept many a night in the woods.
Now, as he paced about Gisela’s home, he rehearsed his strategy. She would not welcome him under her roof, of that he was certain, though he had no other place to hide. Even his cohorts along the wharfs and back alleys could not offer him a refuge, as they were full of tales of being questioned regarding his location. There was no doubt their quarters were being watched. No, he could not hide with them, and with no other avenue open, he intended to regroup under this roof regardless of Gisela’s complaints. Therefore, against his wishes, he decided to include her in his new scheme. That would buy him a sanctuary.
And, he thought, after I collect the ransom, she will be the perfect dupe to take the blame. He smiled to himself. This may work out for the best, after all!
Suddenly both doors to the parlour flew open, making a huge racket as each slammed solidly into the walls on either side. Wickham turned in time to notice a footman, who had come running at the noise, disappear after seeing that his mistress was the source. He smiled in spite of himsel
f. Yes, Gisela could appear a formidable foe, and if he did not have so much evidence to use against her, he might have feared her reprisal as much as that poor soul.
“I do not appreciate that smirk, Wickham,” Gisela said as she moved forward until they stood toe to toe. “What are you doing here after I told you never to come back? Have you not caused enough upheaval with your failure to deliver Georgiana? What do you suppose Darcy will do to both of us when he learns you are under my roof?”
When she finally paused for breath, Wickham answered calmly, “You shall just have to make sure he does not learn I am here, my dear, because I plan to stay until I have secured a way for us to leave England.”
“For us to leave England?” She laughed derisively, throwing back her head. “What makes you think I want to leave England and if I did, why would I go with you, you vile smelling thing?”
Ignoring her insults, Wickham continued, “What other solution is available for either of us now? You will be in as much danger as I when Darcy finally learns everything about Georgiana’s little ordeal.”
Gisela’s expression changed to one of confused curiosity, which he took as a good sign. “As I see it, there is nothing left for either of us than to extort as much as we can from Darcy and sail on the next available ship!”
