The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (10 page)

Darcy and Elizabeth stepped from a millinery shop in Christchurch's busy business district into the strong April sunshine. “It is a beautiful day,” Elizabeth observed. Darcy had insisted they not return to Woodvine Hall for a third day. “It may lessen suspicion,” he had reasoned. The more he had considered the evident dangers of their investigation, the more his protective instincts had increased. It was his duty to seek an answer to the question of his cousin's death, but he held a more pressing duty to Elizabeth.

He turned when he heard his name called. Recognizing the approaching gentleman, Darcy placed Elizabeth on his arm and prepared to greet a former acquaintance. “Tregonwell,” he called as he offered the man a bow. “What brings you from Cranborne's doors to Christchurch?” Lewis Tregonwell had served as a captain in the Dorset Rangers. Darcy had made the man's acquaintance at a house party several years prior, and they had corresponded with some regularity over the years since Darcy's father's passing and his coming into Pemberley's ownership.

“You have not heard?” Tregonwell asked as he amiably bowed to the Darcys. “I have purchased land from Sir George Ivison Tapps on Bourne Heath. Mrs. Tregonwell and I have built a summer home. We have been there a year last month. We spend more time at Bourne than we do at Cranborne Lodge,” he said jovially.

Darcy explained, “Mrs. Darcy and I have set in at Bourne's harbor.”

Tregonwell smiled widely. “And this lovely lady must be the aforementioned Mrs. Darcy.”

Darcy chuckled. “I have forgotten my manners. Mr. Tregonwell, allow me to present my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy. Elizabeth, this is Captain Lewis Tregonwell.”

Elizabeth curtsied. “I am pleased for the acquaintance, Captain Tregonwell.”

“Have you come to Dorset for Mudeford's famous healing waters?” Tregonwell asked.

“We have, Sir,” Elizabeth said softly.

Darcy added, “After we see to my cousin's estate. Lady Cynthia Sanderson and I are his heirs.”

Tregonwell said in disbelief, “Samuel Darcy. Of course, I should have made the connection.”

Darcy said with hesitation. “You knew my cousin.”

“Only by reputation,” Tregonwell confessed. “The loss of any man of letters leaves a gaping hole in Dorset's future. I extend my condolences.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said sincerely.

Tregonwell nodded his understanding. “Despite the circumstances of your presence in Dorset, I am more than pleased to know of your recent marriage and to claim the acquaintance of Mrs. Darcy.” He motioned his waiting servant to precede him to his carriage. “Mrs. Tregonwell and I are hosting a small gathering tomorrow evening to celebrate our first year at Bourne. Please say you and Mrs. Darcy will join us. It is an intimate gathering of family and friends.”

Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. He liked the idea of introducing her to his acquaintances. A country society would not be too intimidating for Elizabeth to assume her role as his wife. At Pemberley, during Derbyshire's winter months, they had enjoyed their isolated existence, but it was time they claimed their place as a couple. “It would be our honor, Tregonwell.”

“Excellent.” The captain made to leave them. “I will send a man around with a proper invitation. Where might you be staying, Darcy?”

“The cottages.”

Tregonwell grinned slyly. “Wonderful accommodations.”

“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Barrows said, “it is my understanding you are in Dorset to tend to your late cousin's affairs.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Darcy said absentmindedly. He watched his wife charm her tablemates. Elizabeth's eyes sparkled with mischief, and Darcy imagined how she had manipulated her words to offer the young Mr. Grantham a double entendre. Grantham sighed deeply, and Darcy smiled. He had once presented the world a similar countenance. Elizabeth Bennet had besotted him with her dazzling smile and her sharp wit. His wife shot him a quick glance, and Darcy winked at her.

“And do you intend to be in Dorset long?” Mrs. Barrows continued.

Reluctantly, Darcy turned his attention upon the woman. “My cousin's niece is not expected until month's end. Lady Cynthia is recovering from her lying-in. Mrs. Darcy and I have chosen to celebrate our joining by partaking of Mudeford's waters.”

Mr. Carnes, Tregonwell's man of business, asked, “Recently married, Mr. Darcy?”

Darcy nodded. “Since November. But Mrs. Darcy and I took no time for a holiday. I stand as guardian for my sister, and Miss Darcy and my wife wished to return to our family estate of Pemberley to open the manor's doors for the neighborhood during the Festive Days. Unfortunately, Derbyshire's winters often prevent travel. This has been our first opportunity to enjoy other parts of England.”

“Yet, it is a sad occasion,” Mrs. Barrows noted. “Will you wear mourning, Mr. Darcy?”

Darcy felt a sudden rush of protectiveness for his family's name. “As Samuel Darcy was my second cousin and as he passed nearly a month prior, I see no need for my wife or I to don black. The honor we do my cousin is to organize his affairs.”

