The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery

by Regina Jeffers

  Her mouth twisted into a frown. “I recall a different room, and I remember your presenting me with a fresh gown.”

  “And that be all ye remember?” The woman asked curiously. “Nothin’ of yer home? Yer family befoe ye came to Normanna Hall?”

  The lines of the girl’s forehead met. A figure stroking her hair softly fluttered at the edges of her memory. And another of water sucking the air from her lungs. Tentatively, she said, “Only what I have previously said.” She would not speak more of the comfort the figure had given her until she knew what she faced in this house.

  The woman shot a quick glance at her son. Soothing the hair from her face, she told the girl, “The room must ’ave been the sickroom. Ye be lost on the moor for some time and be in despair. We not be knowin’ if’n ye wud live. The family be thankin’ the gods for yer recovery.”

  She stared at the woman who tenderly stroked her arm; nothing of what this woman said rang true; yet, she could not dispute the obvious. She had suffered, and she was a stranger at Normanna Hall. “May I know your name?”

  “Dolina MacBethan. Me late husband, may he rest in peace, and now me son be Wotherspoon.”

  “Dost thou raise sheep?” The girl inquisitively asked before she could resist the urge to know more of her surroundings.

  The woman pointedly dropped her hand. “The family surname comes from those who tend the sheep. It be an honest trade. Although our fortunes are now tied to Galloway cattle. The land be not so fit for farmin’.”

  The girl shoved herself to her elbows. “I meant no offense.” The woman’s tone reminded her that she would need to guard her impulsive tongue.

  As she watched, her hostess purposely smiled. Yet, the gesture did not appear genuine. “Of course, ye not be offering an offense. Ye be part of the family. Or very near to being so.”

  Suspicion returned, but the girl schooled her tone. “I am a part of the MacBethan family? When did that happy event occur?”

  “It not be official.” The woman straightened her shoulders. “Ye have accepted Aulay’s plight, and we planned a joinin’ in a week or so. As soon as ye be regainin’ yer strength.”

  “I am to marry Aulay?” she said incredulously. “How can that be? Until a few hours ago, I held no memory of your son. He is a stranger to me.”

  Dolina turned quickly toward the door; she shooed her son from the room. “I be givin’ ye time to remember yer promise to this family, Lady Esme, and yer lack of gratitude for our takin’ ye to our bosom.”

  “Lady Esme?” The girl called after her. “Is that my name?”

  The woman turned to level a steady gaze on her. “Of course, it be yer name. Ye be Lady Esme Lockhart, and ye be Aulay’s betrothed.”

  “Mam?” Aulay whispered in concern once they were well removed from the closed doorway. “Wot have ye done? She not be Lady Esme Lockhart.” He gestured toward the room where they detained the girl. “She no more be Lady Esme than I be Domhnall.”

  Dolina shushed his protest. “Didnae ye hear the gel? She cannae remember her own name. We kin create the perfect mate fer ye. Do ye not comprehend? I knows ye be slow, but it must be as plain as the lines on me face. She cannae rescind her agreement without jist cause. It not be the ’onorable thing to do. Besides, when the gel recalls the bairn she carries, then she’ll be glad to ’ave a man who’ll accept another’s child.”

  “But we be tellin’ her the truth?” he insisted. “We tell the gel of’er real family?”

  His mother rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Certainly, we’ll tell the gel of ’er roots. But for now, she be Lady Esme.”

  Unsure of his destination, he had raced from the scene. He had taken what he had thought to be a clear shot, but the clergyman had swung into his sights just as he had squeezed the trigger. When Darcy had charged his position, Wickham had gloried in the possibilities. For years, he and Darcy had fenced their way through life, each besting the other to infinitesimal degrees. Although he had not anticipated a close-quarters confrontation with the man he had despised for his entire life, he had welcomed the opportunity to bury his fist in Darcy’s perfect countenance.

  “Despite the officious prognostications, we were evenly matched as youths,” he told himself. “But he would rue the day he paid for my commission. While the great Fitzwilliam Darcy leads the easy life of a country gentleman, I train for war. While Darcy dines on the best of Pemberley’s fare, I make do with the less-than-stellar efforts of Mrs. Wickham. I would hold the advantage in such a battle.”

