Mr. Darcy's Forbidden Love-kindle (54 page)

A sudden knock at the door proved to be Mr. Boatwright, the butler, with the post. She glanced at the two letters before laying them on the dressing table. About to quit the room, her employer startled her by sitting up and exclaiming groggily, “Is there a letter from my husband?”

Knowing well not to answer that question, Fran replied, “You have two letters on your dressing table, madam.”

Gisela grasped her aching head. “There is no need to shout! Have Mrs. Boatwright prepare one of her headache powders as soon as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fran replied, eager to be away from her mistress. “I shall have her do it straightaway and bring it with your tray.”

“No. No food! Just have her prepare some strong tea and the powders.”

Fran nodded, slipping out the door. Once in the hall, she leaned against the door, closed her eyes and took a deep breath before letting it go slowly. Then she hurried towards the grand staircase to find the housekeeper.

In her room, Gisela slid her feet to the floor and held onto the dressing table to stand. Feeling dizzy, she closed her eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning. Once it had sufficiently, she reached for the letters lying on her dressing table. The one from her solicitor was ignored as she broke the seal on the other. It was not from Fitzwilliam as she hoped, but from Wickham. In it he gave his account of all that had gone wrong in Ramsgate. By the end, when he wrote of heading to London so that she could provide him a place to hide, she was furious.

Why would he think I am willing to help him? That fool will get us both hanged! Thank God, Grimsby’s son reports that Fitzwilliam has left London. I imagine he is off to comfort that snivelling little sister of his. Perhaps I should return to Derbyshire until this incident is forgotten. 

Throwing Wickham’s missive aside, she sank into the chair in front of the dressing table, and for the first time in days, actually stared at her image in the large, ornate mirror. She gasped audibly.
That cannot possibly be me!

Grabbing a nearby candle, she lit it, holding it near the glass as she leaned in close to study her features. Her fingers flew up to glide over a visage she no longer recognised. Finding the skin rough and dry beneath her touch, she pictured wrinkles where once there were none. Reaching for a jar of some expensive French cream, she began to slather it over her face and neck. The more she applied, the more upset she became until, all of a sudden, she quit the exercise, flinging the jar at the costly mirror while cursing loudly. The glass exploded with an ear-splitting sound, and the clamour of servants running in the hall proved that a good number of the household had heard.

The door flew open and Fran rushed in, stopping abruptly at the sight of her mistress sitting before the broken pane with a layer of something white all over her face.

Lifting her chin in defiance, Gisela bellowed, “Do not just stand there gawking! Call someone to remove this now! And find Mr. Boatwright. Have him bring the mirror from Mr. Darcy’s bedroom.”

Fran wondered if the woman had lost her mind. There was a bedroom that would normally belong to the master of the house, if there was one. However, since Mr. Darcy did not reside there, it had always been kept locked. As far as she knew, no one ever entered that room, even to clean it. Thus, she had no idea whether it contained a mirror which could replace the broken one.

Gisela noted her hesitation with great irritation. “I do not pay you to stand about like a Drury Lane Vestal!
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Do as I say, or I shall have to find another maid.”

