“Yet, you are not most men, Fitzwilliam. You are the man I have married.”
Chapter 20
They had gone to bed with the remnants of a silent argument hanging over their heads, and Darcy had regretted how his slip of tongue had ruined a perfectly beautiful day. He had almost wished they had had a “heated discourse”; at least then the words would be out, and he could deal with them. Elizabeth’s cold exchanges were far from rude or demanding; in fact, they were almost subservient in nature. All of which frustrated Darcy to no end.
“Elizabeth?” he whispered to the darkened room. She lay on her side facing away from him, and Darcy gritted his teeth to keep from commenting on her act of defiance. “We must resolve this.”
Her voice held no emotion. “There is nothing for us two to resolve. I cannot control my abhorrence at considering you with another. I do understand what happened before we met has nothing to do with our future. I am being unreasonable. I do not deny the state of my reaction.”
“How long?” he pleaded. “I cannot bear this chasm between us.”
A long silence ensued. Finally, she said, “It shall pass, Fitzwilliam, but not tonight. The emotional chaos of the past week has me at wit’s end. I shall be my former self soon, but for this night, I can make no such promise. Tonight, I must nurse my bruised ego. I must taste the bile in my mouth. Women are foolishly insensible of their uncommon good fortune.”
He had hurt her. Despite every promise Darcy had made to shelter her, it was he who had brought pain to Elizabeth’s door. First, Darcy had infuriated the gypsies, which had likely precipitated Pias’s attack, and then he had negligently made a glib comment that had wounded Elizabeth a second time. In his estimation, his words had caused the deeper wound. “I admit that in my youth I was guilty of entering into a life full of spirits and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son. However, with my father’s sage advice, I soon discovered it was a shameful insensibility. Now, I take a prodigious delight in only one thing—one person. You, Lizzy.”
She said stoically, “I possess no doubt of your current affections, my husband. Yet, all your protestations will not serve as a salve to my disapprobation.”
Darcy turned on his side facing away from her. “As you wish, Lizzy. Good night.”
Needless to say, he had slept very little, and his disposition had not improved with the light of day. He felt a surge of frustration with the continuing conflict with his wife, and as quickly as he could, Darcy had finished his ablutions and then retreated to Samuel’s study to take up the journals again. Over the past few days, Elizabeth had attempted to insert every date recorded in Samuel’s Bible to the pattern Darcy had shown her, but to no avail.
He certainly was not in the mood for company, but when Mr. Williamson called, Darcy accepted the curate’s interruption with more grace than he felt. “What brings you to Woodvine Hall?” Darcy asked once they were settled and tea had been served.
“I have news of the identity of one of your other victims,” the curate said gravely.
Darcy sat forward in the chair. “How is that possible? I thought all had been given a proper burial.”
Williamson quickly assured, “Each man has received a proper funeral, but I took precautions, especially regarding those for whom we possessed no identities. I have hired two widows to prepare each body with as much reverence as possible. The condition of each man has created its own issues, but I have approved the purchase of simple clothes for the men’s burials and the wrapping of each in blankets to disguise the level of decay present. It would not do for the public to view the changes. Certainly, it would be too much for our female congregation.”
Darcy had always thought it ironic that men questioned a woman’s sensibilities in regards to attending a funeral, but those same men thought nothing of a woman preparing the body for burial. “Your decision appears most prudent. I assume you have included the cost of the clothing and the women’s efforts in your accounting.”
Williamson sighed with relief. “I have, Mr. Darcy, and I thank you for supporting my efforts in bringing dignity to these men as a viable expense.”
Darcy assured, “I recognize an honest endeavor, Mr. Williamson. Now, tell me what I should know.”
Williamson swallowed hard. “Needless to say, word of so many fresh graves in our little parish has spread.” Darcy had hoped such tales had not escaped into the community, but he had known it an inevitable reality. He nodded for the curate to continue. “Mr. and Mrs. Lawson from over near Upton called at the curacy this morning. A relative in the neighborhood had sent for the Lawsons after he heard of the deaths. Mr. McGinnis is Mrs. Lawson’s younger brother, and he had offered his nephew a place to stay while Felix Lawson found employment on one of the farms in the area. The younger Lawson left home in February, but he never arrived in Wimborne. Or so the Lawsons believed. The couple had prayed their son had changed his mind and had followed his dream to join the British Navy.”
