The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy

by Regina Jeffers

  “I promise,” she whispered.

  Elizabeth had never seen anything so beautiful. Her senses raced from one sight to another. From a vantage point marking the harbor, she had easily found the Darcy yacht, the Derby. A banner bearing the family seal floated above one of the two masts, and a bright blue stripe lined the hull. Her heart skipped a beat as Darcy assisted her from the carriage.

  His men had awaited their arrival along the quay, and the Darcys had been ushered aboard. Now, she and Darcy stood along the railing to look out upon the rippling waves. The ship had everything. A highly polished wheel. A sharply raked bowsprit. Glistening brass work. A dark varnished rail and two crisp, white masts. The experience filled her senses to the brim. She tasted the salty air upon on her lips, saw the sun’s glare above the glassy surfaces of ship and water, and heard the squawk of the sea birds overhead.

  “What do you think of her, Lizzy?” Darcy asked as his arm tightened about Elizabeth’s waist.

  “She is magnificent, Fitzwilliam.” Her mouth turned up in happiness. She closed her eyes against the bright sunshine and breathed in deeply. Elizabeth’s countenance lit with excitement. It was as if her husband had laid a king’s ransom at her feet, and that pleased her feminine conceit immensely. “Never in a million years would I have thought to be aboard my husband’s ship. I have always wanted to sail off to foreign lands.”

  “As have I,” Darcy confessed. “Unfortunately, as the only son, my course was defined at birth. Yet, I have often envied Colonel Fitzwilliam. My cousin possesses a freedom of which I have only dreamed.” He smiled easily, that boyish smile Elizabeth found so endearing. “Can you imagine me in Admiral of the Fleet regalia?”

  She bit back a grin. “Admiral of the Fleet? No captain’s dress for you, Mr. Darcy?” she teased good-naturedly.

  “The colonel would outrank me if I were but a mere captain.” Darcy winked at her.

  “Ready about!” The ship’s captain called, and Darcy caught Elizabeth to him. He leaned her forward as the boom swung over their heads. He pointed to where the ship broke through the waves. “The ship’s tack changes because of the wind,” he explained. “In order to keep the Derby on course, the sails must be swung around at the end of each tack.”

  “Hard alee!” the captain sang out, and the boom swung again. The ship heeled and set upon a new course.

  Elizabeth squealed, “How exciting! This is my first adventure asea, Fitzwilliam. Thank you for providing me this moment.”

  He extended his hand to her, and Elizabeth, instinctively, slipped her fingers into his outstretched palm. She knew her husband was fully prepared to slay dragons and ogres for her. It was a satisfying thought for a woman who had never thought to marry for love. “I have asked for a special afternoon meal upon deck,” he said huskily. “Perhaps we can go below to freshen our things.”

  Elizabeth recognized the desire reflected in his eyes. She interlaced her arm through his. “I can think of nothing more delightful.”

  “Your cousin spoke of you often, Mr. Darcy,” Samuel’s housekeeper said as she served tea. Darcy and Elizabeth had spent six deliriously glorious days aboard his yacht and at various ports. They had dined on regional delicacies, and they had known exquisite intimacies. The euphoria clung to him like a well-tailored coat.

  Samuel Darcy’s home had been much as Darcy had expected. Not a surface existed that did not bear some sort of ancient vase or dried bone. It would take many weeks to inventory Samuel’s belongings. “I fear it has been several years since I last saw my cousin. It grieves me that Cousin Samuel might have suffered without someone in the family close at hand. I pray his passing was quick and painless.” He studied the housekeeper charily. The house displayed many of his cousin’s “treasures,” but it also showed a lack of attention to care. Although Fitzwilliam Darcy was not so inclined, Samuel Darcy was known to be oblivious to such details.

  The housekeeper’s eyebrow rose in obvious dismay. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, did not Mr. Peiffer explain the circumstances surrounding your cousin’s passing?”

  Darcy shot a quick glance at Elizabeth to monitor her reaction to the woman’s anxiousness. “I have yet to call upon Mr. Peiffer. We set in at Bournemouth a few hours prior.” He placed his half-empty teacup on a nearby table. “In case Lady Cynthia arrived earlier than expected, I thought it best to inform you of my presence in the area.” He reached for Elizabeth’s hand. “Mayhap you might share the conditions contiguous to my cousin’s death, Mrs. Ridgeway.”

