Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (60 page)

From Elizabeth’s vantage, the dagger looked appallingly deadly and she pulled herself to her knees with alarm. Thus, Darcy hastily assured her that he had not actually been attacked and made light of the knife.

Explaining thus, he said, “He was armed, as you see. However, had he been serious, I should not be standing before you. He thought I had fathered him and cast out his mother. What son would not want to defend his mother? Had you heard what he said of my character, you might question your esteem for your husband.”

He smiled, but it was mirthless. A verbal assault upon that which was so hotly contested in Darcy’s conscience, Elizabeth knew to be as painful a wound as any bodily one inflicted. Having begun to think of herself as the young man’s surrogate aunt, she felt sympathy for the despair such confusion must demand of one so young. Nevertheless, no hurt to her husband could be compleatly forgiven. And she held a considerable reservoir of indignation for anyone who did.

“You have more goodness, more character, more love and righteousness than any man I have ever known…”

He walked to her yet mid-sputter and lovingly put his forehead to hers. Her defence of his honour was the single effort that could actually becalm his substantial disorder. He endeavoured to smile. That attempt failed miserably, thus he kissed her on her forehead instead. It was not spoken, but they both knew if he were not John’s father, it fell only to chance.

Such was the day, it could be understood if it was not realised that Georgiana was not about until late afternoon. Had Elizabeth not gone in search of her to continue their interrupted conversation of the night before, it might not have been discovered even then. The disquiet of her absence notwithstanding, Elizabeth at first believed she had simply sought some solitude from the tumult of events. Respite from the turbulent spin their lives had taken was something she might have favoured to find herself.

* * *

Darcy’s early morning farewell to Fitzwilliam and the subsequent near assault upon his person and injury to his integrity had left him unusually cheerless. His despondency was always Elizabeth’s as well, and quite aware that she was the culprit responsible for Fitzwilliam’s departure, Wickham’s visit, thus John’s onslaught, her own conscience was troubling her relentlessly.

Fitzwilliam had obviously departed without incident, but that was hardly a concession. If the reason he quit England (if she was indeed the reason) ever came to light, there would be considerable tribulation. Elizabeth dared not let her mind envision the worst that might befall Fitzwilliam in France, for the even the best outcome might be fraught with disorder. If he were to survive the war and return home, it would be to the same untenable situation he had fled.

And John Christie. Regardless of the wrath he earned because of his unmitigated, and ultimately unfounded, ill-will toward Darcy, she felt a twinge.

“He’s probably back at the stable of the Kympton Inn, morosely petting some pony’s nose whilst awaiting the constable who will not come.”

She shook her head sadly at the thought of it. Perhaps she should send a messenger to tell him he would not be hung for his offence. This plan was not set into place for dusk and no Georgiana began to make Elizabeth seriously uneasy.

At one time Georgiana’s whereabouts would never be in question, for she had always been accompanied by Mrs. Annesley. Eventually age took its toll upon that poor woman and her remaining senses did not necessarily include her wits. Even Darcy admitted the non compos mentis lady not to be an adequate companion for his sister. Hence, to Georgiana’s delight and her brother’s consternation, Georgiana was released from the necessity of her elderly companion.

However, just what to do with the old woman was a bit of a problem. She could have been packed off ignominiously to her daughter’s, but tradition at Pemberley demanded that any employee who served the house well should not be put out by reason of infirmity. Mrs. Annesley was an industrious lady, insisting upon being of some use. However, near-blindness and compleat deafness left few options open in the way of occupying her time.

Her visual deficiency had rendered the old woman quite frightened of the dark, hence, when she began her candle-lighting fetish, it precipitated a slight reorganisation of the staff. And that is how the little train of night-travellers was instituted. The footman once charged with re-lighting the candles old Morton put out was newly directed to steer Mrs. Annesley in that path. Hence, when Morton, extinguisher upon his shoulder and wig slightly askew, wandered the corridors snuffing each candle, the torch-bearing Mrs. Annesley was directly upon his trail. In defence of the sensibilities of those under the roof of Pemberley unacquainted with the idiosyncrasies of the house, one footman accompanied their party to make certain they did not accident into a guest’s room.

Whilst the house basked in the laurels of this particularly happy arrangement, the interview for a suitable companion for Georgiana progressed slowly. Had that position been filled in a more timely fashion, a great deal of vexation might have been prevented. For the lack of a companion allowed Georgiana to wander about quite at will, a freedom highly treasured by her, but one that did not make her brother happy.

