The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy

by Regina Jeffers

  “Where to?” Darcy had asked sarcastically. Elizabeth wished he would look her way so her husband would know that she would follow him anywhere, but Darcy’s attention remained on the woman with the gun.

  In the fading light, Elizabeth noted the smile of satisfaction, which crossed the housekeeper’s lips. The woman meant to kill Darcy, and it would be Elizabeth’s responsibility to stop her. “To my favorite place in Wimborne: the village church.” The woman, who had created havoc in their lives, walked away into the night. Unfortunately for Elizabeth, Darcy followed.

  Determined to reach him in time, Elizabeth forced her feet forward. One step at a time. Her dear husband had said those words when he had carried her to safety. “I will follow you, my husband.”

  Unfortunately, she had taken no more than a half dozen steps before her vision swirled with an array of colors, and the ground rose up to slap her hard across her cheek.

  “My God!” Edward gasped as he slid to the ground. He threw his reins at Holbrook as he rushed to Elizabeth’s side. He rolled her gently to her back. “Elizabeth!” he pleaded. He slapped her cheeks, but his cousin’s wife did not awaken.

  “Here.” Cowan shoved a small leather flask filled with water into Edward’s hand.

  The colonel fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wet it. The excess water formed a muddy outline along Elizabeth’s shoulder, but Edward ignored the dirty smudge on Darcy’s jacket, which was wrapped tightly about Elizabeth’s frame. Instead, he wiped her face over and over. “Please, Elizabeth,” Edward spoke with urgency. “I require your assistance to locate Darcy.”

  Somehow his cousin’s name reached through her unconscious state, for the lady’s lids slowly opened. Edward felt instant relief. He knew Darcy’s temperament. If Edward managed to save Darcy, but not Elizabeth, his cousin would not be long for this world.

  “Colonel.” Her lips formed the word, but no sound escaped.

  Edward placed the handkerchief to her lips. “Suck the water from this.” At first, Elizabeth meant to shove his hand away, but Edward insisted, and she finally succumbed to his strength. “That is better.” He handed the cloth to Cowan. “A bit more water, if you please, Thomas.” Never once did Edward remove his eyes from Elizabeth’s countenance. Someone had struck her, for a bruise was prominent even in the moonlit shadows. “Once more,” he encouraged when the Runner returned the cloth. “Allow the water to trickle down your throat.”

  Finally, he lifted her to a reclining position. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Immediately, Elizabeth clawed at Edward’s hand. “Fitz...will...iam,” she whined.

  “Is my cousin alive?” He motioned Cowan toward the cottage.

  Elizabeth slumped against his shoulder. “No idea,” she whispered on a rasp. “Was shot.”

  “I know,” Edward saved her from straining her voice. “We caught Stowbridge. The magistrate told us where to find you. Did Darcy leave with Mrs. Stowbridge?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened in shock. “Mrs. Ridge...way?”

  “Yes. The housekeeper is the magistrate’s wife of some thirty years. Stowbridge is a former Aragonese baron.”

  Elizabeth shook her head in denial or disbelief. Edward was uncertain which—perhaps a bit of both. “She has...a gun.” His cousin’s wife shoved herself to a fully seated position. “Must stop her,” Elizabeth insisted. Despite Edward’s best efforts to restrain her, Elizabeth struggled to stand.

  “I mean to do just that.” He supported Elizabeth to her feet. “But first I will see you on your way to Woodvine and Hannah’s tender care.”

  Elizabeth caught his arm in a surprisingly tight grip. “No,” she said adamantly. “I will travel with you.”

  “You are too weak,” Edward argued. “And it is too dangerous.”

  Although her voice lacked its usual soprano tones, Elizabeth spoke with force. “If you ferry me against my will to Woodvine... I shall trail after you.”

  Edward had never met a woman like his cousin’s wife. Elizabeth Darcy had a spirit which surpassed words. If he could find such a woman, Edward would marry her in a heartbeat—fortune or no. He caught her chin where he might see her features clearly. “If we encounter difficulties, you must promise to remain out of danger and to allow Cowan and me to rescue Darcy.” She bit her bottom lip as if to argue, but Edward tipped Elizabeth’s chin higher. “I mean what I say, Mrs. Darcy. Either you act responsibly or I leave you behind; locked in your room, if necessary.”