I wish I could tell you to do so right now
, Fran thought as she stalked out and closed the door soundly.

~~~*~~~

On the Road from London to Milton

Slattery and Musgrove, trusted footmen of long-standing, nodded at each other as Mr. Darcy nudged his horse into the yard of the small Inn which served as a stop for post coaches. Both had been surprised at the pace their employer had kept since taking the road to Milton that morning and were as weary as the animals beneath them when the familiar landmark came into view. The only respite they had thus far was when they stopped to let their horses drink from a creek, devouring what food Mrs. Parker had packed whilst still mounted. Since their destination was only a half-day’s journey from London, they had thought Mr. Darcy would stop at the first small inn along the road, but he passed by it without even slowing in favour of this one further along.

“Let us stop here,” William declared, dismounting and throwing the reins of his stallion to an older man who came running from the direction of the stables. “Cool him down, Mr. O’Malley.  Give him some oats and do the same for the others.”  He motioned to the footmen’s horses, adding, “Stable them until we return. Please saddle three more from those I keep on the premises.”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy!” the man replied, signalling another fellow to come forward to help with the horses.  “Right away, sir!”

As William headed into the inn, he waved his servants to follow. Once they were inside, the Master was nowhere to be seen. Unsure of where to sit, as they usually ate in the servant’s quarters, Slattery and Musgrove stood looking about the small dining room. Suddenly, a maid appeared, asking that they follow her. She led them into another section of the inn and pointed to a door. 

“The gentleman would have you wait for him here. He said to tell you that he would join you as soon as he settles his account.”

Both men did as instructed and found themselves seated in a private dining room, something they had never enjoyed before. A maid quickly appeared, setting plates, cups and forks on the table before leaving. Finally, Mr. Darcy appeared, taking a seat at the end of the table.

“I know that I have pressed you to your limit, but it is urgent that I get to Milton as soon as possible. I appreciate your willingness to ride so hard, and there will be extra in your pay this month.”

Both men nodded, and Slattery spoke. “You pay us well, sir. We cannot fault what you ask us to do. Besides, not having to hang onto the back of a coach is a welcome change.”

Musgrove agreed, though he added with a smirk, “Aye, it is good to be on horseback for a change, though I fear I am going to be sore for a month after we are finished.”

As even William chuckled at his quip, a stout woman appeared at the door with a large pot of stew, while a smaller one followed, carrying a tray with a pot of tea, a bottle of wine, bread and cheese. After the food was spread on the table and the maids had gone, each stared at the bounty before them. 

“Let us eat then!” William urged. “This is the last stop we shall make before we reach Milton.”

As conversation gave way to eating, William’s thoughts drifted for the hundredth time to Georgiana and he took a deep breath, trying not to let his servants see his discomposure. Would she be as traumatised as she had when each of their parents died and be withdrawn for months? He could only pray that Aunt Audrey’s influence would make a difference in how she dealt with setbacks now that she was older.

Without warning, Elizabeth invaded his thoughts next and, as usual when she crossed his mind, he was flooded with a different fear. There was absolutely nothing he could do to protect her, for as far as the world was concerned, she was not his to protect—at least not yet. Closing his eyes
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the memory of the night she slept in his arms permeated his being like a gentle rain. He opened his eyes to take a sip of the wine, hoping to gain control of the familiar ache that had begun.

“Are you not going to eat?” Slattery asked. “It is quite a good stew.” 

Musgrove nodded his agreement, though he did not stop eating to comment.

“Yes,” Darcy murmured woodenly. “I was just going over some matters in my head.”

“Well, you had best eat, Master. It will not do for you to be faint in the saddle, not with those stallions you prefer to ride.”

William offered a wan smile before doing something at which he had become an expert—forcing all thoughts of Elizabeth from his mind. That was the only way he had been able to function without going completely mad these last few months. But he had found that even that skill was not without its drawbacks. Suppressing recollections of Elizabeth during the day meant that his nights were fair game for all of them to reappear.

Suddenly no longer hungry, William began to choke down one bite of food after another. Slattery was right. He must be able to maintain his strength with all the miles yet to cover. 

Milton
Ashcroft Park
The Drawing Room

