B006O3T9DG EBOK (48 page)

He was lost again—for a moment only. Then, as if the heavens opened, he understood. Geoff was not only of whom she spoke.

“Therein lays the problem,” said he. “We speak not of fault, for no one is truly to blame. There is but one question. Are you able to forgive yourself for a transgression that does not exist?”

She turned her eyes to him, but was silent.

He took her hand, asking quietly, “Do you have trust in me?”

“Above all others.”

“Trust me in this.”

Laying her cheek against her his hand, she sighed. For so long a time he had felt as if she were slipping away from him, he chose to take that as a good omen.

Chapter 64

Home and other Disasters

As they rode through Derbyshire and towards home, the hair upon the back of Darcy’s neck prickled at what he might find. He feared the brief time he was away that the doors to the hen houses had been left open and that all the foxes were stealing inside.

Therefore, directly upon their return from Chiltern, Mr. Darcy took to the saddle.

It was not unusual for him to do so. Never the sort to leave his vast holdings solely to various overseers, Darcy’s time in restive London only strengthened this resolve in that. Shepherding Pemberley and those people who relied upon his land for their livelihood was a duty he held second only to his family. In the past, he and Elizabeth would take to their horses together. However, the fine weather did not influence him to suggest she accompany him just then.

His decision was twofold.

If his wife were to go with him, it would necessitate them engaging in a conversation about the last time that they had been on horseback together (an occasion fraught with disquietude and in déshabillé). Additionally, and more importantly, he feared for her safety. Every protective instinct told him that she must stay within Pemberley and he must get on his horse and survey the lay of the land.

Even on its best days, Pemberley was not without quandaries and disputes. Commonly, these were no more than any other estate through time immemorial. With the country on the brink of anarchy, his rounds were more significant and risky.

Ere he travelled to London, there had been breathy accusations (both high and low) of spies invading the countryside. That was not talk of superstitious bumpkins. Those who kept reasonably abreast of the affairs of Derbyshire knew it was true. The Home Secretary had sent a network of informants into all areas of discontent. Once there, they were to report any hint of political rebellion to the local authorities. Regrettably, these spies were only paid when they had something to recount. That which they could not find, was invented.

No farther than Pentrich, a report had been made to local militia that an armed uprising was to occur. The men involved claimed that they were misled; that an
agent provocateur
had a hand in both the report and any insurrection. Disagreement over the truth of the matter was ongoing. Whatever occurred, what was not in dispute was that six men were hung.

Sorting the political chaff from the factual grain was gaining ever-greater importance. Mr. Rhymes had to take far greater care in all matters of hiring. An otherwise amiable-looking worker might be a true invader of agitation. So far as he had heard, no men of that ilk had been uncovered. That news offered him little comfort. If they were not in their midst, in due course, they would arrive. The surrounding mines invited it.

While wolves passed for men of honour, there were lambs to birth and crops to sow. Political upheaval or not, Pemberley had to forge ahead.

With most of the ruling class in bowel-restricting fear of revolution, Mr. Darcy believed it was his to calm those who laboured on his behalf. Change was afoot. The likelihood that those alterations would suit Mr. Darcy’s leanings was remote. He understood that quite well. Nonetheless, he understood the grander design; change was the only constant. The tide would come, one wave at a time.

Leaving Pemberley house that
day, he had made an ever-greater circle of his land until he was satisfied that he had done all that he could to see that it was as it should be. Therewith, he turned Blackjack towards home. When he did, his purpose was clear. His most present apprehension had little to do with politics. Indeed, his land was not all that needed cosseting.

The hours he spent solely superintending his vast estate meant that he had ridden out as the cock crows and returned at dusk. During his investigations, it had not been difficult to set aside those conversations with Elizabeth which had been so painful for them both. For the better part of a week, they had done little more than exchange a brief kiss. He knew that he had spent far too much time away from his wife and he meant to repair that injurious wrong.

Riding out again the next day at dawn, he vowed a homecoming by mid-afternoon. Elizabeth would expect him, for he left her a note advising her of his early return. He came not by the road, but a more direct route. And as he rode, he prepared himself not merely to take his wife into his impassioned arms, but first to unkennel certain botherations wholly unconnected with their marriage. One could not patch a ship’s sails without seeing to the barnacles clinging to its hull.

A niggling doubt about that presumption began to trouble him. Indeed, a vertical line appeared between his brows announcing that Mr. Darcy believed that whilst in London, he may well have erred.

———

When last in town, he had spoken to his solicitor, carried out a particular errand, and paid a visit to the Bingleys. Other than Charles Bingley’s gout-ridden toe (and Jane’s distress because of it), nothing untoward came to pass. Upon his return to his townhouse, he handed his horse’s
reins over to a footman and walked briskly through the garden to the postern steps. Before he reached them, a lady came out of the dark. The moonlight cast a milky glow across her skin.