Darcy knew the life of a sailor held its own dangers. “How did the Lawsons identify their son?”
“The clothing, Sir. Mrs. Lawson had given her eldest son a red scarf she had knitted from scraps of wool. It was a bitterly cold day when young Lawson departed. Plus, the youth carried his grandfather’s purse.”
“Did Felix Lawson have any funds in his possession?”
“None in the man’s purse or pockets. Likely, whoever killed him robbed Lawson first,” Williamson reasoned.
Darcy could not imagine a common thief or a highwayman committing the crimes. Those who took to the road to procure their living did not stop to dispose of their victims. “Would not our unknown assailant have taken Lawson’s purse along with his money? I cannot image a robber taking the time to empty a man’s purse and then return the item to his pockets.” He mused, “Were there any funds found upon the other victims?”
Williamson’s face brightened. He had an inquisitive mind, and Darcy had just placed another piece of the puzzle in the man’s lap. “There was no jewelry, other than Mr. Falstad’s watch, and no money in the pockets. I have placed each man’s belongings in separate boxes if anyone cares to search through them. Of course, I have given the Lawsons their son’s personal items, and I plan to post the items we retrieved from Pugh and Falstad to their families once we have a confirmation of their proper directions.”
“What of Mr. Bates?”
“Bates came to the area alone and kept much to himself. I will ask about if anyone knows something of the man’s family.”
Darcy suspected their conversation had come to an end. “I appreciate your efforts, Williamson. You have acted admirably in this matter. If you learn anything more of value, do not hesitate to call upon Woodvine.”
With the curate’s withdrawal, instead of applying his distracted efforts to his cousin’s journals, Darcy turned to Samuel Darcy’s household ledgers. He thought it best to have a full accounting of all the expenses he had accepted against the estate. Rardin would expect as much. Darcy recognized Barth Sanderson as an astute estate manager. In addition to the usual expenses for food and staff, Darcy had sanctioned the hiring of Tregonwell’s men, the letting of the captain’s horses, and the burial expenses of eight men.
He retrieved the pen and ink, but an item of interest among those Samuel had posted caught Darcy’s notice. Another notation brought his full attention. Then another. “What is this?” he mumbled as his finger traced the column. “Supplies for some sort of explosive: gunpowder, stand pipe, cork, a funnel, thin metal sheets. Our mysterious torpedo! It appears Samuel meant to make more than one of these devices.” He studied his cousin’s notations before gathering his gloves from a nearby table. The evidence of what he and the colonel had suspected lay in his cousin’s estate books. “Yet, I have seen none of these supplies. I should speak to Mr. Holbrook. See if the groom knows of Samuel’s experiments.”
Two hours later, Darcy knew no more than he had when he had started. He and Holbrook had searched the stables, th
e barn, and two small outbuildings on his cousin’s property. Other than a layer of dust on his shoulders and a patina of sweat across his forehead, Darcy had returned to the manor house having gained nothing. “Another trail which leads nowhere,” he grumbled. He sat heavily in his cousin’s chair. “Why would Samuel make drawings in his journal if he had no intention of recreating some sort of device?” He leaned backward into the chair’s cushions and closed his eyes. All he required was to solve one of the house’s mysteries, for Darcy was certain if he solved one, the others would follow. “Unravel the threads,” he murmured. None of the deaths made sense. “No connections,” he declared.
“Fitzwilliam?” his wife’s voice was a welcome diversion.
He opened his eyes to discover Elizabeth standing before the desk. How had she entered without his hearing her? Automatically, he smiled. “Yes, my dear?” He stood to circle the desk to capture her hand.
“A message arrived while you were out.” Her tone remained uninviting, but Elizabeth’s expression had softened. She would forgive him soon, and they would go forward with their relationship.
Darcy grabbed at the opportunity to kiss her fingertips. He held her hand to his heart. “What do you know of it?”
