The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery

by Regina Jeffers

  “My brother, Lady Esme, cannot be taught to appreciate a woman. To Aulay, you are a diversion from his games of strategy, a respite that my mother has convinced him that he would enjoy. Yet, Aulay tires of everything but his chessboard. You deserve a man who would see you as someone he could worship.” He brought her hand to his lips. “Did your husband appreciate you, m’Lady?”

  Although she could not understand why she spoke so openly to this man, she confessed, “I have no memories of my husband. How shall I tell this child of his father?” Her fingers traced a small circle upon her lap. “Any details I am provided shall be slanted to Aulay’s benefit. Unless my memory returns, shall I ever know the absolute truth?”

  Domhnall placed her on his arm again. They stood, and he led her toward the ungroomed area beyond the gardens. “The truth may be unpleasant. Are you strong enough, Lady Esme, to learn both your secrets and mine?”

  “Lieutenant Wickham,” Elizabeth whispered into the room’s deadly silence. “Is it possible?”

  “I will kill him,” Darcy growled. “He has taken my sister’s disappearance and made it into one of his schemes to thwart this family.”

  “Mrs. Jacks,” Elizabeth said firmly. “How long was this ‘Mr. Hurlbert’ in residence at Alpin Hall?”

  “Less than two days, Mistress.” The woman’s hands visibly shook. “The gentleman seemed so familiar with the family. Knew of Lord Lindale’s happiness. Of how both you and the Major General were as boys.” She swayed in place. “I be horrified, Mr. Darcy. How cud I’ve permitted a stranger to defile the Fitzwilliam family? I be turning in me resignation immediately, Ma’am.” Tears streamed down the woman’s face.

  Elizabeth caught the housekeeper’s hand and assisted Mrs. Jacks to a seat. “That shall not be necessary, Mrs. Jacks. But we do require your assistance.” She shot a glance to her husband. Although she did not think herself in error, she said, “Fitzwilliam, we may be mistaken.” She had never witnessed Darcy so angry. “Might you describe Mr. Hurlbert for us, Ma’am?”

  Mrs. Jacks dabbed at her eyes. With a quivering lower lip, she said, “The man has a wonderful play of feature. He possessed a most gentlemanlike appearance. Mr. Hurlbert had a certain air. He wanted nothing to make him completely charming.” The lady swallowed hard. “His appearance was greatly in his favor; he had all the best part of beauty—a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address.” Elizabeth’s heart stilled. She had described Mr. Wickham in similar words when he had first come to Hertfordshire.

  Her eyes continued to meet her husband’s steady gaze. “Lieutenant Wickham,” he said the words with pure disgust.

  Elizabeth nodded her agreement. “Mrs. Jacks, you will assemble the staff. Mr. Darcy shall need to speak with each individual who interacted with this fictitious Mr. Hurlbert.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “I shall examine Mr. Hurlbert’s chambers, and I want you to inventory everything, especially the silver and other portable goods.”

  “Does ye think the gentleman stole from the estate?” The housekeeper appeared faint again.

  Darcy grumbled impatiently. “I will warrant it. I doubt Mr. Hurlbert will make another appearance at Alpin Hall.”

  Wickham had ridden as far as Cumnock before he stopped for a bit of drink. On his first day in Kirkcudbrightshire, he had spent a diverting afternoon in the Cumnock inn’s common room playing cards. On that particular day, he had won more hands than he had lost, and with a fresh stake, he could not quite pass the opportunity by. Perhaps there is news of the lovely Mrs. Fitzwilliam, he smirked to himself. I still am uncertain whether it would be best to spend my time searching for the Major General’s wife or making my way east to Edinburgh and then to ports in Northumberland. He glanced up at the two-storey inn. “First things first,” he said as he entered the darkened room.

  “And what is this area?” Esme asked as they reached a barren strip of land between the manor and the open moors.

  “A fire border,” he said, while steadying her step on a low stone wall. “The heather is this area’s life blood. The deer. The grouse. The cattle. Man. We all depend on it, but the heather extends no mercy. She has conquered the once-mighty forest. If a person looks closely, he might find patches of bluebells and wood anemones from when the trees outnumbered all the animals combined. But, now, only the heather remains.”