And upon this particular eve, it was a freedom that did not make her usually quite sympathetic sister-in-law happy, either. For, in absence of a governess or companion, there was no one to note Georgiana’s doings. Thus, Elizabeth’s search for her led to her rooms and interrogation of Anne, her lady-maid. Anne had no notion of Georgiana’s activities save those that were incompleat; she had not seen her since that morning. A quick inventory revealed a portmanteau bag missing along with several of her dresses.

That revelation set Elizabeth aghast. It appeared Georgiana had not only taken leave, but had left no note of explanation.

“Has everyone gone mad?” Elizabeth exclaimed to herself as she headed to the stairs to pass this horrifying information to Darcy.

Her mission, however, stopped at the head of the stairs. For there in the vestibule stood Edward Hardin with Mr. Rhymes talking to Darcy. Hardin had his hat wadded nervously in his fist.

“Aye can’t believe that boy to steal, Mr. Darcy. It aren’t like him at all. Johnny’sa good lad. But that gig and him are both gone. Aye don’t know what else to think.”

“There is nothing on this day that I cannot believe,” Darcy assured him wearily. “If he has them, let him be. I want no retribution.”

Mr. Rhymes looked surprised that Mr. Darcy was not angry at the idea of thievery. Stealing something as valuable as a horse and gig was a hanging offence, which was most probably the reason for Edward Hardin’s nervous wringing of his hat.

“He means to be a soldier, he’s been drillin’ regular,” Hardin said.

“No matter,” replied Darcy.

“You might have thought if he wanted to go off to war, he would’ve just walked,” Edward Hardin could not yet believe the foolhardiness of John’s apparent act.

As soon as the door closed behind Rhymes and Hardin, Elizabeth descended the stairs.

With her first step upon the floor, and breathless from the scurry as well as fright, she announced, “Georgiana has gone.”

“Gone?” he repeated.

Elizabeth nodded.

“Where?”

“I know not.”

Albeit it was not remarked upon, it was immediately recognised by those witnessing the alteration in his countenance that the missing groom, gig, and sister added up to kidnapping to Darcy. As he began to heave with rage, his face did not flush, it blanched. The pallor he bore was eerily familiar. It was a lividity Elizabeth had not seen upon his countenance since the day he burst through the door and skewered Reed.

Elizabeth knew it might be a matter of only a few moments before he demanded John’s head on a stick and sought a gun to run him down himself. Piercing his ever-increasing high dudgeon was no easy task, but her reasoning was sound.

“If John had abducted Georgiana, she would not have packed her bag. Hence, if she went, she must have gone of her own volition.”

That reasoning may have mollified his murderous rage, but it did not answer the rather large issue of why. Such an impenetrable question was set temporarily aside whilst Darcy issued orders. In his usual logical manner, he dismissed the notion of setting out after Georgiana himself, for he could ride in but one direction.

Thus, ten men were charged to investigate all routes from Pemberley to trace both John and Georgiana, presuming they had absconded together. A half-dozen more were hied to as many towns to enlist constables in their search. All were laden with gold to make certain they met with no hesitation to cooperate.

There was a brief consideration of what to do with John was Georgiana in his company. Darcy might have favoured having him thrashed, possibly drawn and quartered, but Elizabeth insisted it best to wait before inflicting mortal consequence.

They could be jumping to a conclusion of monumental error.

After watching all the riders pound away, Elizabeth and Darcy sat in miserable inaction upon the step. It most likely looked peculiar for the master and mistress to plop themselves down unceremoniously upon their stoop with all manner of servants standing about in wait for instructions. But Darcy and Elizabeth were baffled.

In a moment, Darcy stood decisively and announced he would look for clues again in Georgiana’s room. Thinking that was more profitable employment than sitting with her chin in her hands, Elizabeth accompanied him to research her room.

Her room, however, was just as neat and undisturbed as Elizabeth had seen it that afternoon. Her dresses hung in the armoire, her jewellery lay in her case. The dressing stool was set precisely at a right angle to her dressing table. Upon it were only a few perfumes (most of them early gifts from a brother who had no idea whatsoever to buy his sister as a birthday gift), for she did not favour scents. Elizabeth interrogated Anne again about Georgiana’s demeanour the last time she was seen.

As they were speaking, Darcy walked to the secretary and touched a leather-bound book that was sitting at a precise right angle upon it.

“Pray, what is this?”

Elizabeth walked over and looked at it as it sat perpendicular to the corner of the desk. Very precisely perpendicular. They both stood looking at it wordlessly, neither making a move to pick it up. Thereupon, as if by prearranged decision, they both reached for it at the same time.