Elizabeth recovered her hand from his grasp to reach into a pocket of the apron she had donned to protect the pale green day dress she wore. “It is from Mr. Drewe. The gentleman wishes to speak to you immediately upon your receiving this note. I took the liberty of sending Mr. Drewe a message that you were out but expected soon.”
“Mr. Drewe?” Darcy’s frown lines deepened in concentration. “I thought my business with the gentleman at an end.” He accepted the note from his wife to read: “I have called upon Mr. Glover. It is of great import that you come to the surgeon’s cottage. Drewe.”
Elizabeth continued, “I also took the liberty to ask the lower groom to saddle a horse in anticipation of your response to Mr. Drewe’s request.”
“I should go,” he murmured as he reread the note.
Elizabeth nodded curtly. She had latched onto the opportunity not to ignore his pride of duty by saying, “I have considered your remark regarding Samuel’s former relationship with Perdita Darcy. I have attempted to use both the date of Perdita’s birth, as well as that of her joining to Stewart Darcy. However, I did not use significant dates for Lady Cynthia. I thought to apply those to Samuel’s journals.”
Darcy gathered the stack of thin journals. The vulnerability, which had been plainly visible in his wife’s eyes only moments earlier, had disappeared. Guilt slapped him hard, but Darcy said evenly, “I have made no progress. I was out of doors because there were unusual purchases recorded in Samuel’s ledgers. Mr. Holbrook and I searched for the purchased items, but to no avail.”
Quite unexpectedly, Elizabeth said, “Fitzwilliam, I want this madness to end. I want to return to the bliss we knew at Pemberley.” Her chin rose in that adorable defiance of which he had become so enamored while they shared Charles Bingley’s company at Netherfield.
He said honestly, “If you feel that strongly, we will depart tomorrow.”
Elizabeth’s eyes stung with tears, and she blinked hard to keep them away. “Mr. Cowan and the colonel are due tomorrow. And then there are Sunday services,” she protested.
“Then Monday. Whether we have a resolution or not...” Darcy declared.
Elizabeth reminded him, “Samuel Darcy’s will is to be read on the seventh.”
Darcy reached for her, and his wife came willingly. “Elizabeth, if you wish to leave, we will. I promise.”
She buried her head in his chest. Several minutes passed before she sobbed, “I do not know what I want. All I know is that we have been out of sorts with each other since we arrived in Dorset. I despise finding fault with you, and I do not wish to be the reason you do not see these matters through to a conclusion.”
“Then we will leave Woodvine. We can remove to Christchurch, or, better yet, to Lyme. You wished to walk along the Cobb, and I promised you a stroll along the shale beach. We can return for Mr. Peiffer’s reading of the will. By then, Rardin and Cynthia will have arrived.”
Elizabeth’s arms came about his waist. “You are the most generous of men.”
Darcy lifted a hand to cup her chin. “I am simply a man who places his wife’s happiness above all else.”
Elizabeth sighed heavily before she released him. His wife closed her eyes and fought for some semblance of control. “You should see to Mr. Drewe’s request.” Straightening the line of her dress, she continued, “Might we dine in chambers this evening? I do not relish facing the Antiquarians and Captain Tregonwell’s men. Being the only lady in the party has become quite distressful.”
“Certainly.” Darcy kissed her forehead. “I will be pleased for Cynthia’s arrival. The Countess’s company will do you well.”
Elizabeth gathered the journals. “I look forward to holding Lord Rardin’s newest heir.”
Darcy noted the longing in his wife’s eyes. Soon, he thought; yet, their future was in God’s hands. “It has taken Rardin three attempts to have his son. I imagine the Earl to be quite beside himself.”
Elizabeth mused, “Do you happen to know the birthdates for Rardin’s two daughters?”
Darcy understood immediately. “I recall both girls were born in the same month. They celebrate before Michaelmas, although I cannot recall the exact dates.”
“And their ages?”
“Margaret will be eight in the fall, and Perdita will turn four.”
“There is a child named for Samuel’s great love?” Elizabeth asked curiously.
