The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy

by Regina Jeffers

  Darcy dared not to release the woman’s pinned hands, so he turned his cheek into his sleeve to wipe away the foul liquid. He pressed his weight harder against her. “I do not wish to tame you, Madam. I simply want you out of my life.”

  A struggle of wills ensued, but finally the housekeeper nodded her agreement. Darcy eased his weight from her and backed away. His arm burned with the fire of a thousand flames, but he refused to remove his eyes from the woman who lay flat on her back on the dirt floor. He sidestepped to where the gun rested under the chair.

  Cautiously aware of the woman, Darcy bent stiffly at the knees to catch the gun between his fingers. The housekeeper pushed upward to her elbows. “Do not move,” he warned.

  “You are bleeding heavily, Mr. Darcy,” she said with satisfaction.

  He looked directly and intently into her eyes. “It is nothing,” he assured her. “A flesh wound.” However, Darcy knew the woman had the right of it. He must secure Elizabeth’s safety before he succumbed to the pains in his arm and side. Even now, his vision had taken on a dizzying swirl. With his booted foot, Darcy shoved the straight-backed chair in her direction. Surprisingly, it slid close to where the woman sat upon the floor before it tilted on its side. “Sit,” he ordered.

  The housekeeper slowly rolled to her knees and then stood stiffly. She caught the chair’s back and righted it before sitting. “Now what?” she asked, judgingly.

  A long silent moment passed between them. Darcy kept the gun pointed at her. It was a single-shot volley, but he would use the useless gun as a club against the woman if necessary. He circled the chair where she sat. Reaching the window, Darcy jerked the yellow muslin curtains from the hooks, which held them.

  “Mrs. Holbrook will not appreciate your destroying her efforts.” Mrs. Ridgeway’s sarcastic response filled the small space between them.”

  “I will purchase better for the lady.” Darcy could feel the storm rise in his stomach. He carefully breathed his way through the pain. Ripping the cloth over a nail protruding from the window frame, Darcy tore strips of yellow to bind the woman. He was not certain how long the thin cloth might restrain her, but if it were long enough for him to see Elizabeth to safety, Darcy would be satisfied.

  He knelt behind Mrs. Ridgeway. “Give me your hands,” he ordered. She resisted, but Darcy managed to capture her two hands into his one. He laced the strips through and around the housekeeper’s wrists and pulled them tight. He then threaded additional strips through the runnels of the chair’s back to secure Mrs. Ridgeway’s hands behind her. The pain of using his arm was great, but Darcy simply repeated his wife’s name over and over in his head. ‘Elizabeth’ would keep him sound.

  Standing slowly, he announced, “I will send someone to release you once I return Mrs. Darcy to safety.”

  “Then I will die in this chair,” the woman said bitterly, “for there is no possibility that you and your wife will ever reach Woodvine.”

  Darcy stumbled toward the bed. “God will show me the way,” he declared baldly. He bent to lift Elizabeth to him. “Come, Sweetheart,” he said tenderly to her. “I will have you well in no time.”

  It took all of Darcy’s strength to gather Elizabeth’s limp body into his arms. With every ounce of awareness his body possessed, Darcy had thought her awake when he and Mrs. Ridgeway had argued, but Elizabeth did not respond to his touch. However, his wife breathed the breath of life, and that fact was all which mattered. The mixture the housekeeper had given her would work its way through Elizabeth’s body, and she would wake up as he had awakened after the school prank.

  Darcy brushed his lips across Elizabeth’s forehead. “One step at a time. We will be at Woodvine soon, my Lizzy.” With a fortifying gulp of air in his lungs, he started for the door.

  “You truly mean to leave me behind?” Mrs. Ridgeway accused.

  Darcy paused beside the open door. “I do.”

  A heavy enveloping silence wedged itself between them. He pivoted to carry his bundle through the opening. It was late afternoon. By the time he reached Woodvine, it would be dark. Darcy wondered if his cousin and Cowan had returned to the manor house and what news they had brought. With each step, he felt the blood dripping from his arm. He feared to turn his head to see the droplets in the dirt. Did he have enough blood flowing through his veins to leave a trail to Woodvine?

  “I love you,” he whispered to the woman he carried like a sacrificial lamb. Elizabeth’s arms and legs dangled about his thighs, but Darcy had no strength to correct his hold on his wife. He focused on the stile so he might cross the field. From the stile, he would choose a new goal, then another and another until he crossed Woodvine’s threshold.

  “Fitz...” she murmured, and Darcy halted his weary steps to lean against a tree. Darcy refused to place his wife down for fear he might not have the strength to gather her to him again.

  “Shush, Sweetheart. I am here.” With his back against the tree for support, Darcy managed to lift Elizabeth higher in his arms.

  “Alive,” she whispered.

  “Yes, my Lizzy. We are both alive, and soon we will be at Woodvine. You and I are meant to be together.” He kissed her hair where it draped across his shoulder. Reinvigorated by her two simple words, Darcy started again on his journey. “Just a few steps, Darling.”

  However, the crack of a crushed branch told him they were no longer alone. Darcy turned slowly in a circle, attempting to discover what or who watched them. His eyes fell on movement behind a low-lying bush. “Whoever is there, show yourself,” he challenged. The gun rested against his waist, but without ammunition, it was useless.

  Sweat poured into his eyes and exhaustion burned his chest, but Darcy stood strong. As he blinked away the darkness, time crawled. Finally, a familiar figure pushed through the vegetation to step into the clearing. Darcy’s breath caught in his throat. “My God, Stowbridge, you frightened me,” he expelled in relief. “I have never been so happy to see anyone in my life.”

