The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (58 page)

“I could never have lived the life you wished of me, Loiza,” she said matter-of-factly. There was no sadness. No guilt. The woman had left Stowbridge in limbo. He had married Mrs. Ridgeway, or whatever she had once been called. The magistrate must have been a man in his prime when they had wed. Even if Stowbridge could have divorced the woman and have taken another wife, the man would have been too old to sire an heir. “I was but fifteen.” It was the woman's only attempt at a defense, and Darcy felt consideration for both. They had made each other miserable.

Mrs. Stowbridge glanced to where Darcy watched their interchange. “What have you done with Mrs. Darcy?” she demanded.

“Nothing more than to leave the lady upon the ground outside,” her husband reported.

Mrs. Stowbridge sighed heavily. “We have another quandary, Loiza.” Her voice had changed to one of business. She gestured toward where Darcy waited. Darcy considered making a run for safety. But even if he were not weak from his injuries, Darcy would never leave Elizabeth behind.

Stowbridge straightened his shoulders. “You promised that Glover would be the last of them.” Darcy's full being had come alert. The couple spoke openly of what Darcy had long suspected.

“I thought Geoffrey's passing would have been the milk which spilled from the jug,” she reasoned. “Would not reasonable people walk away after so much heartache?”

Stowbridge observed, “You have never understood
pride
, Areej. A man's pride and his honor encourage him to do the impossible.”

“We shall go away this night,” the lady coaxed. “To America or home to Spain. You would love to see Corunna again, would you not, Loiza?”

“And if I refuse?” Stowbridge tested his wife's words.

The housekeeper reasoned, “We have little choice, Mr. Stowbridge. The Darcys know too much of what has occurred here.”

Darcy certainly did not enjoy being spoken of as if he were not present, and he disliked the gist of this conversation even more. “You could still leave without harming Mrs. Darcy or me,” he suggested. “Leave us in the cottage. It will take several hours before anyone mounts a search and several more before anyone comes across us. As a payment for my wife's life, I will give you my word as a gentleman that I will not send anyone after you.” Darcy would bargain with the Devil to keep Elizabeth alive. He still had the small pistol in his possession, and he could use it against Stowbridge or the man's wife and then fight off the other of the pair.

The woman tilted her head as if considering Darcy's proposal, and for a few brief seconds, he thought the couple would acquiesce. However, when the lady pointedly turned her back on him, Darcy knew he had failed; he would require a different plan to free his wife. The lady glowered at him, her scorn showing.

Mrs. Stowbridge said, “Mr. Darcy's words would make one believe that he could turn his head and pretend not to see what is obvious; yet, you have just spoken of a man's pride. Tell me, Loiza, is it possible that Mr. Darcy possesses no pride?”

Stowbridge stared long and hard at Darcy. Finally, he said grudgingly, “No, Mr. Darcy is eaten up with pride.” He shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “Could we not simply give both Darcys a dose of your healing powders? There has been enough bloodshed.”

Darcy pounced on the idea. It enflamed his hope of seeing Elizabeth safe. “I have an idea that may ensure the security you seek. Give my wife another of your powders, but leave Mrs. Darcy here. She can be no threat to you. If you agree, I will willingly leave with you. I will see you to a ship in Portsmouth,” Darcy said readily. He cursed himself for not bringing Mr. Castle with him. The sharpshooter could have protected Darcy's retreat.

Before the woman could respond, the magistrate caught his wife's arm. “I believe him,” he announced baldly. “Despite the man's conceit, Mr. Darcy loves his wife to distraction.” The man's glance shifted toward the window. “It is coming on to night. We must hurry, Areej.” From her posture, it was evident the woman did not agree with her husband's decision, but she allowed him to direct her to her task. “Prepare one of your sleeping draughts.”

Darcy gestured to the door. “May I retrieve my wife from where she lies? Mrs. Darcy would be safer inside the cottage.” He carefully eyed Mrs. Stowbridge's efforts at the small table. She had withdrawn several vials from the shelves and mixed the powders liberally. He must find a means to protect Elizabeth from receiving a dose from which his wife could not recover.

