B006O3T9DG EBOK (31 page)

Chapter 42

Remembrance

The house did not clear of guests with great rapidity. Family and true friends lingered. Those who had suffered losses themselves understood the curative effect of remaining after the official rites had been carried out. Were Pemberley’s hallowed halls not kept awake with children’s footfalls, every creak the house made would be heard as a cry; its groaning floorboards; lamentations. For the mother of a dead child, it was an eventuality Elizabeth hoped to suspend for as long as possible.

It was quite late when they finally lay their heads on their pillows, but even in their exhaustion, neither she nor Darcy expected to sleep.

As if the sky was commiserating, a storm threatened, leaving the air unpardonably heavy. They lay abed, together in silence, listening to nothing but the clock that did not tick. There was nothing more to say, nothing to do to comfort each other. No doubt they might have laid there in that manner until the dawn (of a day they dreaded to face), when a sudden thought came to Elizabeth.

She sat up.

“I have forgotten!” she announced. “How could I have
forgotten
?”

Reaching for her, Darcy’s first thought was that she suffered a nightmare. She had not. Corporeality was troubling enough.

“How could I? What sort of mother am I? How could I? How could I?” she repeated again and again.

Leaping from the bed, she clawed wildly at her neck and nightdress. Her husband leapt up with her, but knew not how to comfort her.

He drew her to him, asking, “What is it? What is the matter?”

A more stupid question he had never uttered, but assumed she would understand the inquiry if not the way of it.

Her eyes turned to him as if suddenly aware he was there and, gripping his night shirt, she said, “I have no lock of his hair! Do you not understand? I have nothing of him! These hands, what are they to hold?”

She began to weep in deep gulping sobs.

“I have nothing of him,” she cried again.

Sweeping her into his arms, he placed her upon the bed. She struggled against all his attempts to calm her. Knowing Hannah was just beyond the door, Darcy called for her to come. Together they tucked Elizabeth beneath the bedclothes, Hannah sat next to her.

Darcy told Hannah, “Stay here. Do not leave Mistress for a moment. I shall return directly.”

It was not his nature to explain himself and he offered no hint of what he meant to do. Simply put, if it was within his power to make something right for his wife when all else was so terribly wrong, he would do it.

Goodwin was asleep sitting in a chair. When Mr. Darcy burst into the dressing-room, he stood before he was fully awake. As Mr. Darcy drew on his breeches and his boots, Goodwin fussed about trying to assist him. He was brushed away without a word. Mr. Darcy grabbed a coat and made for the door. By the time he was down the staircase and to the back steps, he had issued orders for two men to follow him. Head down against the threat of rain, Darcy trod with great deliberation towards the cemetery. There, an ageing man and his adolescent grandson stood watch—not to fend off grave-robbers, but a sentry of a gentler sort.

The old man had a lantern in his hand and held it high. When the light lit Mr. Darcy’s portentous countenance, the man’s hand flew up to shield his face from whatever fury was invading him.

“Get shovels,” Mr. Darcy demanded.

The man and the boy looked at him with gaping jaws and eyes wide with apprehension.

“
Do it now
!” he scolded.

The old man knew what Mr. Darcy meant to do and took issue with it.

“Ye can’t be disturbing the dead,” he wailed. “God has taken the soul and once committed to the earth ‘tis not to be bothered.”

Mr. Darcy placed the flat of his large hand against the man’s chest. He meant to push him out of the way, but could feel the poor man’s heart racing with indignation and fear.

Rather, he said, “Step aside.”

Unused to being challenged, Mr. Darcy would not brook it then. The man did as he was told, less inclined to incur Mr. Darcy’s wrath in this life than the Lord’s in the next.

The men Darcy had bid follow him knew what they were to do and needed no explanation. It was what Mr. Darcy wanted. The boy was faster witted than his grandfather, for he had claimed the lantern and held it over the grave. The men began to dig. As they did, gusts of wind swept whorls of dirt back into their faces. When they had cleared the top of the little coffin, Darcy waved them away. He would open it himself. As he did, he steeled himself for what he had to do.

Bracing one leg against the edge of the grave, he reached out a trembling hand and touched the edge of the scarf Elizabeth had so lovingly placed about her son. With a great intake of breath, he drew it back just far enough to expose William’s hair. He recalled that it was longest just behind his ears. Tenderly, he took a lock between his fingers and clipped it from the others. He had enough wherewithal to bring a pair of embroidery scissors, but had nothing wherein to put the strands of hair. He looked up at the men standing above him. All had their hats in their hands save one. He withdrew a handkerchief.

“It’s good and clean, sir,” he assured him.

Uncertain of his voice, Darcy nodded his approval. It was all he could do to enclose the lock of hair in the handkerchief without the whipping wind stealing it from his fingers. When it was at last safe, he tucked the handkerchief and its precious contents into his waistcoat—next to his heart.

