B006O3T9DG EBOK (29 page)

Sir Howgrave’s propensity for hobnobbing with the debauched and the self-important had thrown him more and more frequently into Beecher’s path. Beecher had noted that Sir Howgrave craved Mr. Darcy’s ear and spoke to him every time the opportunity came round. Well-respected in all circles, Darcy’s support would be a feather in his political cap. Was he to deliver Darcy unto Howgrave, Beecher might well be fixed for the foreseeable future. It was quite possible. Darcy was, after all, his illustrious relation.

Beecher’s illustrious relation, however, wanted little to do with Beecher (or for that matter, Howgrave either).

That did not keep Beecher from pursuing Mr. Darcy about the edge of the grand ballroom. When at last he found him, Darcy clasped a glass of wine as he conversed with Bingley and Jane. Now an intimate member of Bingley’s family, Beecher did not hesitate to join them. Not even a little “hail-fellow-well-met” blood stirred in Beecher’s veins. Even if it had, he would not have dared to slap Mr. Darcy upon the back. His very carriage forbade it. Beecher gave a small tug upon Mr. Darcy’s sleeve, very nearly causing his wine glass to slosh. Still, that man did not extend him a greeting beyond the slightest flick of his head. Beecher was deflated. Clearly, in marrying Bingley’s sister, Bingley’s friend was not part of the bargain. Beecher prayed Howgrave was unwitting of this small snag.

As Beecher rarely lifted his head from the trough of gambling and excess, there was a hard truth he had yet to uncover—one particularly prevalent since Napoleon’s defeat. In London-town one’s place eventually came down to one thing. It mattered not who were one’s people, but how much one was worth. Howgrave did not care a fig about Sir Winton Beecher now that Sir Winton Beecher had not a pot in which to piss.

Leaving Beecher to Bingley, Darcy bid Jane for the honour of the next dance. She accepted forthwith and he extended his hand. As they gained the dance floor, Jane offered her dear Bingley a glance of commiseration (for she knew he did not care to be left to Beecher). Just as they danced away, Caroline whirled up. The feathers adorning her headdress were so bounteous that they bounced long after she stopped. Her headdress was a monument of architectural wonder. Jane had already waded through the treacherous waters of politesse by sounding as if she admired Caroline’s head garb without actually lying. Halfway through his second glass of wine, Bingley admired every gown he saw. His sisters, he knew, were always well-presented.

“What a fine adornment, Caroline,” Bingley gushed. “Do those feathers come from the West Indies?”

“Nearer than that,” smirked Beecher.

Directly, a look of abhorrence (one of the rarest sort) overspread Bingley’s usually happy countenance. The feathers looked remarkably similar to some he admired at Rosings Park in another capacity altogether.

“Surely...,” he insisted.

“Why not?” sniffed Beecher. “That bloody bird dare not peck me....”

Fortunately, Darcy did not learn of the fate of Lady Catherine’s macaw. His dance with Jane, however, was but a passing escape. The orchestra was pleased to play a waltz every other dance all evening. That affront meant that he had long been decrying his decision to come to the ball at Howgrave’s without Elizabeth. It was as if he were once again alone in the world, ladies circling him as if he were the evening’s main dish, obsequious gentlemen vying for his time. He had vowed to never to be caught in such a position again. He was quite out of spirits.

He suspected that his wife’s design was more than merely to serve Bingley’s desire for his friend’s company. It was entirely possible that in encouraging him to go without her that she wanted to make a sort of statement. Whilst pondering that possibility, he joined Bingley at a side table. There Bingley filled his plate to the brim with turtle, oysters, crab, and lobster. Darcy’s appetite was not whetted by the sight of such a repast. He picked up a peach and made do with that. Determined not to be ill-tempered, he teased Bingley about his diet.

He said, “Your big toe shall swell the size of your fist if you do not stop eating such rich food.”

Bingley was indignant, “That is just an old wives’ tale.”

“I see no old wives with gout,” Darcy retorted.

As Darcy took a generous bite of the peach, a bit of juice dribbled down his chin. Had not fastidiousness been one of his core traits, he would have wiped the juice away with the inside finger of his glove. Rather, he discretely reached for a napkin. Before he could secure it, he was anticipated.

Another gloved hand, this one bedizened by a diamond bracelet, held a napkin before him. Before he could take it from her, she took the unprecedented liberty of daubing it against his chin. The hand moved with haste and discretion, still it was an inexcusable breech of his person. In the moment it took for him to decide whether to take note of the culprit or simply ignore her, his consideration of possible redress was interrupted. When he realised just who had taken the familiarity, he was most displeased. Of all the affronts, that he allowed Lady Howgrave to agitate him was the greater vexation.

She teased, “The
élégant
Mr. Darcy’s hauteur conquered by a mere peach!
Tres scandale
!”

Without thought, his hand went to his chin. Lest his disconcertion be betrayed, he hastily disposed of the remainder of the peach and clasped both his hands behind his back.

Darcy bowed gracefully, “Your fruit put up quite a struggle, but I subdued it.”

“My fruit is quite desirable, is it not?”

She smiled fetchingly, keeping her gaze just long enough for him to recognize the double entendre of his jest. He behaved in no way that betrayed he understood her meaning. He spoke of the roads and the weather, nothing else.

