Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (52 page)

“Who else was it, Lizzy?”

With a wavering hand, she pointed to Lewis. If Darcy recognised Lewis as the contemptible poltroon who de-toothed Bingley’s boxer, it was not evident. The single reaction he had upon this introduction was outwardly benign. But for a man of Lewis’ recent vocation, when Darcy lowered his chin, the gesture was not misunderstood.

A reckoning was to occur.

Both bandits stood taut, eyeing Darcy’s blade. Abruptly, and with considerable ferocity, Darcy flung his bloodied sabre down. It hit with a clank, then rolled against the wall, leaving a splattering crimson trail across the floor. The discarding of that gruesome weapon, even in so violent a fashion, led Lewis and Frank Reed to hold the hope their fate would not be so immediate as Tom’s. They clung to that faith even when Darcy recognised the gold encrusted handle of his father’s Catalonian over-and-under pistol in Lewis’ waistband.

But Lewis did take a little half-step backward when he yanked it out.

Retribution was not to wait. Hesitating just long enough to check the load, Darcy drew Elizabeth’s face to his chest. He thereupon shot Lewis and then Frank Reed squarely in the head. So rapidly did he fire, neither man elected a reaction, save for the resultant mist of blood.

Without another word, followed resolutely by a postilion whose loyalty would evermore be incontrovertible, Darcy and Elizabeth quitted the tavern.

The people in the room stood in stunned silence for full half a minute. No one dared move until the horses pounded away. Then, one man alone walked over to the sword lying by the baseboard. He picked it up. The others in the room stood still as
stones, their gapes not wrested from the two corpses at their feet. When the man raised the sword and drew his gaze the length of it, the other patrons in the room then did as well. Thereupon, they all, as if by pre-decision, turned to the room from whence Darcy and Elizabeth had come. However, it would be a few more minutes before any would venture a look.

M
rs. Annesley was nearly beside herself when the hack delivered her back from Bexley at half-past eleven when she knew the appointed time of departure for Pemberley was nine. The woman was horrified to be the perpetrator of any disruption of the Darcy plans and had readied a profusion of apologies, explanations, and excuses. However, she saw she had not to invoke any to the Darcys, for their coach had not waited. It was unnecessary for her even to enter the house, because Goodwin was sitting impatiently in the coach, thus emphasising her tardiness.

Gratefully he did not denounce her lack of punctuality, but his pursed lips announced his displeasure as surely as had he carped.

Goodwin was unhappy to have to wait for the old woman. He would have much preferred to travel with Mr. Darcy. However, Mrs. Annesley was an agreeable enough woman (she did not have much to say). Thus he harboured no extreme regret in the assignment of escorting her, save for the peculiarly mouldy odour she emitted. That scent abused the most easily offended of his five, finely-honed senses.

When bound for London, Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, Miss Darcy, and Mrs. Annesley had ridden in the first coach. Hannah Moorhouse, Anne Wright, and he rode in the second directly behind them. Mr. Darcy was thereupon a married man and Goodwin knew he had to accustom himself to their new mode of travel. But riding with mere maids sullied his also pronounced
amour propre.
(Goodwin had few subtle sensibilities.)

Though his supercilious demeanour intimidated Anne, Hannah was another matter. Since becoming lady-maid to Mrs. Darcy, she had become somewhat of a bother to him. She was far too garrulous and inquisitive. She inquired of his health. She inquired if he favoured the weather. The dinner. The…whatever. That his reply was seldom more than a grunt did nothing to deter her. Her loquacity, however, did not extend beyond mundane matters. She revealed not one iota of Mrs. Darcy’s privacy.

This was a trial to Goodwin, for nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to report such a transgression to Mrs. Reynolds. Had that come to pass, Hannah Moor-house would be gone from service within an hour. But that was her saving grace. Her discretion was compleat about the Darcys and their doings. He had never learned of a single utterance that betrayed their privacy. Hence, he had forgiven her need of conversation
and continued to grunt disapproval and murmur his agreement to her endless inquiries.

Goodwin was a terse, solitary soul by inclination as well as occupation. As a manservant, he knew to keep his position he could never expect to marry. That had never presented any sort of disadvantage of employment for him. He had never had much interest in women. True, he loved his mother unequivocally. He admired his aunt’s (Mrs. Reynolds) strength of mind. But the chambermaids were flighty and sometimes crude. He despised coarseness in women. He despised coarseness in men as well. He supposed he simply despised coarseness.

If he held her lady-maid as somewhat a nuisance, one might have fancied Goodwin had held additional resentment upon the intrusion of Mrs. Darcy into Mr. Darcy’s life. On the contrary, he believed Mrs. Darcy to be quite beautiful and refined. Refined, but not exactly sedate. He admired sedateness, but not nearly as much as he despised coarseness. In his mind, sedateness could be disregarded altogether when it was replaced by such unaffected charm. Moreover, she never failed to speak to him. As he was used to being regarded by women as part of the wallpaper, it was not surprising he found himself somewhat besotted with her.

This esteem had unequivocally and absolutely nothing whatever to do with the glimpse he caught of her in a soaking night-dress. Indeed, the entire matter of that little incident in Mr. Darcy’s dressing room was exceedingly unfortunate. Goodwin had been so mortified at his unpropitious entry to the bath that his heart did not return to a normal beat for days.

He and Mr. Darcy had acted alone and in concert for so long, he had quite instinctively responded to the sound of disorder. So far as Goodwin knew (and he should know better than anyone save Mr. Darcy himself), there had never, ever, been a lady in his master’s bath. Clearly, what constituted Mr. Darcy’s privacy had altered irrevocably.