Stowbridge raised the gun he still held. “I will tolerate no tomfoolery,” the magistrate warned.

Darcy nodded his understanding. He stood stiffly. His eyes never left Mrs. Stowbridge. The lady sprinkled the powder over a doubled-over cloth. So, Elizabeth had not ingested the powder. The idea pleased him. “You have my word,” he said as he made his way to the door. “I mean only to protect my wife.”

The magistrate smiled sadly. “It is a man's fate.” He noticed how the squire looked on lovingly as his wife created her concoction. Darcy understood how love could twist a man's heart, but not how that same love could make a man blind to evil. How could Stowbridge condone what his wife had done? How much betrayal would one man tolerate?

Stowbridge had followed closely on Darcy's heels, so Darcy made no effort to speak to Elizabeth. He simply gathered her to him. Standing slowly, he focused on their return to the cottage. Stepping into the darkening shadows, he reverently carried his wife to the undressed mattress. Tenderly, he placed Elizabeth on the thin padding and straightened her clothing. He draped her braid over Elizabeth's shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered as he kissed her forehead.

Mrs. Stowbridge leaned across the bed. “Move away, Mr. Darcy,” she ordered.

Darcy refused to retreat. “I will administer the mixture. I agreed to permit you to place my wife under a deep sleep, but there is a fine line between sleep and death when one mixes such potent ingredients. I will not stand by and permit you to kill my wife.” He extended his hand for what the woman carried, and a battle of wills ensued.

After several elongated seconds, Stowbridge ordered, “Give the man the cloth, Areej. You may supervise.”

The woman shot her husband a look of pure contempt, but she pointedly dumped the damp cloth into Darcy's outstretched palm. “Place the cloth over Mrs. Darcy's mouth and nose,” she said testily. “You must hold it tightly against your wife's face. Mrs. Darcy must inhale the powder.” Her explanation brought clarity as to how Elizabeth had come to have the powder upon her lovely face. Darcy shifted the small pistol under his bent knee, where it rested on the bed. He leaned over Elizabeth to mask his efforts. Darcy straightened the cloth and palmed it in his right hand. The slight movement set his teeth on edge as pain ricocheted down his arm.

Determined to finish this idiocy, Darcy spread the cloth across the flat of his palm; then he cupped his hand slightly to protect his wife from the full impact of the mixture. With a sigh of reluctance, Darcy placed the cloth across Elizabeth's nose and mouth. With his upper arm, he blocked Mrs. Stowbridge's sight enough that he could slip his thumb under the cloth's edge. He pressed his thumb against Elizabeth's lips to prevent them from parting. That bit of manipulation would keep his wife from ingesting the mixture through her mouth.

Almost immediately Elizabeth's mind registered his presence as another attack, and she instinctively fought him. Darcy quickly realized if he had permitted Mrs. Stowbridge to deliver the concoction, Elizabeth would have suffered. Therefore, he kept the cloth across his wife's mouth and nose, but Darcy leaned over Elizabeth to whisper in her ear. “Shush, my Lizzy. I mean you no harm. Shush, Darling.”

Elizabeth ceased her struggle. She gasped for a breath, and, slowly, her eyes opened. At first, her gaze remained clouded, but
his
Elizabeth fought her way to consciousness. Darcy cherished the moment. If harm came to him, it would be the last one they would share. “I am here, Elizabeth.” He kept his right hand pressed across her mouth, but with his left, Darcy caressed
the side of her head. “You must rest again,” he said encouragingly. Darcy prayed his wife's lucid thoughts would understand that he meant for her to pretend to sleep. Elizabeth blinked twice and then inhaled deeply. Darcy prayed her breath had not been too deep. He did not want her haunted by hallucinations.