Darcy shrugged. “It is a possibility, but do not set your hopes too high, Lizzy.”
Darcy had asked Mr. Holbrook for directions to Glover’s cottage. The surgeon’s small house sat upon the village’s outskirts. Both a well-tended vegetable garden and an exquisite rose garden spoke of the surgeon’s many interests, and Darcy was ashamed to admit he had not thought of Glover in that manner. As he dismounted before the main door, Darcy considered how uncharacteristic the very straight rows of the garden were in comparison to the often-disheveled appearance of the village’s physician.
“Thank God!” Drewe expelled as he jerked open the door. “You have come at last. I knew not who else to contact.”
“My goodness, man.” Darcy followed the author into Glover’s main foyer. “Has something amiss happened to Mr. Glover?”
Drewe’s voice arched in agitation. “Amiss?” The man paced the hall. “Amiss does not come close to defining what has happened in this house.” Drewe gestured wildly.
Darcy used his best Master of Pemberley voice. “Where is Glover?”
“Dead!” Drewe said in disturbance, as his pacing came to a sudden halt.
There was no avoiding the truth: The impossible had occurred once more. “Where?” Darcy demanded. “Where is the surgeon’s body?” Darcy prayed he would not have to unearth yet another corpse. An unconscious hand rose to soothe his furrowed brow.
Drewe pointed toward the back of the house. “Through there!” The man’s voice squeaked with edginess.
Darcy pushed past Drewe and trailed his way through the shadowed hallway. Other than the telltale tick of a clock, no other sound could be heard. The passage of time, he thought as the possibility of yet another murder loomed. He entered the kitchen and came up short. The surgeon’s body sat slumped over a roughly hewn table, almost as if the man had fallen asleep; but nothing moved. No breath seeped in and out of Glover’s lungs.
Darcy circled the table, where he might look upon the scene. Glover’s head rested in a pool of tea, which slowly dripped from an overturned cup sitting precariously on a saucer’s edge.
“What you see is how I found him,” Drewe said from the still-open door.
Darcy looked about the well-ordered kitchen. “You did not move him?”
Drewe shuddered violently in denial. “I shook his shoulder. I thought Glover asleep. I had come to see the s
urgeon about a personal matter, but Glover did not respond to my knock; and neither did the woman the surgeon hires to clean for him. Thinking he might not have heard my entreaty, I called at the kitchen door. That is when I saw him lying over the table. I tried the handle, and when it turned, I let myself in. I discovered Glover just as you see him. I did not know what else to do. There have been so many deaths of late. What if someone accuses me of Glover’s death?”
Darcy glanced at Drewe, and his brow creased in consideration of the young poet. He was likely no more than three and twenty, a man with a softer side, who dabbled in poetry, probably modeling himself after Byron and praying for the same success as the English Barony of Byron of Rochdale had achieved with Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. “We do not know whether Glover’s passing was an accident or something more sinister. I observe no obvious wounds upon the man’s body.”
Drewe latched onto a string of hope. An expression of genuine relief crossed the young man’s countenance. “Could Glover have passed naturally?”
“The stress of the last few weeks,” Darcy suggested.
“Of course,” Drewe declared. “Why did I not consider such?”
Darcy sighed in exasperation. “First, we will require someone who can identify the cause of death. I know of no other surgeons in the village.”
Drewe pounced on the suggestion. “I know of two in Christchurch. I could ride for one.”
Darcy nodded his agreement. “I will send for the magistrate, as well as the curate, and I will guarantee no one will touch the body until you return with a man of medical expertise.”
Drewe shot a quick glance to Glover’s silent repose. Darcy wondered if the man’s nature gave the poet permission to believe in ghosts and apparitions. “I will ride with all speed, Mr. Darcy,” the young man declared, and then he was gone.
Ironic, Darcy thought. A man frightened by his own shadow. In contrast, when Darcy was Drewe’s age, he had held the running of Pemberley and his father’s vast holdings for more than a year. Darcy had come into his majority as Pemberley’s Master. “Let us see if there are other clues to Mr. Glover’s demise.”
The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy Page 30