Initially, he could not see her eyes for they were cast down. It had been unnecessary to gaze upon her countenance, for he had recognised her voice.

“
Mon Cheri
,” she had said.

To have Lady Howgrave step out of the shadows greatly astonished him. Much to his chagrin, his surprise was apparent. Attempting to conquer his expression, he took several deliberate steps in her direction before he spoke. His words were not of a man fully in charge of his thoughts.

“Why, pray tell, why...? Where did you...? You cannot be unaccompanied?”

The last question was one of a consummate gentleman. Upon hearing it, Juliette emitted a soft laugh. In the dark, her eyes glistened like diced plums.

What to do with her posed a problem for him. No good would come from anyone seeing her there... with him. The choices were few. He could escort her into the house or he might speak to her in the privacy of the stables. What he would not do was turn her away in the dark. No gentleman would. The streets were unsafe for men.

Indeed, he did not turn her away.

He took her elbow, leaned next to her ear and said, “Where is your carriage?”

It was obvious that she had not come on foot.

Glancing towards the alleyway, she said simply, “There.”

Indeed, an inconspicuous landaulet was in the mews just beyond the stables. He steered her through the garden and to the lane dividing his house from the one behind. As if a virginal maid, she trotted along beside him. Her coachman stood by the head of the horse, his hat low, slapping the reins across his palm. Darcy opened the door for her and held her hand as she ascended the steps. She settled herself inside and looked at him in query.

Grabbing the handgrip, he drew himself in beside her and closed the door behind them.

Chapter 65

Reinvention

Once he was on his feet, Wickham set his considerable imagination upon obtaining a new identity.

Even with Mrs. Younge’s help (as a long-time inhabitant of the narrow alleys between lawful and criminal enterprises, Mrs. Younge knew to keep his continued presence in her house a secret), he had been surprised that the army had not winkled out where he was. That piece of vellum those two wee wenches forced him to sign meant nothing that he could see. To them, it was just some farce. He had read it under considerable duress.

It took him a while to work it all out.

First, he had to determine his legal situation. Persuading Mrs. Younge to sally forth to King’s Bench on his behalf was the work of a half hour. Once there, she had only to pass a remarkably paltry bribe to learn that several affidavits had been filed regarding Major George Wickham. One attested that he had deserted his post and murdered a private under his command whilst he made his away. The second one was signed by two witnesses who claimed to have seen Major Wickham killed and that his body had been interred in a mass grave. No other details were cited on either count.

After receiving the news that he was a known murderer and deserter, Wickham only laughed. Mrs. Younge was taken aback.

“Did you do murder, George?”

He snorted once before responding, “That other paper said I was dead. Do you believe that as well?”

Shaking her head, she was appeased by his response (that and a slap on her rear end for good measure).

The news dashed any hope that all might be forgiven, thus allowing him to reinstate himself into society as a hero of Waterloo. With Wickham officially dead, so went any chance of obtaining part of the Darcy fortune. He almost took to his bed again. It was Mrs. Younge who brought him to him senses.

“Nobody is looking for you now, Georgie,” she told him. “You can walk the streets and answer to any name you please.

That was true. No one cared to look for a dead man. He had no fear of apprehension. He all but whistled with elation. Never was a man better positioned for intrigue than he who cannot be punished.

In inventing his new self, he wanted to keep to the truth as much as possible. He must be wary. Among many other infractions (i.e., sodomy and defacing the Westminster Bridge), impersonating an army veteran was a hanging offence. If he did not play his cards correctly, he might find himself not only semi-deknackered, but gibbeted on the brow of a hill.

His new identity came to him upon an initially disagreeable turn of events.

———

After he was satisfied that his virile credentials were intact, he quit obsessively admiring them in the abysmally small hand-mirror and turned his attention to his second favourite vision—his own countenance. Laying in supine splendour, having his every desire fulfilled by the ever-loyal Mrs. Younge, he was of a mind that he needed his hair trimmed. It was his habit to keep his hair a bit longer than was the fashion. After his daily shave, he demanded she tend to it.

“My magnificent mane would be excessively unruly for Byron himself....” The small hand-glass was too small to accommodate his supervision of this undertaking and he bid her bring him the larger one from her dressing table. She dutifully brought it to him. Then she stood back as if in expectation of some sort of explosion.

Upon seeing his own visage and the shock of hair that surrounded it, Wickham erupted, “What is that!”

He grabbed a big hank of his hair and held it up to the gods, demanding, “What the bloody hell is
that
?”

“Your hair,” she said excitedly.

For weeks he had done the improbable. He picked at his skin and submitted to having his sideburns trimmed, but he had not once taken a full view of his hair. Now that he had, he was horrified. Mrs. Younge, however, was beside herself with elation. Now that he knew what she knew, she was most anxious to talk to him of the surprising alteration to his aspect.