B006O3T9DG EBOK (57 page)

“The likelihood that the fine animal I seek would be purchased from a gypsy is quite remote,” Darcy grumbled. “But as you say, it would take little time to observe the stock there.”

It was to be a trip of goodly length. Hence, they would employ the coach. Fitzwilliam’s leg would not allow him to ride a horse as he once had. They would take their time and make a fine excursion of it. Indeed, by the time their plans had been framed, Darcy had become enlivened by the prospect. It was at Elizabeth’s insistence that he relented upon betaking himself upon the journey at all. It was her contention that if he was to go, it would be better to go sooner than later. Later, she hoped to be with child. Later, she would not want him too leave her side.

“I hope that I may take to my bed with morning sickness at any moment. If you are to go, I would rather give you up now than when I am too unwieldy to take the stairs.”

In truth, she hoped for her loving husband’s distraction. As much as she desired her husband’s company, she wanted him free—at least for a while—of the weight of Pemberley’s daily burdens. It would do him good.

———

Upon the morning of their departure, Elizabeth flitted nervously about, suddenly not wanting Darcy to go away. She realised that she was hovering and therefore, making the leave-taking all the more unsettling. Geoff had begged his father to allow him to ride in the coach as far as the lodge-post. As the boy had been crestfallen to learn that he was not to accompany his father upon this journey, small favours were not to be withheld.

Whilst the coach was being loaded, Darcy stopped his meticulous watch over the activities to take his wife’s arm. He led her away to the small alcove across from the portico.

Once there, he kissed her upon her forehead and said, “Before I take leave, I must tell you....”

He paused. Ever so propitious in word and deed, this moment was ill-timed, indeed.

After considering his words, he continued thusly, “Truth be known, I would never have stepped foot in her carriage....”

Thereupon, she realised that he was speaking again of his meeting with Lady Howgrave. Could he not just preface his discourse with that information?

Whilst she cogitated his exposition, he stopped again, pressing his thumb against his lower lip. His pauses were quite maddening. Between them, however, she understood that he was making a declaration of sorts. He was an educated man, capable of eloquence of address and superior elucidation. Why he could not just come out with it was becoming an increasing botheration. His last such advisement had not blessed her with unmitigated joy. Therefore, her anticipation of the information he was to offer worried the most precipitous reaches of her composure.

He chose to enjoy each pause in their discourse without daring to look in her eyes. Yet, she allowed him to gather his thoughts before completing his admission—if indeed that was what it was. Nonetheless, she feared that if he did not speak his mind soon, she could not be responsible for her actions.

Finally, he said, “Perhaps we should speak of this upon my return, when we shall be able to converse more freely—unconstrained by time.”

“No,” she said (far more abruptly than she meant). “You have had ample time to declare, assert, or profess what you are struggling to tell me at this moment. I shall wait no longer.”

Clearly, his avowal was to cover the balance of the meeting he had engaged in with Lady Howgrave in London. As he was, if not to London, at least away in that direction once again, it did not bode well for her presumption that he was to have no further dealings with the lady.

“I had no choice, you see,” he finally said.

“No choice?”

He answered, “To enter her carriage that night.”

“You explained yours actions upon that occasion to me once before. Why do you persist...?”

He said, “I fear I must bring certain tidings to light now, lest delaying it might impede your future condition.”

So, he had not told her all. It was quite apparent that he planned to relieve his conscience on the very threshold of his departure. Moreover, what he was to say was so injurious that, was she with child, it would befoul her pregnancy. His every word proved her correct.

“It is true that I did step into her carriage that night....” He stopped again, fretting, “I should not be speaking of it just now.”

“No, you should
not
.”

Servants were hustling about, just beyond hearing.

She repeated her entreaty, “You should not—not
here
”

“
Mama
,” Janie called.

“In a moment!” Elizabeth responded (with uncharacteristic impatience).

He continued with singular determination, “You see, I encountered her in the garden. She was in want of speaking to me. It was my duty as a gentleman to escort her to her carriage. I had no intention of stepping inside it with her.”

“But you did.”

“But I did.”

“So you said,” she reminded him.

Folding her arms across her bosom, Elizabeth steadied herself.

“It is not what you might think. I could not take my leave, you see.”

Closing her eyes, she said, “Then pray,
please speak
!”

He stood back on his heels, momentarily sputtering as if he did not know—not only how to explain—but what he must explain as well. She only dared open one eye to discern what caused this indignation.

Then at last, his exasperation erupted.

He announced, “She took my hat!”

“What?” Elizabeth responded. “Your hat?”

“My hat.”

“She took your hat? What hat? Your umber one that goes so well with your pearl-grey waistcoat?”

“The very one,” he replied.

“Pray tell, why in the world did she do that?”

“I can only fancy that she took it to obtain my attention—and thereupon, my cooperation.”