  Darcy heard the swift, panicked catch in the older woman’s voice. Mrs. Ridgeway drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes; yet, his instincts said something about the woman did not prove true. She was handsome enough, having one of those faces that did not display the passage of time. The lines around her eyes and mouth were barely noticeable. Although he suspected Mrs. Ridgeway to be nearing forty—after all, the woman had admitted to being a widow for some ten years—she seemed ageless. Her wavy blonde hair held streaks of silver-white, but there was nothing disagreeable about the woman’s countenance: a strong chin, dark brown eyes and long lashes, a small face and nose, a low-vaulted forehead. She did not favor an Englishwoman. More in the form of the females of the Western European countries. Her eyes held tales of life well lived, and they were not tales of woe. He supposed that was what bothered him. Darcy had always imagined, if something should take him before his time, Mrs. Reynolds and all of Pemberley would truly grieve for his passing. Perhaps it was his pride to think so. He viewed Samuel Darcy to be a man of a similar vein, and Darcy expected his cousin’s staff to grieve for Samuel’s absence. “Poor Mr. Samuel,” she began on a rasp. “Your cousin could not have known what happened.”

  “Did Cousin Samuel take a fall from his horse or a spill into the River Wey?” Darcy pressed. When he had learned of Samuel Darcy’s passing, he had assumed his father’s cousin had succumbed to some strange illness, likely contracted in Africa or India or the Orient—his cousin had explored the civilized and the uncivilized world. In addition, Samuel was two years George Darcy’s senior, and Darcy’s father had passed some six years prior. It had never crossed Darcy’s mind that anything other than advanced age had taken his cousin Samuel.

  “No, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Ridgeway said softly from the folds of her handkerchief. “It was at more sinister hands that your cousin met his Maker.” She hesitated in what appeared to be true anguish, but, again, Darcy could not shake the feeling something was amiss. “Mr. Samuel had spent an evening with some of his regular associates. Mr. Stowbridge often hosts an entertainment for several of the authors and artists in the area, and Mr. Samuel customarily attends when he is in the country.” Mrs. Ridgeway flicked tears away. “Mr. Samuel customarily walked home from the Stowbridge house. Your cousin always said it cleared his head of all the philosophy Stowbridge’s guests spouted throughout the evening, and it is less than a mile through the back pasture and the woods to Stowe Hall.”

  “Unlike many of his station, Samuel never avoided a bit of physical exertion,” Darcy said fondly.

  “Certainly, Mr. Samuel was unique in many ways,” Mrs. Ridgeway continued. “Unfortunately, on the evening of his death, your cousin should have accepted Mr. Stowbridge’s offer of his carriage. Despite both households’ mounting an extensive search, Samuel Darcy’s body remained undiscovered until noon of the following day. One of Mr. Stowbridge’s staff found Mr. Samuel on a wooded path.”

  Darcy frowned. His brows pulled together in consternation. “You continue to dance around the truth. Please explain what happened to Cousin Samuel, Mrs. Ridgeway,” Darcy said impatiently.

  “It is a tale I prefer not to consider,” the housekeeper said sadly.

  Darcy set his mouth in a tight line. “Yet, I insist on knowing the details.”

  With a heavy sigh, Mrs. Ridgeway disclosed, “Someone must have followed your cousin. An ax handle lay close to Mr. Darcy’s body. He had been struck soundly across the back of the head.”

  “Cous
in Samuel was murdered? How is that possible? The man had not a selfish bone in his body. Surely if it had been a matter of a few coins...”

  “Not a robbery, Sir,” she said softly. “Nothing appeared to be missing. Your cousin’s purse was not taken.”

  “I would think not,” Darcy continued. “If someone wished to have his purse, Samuel would have handed it over and then invited his attacker home for a meal.” His eyes narrowed. “Has my cousin’s assailant been apprehended?”

  “Regrettably, no,” Mrs. Ridgeway answered.

  “But it has been some three weeks,” Darcy protested. “Are there possible suspects?”

  Mrs. Ridgeway’s shoulders stiffened. “As I am but Mr. Samuel’s housekeeper, the authorities do not deem it necessary to keep me informed. The fact that I served your late cousin for more than six years holds no sway with the local magistrate.”