  Realizing that Darcy had not given chase, Wickham pulled up on his horse’s reins. Looking behind him once more for security, he drew in a deep breath. “It is not likely that Darcy did not recognize me,” he reasoned. “And as the man has never felt the wine of common decency towards me, he will not rest until he sees me on the gallows.” He dismounted and walked his horse to permit the heavily lathered animal to cool. “I may be required to appreciate Mrs. Wickham’s presence, after all. In such a case, Mrs. Darcy would likely intercede with her husband in behalf of her sister. I will keep Lydia in mind if I have no other options. ”

  He led the horse to a secluded copse where he found a place to rest his saddle-beaten body. “Where should I go from here?” he wondered aloud. “I should return to my duty post, but sitting and waiting for Darcy’s accusations is not in my nature.” He watched the road from his hiding place. “What will Darcy do next, and how much time do I likely have before he comes searching for me?”

  Wickham carefully considered both questions. Quickly, he deduced that Darcy must first tend to the clergyman. “If I killed the man…” Wickham shivered from the possibility. He really had not wanted to kill Darcy, and especially not an innocent. All he had wanted was to inflict pain on Darcy—to make his old foe suffer—to wound the man’s perfection.

  “If I killed Darcy’s traveling companion,” he forced himself to think only of the immediate crisis, “Darcy will have to arrange for the man’s funeral and the return of the clergyman’s remains. That will delay Pemberley’s master from leading a search. It gives me time to escape.” With a deep breath, he settled his nerves. “Even if the man is simply wounded, Darcy will feel obligated to tend to his friend’s recovery.” It hurt Wickham to think of Darcy having developed a friendship with the young minister. He had once claimed that position in Darcy’s life, but his own jealousies and the foolhardiness of his father’s shortcomings had doomed Wickham from the start. “I could have a week or so to make my retreat,” he reasoned.

  He found the flask he had stored in his inside pocket and took a restoring draught of the liquid. “I require funds,” he said as he wiped his mouth on the back of his glove. “More than I could get from a penny card game. But whence?” Wickham returned his gaze to the empty road. “Darcy,” he grumbled. “You remain the bane of my existence.” Silently, he sipped on the warm liquid as he contemplated his options. “If you are the crux of my problems, you should also be my redemption,” he told the silence. Striding toward the waiting horse, he made an impetuous decision. “Alpin Hall and the lovely Mrs. Fitzwilliam await. The lady is expecting a husband, and I am willing to serve in the Major General’s stead. Plus, there is plenty of silver and riches to support my urgency for funds. Even if Georgiana drives me from the property, I can make my presence felt in the night’s secrecy. I can be in and out of the estate before Darcy turns north.” Hurtling into the horse’s saddle, Wickham turned the animal toward the northern shires. “Let us see what Darcy’s family has to offer a weary traveler.”

  “I need a surgeon,” Darcy shouted as he rode into the inn yard. Matthew Joseph slumped heavily against his aching arms, but Darcy had refused to relinquish the man’s care to a country simpleton. He had purposely ridden toward Dumfries because the Scottish town was large enough to host several competent physicians.

  “What be the trouble?” A gruff-voiced hostler demanded.

  Darcy eased Joseph’s body forward. “We were attacked by a highwayman,” h
e growled. Several others rushed forward to catch the horse and to lift Joseph’s limp form from Darcy’s grasp. “I require a room, and send someone for a surgeon. My traveling companion has been shot.”

  Motioning for a stable hand to fetch medical care and for the men to carry Joseph inside, the same hostler said, “Who might ye be?”

  “A man with a full purse,” Darcy snapped. “Now, get out of my way.” He shoved the man from his path and followed the men carrying the silent Matthew Joseph into the inn.

  Not certain whether her experience had been a dream or reality, Georgiana eyed the woman whose features remained undefined. Should she trust the woman or not? Unfortunately, despite her qualms, she had accepted her need for the lady’s assistance. “My leg,” she moaned through dry lips.