  She shifted her shoulders to a defiant slant before saying, “There is not a servant at Woodvine who would dare lock Mr. Darcy’s wife in her room. And even if they would resist my protests, I would find a means of escape.” She smiled in challenge. “However, as it would expedite Mr. Darcy’s liberation if I acquiesce, I shall follow your instructions, Colonel.”

  At that moment, Edward regretted the fact he had never stolen a kiss from the former Elizabeth Bennet. Only her lack of fortune had kept him from acting upon his initial attraction to the woman. Her fortune and Darcy’s obvious infatuation with Elizabeth Bennet, he thought. Would that not have been a jump into the hornet’s nest? Edward would have lost his cousin’s friendship if Miss Elizabeth had chosen him over Darcy. Or worse, his wife would have belatedly discovered how much she respected Fitzwilliam Darcy. Then they would all have spent a lifetime of misery, each knowing unrequited love.

  “Good. You will ride with me.” He caught Elizabeth up in his arms and carried her to the waiting horse. Edward set her upon the saddle before turning to the approaching Runner. “Anything?”

  “Signs of a struggle. Some powdery mixture on the table. Found this small gun under the bed.” He extended his hand to the colonel. “The cottage will require a thorough cleaning, but no sign of where the housekeeper has taken Mr. Darcy. We should set our steps for...”

  “The assembly hall.”

  “The village church,” Cowan and Elizabeth said concurrently.

  Edward turned curiously to his cousin’s wife. “What makes you believe the housekeeper would take Darcy to the church?”

  “I overheard her. Mrs. Ridge...I mean, Mrs. Stowbridge, said she meant to see Fitzwilliam to her favorite place in the area: the village church.”

  “Are you certain?” Cowan asked from a respectful distance. “The powder on the table tasted of opium.”

  Elizabeth’s small hands fisted in her lap, and Edward found it amusing that the strapping Thomas Cowan took another step backward. “It is true...that the housekeeper covered my mouth and nose...with an intoxicating mixture, but that was early this morning. Am I prepared to climb Derbyshire’s peaks? No. But did I hear Mrs. Stowbridge’s response to my husband’s question? Definitely. The woman said that she meant to travel to the village church.”

  Edward ventured, “Yet, the magistrate has assured us he was to meet his wife at the assembly hall.”

  Elizabeth grasped the saddle horn with a tight grip, which spoke of her anger. “Mr. Stowbridge means to make it easier for his wife to escape, or the magistrate deludes himself into thinking the woman means finally to remain true to her vows.”

  She meant to slide to the ground, but Edward caught her and pointedly returned Elizabeth to the seat. “Holbrook and I will escort Mrs. Darcy to the church to ease my cousin’s concern for her husband. Cowan, you are to ride for the assembly hall. Whichever of us finds his search fruitless will join the other.”

  Cowan nodded curtly. “Be safe, Colonel.” The investigator strode toward the waiting horse.

  Edward knew enough of the man to realize Cowan thought Edward had allowed a mere woman to manipulate him. However, the colonel had witnessed the connection between Darcy and his wife. If Elizabeth was convinced that Darcy was at Wimborne church, he would follow her instincts. “And you, Cowan. No heroics,” Edward cautioned.

  Cowan smiled knowingly. “I leave those to the commanding officers, Sir.”

  Chapter 27

  Darcy had initially wondered if he would make it to t
he church or not, but if today was his day to die, doing so in a church would be an appropriate statement to the world. He wished he had kept the small pistol to use against Mrs. Stowbridge, but Darcy knew he was not of the nature to kill someone in sangfroid. And even if he could manage to overpower the woman, his fever and his pain told Darcy he would likely not see the light of a new day.

  “We will rest,” the woman announced. She seated herself on the stump leading to the back of the church.

  Darcy frowned. He had hoped to lie upon one of the wooden benches or even the floor of the private pews. “Do you hold a reluctance against crossing over the church’s threshold?” He leaned over at the waist. His exhaustion screamed for him to lie upon the cold earth, but as their position looked out over the church’s cemetery, Darcy ignored the impulse.

  The woman glanced behind her to the small stained-glass window. She said, “God turned his back on me the day I walked away from Loiza. It seemed heretical to seek sanctuary in God’s house.” She patted the cold brink. “Come sit. We have some time before Mr. Stowbridge returns.”