When the subject was exhausted and she could see the beginnings of his retreat, Juliette queried, “You have not seen the house since it has been redone. May I show you our renovations?”

He nodded curtly, saying, “My wife bid me particularly to take note of your decorations for she was much in want of hearing of them.”

This was entirely true. Elizabeth had employed a specific tone that allowed him to know she would like him to say exactly those words. He suspected that she wanted Lady Howgrave to be certain that she was not seen, in any way, as a threat. Darcy admired his wife for that. Any other wife whose husband was in Juliette’s cross-hairs would not allow him out of her sight. It was testimony to their marriage, and her trust in him, that she did. Therefore, however reluctantly, he allowed Lady Howgrave to guide him through the finer rooms of Howgrave Hall. They had barely gained the gallery when a breathless footman found him and thrust a missive in his hand.

Whatever was so dire as to come by courier at ten-o-clock at night could not be felicitous. He inquired where he might go to read it.

Juliette did not give him that information. Rather, she reached out and placed her hand on his forearm. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his coat. He looked upon her as if she had taken leave of her mind. He did not have the opportunity to determine that, however. She spoke to him first.

“He beats me,” said she.

Whereupon, she put her face in her hands and began to weep.

Chapter 39

Of the Clouds

Juliette unbosomed herself unto unlistening ears. Once Darcy had been given the missive, he recognised the hand as his wife’s. All other cares evaporated. The message itself could not have been more terse.

Come.

With great care he folded the note and placed it in his waistcoat. As he betook himself down the steps, his eyes swept the ballroom for Bingley. He caught his eye directly and met him as he gained the doorway. With great economy and almost unnerving calm, Darcy explained to him that he must make his away. Fortune saw that he would not have to avail himself of their coach when he did. Having travelled to the Howgrave’s with the Bingleys, he had tied his saddle horse to the back for the journey. Hence, he was excused from having to beg an unfamiliar mount from Howgrave’s stable or unharness one of Bingley’s.

Bingley followed him outside. Whilst Darcy drew on his riding boots, Bingley held his horse’s reins and beseeched him to take a footman.

“These roads are thick with highwaymen,” he reasoned.

“I shall not stay to the road,” Darcy said.

His point was not a comfort to Bingley—nor to Jane who had just learnt of the message. Bidding them both a brief good-bye, Darcy turned his horse for home. In times of alarm, he preferred his own company. He knew his way well—where to stop, what lanes were safe, what houses to avoid. He allowed himself to think of that and nothing else. One word was his siren call—
Come
. It told him nothing, yet everything. The circumstances that demanded such measures had to be dire indeed. Anything less and Elizabeth would not have written at all.

The closer he got to Pemberley, the more he allowed reminisces to urge his way. He reminded himself of another bold ride for home—the one he had taken upon his return from the Continent. That journey had ended exceedingly well. It was quite probably the happiest reunion of his life. Then he had been wearing his travelling clothes. Had he not brought his boots this time, he would have had to come by coach. A coach would have slowed him by half. (The vicissitudes of life had taught him well.)

Yes, all ended well last time. Perchance this time would be the same. He would arrive at Pemberley greeted by his laughing family. Whatever evil was afoot would be overcome. He prayed that happiness would greet him with every bone-jarring mile.

When at last he arrived at Pemberley’s door, dawn was breaking. A lookout had been posted at the lodge-post. He swung a lantern to announce the master’s arrival. That did not bode all was well. At the portico, a footman stood by to take his horse. He was both grateful and alarmed to see his wife standing in the doorframe. Her face was drawn with worry and she wrung her hands despairingly. Deep circles were imbedded below her eyes. If she was not ill, she had been hovering at the bedside of someone who was.

The minute he stepped from his horse, she was in his arms.

“It is William!” she exclaimed.

He had been away but two days. Illness had struck within hours ere he left. There was nothing he could have done had he been there, all the same he could not help being unhappy to have been gone.

Elizabeth told him, “I sent word to you as soon as I saw we had need of a doctor. Georgiana is here, thank the heavens above....”

She struggled not to weep, covering her face with her hands. It was useless.

He drew her to him, soothing, “I am here now.”

In a moment, she gathered herself and they both went to William’s bedside. On the way up the staircase, Darcy asked of Janie and Geoff.

“They are well and are kept to the nursery,” she explained. “William’s illness may have begun as quinsy. Then fever, followed by chills.”

Darcy took her elbow as they entered the room. (She did not for a minute believe it was to steady her alone.) William’s small countenance was splotched red with fever, but he did not cry. Darcy did not believe that to be a good sign. It meant that the illness had sapped his strength. The baby’s aspect was at great variance to the laughing boy he had seen just two days before. Unknowingly, he put his hand to his mouth, his thumb digging into his cheek so deeply that it left an impression.

Although few were witting of it, Mr. Darcy was well-acquainted with trepidation. Upon more than one occasion he had been in the clutches of outright fear. Whilst gazing upon his son, their son, his heart was gripped by the cold, black hand of terror.

A chair was next to the bed. He sat and began to stroke William’s brow with the back of his fingers.

Whispering, he said, “Papa is here, Willy. Papa is here.”