  Esme looked out over the open land. If they were on a proper English country estate, the land before her would be well-manicured lawn. She had no idea how she knew such a fact, but she knew it nonetheless. He remained by her side, but not as if he wanted to keep her in check. Instead, Lord Wotherspoon appeared to require her closeness. She said softly, “I ask again, do you despise it so?”

  “I loathe how it holds me as its prisoner,” he said grudgingly, and Esme wondered whether he meant man’s constant battle with the land or whether his ties to the estate had made him a different sort of prisoner.

  “We are all prisoners in some form,” she observed. “I am a prisoner to my lack of memory.” She would have liked to point out that he and his family had posted a guard outside her door, but she planned to remain silent until she had determined how best to proceed.

  “What if I told you my mother has sent a man—our cousin—to learn more of your life prior to your coming to Normanna Hall?” He stared out over the land.

  She fought for control. What would Lady Wotherspoon do with the information, and how would she know the truth when she heard it? “Is my name Lady Esme?” she asked tentatively. Her head began to pound, and a voice warned her to beware what this man offered.

  Domhnall remained steadfastly silent for several minutes. “I doubt it. Esme is the name my mother had chosen for Aulay, if he had been a female child. It means ‘esteemed’ or ‘loved.’ I am certain it would have been easier on my mother if her last issue had been an Esme rather than an Aulay. As she ages, Lady Wotherspoon must see her beloved son into another woman’s care.”

  “Would not Lady Wotherspoon experience the same regret for a female child with Aulay’s particular eccentricities?” She walked a bold line with these questions, but she needed all the information she could muster.

  “A female child could be placed in the care of the Sisters. Trained as a nun. Taught to care for her nieces and nephews. A dozen different scenarios. Aulay is a gentle soul. Too gentle for a man in this rough, hard country. He requires a wife of very superior character to any thing deserved by his own. An excellent woman. Sensible and amiable. One who would never require indulgence after the vows were spoken. A woman to humor and soften and conceal his failings. A woman who could promote his real respectability. It is my mother’s wish,” he said flatly.

  She winced. Lady Wotherspoon had “chosen” her for such a life. “What is your wish, my Lord?”

  “To find a woman who would share my desires and my adventures.”

  It was of what every woman dreamed. Wotherspoon looked upon her with a hopeful heart. Life with Normanna’s lord would not be easy, but if she were truly alone in this world, it would be better than an alliance with his younger brother. Gingerly, she lifted her hand to his cheek. “Do you consider me such a woman, my Lord?”

  With a devilish smile, he said, “So much so that I have instructed my cousin that he will know my wrath if he does not bring any news he may discover of your prior life to my attention first. I would give you your past in order to claim your future.” A shiver of fear ran up her spine. What would the MacBethan cousin discover of her former life? And what of her past would have brought her to these lonely moors?

  Wickham did not care for the man sitting across from him. Despite the fellow’s congenial pose, he suspected the man lacked scruples. Likely lower than his own. Until this journey to Scotland, he had never done more than to cheat at cards, to walk out on a few debts, or to tell a pretty woman what she wanted to hear.

  But the man with whom he shared a card table was of a different nature. The stranger turned a palm-size
d glass disc in his free hand. Red-orange streaks of color met in a yellow cat’s eye in the center. The prop spoke of the hunter who had a desire for the unusual. The one known as Munro to the locales would be in the thick of whatever was thrown at him. In it for good or evil.

  Wickham knew his own limits. His skills rested in the area of manipulation, but this stranger possessed untold skills. Like a chameleon, the man assumed the color of his surroundings. His black gaze fell on Wickham, and George shifted uncomfortably. “What be yer business in Cumnock?”

  He tensed and waited for the group’s attention to lessen before he forced himself to nonchalantly say, “I have been sent by my family to address an issue at Alpin Hall.”

  “There be truble?” Munro asked suspiciously.