“It is Georgiana’s journal,” Elizabeth said.

Darcy stood impatiently as Elizabeth flipped the pages to find the last entry. She read it silently. She turned back a page and read it, then turned page after page each more urgently than before.

“What?” he said, again impatiently, “What?”

Not wanting to give interpretation, she handed it to him, and he sank upon the satin counterpane and bestowed upon it his full attention. His hands took the same trip as did hers, for page after page contained not a single line of her own composition.

They were filled with unattributed quotations, the Bible, Bacon, Blake, and Shakespeare again and again as well as many others. The theme, however, was ominously similar.

“It is impossible to love and to be wise.”

“There is no fear in love,

but perfect love casteth out fear.”

“If thou rememberst not the slightest folly

that ever love did make thee run into,

thou has not loved.”

“Set me as a seal upon thy heart,

As a seal upon thine arm:

for love is strong as death.”

Neither Darcy nor Elizabeth much liked the sound of it, and as he read the last word of the last entry, Darcy’s only recently regained colour lost ground.

Elizabeth thought it possible, even probable, Georgiana was unhappy. But until that moment, she had not considered the magnitude of her loneliness. She believed it unforgivable that she had not recognised it. Very few emotions in life could move a person to drastic action and love was one of those few.

An incredulous possibility moved him to ask, “Has she eloped with that boy?” The contemplation of such an execrable possibility caused his face to crimson to such a degree, Elizabeth feared he might well be felled by apoplexy before the day played out.

“Not necessarily,” she soothed.

“Not necessarily eloped, or not necessarily eloped with your groom?”

“Either or neither. This could be symbolic love of which she recites.”

“You are suggesting she intends to enter a nunnery and bid that boy to take her?” he demanded.

“I am saying perhaps she too has a commitment to love mankind. Perchance in service. Her love of nursing the ill is profound.”

“Surely she has not followed her flight of fancy off to war. What flummery!” he exploded. “This entire thing is preposterous!”

She was eternally grateful he chose not to repeat her now infamous assurances that hysterical obsession would not overtake Georgiana. If he did not, it was quite possibly because, outrageous as that possibility was, it was far better than the one that included elopement and John Christie. Certainly, he prayed, the gods could not be so cruel as to allow his sister to run off with a lowly groom.

“If only a nurse, Lizzy,” he reconsidered, “but what if not? Then she has run off with a groom! A bastard groom! Wickham’s bastard!”

With that fit of temper, enlightenment descended upon them both. Only that morning John still believed Darcy to be his father. The unlikelihood of a romance betwixt Georgiana and John grew as they thought of it.

“Perchance it was not he with whom she eloped. He was not the reason, just the means,” Elizabeth suggested.

“Has she been seeing the Howgrave son, Lizzy?”

Elizabeth shook her head, “I know not. Quite obviously, however, I know not everything.”

Grasping at straws (at least a more acceptable straw), she offered, “Newton Hinchcliffe?”

“The fatuous, dim-witted one?”

“You had best be more circumspect in what aspersions you cast until we have unravelled this mystery,” she said.

“With all the eligible gentlemen we have thrown into her path, could she have not befriended one sensible young man?” he lamented.

They had no idea if Georgiana was with or followed John. Even if she had, he may well not be in knowledge of it.

“She did not know he thought himself my son. Or at least I hope she did not know,” he fretted, yet disquieted by the notion of his sister learning of her brother’s infallibility.

“We know not yet if she did indeed elope. It may be as simple as a need to aid and comfort.”

“Or as complicated as the possibility of being killed,” he replied and Elizabeth could find no words of comfort.

Thereupon, he asked with no humour intended whatsoever, “Your cousin Mr. Collins did not offer her a story of a vicar fighting Napoleon, did he?”

She shook her head, but smiled briefly at the recollection of a time when their most formidable trial was Mr. Collins’s company.

It was decided that, in all probability and for whatever reason, Georgiana was en route to the continent. Such an understanding did not have the makings for a restful night. Darcy could not rid himself of the notion that his sister had run after a young man of the lowest order (John Christie, Howgrave, the dim-witted Hinchcliffe). Elizabeth believed he had seized upon that possibility simply because it was one that gave him the most grief. For he had assigned himself guilt that he had not foreseen his sister’s unhappiness.

The night lasted longer than a night, but by morning Darcy had decided he must trace Georgiana’s trail himself. To see where she had gone. To see if he could help her. He had been given guardianship of his sister. That responsibility was not something he took lightly. She had always been his to look after; he could not just stand and do nothing.