Red splotches appeared high upon each of his cheekbones. Although they were rarely seen, they were quite recognizable for what they were—an indication of acute injury. If Lady Juliette Howgrave had the temerity to remove his hat from his person in order to gain his attention, she made a tremendous misstep. No one touched Mr. Darcy (save Mrs. Darcy). What might have been considered a small coquetry to another gentleman was to him an unparalleled affront.

“Did you retrieve your hat forthwith?”

His expression told her that he had, but he nodded as well.

“I was much in want of unkenneling this particular episode at the first possible moment. Why, I cannot explain. It is my duty to spare you these small indignities if at all possible.”

She nodded, for she did understand. Just then, Geoff found his father’s hand and began tugging him towards the coach. Excited to have one up on his sister, Geoff let go of his father’s coat long enough to stick his tongue out in her direction. Janie stuck out her tongue in return. This sibling mischief was carried out beyond their parents knowing, for Mr. Darcy turned to Mrs. Darcy and kissed her.

Indeed, that kiss was not enough. Sinking against the wall of the darkened alcove, Mr. Darcy took Mrs. Darcy into his embrace, delivering unto her a kiss so penetrating that when he withdrew, she believed herself brought with child. She clasped his collar, urging him to kiss her again—but alas.

Janie pulled on her mother’s skirt, “Mama! Poppa? Is Mama ill?”

As her husband released her, Elizabeth caught her breath long enough to say, “Kiss your Papa good-bye, Janie.”

He leaned down to accept his daughter’s kiss. She offered him a well-executed curtsy too. Pleased, he smiled at her.

To Darcy, Elizabeth asked, “Shall you see Lady Howgrave again?”

The question should have been beneath her. Her voice was betrayed by its urgency.

“No,” he answered succinctly.

She nodded. Gathering herself, she reassured Janie, “Your father shall return before we know he has gone.”

That was a compleat falsehood. She missed him ere the door to the coach was closed.

Chapter 77

Janus

It all came about because of greed. He should have known better. Once he had found himself a place within the warring political parties he should not have connived with a harlot to blackmail one of the aristocracy’s favourite sons.

Politics was a delightful occupation. There was a minimum of gunfire and gobs of easy money. His rise from near death to having his middle finger upon the pulse of the nation had been precipitous. At last, his vast talents coalesced precisely with the opportunity to employ them.

As he walked the streets of town unmolested, he became evermore arrogant that he would never be recognised. As a matter of pride, he had always kept himself at arms length from his fellow man (near enough to borrow money; far enough away to escape grasping creditors). His few friends were fellow grenadiers. Most of them were now lying dead as mutton across the channel. His countenance had not altered remarkably, however his striking white hair concealed his true identity to anyone who might have been a casual acquaintance.

He had modulated his voice and, as he was surrounded by the patois of the street, soon became fluent in a variety of accents. His new persona had few collaborators and colleagues, for he trusted no one save dutiful Mrs. Younge.

On days when all went well, he even fancied that some day he might stand for Parliament. He certainly had the hair for it. Indeed, his silver mane was his defining characteristic. It offered his aspect a dignity that it had been lacking. When his flights of fancy caught up with him, he admitted that leaping onto the public stage might be a tad imprudent. It would beg questions regarding his family connections and military service. It was best simply to fade into the background. There was money enough to be made without the scrutiny.

When he had first taken the step from gentleman to man of commerce, the most convenient commodity to peddle had been female flesh. Mrs. Younge’s rooming house had been ideally located, as Gowell Street had ample foot-traffic and was increasingly immersed in general bawdiness. It was quite easy to convince the retinue of emaciated harlots habituating the street that they were in need of his protection. (Should they be reluctant to pay this annuity, a local thug could convince them otherwise for a few shillings.) Soon, they were paying off with the regularity of a cuckoo clock. Mrs. Younge’s qualms over being pressed into service as a procuress were eased by the jingle of coins as he dropped her share of the takings into her apron pocket. His severest test was not his conscience (Lord, no, not his conscience, that had shrivelled from disuse years before), but the incessant whining of females debilitated by the influx of their monthly curse.

Had he not been a man of ambition, he might have ridded himself of the entire enterprise for that reason alone. Quiet was not why he entered the resurrectionist trade, but it was an added inducement. Dead clients did not overmuch complain—not to say that profession did not have its drawbacks. Grave-robbing meant that one’s goods went bad faster than day-old milk.

One of his finest qualities had always been timing. In his way, he was a visionary (whether one step ahead of a husband or the magistrate). As physicians uncovered the secrets of human physiology, surgeons flocked to anatomy classes. For every dissection, a body was required. Body-snatching was becoming an increasingly profitable profession. The relatively easy money meant any thief with a shovel and a sack was drawn to the trade. Increased competition for bodies not only cut into the profits, the influx of neophytes meant new grave-robbers had no finesse. Indeed, they were nothing but a gang of slack-jawed incompetents. It was one thing to hurry a death, quite another to knock youngsters in the head and drag them from the streets. The citizenry took notice when their children went missing.