  “No trouble. Some concerns for my cousin.” The fact that this man insisted on questioning him came as a warning. Men of Munro’s disposition did not make simple conversation. In fact, his presence would normally be statement enough. Despite despising every moment of his service in the British army, Wickham was still a soldier, and he had developed specific skills to recognize an enemy. He had endured hours of training to fight a foe he had never met. His instincts now said that the man called “Munro” could be involved in Georgiana’s disappearance. As he carefully observed the man through slitted eyes, he added, “My cousin has lost her way on the moor.”

  Munro rearranged his cards, but Wickham became aware of an unusual stillness about the man—a stillness that spoke of death. “What be the gel’s looks? Mayhap we be seeing her.” The other men at the table chimed in their agreements.

  Wickham took no heed of the others. Only this dangerous stranger mattered. He thought to tell Munro a lie, but then he reconsidered. It would be best to observe carefully the man’s reaction. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam is of a little less than twenty years of age. In truth, it has been several years since I last beheld her, but I suspect my cousin has altered little. She should be to my shoulder in height, very lithe, with golden blonde hair, and eyes of blue.”

  One of the other men asked, “Ye say the lady be a missus. Where be her husband?”

  Wickham constructed his tale as he shuffled the cards. “In all reality, the Major General likely lies on a bloody battlefield in Belgium.”

  “So no one searches for the lady?” Munro rearranged his hand.

  “Only me and a few the Earl’s staff.”

  The men nodded their understanding. “Too busy to search for their own,” the man on his right grumbled.

  Realizing he needed a bit more legitimacy, Wickham added a significant fact he had discovered over a similar game in Pemberley’s stables. “With the Major General’s long-overdue arrival, I imagine the Earl is seeing to his heirs. If the spare is gone, the eldest son’s newborn has taken on more significance than usual. The family’s bloodline is reduced to the Viscount and his son.”

  “Ye be not part of the inheritance?” Munro asked.

  Wickham’s frown crumbled, and he laughed robustly. “Not unless I could arrange to kill off the four poppycocks ahead of me in succession.”

  “Fer the right price,” Munro said menacingly.

  Wickham said haughtily. “If I had the right price, I would not be in a public inn in Ayrshire.”

  “No, I donnae suppose ye wud.”

  With a few discreetly placed inquiries, Wickham determined that the menacing Munro was part of the MacBethan family, which oversaw Normanna Hall. The same estate at which the trader reported seeing Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s horse, Wickham said to himself as he enjoyed a brief respite from the card game with an evening meal. He watched as Munro MacBethan claimed another pot. I imagine the gentleman is a poor loser, as well.

  Wickham scowled as he considered his options. If he were to tarry in Ayr, he must first determine if Georgiana Fitzwilliam had taken refuge at Normanna Hall, and if she had, had the lady done so of her own free will? He continued to wonder about the sensibility of pursuing his former friend’s sister. But it could shift the power to my grasp, he observed silently. Honor would require Darcy to act against his natural arrogance. At a minimum, Darcy would have to permit me my freedom. There is also the possibility of a reward. Darcy’s pride would require it.

  They had circled the manor house and crossed the lower gardens and the pastureland. “We should return to the house.” Domhnall noted the increasing shadows.

  The girl sighed deeply. “Thank you, my Lord. The exercise and the fresh air have bolstered my spirits.”

  “As they have mine,” he said intimately.

  She had fidgeted when he leveled his gaze upon her, but his tone created a calm. “You might think me brazen, but I must know: why have you spoken to me so personally? What do you expect of me?”

  Domhnall curled his fingers hard around her wrist. “I have no way of explaining it. I cannot allow my mother to manipulate another to her own ends.” Realizing his grasp bruised her pale skin, he released his hold and then gently kissed the inside of her wrists.

  Her breath caught. “What would you do with me?”

  “I would bind you, m’Lady, to me forever.”