Audrey Ashcroft watched Lord Landingham pace back and forth across the imported carpet, all the while running his hands through his hair. His actions were very reminiscent of her taciturn nephew, but she had never noticed the similarities before now. Since they were waiting for Fitzwilliam to arrive, she had used the time to enlighten Marshall in regards to Georgiana’s confession of keeping Wickham’s presence in Ramsgate a secret. There was no getting around the fact that her nephew would have to be told when he arrived, and she hoped that by telling Georgiana’s godfather beforehand that he would be of aid in helping Fitzwilliam to see reason when he was informed. She never dreamed that Marshall would need to be calmed himself.

“I am sorry. I did not realise how much this would upset you, Marshall. In your present condition, you do not need something more to make your head ache.”

“Please do not apologise,” he broke in a little too sharply. His pacing came to a sudden halt as he faced her. “Georgiana is the one with a lapse in judgment, you are merely the messenger.”

“Regardless, if you keep treading back and forth, your headache will no doubt return, and all you will have accomplished is to wear a hole in the carpet.”

He cocked his head to study her, as though he was not sure if she was serious or not. Audrey read his expression quite easily.

“Yes, I am teasing. But I see I have failed to cheer you. I was counting on you to be the voice of reason—someone to calm my nephew. Only now I fear that you are blaming yourself, just as he will.”

Suddenly, Landingham’s hands flew to his forehead, and he rubbed his tired eyes rigorously before letting a ragged sigh escape.

“I cannot for the life of me understand why Georgiana would do something so foolish, so dangerous! Why would she acquiesce to that villain’s wishes, going directly against everything she has been taught.” He stopped and began to shake his head. “No, that is not true. I understand all too well. She may have begun to look like a young woman, but inside she is still an innocent girl who trusts too easily. Her tender heart does not understand the wiles of the wicked.”

“While it is true that she has a tender heart that does not dismiss the fact that she knew what she was doing was wrong and has allowed as much. She was properly instructed, but she intentionally withheld information that I should have been made aware of and, in doing so, she not only broke the bond between us, she nearly paid the ultimate price for her error. Not to mention that you were almost killed going to her rescue, and Miss Bennet was injured twice for intervening.”

“If only she had had a father who…” Abruptly Landingham quieted, afraid of saying more.

“She had a father, though George was never an ideal parent. But since his death, she has had an exemplary model in Fitzwilliam. He could not have done a better job of raising Georgiana had he been her actual parent. So I do not consider that an excuse.”

Landingham turned away, praying that the guilt on his face would not show. “I agree. No one can fault Fitzwilliam’s care of Georgiana.”

“No one but him! And we both know that my nephew will blame himself. He will not even include me in the blame, and I have spent the greater part of the last two years with Georgiana.”

Landingham stilled, considering his words. “Fitzwilliam always takes the lion’s share of the fault. You and I must convince him otherwise. It is not healthy the way he agonises over everything that affects Georgiana. He is not to blame; he cannot control every circumstance and he must accept that.”

Audrey rose and walked over to where he had turned to gaze into the gardens. Laying a hand on his back and making lazy circles with her fingers, she said softly, “You sound like his father.”

Without turning he murmured, “I have often considered that since I courted your sister before George Darcy, I could have been his father.” He hesitated for a second before adding, “And Georgiana’s.”

Lady Ashcroft mulled over his words, her face taking on a puzzled look as she, too, gazed into the distance. “I had forgotten. It was long ago, and I was so young at the time.”

She seemed to weigh that information as she walked over to the liquor cabinet and began pouring two fingers of brandy for herself before doing the same for Landingham. Turning, she held out the glass, and he came forward to take it.

Downing his share in one swallow, Landingham asked, “Where do you suppose Fitzwilliam is?  I assumed he would be knocking on the door at daybreak.”

“I imagine he would have, had it been possible. In any event, I think he is most likely near and will arrive within the hour.”

Noting the slump of Landingham’s shoulders, Audrey then began to pull the man that she loved towards a nearby chair, gently pushing him down into the cushioned seat. Once he was seated, she walked around behind him and began massaging his shoulders. Landingham immediately closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Letting his head fall back on the soft cushion, he grew tranquil.

“I swear those lovely fingers of yours can heal any pain I have, my love.”

“I pray that will always be so.”

He opened his eyes to gaze up at her with an adoring look. Then, reaching for her hand, he brought it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“It shall, I have no doubt. I cannot wait until you are mine.”

She returned his smile, lovingly squeezing his hand in return. “Nor can I.”