  Reluctantly, Darcy stumbled forward. Catching the brick wall, he lowered his weight upon the cool stone step. Instinctively, Darcy sighed audibly. He leaned against the step above and closed his eyes to the world. He heard her moving about, but Darcy was too exhausted to care for the woman’s manipulations.

  “Here.” Mrs. Stowbridge shoved a jar containing some sort of liquid into his hand.

  Darcy lifted the jar to examine it in the moonlight. “Whence did this come?”

  “From under the steps. I keep a few essentials hidden about the grounds. No one steals from the church,” she said in explanation. Mrs. Stowbridge sounded almost normal, and Darcy considered himself quite delusional for even thinking of trusting the woman who had caused him so much grief.

  “What else might be in your secret cache?” he asked as he set the jar on the step beside him.

  The woman glared at the unopened jar, but she made no reference to it. “Dry clothes hidden under the floorboards of the alcove, along with a box of coins I earned in America. Some day, I shall return to my homeland and claim my heritage.” She drank from the glass jar she held.

  Darcy watched her quench her thirst. He would love to wash away the dry film coating his tongue, but he could not afford to relax his guard. The lady was too eager for him to partake of her offering. “Would not Stowbridge have aided your ambitions? The magistrate appears to hold you in affection.”

  A long silence followed. Finally, she said, “Loiza deserved better than he received in our joining. My husband entered our marriage with the intention to make us both comfortable, but I was too young to see anything beyond the heat of desire. By the time I matured enough to appreciate Loiza’s steady regard, I could not turn from the course I had chosen.”

  Darcy no longer knew what to think of Areej Stowbridge. The woman exuded evil, but there was an air of vulnerability about her. “How long must we wait?” he asked cautiously.

  “I suspect another hour, maybe two.”

  “Do you not fear discovery?” It seemed only reasonable that a speedy retreat would be in order.

  Mrs. Stowbridge chuckled. “Few are comfortable in such close proximity to a church’s cemetery at night. Mr. Williamson goes home to his small cottage, and the church remains unused for a large portion of each day.” Darcy had never considered the truth of what the woman said. A church always appeared an integral part of a community. “Along with Mrs. Holbrook’s cottage, the church yard is one of the few places I claim as my own when I require solitude.”

  Darcy permitted the conversation to dwindle. What was there to say: Soon the Stowbridges would either kill him, or he would be the victor. He stared off over the lawn marking the entrance to the village cemetery. It was serene in its own way, composed and inviting. Darcy would enjoy the opportunity to explore the gravesites in the daylight—not because he feared being alone with the dead, but because he found reading gravestones an amusing pastime. Some stones simply announced the person’s name and the dates marking the deceased’s lifespan. Others were more prophetic epitaphs: A Good Life Is Rather to Be Chosen Than Great Riches; Be Kind to the Old, They Are Not Long with Us; and Sunshine Fades and Shadows Fall But Love and Memories Outlast All.

  When he had read these words on the stones in a Lincolnshire cemetery shortly after calling upon the family of yet another of his father’s boyhood friends to pay the Darcys’ respects, Darcy had considered his short life and what he had wanted his own marker to say of him. Naturally, his first thoughts were to choose an appropriate verse that would reflect his life, but Darcy quickly rejected such superficial sentiment. Instead, he had chosen something simpler: Fitzwilliam Darcy ~ Son ~ Brother ~ Husband ~ Father ~ Master of Pemberley.

  Only one of those appellations remained unfulfilled, and Darcy sadly realized he might never look upon the angelic countenances of his children. The thought brought a deep sadness, so he closed his eyes to summon forth Elizabeth’s image. He prayed that someone had discovered her or that his wife had managed to make her way to safety on her own. If so, anything he suffered would be worthwhile.

  “You are early,” the woman’s voice broke the silence.

  Expecting to see Stowbridge, Darcy opened his eyes to find another familiar face.

  “You said nine of the clock,” Merrick Gaylord said without emotion. “Did all go as you planned?”

  Mrs. Stowbridge stood on the highest level of the stump. “Everything except the fact that Loiza discovered me at the cottage before I could finish with Mrs. Darcy. My husband expects me to meet him at the assembly hall.”

  “The man has never truly understood you, Areej.” It had not slipped Darcy’s notice that Gaylord held an unusual-looking gun pointed at Darcy’s chest. He automatically thought of the gun his cousin had described when the gelding had died. Had he accused the gypsy band in error?