  “Has received the best medical treatment this cottage can provide,” the lady answered. “You shall not be comfortable, but you shall survive the inconvenience.”

  Georgiana forced a deep breath into her lungs. She smelled clean mountain air and smoke-hampered fireplaces. “Shall I not starve to death before someone finds me?”

  “Would I permit you to die?” the woman said saucily. “Have I not always seen to your safety?”

  Georgiana shook her head to clear her thinking. “Have you always been my guardian angel?”

  “Some would say so,” the figure said enigmatically. “Yours and your brother’s. Yet, I have not always possessed angelic qualities. I hold the reputation of being quite devilish in my stubbornness and my need for adventure.”

  Georgiana struggled to bring the woman into focus. No matter how far she turned her head, the lady rested at her vision’s edge. “Did you mention food?” she forced the words from her memory.

  The figure came closer; yet, she remained misted in Georgiana’s vision lines. “There is a water bucket on the hearth with a cup sitting beside it, and there are some dried apples, prepared meats, and a few hard biscuits in the cold room.”

  “Not my usual fare,” Georgiana murmured, “but I would appreciate anything you might bring me.” Despite her hunger, sleep pulled heavily at her eyelids.

  The woman chuckled lightly. It was a soft rumbling noise that spoke of home and a blazing fireplace and the scent of lavender filling the room. “As much as I would wish to deliver the most luscious meal to your lips, I fear I could not offer you a disservice by cheating you of the pleasure of designing your own rescue.”

  Georgiana’s eyes sprung open. “But I cannot,” she protested.

  “Georgiana, I have told you repeatedly that you are a magnificent creature. I have whispered those words in your ear. You must have heard them. You wanted your independence when you married Edward. You wanted your own home. To be your own woman. An independent lady would not expect me to act as her servant. She would fight for her own continued existence. What say you, Georgiana? What price shall you pay to know your freedom?”

  He had sent a rider to both Matlock and Pemberley. Although he had left specific orders for Lieutenant Conrad to correct the military’s mistake, Edward had not trusted those in command to act judiciously. “Too easy for my request to be placed at the bottom of the stack. Too many crowing over military victories to see to the mundane details of a man’s life.” He had considered riding to Pemberley just to assuage his need to see to Georgiana’s safety within its walls. Yet, his heart knew what his mind thought impossible. She was in Scotland, and some nagging lurch in his chest told him that she was in trouble. “Georgie, Darling,” he whispered to the night skies. “Hold on. Whatever it is, stay with me. I cannot imagine my future without you.”

  “Lady Esme,” Aulay MacBethan said as he bowed. “May I join you?”

  She certainly did not wish to share her private time with the young man, but in the woman’s absence, she had decided that she required more information regarding her surroundings. “What better way than to ask those involved?” her heart had told her mind. In her dreams, someone, likely the woman called Dolina, had dressed her injuries and had brought her a simple fare. The girl was not certain which part of her dreams were real and which were part of her imagination. She was relatively certain that the woman had fed her hard bread with butter, but the specifics of her recovery remained a blurred memory. It was odd that she could recall some events in minute details and others suffered from her recent injury. Or perhaps, it was from her confinement. One thing was an absolute: Aulay MacBethan was not her betrothed. His clumsy, haphazard appearance would never have attracted her. She preferred her men taller and fairer of complexion. MacBethan still possessed those boyish features of a man who had not yet reached his majority. “That would be acceptable as long as the door remains open.” She made herself smile at him.

  “I thought we might play cards or chess,” he offered as he took a step closer.

  “Chess,” she said softly and motioned to the room’s small table.

  He turned and said something to the waiting servant before returning his attention to her. “I be grieved that ye be hurt, m’lady.” Aulay reached out a steadying hand, and the girl reluctantly accepted it. Her vision spun as she shook her head to clear it, and her ankle remained tender.

  “Perhaps, you might assist me in recovering my memory.” Although her insides screamed for her retreat, the girl maintained a pleasant tone.