They had been more than two hours leaving London behind the Darcy coach. A small, if bitter, pill to swallow was their lapse meant their coach’s trip across the West End avenues was travelled singularly. Nothing was quite so satisfying to Goodwin as the looks of awe that identical coaches in tandem incited amongst the spectating minions. It was possible their driver had similar pretensions, for he urged the horses forward more vigorously than usual, as if to overtake the first coach upon the road.

Overtake them they did.

Not halfway to Pemberley, they came upon the disabled Darcy carriage. It was immediately clear there was very serious trouble.

Until that day, the one time Goodwin had met with undue adversity was at the hands of some particularly unruly boys. They had knocked off his hat with a rock. He had actually called them “ruffians.” He had never used such a common term before, but he had been so affronted it had slipped out. Thus, the level of the affront the coachman related as had come to pass then was shocking to the point of exciting Goodwin into a fit of breathlessness. He sat in the same horrified frozen state as the elderly Mrs. Annesley. Both gaped out the window, neither daring to step upon the same ground as the perpetrators of such a barbarous act.

Goodwin was so outraged, in time he bested his breath and actually considered following Mr. Darcy in pursuit of those…those…ruffians. Those thieving, woman-stealing ruffians. However, that embarkation demanded he mount a horse (he
disliked large animals, Troilus and Cressida alone were frightening) and ride it.

Was he ever to do such a thing, then would have been the occasion. It was unfortunate there was no other saddle, for there were four women (including that young Hannah woman) there to witness his heroics—his leaping upon a steed and galloping off to assist Mr. Darcy. Had there been a saddle, he would have done it. Indisputably.

The opportunity to aid Mr. Darcy in saving Mrs. Darcy was dearer than any other duty he could imagine.

Goodwin never doubted that Mr. Darcy would find success. Mr. Darcy would never allow anything to happen to Mrs. Darcy. Mr. Darcy would overtake those men and demand they unhand her. They would do so immediately and with apology. (This notion revealed that Goodwin kept in a locked box under his bed several well-read books that some might disparage as banal.) Mr. Darcy would return with Mrs. Darcy sitting in front of him upon his saddle, her hair, perchance, in slight disarray.

However, it was not to be. Their aborted party sat upon the road for hours awaiting the valorous return.

Mr. Darcy, of course, did return with Mrs. Darcy. There was no question of him ever returning without her. However, it was not the glorious and romantic return Goodwin had envisioned. She was injured. Clearly, she had been wounded egregiously. Very egregiously. This was not how things should be, Goodwin thought to himself as they made haste for Pemberley.

This was not how things should be.

A
lthough they made on fast, the ride to Pemberley seemed like an eternity. Urging them ever faster, Mr. Darcy’s incessant beating the roof of the coach with his walking stick further exacerbated everyone’s shattered nerves.

He had climbed into the repaired carriage with Elizabeth in his arms and wrapped his jacket about her. The other three women sat across aghast. Hannah could not clearly see Elizabeth’s bruised and scratched face, but her feet were bare and bleeding. She spread the lap rug over them.

Georgiana dared bid, “Pray, is she all right?”

He shook off her questions, keeping Elizabeth’s face to his neck. One of her arms was about him, the other gripped tightly to his lapel. Although he kissed her gently upon the forehead and whispered reassurances to her as they strove headlong for Pemberley, no one else uttered a word.

They broke post but once, the horses exchanged in less than a minute. Thus when they finally reached the courtyard of home, even the new team was in shivering
exhaustion. Howbeit no man was more solicitous of his horses, Darcy took no notice of their near collapse. He had no thought but to get Elizabeth into the house.

Though several footmen ran to open it, he kicked back the coach door before one could. As the master was not of a mind to have his door opened for him, not one suggested they help him carry his wife. She protested she could walk, yet he would not put her down. Lest she be attacked before reaching the safety of Pemberley’s walls, he made a dash with her to the house, taking the steps two at a time.

Without being told, Hannah knew to prepare Elizabeth her bath and ran ahead calling loudly for hot water. She slowed a step, realising she had broken the absolute rule of never raising a voice in Pemberley and expected reproach. There was none, for Mrs. Reynolds trailed Darcy as he took the stairs with Elizabeth still in his arms. Two candle-wielding servants hustling to light the way overtook both.

Once to their bed, Elizabeth finally released her hold upon him. Nevertheless, he waited until they were alone to unfurl her from his coat. He could see the swollen bruises upon the side of her face and scratches upon her neck. Her lip was swollen and bore a deep cut. Taking out his pocket square, he dabbed at the blood on her lip. She winced.

He called for Mrs. Reynolds hovering at the door and issued orders for the physician to be called.

“No,” Elizabeth interrupted, “No.”

He told her she must be seen.

She repeated, “No. I will not be seen.”

Tears welled in her eyes, hence, he did not have the wherewithal to insist.

The notion of a doctor deflected, she attempted to rise, insisting, “I must bathe.”

Understanding that compulsion full well, he, however, endeavoured to keep her still, assuring her it was being drawn even then. That reminded her others were about, and, if she did not want the doctor to inspect her injuries, she most certainly did not want to see anxious faces darting inquiring looks in her direction. Indeed, she bid him tell Hannah to take leave once her bath was in ready. That was done expeditiously, for he thought that it was just as well if Hannah did not tend her lady.