  Darcy was careful to make no rash moves. He knew little of Gaylord’s personality, other than to know from the beginning that he did not trust the man. Obviously, his instincts had been accurate.

  “Is there enough in the box for us to leave?” Gaylord asked as he watched Darcy carefully.

  The woman descended slowly. “The money is no longer relevant,” she announced. “Within hours, all lanes of escape will be closed to us.” She stopped beside where Darcy remained seated upon one of the lower steps. “Drink the water, Mr. Darcy,” she instructed.

  “What happens if I refuse?” Darcy asked suspiciously.

  The woman snorted her contempt. “You will die. Your only chance to survive this ordeal is to drink the water and hope your friends discover you in time to save you.”

  He shook his head in denial. “I think I would prefer to have Mr. Gaylord shoot me. A substantial portion of arsenic would bring me a long, agonizing death. I choose the quicker method.”

  An ironic laugh filled the air. “Who says the water contains arsenic?” Mrs. Stowbridge picked up the jar, removed the cork, and thrust it under Darcy’s nose. “Do you smell arsenic, Mr. Darcy?”

  Despite his best efforts to remain unaffected by the woman’s taunt, Darcy sniffed at the jar’s opening. He had expected no odor and found none, but his action had proved his fear to the satisfaction of Mrs. Stowbridge. “I refuse the offer just the same,” he said without emotion.

  Mrs. Stowbridge knelt beside him. She touched the jar’s lip to his. The woman whispered bitterly. “We could bind you and pour the liquid down your throat, Mr. Darcy.”

  “You could,” he responded matter-of-factly. A brittle silence descended.

  The woman smiled wickedly. “Permit me to explain the situation so you might comprehend the extent of your choice. If you choose not to comply, I will send Gaylord to the cottage. He will kill Mrs. Darcy before your wife can recover from the opiate you administered to her. Of course, he will enjoy himself with Mrs. Darcy prior to seeing your wife to her grave.” Darcy’s gut twisted with the woman’s direc
t threat.

  His mind raced. What was the possibility that Elizabeth had found her escape? Could his wife remain unconscious upon the undressed mattress? Could they both lose their lives on the same day? Could he knowingly permit his wife to be exposed to danger? Yet, if he drank the arsenic, Darcy would hold no hope of escaping this quandary.

  “As you wish, Mr. Darcy.” The woman had taken his indecision as a refusal. She stood to address her accomplice. “Mrs. Darcy is not to leave the cottage,” she ordered. “And Merrick,” she added, “when the lady protests, inform Mrs. Darcy that her torment is courtesy of her husband’s cowardice.”

  The steward nodded his understanding. He strode toward his waiting horse. Darcy’s heart clenched with panic. “Wait!” he yelled. To Mrs. Stowbridge, he asked, “How do I know you will not execute your threat after I drink the poison?”

  “You do not,” she said coldly. “You must pray that your friends will pursue us before Mr. Gaylord can act. Or you must trust my word when I say I hold no desire to see Mrs. Darcy suffer on your behalf.”

  With a hand which trembled despite his best efforts, Darcy reached for the dark, irregularly shaped jar. He closed his eyes to murmur a simple prayer, asking God to protect Elizabeth and Georgiana and his tenants at Pemberley. He thanked his Maker for his many blessings. With a throat-clearing swallow, Darcy pressed the jar to his lips, tilted it to release the liquid, and drank deeply of the mixture.

  The ride to the village church had taken longer than Edward Fitzwilliam would have liked, but it was more important to have Elizabeth Darcy arrive in one piece than to know speed. In the beginning, Edward held her loosely before him, but when Elizabeth had slipped for the third time, the colonel had placed her tightly in his embrace.

  Despite the innocent way Darcy’s wife trustingly wrapped her arms about Edward’s waist, his thoughts drifted to the sweet smell of lavender in her hair and the warmth of Elizabeth Darcy’s frame along his chest. He was uncomfortably aware of his treacherous thoughts. It had been months since he had known a woman intimately and a lifetime since he had felt this “clean.” At times, Edward could smell the stench of death emanating from his pores. He had experienced death and dying and fear for nearly a decade, and Edward was sorely tired of feeling Death’s arm about his shoulder. This moment of normalcy had been his long-time dream: one where he embraced a woman he held in such high regard as he did Elizabeth Darcy.