  Aulay appeared as nervous as she. He shifted his weight several times. “That wudnae do. Mam be not likin’ my rattlin’ on.”

  “Surely, if we are to marry,” she said evenly, “you are permitted to share such intimacies. I would hope that you wish me well, Sir.”

  Aulay frowned dramatically. “I be prayin’ fer yer recovery, Lady Esme.”

  “Could you, at least, tell me why I was found by your men? Was I lost? Please allay my fears: certainly I had not run away?”

  “Agin, Lady Esme, me Mam knows these events better than I.” He nervously knocked over the chess pieces the servant placed on the table.

  The girl’s mouth tightened in exasperation, but she controlled the flash of anger. “There must be something of which we are permitted to speak.” She nonchalantly moved her pawn. “Might you tell me of your family? Do you have only the one brother? After all, as your intended, I should know the family that welcomes me as one of their own.”

  Caught in concentrating on the chessboard, Aulay’s defenses visibly relaxed. “I be the youngest of four. Only Mam, Domhnall, and I live at Normanna. Mam’s brother lives nearby. He be the village butcher. Lilias, me sister, lives in Knovdart. She’ll be a mother soon. Islav ’as taken over Mam’s family keep near Crieff.”

  “Your eldest brother has not taken a wife?” Although she wanted to press for Aulay’s cooperation, The girl purposely kept her tone conversational.

  “Domhnall’s wife passed,” he mumbled. Reflexively, the girl’s heart lurched with from an unknown grief. Too much death and not enough life, she thought.

  As he manipulated the chess pieces, Aulay appeared totally engrossed in the game. She casually, but deliberately made several miscalculations in her moves. Pretending to consider herself foolish, the girl said with a light chuckle, “I am a miserable partner.”

  “I be willin’ to show ye some of the strategy,” Aulay said without looking up from the board.

  She swallowed her first words. Instead, she listened to her inner voice, the one which said that she knew the game as well as any man, and the one which also warned her not to display her strengths to these people. The MacBethans expected her to be humble and weak, and that was what she would be. “That would be most pleasant. It would also give us time to learn more of one another.”

  Aulay nodded absentmindedly. As she watched him, her mind searched for the reason she had come to this sinister place. Lady Wotherspoon had said that she had been previously housed in a sickroom, but the girl could not shake the feeling that the woman had offered her a prevarication. Why would someone sick be shackled to the wall? Why would someone who suffered be kept in complete darkness? This w
hole situation does not make sense, and until it does, stay alert, she warned herself.

  “It will be several days before we know for certain,” the surgeon informed Darcy. “The bullet came out clean, and although your friend lost much blood, he is young and strong. As long as infection does not occur, the gentleman should make a full recovery.” The surgeon packed away his instruments.

  Darcy had appreciated finding an English surgeon at his disposal. “How do we prevent infection?”

  “Keep the wound clean. I will leave you several poultices for the laceration, as well as some laudanum for Mr. Joseph’s comfort.” He picked up his bag. “I shall examine your friend’s wound again tomorrow.”

  “Should I contact Mr. Joseph’s wife and sister?” Darcy dreaded informing Mary Joseph of her husband’s injury. It was his fault—his and the infernal feud he had maintained with George Wickham. Fault. The word lay heavy in his mind. His fault that an innocent man had come close to losing his life. Could still lose his life.

  The surgeon gestured to Joseph, resting under laudanum’s influence. “From what you have said it would take Mrs. Joseph two days or more to reach Dumfries, and that does not take into account your sending word to the lady. Would it speed the gentleman’s recovery to know his wife was close at hand or would he decide that his wound had challenged her sensibilities? I doubt that Mr. Joseph would want to place his wife in such distress, but if you think it prudent, then we can make that decision after Mr. Joseph has survived four and twenty hours. Those are usually the most perilous with gunshot wounds.”

  “Then I will wait. There is no reason to worry the lady if Mr. Joseph is on his way to recovery.” Yet, Darcy thought of Elizabeth and how having her near to him would ease his troubled soul. Surely, Matthew Joseph felt the same about Mary.