  Darcy stood and reached for Elizabeth’s hand. “Then perhaps I should see if my concerns hold influence over the man. Might I impose on you, Ma’am, to tell me the gentleman’s name and to provide me his directions?”

  The woman rose. “I believe you already know the magistrate’s name, Sir. It is Mr. Louis Stowbridge, and as to his directions, simply follow the main road around the orchard. Mr. Stowbridge’s estate is the grey stone squire’s house.”

  Darcy thanked the woman and escorted Elizabeth toward his carriage. “Do not assume culpability, Mr. Darcy,” his wife chided as he assisted her into his traveling coach.

  Curtly, he said, “I am unaware of the source of your censure, Mrs. Darcy.” He climbed into the carriage to take the backward-facing seat.

  “You have set your mind to blaming yourself for not arriving in Dorset sooner,” Elizabeth insisted. “Yet, you must realize the outcome would have remained the same. Samuel Darcy lost his life to an unknown assailant.”

  Darcy sighed heavily. The fact his wife spoke his thoughts frustrated him. “Many days more than a fortnight, Elizabeth,” he said in annoyance. “My cousin has known his Maker for nigh on a month, and no one has been brought to justice.”

  Elizabeth nodded her head sympathetically. “All you say is true, my husband, but do not cast fault upon your own shoulders for not having taken action prior to today. Although not timely to the course of the events, we are in Dorset, and you may see to a resolution.”

  “Yet...” he began, but a deep frown on his wife’s perfect countenance curtailed Darcy’s protest.

  “I shall not hear of it, Fitzwilliam,” she said adamantly. “If you regret our not rushing to Dorset, then it means you regret our time together on the Derby. I will treasure those days and would not have them tarnished.”

  Darcy knew she was correct. His tendency toward self-censure often ruled his thoughts—actually addressed them with rather an injudicious particularity. Not an incurable fault, but one where he had to practice how to dictate liberality to others, as well as himself. “I could never look with disdain upon any moment we spend together. You are my world, Elizabeth Darcy. Surely you are aware of my devotion.”

  She rewarded him with that easy smile Darcy so adored. “It is with shameful insensibility that I rejoice in your regard, my husband,” Elizabeth assured. “Yet, because I return your sentiments, I would not have you assume the world’s faults as your own. We will see to what is proper to honor your cousin’s memory.”

  “But what of our wedding journey?” Darcy said softly. “I promised you sea bathing and time to mark our joining.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward, wrapping her arms about her knees. “We shall have more than enough time to do both. Lady Cynthia’s arrival is several weeks in the future. We can press for a more comprehensive investigation, while spending time enjoying King George’s favorite watering hole. One activity does not negate the other.”

  “Is it any wonder that I love you so dearly?” he asked earnestly.

  Mischievously, she batted her eyes at him. “You could not resist my charms, Mr. Darcy,” she teased.

  He slid across the carriage to sit beside her. “I have possessed a strange attraction for your fine eyes for more days than I care to recall,” he said as he planted a wet kiss on the column of her neck. “Now, I am aware of more alluring charms,” he said huskily.

  Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered closed, but she quickly recovered her senses. “Mr. Darcy,” she protested halfheartedly. Before Darcy could catch her to him, his wife slid across the seat to look pointedly out the coach’s small window. “My goodness!” she gasped. “Are those gypsies, Fitzwilliam?” she asked in disbelief.

  Darcy followed her across the bench to peer over her shoulder. “They are, my dear. Have you never seen a Roma band?”

  Elizabeth turned her head slightly to him. Her eyes had widened, and they were full of excitement. “I have heard tales of gypsy bands, but I have never known of one camping near Meryton.” Her gaze returned to the colorful wagons, and the young men taking a horse through its paces. “Shall they truly steal our purses if we are foolish enough to go near their camp?” she asked innocently.

  Darcy watched as the men stopped their activity to scrutinize his coach’s progress. As a group, they took several menacing steps in the direction of the road. Automatically, Darcy stiffened, and he slid an arm about Elizabeth’s waist. Sensing his anxiety, his wife clung tightly to him, and he felt fiercely protective of her. “There are many troops that offer no mischief,” he said with little conviction. “However, my experience with those who annually visit Derby is the Roma live by a different code.” Mr. Stalling must have considered the possible threat, for the horses’ speed increased. “I wonder how long this particular group has been in the area.” Darcy turned to see the men standing in the road as the carriage maneuvered its way around a curve at a quickened pace.

