The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy

by Regina Jeffers

  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.”

  The magistrate’s features softened. “We will meet at the customary place.” With that, the squire pressed the gun into her hand before disappearing into the brush.

  “Where to?” Darcy asked sarcastically.

  In the fading light, he saw a smile of satisfaction shape the woman’s lips. “To my favorite place in Wimborne: the village church.”

  Chapter 26

  “I apologize, Colonel,” Ian McKye said for what must have been the twentieth time in the past hour. “I had thought I observed all the entrances and exits of Stowe Hall.”

  Edward Fitzwilliam did not blame the man. To date, McKye had proved a most valuable asset in the investigation, but the colonel’s frustration had reached its breaking point. He and Thomas Cowan had returned to Woodvine Hall to discover both Darcy and Elizabeth missing. “I understand,” Edward said evenly, “but I require more information. Question each of Stowbridge’s servants. I want answers.”

  “Aye, Sir.” The man disappeared into the bowels of Stowe Hall.

  Edward stared out the window of Stowbridge’s study on the rapidly encroaching shadows of nightfall. How was he to find his cousin and Elizabeth if he possessed no idea where to begin? “Damn,” the colonel growled. “Where are you, Darcy?”

  He and Cowan had just begun to make sense of Holbrook’s tale of Barriton’s stabbing Darcy and of Mrs. Darcy’s
early morning departure with Mrs. Ridgeway when McKye had ridden into Woodvine’s circle to report that both Mrs. Ridgeway and Mr. Stowbridge were missing from Stowe Hall. The magistrate and the housekeeper had slipped from the main house through a root cellar tunnel leading to the wooded area surrounding the house. Unfortunately, McKye had not discovered their exits in time to detain the couple. “Are they a couple?” Edward wondered aloud. “Or had the magistrate attempted to curtail Mrs. Ridgeway’s plans for Elizabeth?”

  Immediately, he and Cowan had rushed to the magistrate’s house to confirm what McKye had reported. They had taken over the squire’s home and demanded to know the truth.

  Edward looked up at the sound of hurried footsteps. McKye’s head appeared around the door’s frame. “Mr. Cowan reports that the squire has reentered the tunnel through the opening in the woods. Cowan has secured the exit against escape.”

  Immediately, Edward was on the move. “I want the man alive so I might question him.”

  McKye followed on the colonel’s heels. “I have Castle and Douglas waiting in the kitchen, Sir.”

  Edward took several steps together to skid to a stop on the threshold of the cellar’s door just as it opened to reveal the worn countenance of the magistrate. Behind him, the colonel heard the click of a gun. “Welcome, Stowbridge.”

  The magistrate shot a quick glance about the room. Edward had vast experience in reading a man’s countenance, but Stowbridge’s face held nothing but shock at finding himself prisoner in his own house. “What is the meaning of this?” the squire asked angrily. “You have entered my home uninvited.”

  “You will come with me,” Edward ordered.

  The man’s cheeks reddened. “I will not be importuned by your actions, Sir,” Stowbridge declared. “Instead, you and your men will leave my house immediately. Your status as an earl’s son will not serve you in this matter.”

  Edward caught the man by the lapels to jerk him to within an inch of the colonel’s scowling countenance. “Listen to me, Stowbridge, I am not a patient man. I want information regarding Mr. and Mrs. Darcy’s disappearances, and you will tell me what you know,” he hissed.

  The magistrate spit out the words. “And if I choose otherwise?”

  Edward smiled wickedly. “I hope you refuse,” he said flatly. “My ire has had several hours to stew, and I am prepared to introduce you to the more creative means I have learned of forcing a man to spill his most private secrets.”

  Evidently, Cowan had followed the squire through the tunnel, for he appeared behind the man. He whispered ominously, “In the Army, a man learns many ways to kill another. To kill him quickly or slowly. To feel no compunctions about laying a hot iron across a man’s chest until his enemy’s skin sizzles with the smell of burning flesh. Or to place that same iron upon a person’s manhood. To watch it shrivel to nothing; yet, the pain does not go away.”

  Edward added, “Or to cut a man over and over. Little pricks that permit him to bleed to death slowly. One drop at a time.” He tightened his grip on Stowbridge’s lapels. “As I said previously, I can be quite creative with my options.”

  For several elongated seconds, Stowbridge resisted, but his composure crumpled when Cowan placed a knife’s point above the squire’s kidneys. “Say the word, Colonel,” Cowan threatened.

  “What will it be, Stowbridge?” Edward asked coldly.

  The magistrate straightened his shoulders. “Not before the servants. In my study.”

  The colonel reluctantly released the man. “If you think to stall, you will regret your choice.” With a simple nod of agreement, Edward turned on his heels to lead the way to the room. Behind him, he heard Cowan giving orders for Castle to station himself outside the tunnel and Douglas inside. The former Runner placed McKye outside the study’s door and then joined Edward in the room with the magistrate.

  Upon reaching the room, Stowbridge sat heavily. He dropped his head into his hands. “What do you wish of me?” he asked dejectedly.

  “The truth.”

  The magistrate snorted his disbelief. “It has been some five and twenty years since I have spoken the truth. I am uncertain whether I would recognize it.”

  Edward sat across from the man. “Do you know the whereabouts of Mr. Darcy and his wife?” He would not permit the squire’s fallen countenance any compassion.