  “Where is Areej?” the magistrate demanded.

  “Areej?” A grimace crossed Darcy’s countenance. “I do not understand.”

  “Mrs. Ridgeway. Areej. My wife.”

  Chapter 25

  “Your wife?” Disbelief clouded Darcy’s words. His heart faltered with false hope. “When did you make the woman your wife?” he demanded. “There has been no reading of the banns while I have resided in Dorset. How can it be?”

  The magistrate stepped to where he might have the advantage. Stowbridge smiled with condescension. “Actually, I married Areej some thirty years ago. It was only with your cousin’s offer of a position within his household that we were reunited. In fact, my Areej spent some ten months under Samuel’s roof before I discovered her again.”

  Darcy adjusted Elizabeth in his hold. He no longer possessed feeling in his arms and shoulders. Even his wounds had ceased their throbbing. “You are a country gentleman. Your wife...Mrs. Stowbridge spoke of a forced marriage.”

  For a brief second the magistrate tossed him a confused glance, but then Stowbridge laughed sarcastically. “Has my dear Areej told the old tale of a vagrant and a pound of gold? My wife does love to twist the truth. It gives her a reason to blame her trials upon others.”

  Darcy staggered as he shifted his weight. He did not think he could carry Elizabeth much farther.

  As if he read Darcy’s mind, the magistrate said, “Place Mrs. Darcy on the ground, and come with me.”

  “I will not abandon my wife,” Darcy declared boldly.

  The magistrate scowled, as if he were uncertain whether Darcy spoke the truth. “Under the current circumstances, the choice does not rest in your hands. Carefully place Mrs. Darcy where she might rest easily. I assume Mrs. Stowbridge has used her ‘healing’ powders for evil. You will learn, Darcy, that the longer you know Areej, the more you will swear never to trust her.”

  “That is an easy assumption,” Darcy hissed. Unable to support Elizabeth’s weight any longer, he reluctantly ben
t to place his wife gently on a grassy patch. As he adjusted his coat about her, he managed to palm the small pistol he kept in his inside pocket. Hiding it in the fullness of his shirtsleeve, Darcy rose to face the magistrate. “What I do not understand, Stowbridge, is why you would wish to claim a woman whom you willingly admit breathes deceit.”

  The man smiled wistfully. “I have held a tender spot for my darling Areej since I first laid eyes upon her. My wife reminds me of a horse of fine lineage, but one which possesses a wild streak. The lady wishes to roam free with the rest of the herd rather than enjoy the luxury of a clean stall and plenty of oats.” The magistrate’s posture indicated a loss of any amiability. “You will accompany me to the house, Mr. Darcy,” Stowbridge said darkly.

  “And if I refuse?”

  The magistrate’s chest puffed out in self-importance. “Then I will be persuaded to shoot you where you stand.”

  The detachment with which Stowbridge pronounced the words was in sharp contrast to his earlier demeanor. The difference played to the building dread which Darcy fought hard to control. A quick glance at his wife in repose permitted Darcy to acquiesce. He turned his feet toward the cottage’s still-open door. “What do you hope to accomplish?” he asked carefully.

  Stowbridge trailed some five feet behind him. “I will rescue Areej from whatever torment you have wreaked upon her being, then I will devise a means to rid myself of your interference in Wimborne affairs.”

  Darcy paused briefly. “I would gladly fade from your memory if you will permit me to remove Mrs. Darcy to safety.”

  Stowbridge drew in air sharply. “If I could but trust you, Mr. Darcy, both of our lives would turn for the better; yet, I am aware of your honor. It is the salt of your soul, and you could no more look away from what has occurred here than you could to stop yourself from loving Mrs. Darcy.”

  Darcy declared, “Surely a man who speaks kindly of a woman who has left him alone for more than twenty years should understand. For my wife, I would do the impossible.”

  “And I would do likewise for mine,” Stowbridge baldly responded. He gestured with the gun for Darcy to precede him into the cottage.

  The housekeeper looked up upon their entrance. Darcy noticed that she had managed to manipulate her position on the chair to where her arm hung over the back, and her tied wrists were contorted painfully. “It is kind of you to make an appearance, Loiza,” the lady said sarcastically.

  Despite his wife’s testy attitude, Stowbridge smiled kindly. “If you expected me to rescue you, my dear, then you should have informed me of your whereabouts.” He motioned Darcy to step aside so he might kneel at the lady’s side. “Do not move, my darling,” he said as he used a small knife he had retrieved from his pocket to cut away what remained of the frayed muslin strips.

  “I have asked for no endearments.” Her voice held more irritation than Darcy thought necessary. She rubbed away the pain where the material had left red welts on her skin.

  “Then who would speak the truth, mí amor?” he asked softly.

  Heaven forbid! Darcy thought. The squire truly held an affection for his wife. The thought of loving such a woman sent shivers down Darcy’s spine. He did not know whether to pity Stowbridge or to fear him. The man’s blindness to Mrs. Stowbridge’s true nature made the squire a dangerous foe.

  Surprisingly, the housekeeper’s countenance softened. “You are an excellent man, Loiza,” she murmured, “but I refuse to permit you to own my soul.”

  Stowbridge stiffened. He stood quickly to glare down at his wife. “No, I suppose not,” he said coldly. “The only one you ever allowed to know that part of you was that bastard Merripen, the one to whom you bore two sons. My sons, Areej,” he hissed. “You presented your lover with my rightful children!” His accusations stung Darcy’s compassion, but Mrs. Stowbridge appeared unmoved. The lady’s countenance showed no signs that she had behaved in a shameful manner.

  “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 y
our 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.