Carnes added, “I am familiar with the late Mr. Darcy. He was a great collector of the unusual.”

Darcy gazed steadily at his tablemates. His eyes darkened, and his expression became serious. “Samuel Darcy was a man of science. A man of great intelligence, but also a man of compassion. My family was blessed to count him among us.”

Later, when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Darcy sought his wife among the chattering women. She thumbed through the sheet music left behind on the pianoforte. He looked over her shoulder at the song titles. “Do you intend to entertain us, my dear?”

Elizabeth glanced up at him. “I did not wish to commit myself to the card tables,” she confided.

Darcy asked softly, “Would you prefer to make our departure? I hold no qualms regarding making our apologies.”

Elizabeth chose several pieces from the stack. “Perhaps you would join me on the bench, my husband. I will play if you will turn the pages.”

“Promise me you will sing at least one,” he said intimately. “Your voice provides me such contentment. It is as if I hear
home
calling to me.”

Elizabeth blushed. “Likely you mistake my caterwauling for ‘home'” she said, but he noted how his compliment had pleased her.

Darcy sat close enough to whisper intimacies in her ear. Elizabeth smiled and giggled. Her skills on the pianoforte had improved dramatically, thanks to his sister. Georgiana practiced very constantly, and his sister's influence showed in Elizabeth's performance. “Well, Mr. Darcy, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”

“I care not which song you choose; I care only for the woman who performs it. My wish is to remain by your side all evening, Lizzy,” he said huskily. “You mesmerize me as much as you do the rest of Mr. Tregonwell's guests. You have captured the room's complete attention.”

Elizabeth shrugged away his praise. This was typical for his wife: Elizabeth set her shoulders to the task at hand, but he noted how her gaze flickered with unspoken passion. Her protest was reflexive. “My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution. For example, my sisters Georgiana and Mary greatly outshine my effort.”

“Yet, neither possesses your easy and unaffected touch. Although another may eagerly succeed you at the instrument, your audience will appreciate your efforts with much more pleasure.”

Although it was a Sunday, they had made an unannounced visit to Woodvine Hall. After having purposely stayed away for the two days, Elizabeth had insisted that they attend services in Cousin Samuel's parish. “We could learn more of the Woodvine household if we mingle among the locals,” she assured Darcy. “You understand the
ton
and the maneuverings of the aristocracy, and I bow to your expertise, but in a country neighborhood, I hold the advantage. Although some believe,” she alluded to a remark he had once made during their days at Netherfield, “that in a country neighborhood one moves in a very confined and unvarying society, I contend that people themselves alter so much that there is something new to be observed in them forever. We may discover much by speaking to those with whom Cousin Samuel did business.”

He regarded her in a searching manner. “Do you suppose Mr. Crescent remains in the neighborhood?”

“I think Mr. Crescent will have found it prudent to seek employment elsewhere. Mr. Glover's description of the criticism leveled at Mr. Crescent's willingness to follow Cousin Samuel's last wishes has painted the man in an unfavorable pose. However, I pray Mr. Crescent has lingered for, I fear, only he holds the answer to several of our questions.”

With a commitment to learn all they could from the neighborhood, they had arrived early to be ushered to the Darcy box by the Wimborne village curate. However, after the service, Elizabeth had suggested that they join the crowds socializing before the church doors.

“Mr. Darcy,” a man running his hat's brim through his fingers said as he offered a respectful bow, “I wish to extend my family's condolences for your loss. I am Lucas Snow. I own the local mercantile.”

Darcy nodded aristocratically, but Elizabeth offered the man her most beguiling smile. “Thank you, Mr. Snow. Mr. Darcy and I are gratified to know how much the late Mr. Darcy was loved and respected.”

Snow's nervousness faded, and Darcy marveled at how easily his wife had conquered the stranger's hesitation. “The late Mr. Darcy was an excellent customer,” Snow related. “But more importantly, Samuel Darcy was a true gentleman. He treated everyone with compassion. The late Mr. Darcy spoke to the individual rather than to society.”

Darcy said fondly, “My cousin held a reputation for his benevolence, but it is an honor to hear such sentiments upon your lips.”

Snow smiled widely. “I speak the truth, Mr. Darcy. There were few in the neighborhood who would speak ill of your cousin.”

Darcy asked astutely, “But there were some?”

Snow flinched under Darcy's direct gaze. “Samuel Darcy knew value when he saw it, and there are always those who offer inferior products,” the man said privately.

“Such as the gypsies?” Darcy said softly.

“Yes, the gypsies, but others who pass through. Those who were on the open end of Samuel Darcy's evaluations were not always pleased by his words.”