  She gave herself a small shake to clear her thinking. This situation had become more bizarre than ever. She had no clear memory of her family or her former life. She was relatively certain that Lady Wotherspoon had taken her as a captive with the purpose of placing her in Aulay’s way. She knew absolutely that the MacBethans currently held her prisoner. Now, the eldest, Lord Wotherspoon, offered her a position as his wife. At least, she thought he meant to marry her. Perhaps Domhnall MacBethan meant to make her his mistress. “Without the truth of my past, I have no future.”

  After questioning each of the Alpin staff who had come in contact with their recent guest, Darcy held no doubt that their intruder was none other than George Wickham. “How much did the man pilfer?” Darcy asked flatly.

  Elizabeth watched him with those sometimes hazel, sometimes forest green eyes that seemed always to speak to his soul. “Mrs. Jacks has not completed her accounting, but she reports several pieces of silver and two sets of candlesticks of note.”

  “Likely very much more,” Darcy grumbled as he strode to the window. “I have considered how we must proceed.”

  “It is late in the day,” Elizabeth noted.

  Darcy’s anger rose to a red haze, and he struggled not to alarm her. “I have sent the head groomsman to the village. I want additional men scouring every inch of the estate and the surrounding area with the first streaks of light. Until I find my sister, no rock is to remain unturned.”

  Elizabeth observed cautiously, “There is an abundance of rocks to search.”

  Darcy wished to rail at her about the injustice of it all. How could a benevolent God have permitted anything foul to happen to Georgiana? “What if my sister suffered alone?” he asked in pure frustration. “What if Georgiana died on the moor and her remains are even now being abused by some wild animal?”

  Elizabeth rushed to his side. “Fitzwilliam, you must stop this madness. Georgiana is not dead. I refuse to accept our sister’s passing. She may not be well, but Georgiana has not left us. Your sister is a part of you. Do you truly feel her loss?”

  Darcy reached for her hand. “I feel the white, serious heat of my anger. The severe ache chipping away at my heart. I try to fight the images conjured up by my own ineffectiveness. Yet, I cannot permit my mind to consider Georgiana’s absence from my life.” He sank heavily onto the window seat.

  Elizabeth knelt before him and caressed his chin. “Oh, my love. Do not despair so. We are in Scotland, and we shall not rest until we find our sister. Georgiana is much stronger than you give her credit for being. She is likely injured, but we can rectify that quickly enough. She may even be in a place where she cannot send us word of her survival, but my heart tells me that Georgiana has not met our Maker.”

  Darcy turned his cheek into her palm and accepted her tenderness. He said valiantly, “I will place my hopes in your most capable hands, Mrs.
Darcy.” He kissed her inner wrist.

  Elizabeth pulled over a footstool upon which to sit. “Then let us plan the search. Besides sending the groomsman to recruit others, what should we do?”

  “I plan to call at the MacBethan estate tomorrow. It is the only clue we possess. Did Georgiana’s horse wander in? Is she recovering at this family’s expense? If my sister is not at the MacBethan estate, and the family has no knowledge of her existence, then I want to ascertain where the horse was found.”

  Keeping her voice even, Elizabeth asked, “And what of Lieutenant Wickham? Do you think him likely to use what he knows of Georgiana’s disappearance to feather his bed?”

  Darcy’s jaw tightened as if a sharp pain frayed his nerves. “Absolutely. If he can benefit from the effort, Lieutenant Wickham would defy the Prince Regent. Lieutenant Wickham has no way of knowing whether I have brought the law after him after his attack and Mr. Joseph’s injury. The man is many things, but unintelligent is not among them. He must realize that I will not rest until justice is served. That I will not turn my head and offer the other cheek. The man has repeatedly slapped away my proffered hand. Lieutenant Wickham’s continued perfidy has tarnished my revered father’s memory. My promise to my father no longer holds my allegiance.” He sighed deeply. “You must realize, Elizabeth, that I can no longer protect your sister. The man set out to kill me.”

  “Of course not,” she said automatically. Darcy knew her loyalty had deep roots, but he gratefully accepted her decision to choose her life with him over her need to protect her sister. “You have been most generous to the Wickhams. No one may say otherwise.”