  Elizabeth caught the strap to steady herself. She said intuitively, “What you are asking, my husband, is whether the gypsies could have played a part in your cousin’s death.”

  Chapter 2

  “Mr. Darcy.” A smiling, elderly man entered the room, his hand extended in greeting. “I am very pleased to have your acquaintance, Sir. Over the years and on multiple occasions, your cousin has sung your praises.”

  Darcy accepted the man’s hand. Directing Stowbridge’s attention to Elizabeth, he said, “Permit me to present my wife, Mrs. Darcy.”

  Stowbridge executed a correct bow. “Ah, Mrs. Darcy, I cannot begin to speak of Samuel Darcy’s elation with the news of your marriage to George Darcy’s son. Samuel predicted that you would be quite beautiful—said a Darcy man recognizes a woman worthy of his attentions. I have always been of the persuasion that a man requires a beautiful bauble on his arm.” Darcy felt Elizabeth’s body stiffen with the condescending remark, and he cupped her hand with his free one to warn away her expected protest. Unaware of his affront, Stowbridge gestured to nearby chairs before continuing, “Listen to me, speaking so familiarly. It is only from the purest excitement at having your acquaintance. I am only sorry our dear Samuel could not celebrate with us.” The man turned to Darcy. “Were you aware that Samuel had planned to journey to your home in Derbyshire? In June, your cousin had said of late.”

  Darcy assisted Elizabeth to her seat. “I have not heard from Cousin Samuel since he sent his congratulations on my joining with Mrs. Darcy.” Darcy sat beside his wife on a narrow settee. He studied Stowbridge as the man rang for tea before joining them. The man had dark skin and eyes and was likely of European heritage, perhaps sixty years of age. Louis Stowbridge’s wrinkles did nothing to dampen the animation crossing the man’s countenance. Yet, despite Stowbridge’s apparent joviality, the squire had yet to meet Darcy’s eyes, a fact that caused Darcy instinctively to question the man’s honesty. Looking a man in the eyes was a defining characteristic, the importance of which Darcy’s father had drummed into his son’s head. George Darcy had been quick to point out the necessity of doing so, especially when conducting business. Brushed to a fine gloss, the man’s hair was thinning and pep
pered with gray, but by all appearances Stowbridge was a fit gentleman. Darcy continued, “Mrs. Darcy and I called at Samuel’s home to inform the staff of our arrival in Wimborne. Mrs. Ridgeway suggested that we seek your knowledge of the events leading up to and those following Cousin Samuel’s death.”

  Immediately, the benevolent smile disappeared from the squire’s lips. “That old tabby,” Stowbridge grumbled. “The lady does not know her place. She should have stood solidly by her husband rather than seeking her independence. Samuel should have pensioned off the woman years ago.” Darcy thought it odd that the man spoke so bluntly about Samuel’s housekeeper. Darcy was not privy to the woman’s history, but he understood her to be a widow, which caused him to question what the magistrate meant by the lady standing “solidly beside her husband.” Perhaps the woman and the late Mr. Ridgeway had gone their separate ways long before the man’s passing. Such circumstances were commonplace among the aristocracy. Why should such difficulties not be so for the working class?

  Elizabeth interrupted Darcy’s thoughts and the magistrate’s criticisms, “I found Mrs. Ridgeway quite pleasant, Mr. Stowbridge, and the lady appeared distraught over Mr. Darcy’s passing.” Darcy adored the way his wife never failed to speak her mind. It was one of the qualities that had attracted him to the former Elizabeth Bennet.

  Pondering his pleasure in her straightforward speech, Darcy pleasantly recalled what his wife had asked one evening shortly after they had announced their engagement. “My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners—my behavior to you was, at least, always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now, be sincere, did you admire me for my impertinence?” And Darcy had reluctantly admitted, not for the first time, that Elizabeth’s ‘impertinence’ had driven him happily to distraction. She was sadly correct. He had been disgusted with the women who were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for his approbation alone. His Elizabeth was so unlike every other woman of his acquaintance, and Darcy counted himself among the blessed because of it.