One might have thought that deed was the most eviscerating task a father might be called on to do. But that would be wrong. Replacing the scarf and closing the casket one again was an excruciation above all others. After it was done, Darcy sat down hard on the mound of exhumed dirt. The men around him were weeping. Above them all, he heard the young boy cry.

With an inward groan, he drew himself to his feet and, placing a reassuring hand over his waistcoat pocket, said, “Do it.”

His greatest desire just then had been to leave. But he knew it was his duty to see the grave re-covered. Turning his face away, he dropped to one knee as if in prayer. He could hear the shovels as they dug into the dirt, and the dirt as it fell onto the top of the casket. When the shovels ceased, he stood. He did not look at the men. He turned and walked quickly away.

It was a great temptation to run with his treasure back to the house, he did not. His pace was brisk, but measured. His countenance was exceedingly composed. He returned to their bedchamber by the postern steps so as to be certain he would not happen upon anyone who might expect him to speak to them. When at last he was back with Elizabeth, he saw that she had fallen asleep. That was well and good. Hannah sat next to her.

Hannah whispered, “I give her some of my special tea. She cried herself out.”

He nodded. Hannah withdrew.

Elizabeth’s breath was not deep, but it was steady. He went directly to the side table and found her treasured silver box. Opening it carefully, he saw the coarse handkerchief would not fit inside. Had he smaller, more nimble fingers he might have endeavoured to tie a ribbon around William’s lock of hair himself, but he feared he would make a mess of it. It was best to leave such dainty work to his wife. Rather, he closed the lid to the box and laid the handkerchief beside it.

Once that duty had been done, exhaustion overwhelmed him. Elizabeth lay asleep in satin bedclothes and he wanted nothing more than to lay with her. His coat and breeches, however, were coated with a mixture of dust and mud. He sat heavily in a side chair and rubbed his face in his hands.

It was done. He could do no more.

Rain began to fall.

———

Behind the door, Hannah could not keep her countenance. Mr. Darcy so proper, it was peculiar to see him besoiled that way. Although she knew not what he had done, she knew where he had been. A thick layer of Pemberley’s dust covered his face liked a mask. The dirt was quite solid save for the track the tears had traced down his cheeks.

Chapter 43

Ever Wicked This Way Goes

To be robbed by children! To have mere street urchins cause emasculation to an officer of the Royal Grenadiers, a veteran of three of the largest and cruellest battles in the history of mankind, was unspeakable. Not only had he been forced to fight off vicious attacks to his person, he was also robbed of his fortune! What was this world coming to when chits carrying pistols do not mind shooting a man in his vitals?

With the last shot in
his
locker, he would hunt the pair down and avenge himself!

Wickham’s many vows of reprisal were often made late at night with a half-empty bottle by his side and, therefore, had to be taken with a grain of salt. Generally speaking, when it came to employing brute force, George Wickham was all talk. (To him, discretion was not only the greater part of valour—it was very nearly his creed.) Even he understood that his survival that night had been only due to a whim of his attackers. The smaller of the duo had drawn a bead on his forehead.

———

There had been grave doubt whether he would survive his wounds at all. The apothecary claimed that most groin injuries took lives through haemorrhage. Poisoning of the blood took the rest. Neither of those facts were a comfort. However, death was not his gravest fear. If emasculated, he would not have had the will to live. (Although he held himself far and above the unkempt masses, his opinion on this was not any different from most men.) The apothecary had done what he could through digging around in his scrotum with a stick. Not unexpectedly, Wickham had howled in protest.

“You bloody fiend! You’ll leave me a castrato! Never, do you hear? Never! You must let me die, do you hear me?
Die
!”

Impassive, the apothecary replied, “They all say that.”

Wickham’s continual pleadings had eventually convinced Mrs. Younge to send for an actual surgeon. (He promised to pay her back for the expenses she incurred, but even
her
loyalty was tried at this lie.) When the surgeon did arrive, he disliked the look and the smell of Wickham’s wound.

Sniffing the bandages, he said, “It looks to have festered beyond saving. I’ll have them out forthwith of payment.” (Medical circles concurred that dead patients were notoriously poor financial risks.)

Well-fortified by rum and laudanum, Wickham had disliked the man immediately.

“You sir, are full young to be a man of any skill.”

Now, with the man demanding money, Wickham became combative.

“Are you a qualified surgeon or a tonsorial student?”

“I am a member of the Royal College, sir,” Alfred Chubbe said airily.

“I fancy the last person you attended was in want of a tooth removed.”

Mrs. Younge interrupted, pleading, “He’s a good one, Georgie. Look here at the man’s coat.”

No evidence of proficiency was higher than a blood-caked frockcoat.

Chubbe, replied, “It would be my recommendation that a man not give insult to he who is charged with saving his balls.”

Few things were to penetrate Wickham’s fog of pain and outrage as did that bit of logic. As if to emphasise the point, Chubbe held up his scalpel. It was an ambiguous gesture, one that might have been taken as a threat. Lest he be remanded to the apothecary once more, Wickham altered his voice appreciably.