  The magistrate rested his head against the chair’s cushions. He squeezed his eyes closed, and Edward noted that the man’s hands trembled. “Mrs. Darcy is in a cottage on the border of Woodvine’s land,” he said in defeat. “It is the one Samuel promised to Sarah Holbrook.”

  Edward spoke to his former recruit. “Send McKye to the stable for the horses. Ask him to have Holbrook available to lead us to this cottage.”

  Cowan disappeared into the hall, but returned before Edward could ask his next question. “And my cousin?’

  “I am not certain,” the magistrate said without affect. “Mr. Darcy left with Areej. Your cousin has used his life as security for Mrs. Darcy’s.”

  “Areej?” Edward demanded. “Who the hell is Areej?”

  Stowbridge opened his eyes, but he did not look at the colonel. “My wife of a little less than three decades.”

  Edward did a poor job of hiding his surprise. “You are married?”

  Cowan finished Edward’s question. “To Mrs. Ridgeway?” As usual, the Runner’s quick mind had leapt over Edward’s to reach the crux of the situation.

  Stowbridge swallowed hard. “Yes to both questions. I am a man with a wife who has never loved nor respected him. A man whose wife preferred a simple vagrant with not a penny to his name to the life I could have provided her as my Baronesa.”

  “Who are you?” Edward demanded.

  The magistrate’s shoulders straightened and his chin lifted. “Barón Loiza Puente de Stowe.”

  “A Spanish baron?” Edward’s wary tone betrayed his surprise.

  “In truth, Aragonese.” Sadly, the man’s former stature returned. “Long ago, prior to more wars than I can recall, I left my country behind to seek freedom in your great land. For a quarter century, I have been Mr. Louis Stowbridge. I purchased this land’s connections, along with the manor house. For nearly twenty years, I have been Squire Stowbridge. Not as important as a baron, but quite satisfying nonetheless.”

  “And where has Mrs. Stowbridge resided?” Cowan coaxed.

  The squire turned his head in the Runner’s direction. “Areej despised being told that she could not marry as her heart chose. At her father’s insistence, we spoke our vows, but within a month of our joining, she was gone, off with her lover. I searched for my wife, but in 1779, the war came to Corunna, where I had taken up residence.” The colonel and Cowan exchanged a knowing look. They had experienced Corunna in ’09, and they knew northwest Spain well. It was a quirk of Fate that they had encountered a man from the infamous Spanish corridor here in Dorset. “The French brought scurvy and typhus and smallpox to the area while they waited for the Spanish fleet to arrive. The illnesses and the lack of a timely joining of their forces cost the French a victory. The disease spread to those on land, and, eventually, I fled with what remained of my family, first to Italy, and later to England.”

  “You have not answered my question,” Cowan observed.

  Stowbridge shrugged noncommittally. “I cannot speak to Areej’s early years. I worked to salvage my fortune. To tend my aging parents. I knew nothing of Areej until one day I called upon my dear friend Samuel, only to discover that my wife had served as Samuel’s housekeeper for some ten months. Ten months she could have lived as my wife, in my home.”

  Characteristically, the Runner ignored the magistrate’s sentimentality. Instead, he asked, “And you are to meet Mrs. Stowbridge where?”

  “At the customary place.”

  “Which is?” Cowan persisted.

  “In the assembly hall’s lowest level.”

  Edward thought that an odd rendezvous place, but before he could question Stowbridge fu
rther, a knock at the door signaled Mr. Holbrook’s arrival. “I have more questions, but I must see to Mrs. Darcy.” The colonel retrieved his gloves. “I will leave two guards with you.”

  Stowbridge raised his head to speak to the colonel. “Give Mrs. Darcy my deepest apologies.”

  “For what offense?” Edward insisted.

  The magistrate’s expression fell. “Areej had given Mrs. Darcy a heady mixture prior to my arrival. The lady suffers the degradation.”

  “And you call yourself a gentleman?” Edward accused.

  Stowbridge sighed deeply. “I call myself a husband.”

  Cowan said caustically, “A husband without a wife.”

  “My fate.” Those two words fell into the silence. Finally, the man’s chin dropped to rest on his chest. He said morosely, “If you discover my wife in time, tell Areej that I am grieved to have failed her the one time she trusted me.”

  Edward demanded, “What do you mean by in time?”

  The squire had closed his eyes again.

  “Speak to me, damn you.” The colonel shook the man violently.

  A tear ran down the magistrate’s wrinkled cheek. “Mr. Darcy is bleeding from both his shoulder and his side. He has lost much blood.”

  Elizabeth struggled to roll from the bed. Darcy had meant to protect her by drawing the magistrate and Mrs. Ridgeway from the cottage, but she would not permit her husband to leave her behind. He could not sacrifice himself to save her. Whatever happened to Darcy would be her fate also. She would not live without him.

  “Fitz...william.” Her lips formed his name as she reached for the chair to support her weight. She rubbed the back of her hand across her dry lips. The sweet taste of apples remained but was not as strong as previously.

  Through the still-open door, Elizabeth could see Darcy’s strong back muscles clench in pain as he trudged along the narrow path. Stowbridge had left them, but Mrs. Ridgeway now held the gun on Darcy. If she did not hurry, the pair would leave her in this cottage alone.

  Although her legs felt as limber as one of Mrs. Holbrook’s jellies, Elizabeth lunged for the door. She overheard Darcy and the housekeeper arguing over what to expect next. Supporting herself against the doorframe, Elizabeth listened with her complete self.