“I have agreed to go with the Stowbridges.” Darcy placed a slight emphasis on the last word to convey important information. “Do not fight me, Lizzy. I mean for you to survive.” He used his pet name for her to soften what Darcy meant for her to understand. “Do your duty as my wife,” he instructed. Elizabeth blinked her understanding, and Darcy noted the panic, which crossed her expression before his wife valiantly chased it away with an unwavering resolve. “Breathe in the mixture, Elizabeth. It is my wish.” A single tear escaped her eye, and Darcy kissed it away. “I have always loved you.”

Mrs. Stowbridge scoffed with disgust. “Enough sentimentality,” she growled. “Give me the cloth.”

The woman planned to replace him as the powder's administrator, but Darcy violently shoved her away. “If you touch her, I will kill you,” he hissed. “My wife has known enough of your perfidy, Madam.” Darcy's chest heaved with anger. “I promised to accompany you and Mr. Stowbridge without incident, but only if you exact no harm upon my wife.”

“Leave the man to say his farewells, Areej,” Stowbridge encouraged.

Darcy ignored the interplay between husband and wife. Instead, he concentrated on giving his wife to understand that he would save her no matter the cost to himself. Anxiety tautened the lines of his wife's muscles. “Should I not return, I charge you with Georgiana's care and the future of Pemberley. You know my wish in this matter,” he said with a slight emphasis. “Now, close your eyes and breathe deeply.” Subtly, he had managed to slip his smallest finger under the cloth without Mrs. Stowbridge's notice. He partially blocked the openings to Elizabeth's nostrils. When his wife's lungs expanded, Darcy noted how she purposely created the illusion of her chest rising and falling. He breathed easier: She would follow his instructions. Elizabeth had understood his urgency.

Darcy continued to study her face, memorizing each line and that one small dimple, which deepened when she smiled at him. Darcy knew exactly how much of the powder his wife inhaled. He could feel what did not reach her lungs accumulate on his finger and thumb. Elizabeth was a wonderful actress. She stared into his eyes, and Darcy saw his love returned. Periodically, his wife would slowly blink, as if she fought the inevitable sleep. Finally, she released him by closing her eyes and leaving them so. Her breathing shallowed.

Reluctantly, Darcy kissed Elizabeth's forehead. Removing his hand from her mouth, he surreptitiously wiped the excess powder from his fingers onto the cloth before he returned it to Mrs. Stowbridge. Before he rose to stand beside the bed, Darcy attempted to retrieve the small gun, but Mrs. Ridgeway watched him too closely. Refusing to place Elizabeth in more danger, he left it beside where his wife's body rested on the mattress. He edged it under the folds of his jacket before setting his shoulders against the inevitable.

“We should depart,” Stowbridge declared.

Her chin rose as if the lady meant to verbally attack her husband's character. Instead, she swallowed her retort, and despite her pronounced frown, she asked, “How shall we proceed?”

“I must return to Stowe Hall to gather my papers before we may leave.” Stowbridge motioned Darcy toward the door. With one longing look at his wife, Darcy exited the small cottage, likely for the last time. He prayed he had made the correct decision.

Mrs. Stowbridge followed her husband into the quickening evening shadows. Darcy noticed the woman carried the last of the vials in one hand. “We cannot simply march Mr. Darcy into Stowe Hall and expect the servants to look the other way,” she said challengingly.

Stowbridge's patience with the woman was inexhaustible. “What do you suggest?”

“I will take Mr. Darcy with me to await your arrival,” she declared.

The magistrate's lips flattened into a thin line. “Do you think that best?” he asked cautiously. “After all, I found you tied to a chair less than an hour prior.” Darcy suspected the magistrate wondered if the woman had an alternate plan. After all, the lady had, obviously, practiced her perfidy often.

The man's wife sighed in exasperation. “I made a mistake. It shall not occur again.”

“But, still...” the squire began.

However, the former housekeeper allowed her husband no sway. “It is as you have said: Mr. Darcy's honor shall keep me safe.” She caressed the squire's arm. “It would be best if we traveled by night. Please hurry your errand.”