by Jennifer Joy
Lawrence did not cease to surprise Darcy. “You disapprove of Miss Bingley as well?”
Clearly exasperated, Darcy spared Lawrence from giving an answer. “I only put up with her because Bingley is a good friend. I hate to think how society would mistreat him were his name not so often associated with mine.”
“Mr. Bingley is everything affable and good. I cannot say the same for his sister, though she will keep your secret safe so long as she does not think of a way to use it against you.” He gave Darcy a pointed look.
“Do you believe Miss Bingley capable of blackmail?” Darcy did not, but he was learning a lot from his valet, who had observed much more than Darcy had imagined.
“That remains to be seen, sir. Of course, it will not matter much if Mr. Stallard does it first.”
Darcy shivered, chilled to the bone. “Let us not make him wait too long, then,” he said, donning his pressed clothes in good time.
The letters lay on top of the writing desk. Grabbing the sealed notes and shuffling them in his hands, he said, “You have been with me as my worst fears have come to fruition, and I thank you for guarding my confidence over the years.”
“It is an honor to serve you as I served your father before you, sir,” Lawrence said with a bow.
“Will you see that Miss Elizabeth receives this?” he held out one envelope.
Taking it and tucking it into his pocket without batting an eyelash, Lawrence said, “I will give it to the Bennets’ housekeeper, Mrs. Hill. She feels about Miss Elizabeth as I do about you. She will be discreet.”
“Thank you, Lawrence. And please see that this gets sent by messenger. It is of the utmost importance.”
Lawrence tucked the second letter in another pocket and nodded. “If you do not need me, I will make arrangements immediately.”
It was done. Darcy felt lighter than he had in months. Nothing Mr. Stallard could bring up against him would spoil that.
“I missed all of the diversion,” complained Lydia, her arms crossed and her bottom lip poking out.
Mrs. Yeats, who walked beside her, said, “It is unbecoming to pout, Miss Lydia. There are better, more ladylike ways of expressing yourself and, until you master them, you would do well to learn the value of silence.”
“The one who holds his tongue is considered wise, whereas the one who speaks recklessly is often made the fool,” quoted Mary in support.
“What an insightful application of a proverb, Miss Mary,” commented Mr. Collins. “Your study of the sermons do you credit.”
Mary liked the praise, but she tried very hard not to show it lest she be overtaken by vanity. God forbid!
Elizabeth thought more kindly toward Mr. Collins for giving her sister, who was often overlooked, a bounce to her step as they continued walking toward Meryton. It was a glorious day, and Mother had thought she might need the carriage, and so they had been obliged to walk.
“We so often do what you wish, Lydia, please do not deny us some entertainment when it was your own carelessness which caused you to miss it,” said Jane gently. “Besides, it was your wish to walk into Meryton to visit Aunt Philips.”
“How convenient we must walk past the militia tents to get to her house.” Lydia smiled, flashing her dimples. “I wonder if we will chance upon Mr. Denny.”
Kitty’s smile disappeared at the mention of that particular officer’s name. “You flirt too openly with him.”
Lydia smacked her on the arm. “What do you care? You flirt just as I do, and why should we not when we are the youngest, handsomest maidens in Meryton? With their life of self-sacrifice, I consider it my duty to bring the officers cheer.”
Elizabeth shook her head. Lydia would be a burden to Father until she married… in which case she would then become a burden to the wretched man who married her.
“You will conduct yourself with proper deportment should we encounter any officers. Allow me to remind you that you are a reflection of the Bennet family name, and it would speak poorly of your education were you to act in any way other than that of a gentleman’s daughter. It could even ruin your chances at making an advantageous marriage,” said Mrs. Yeats in a matter-of-fact tone.
Jane whispered to Elizabeth, “It is good Mrs. Yeats has learned to speak frankly to Lydia. Such a tone would crush me, but Lydia really does not seem to comprehend anything else.”
Elizabeth agreed. “If Lydia has any chance of making a good match, Mrs. Yeats will see to it. Otherwise, she would waste herself on an officer without two shillings to rub together.” She inclined her forehead toward Kitty. “You do not think Kitty has fallen for an officer, do you?”
“Kitty has been acting strangely of late. You were not the only one to disappear during the Netherfield Ball, you know. I had been searching for her when Mr. Darcy asked me where you were.”
“Really?” This was news to Elizabeth.
Jane lowered her voice all the more. “I stationed myself beside the entrance door after you were let out of the library. It offered the best view of the rooms, and so I saw her come in. She had been walking alone in the gardens with Mr. Denny.” Jane gave her a meaningful look.
Elizabeth groaned— both for Kitty’s indiscretion, and at the possibility that she and Mr. Denny could have seen Mr. Darcy climb out of the library window.
“So, you see, it is not only Lydia for whom we should be concerned,” Jane continued. “Father would be so disappointed were one of his daughters to compromise herself.”
Groaning again, though not for the reason Jane supposed, Elizabeth wished more than ever that she had never entered Mr. Bingley’s library.
Chapter 17
Aunt Philips’ drawing room was as warm as an oven, and the gossip exchanged as fresh as steaming bread taken out from the hottest part of it.
Mr. Collins sat as far away from the fireplace as he could without missing any of the conversation. He kept tugging at his collar and dabbing at his face with his sweat-stained handkerchief. Elizabeth felt bad for him. He did not know Aunt would grow too warm just as quickly as she had chilled.
Mere minutes later, Aunt had the maid open the window and a stiff breeze blew through the room to cool her flushed face.
Fanning herself with a fan that matched Mother’s, Aunt moved on from the topic of a recent elopement of the butcher’s daughter with an officer of low ranking— which had been the source of speculation for at least two days and would provide endless fodder for weeks to come… Or, rather, it would until word of Mr. Darcy’s arrest spread. “I heard a bit of news about Mr. Wickham’s unfortunate death. Can you guess where he was shot?” she asked, tapping her fan against her chin in her all-knowing manner.
“Oh, I do love a good intrigue!” said Lydia, reaching for another slice of gingerbread.
“I think you have partaken of your aunt’s generosity sufficiently,” said Mrs. Yeats, causing Lydia’s hand to freeze in place before she could snatch the cake.
Mary expressed her disapproval. “It is immoral to discuss disturbing indelicacies openly.” She made a point of raising a pocket-sized book of sermons she carried with her for such occasions for all to see. Of course, had she wished not to expose herself to the gossip she was sure to overhear at Aunt Philips’, she ought to have stayed at home. Elizabeth knew her reading would be slow as she struggled to overhear their conversation behind her guise of self-righteousness.
Mr. Collins nodded his approval, but he was too interested in saving Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s nephew from coming to harm, and so he said nothing to complain of the indiscretion.
“He was shot directly in the heart.” Aunt Philips resumed her fanning and sat back in her chair contentedly.
Elizabeth looked around at her sisters, but they all shrugged their shoulders. Mrs. Yeats, no doubt feeling that their current topic was an unladylike one, sighed behind her teacup.
If nobody would ask, Elizabeth would. “We had heard, but what does it signify? If a man is killed, does the location of the shot matter
or affect the investigation in any way?”
Aunt gasped at her ignorance. “But, of course, it does. How could you not understand something so obvious when you are the clever one?” she chastised.
The blank stares Aunt Philips received encouraged her to continue and took the sting out of her mild rebuke. “He was shot in the heart. The heart!” she repeated.
She seemed determined to make them understand without having to explain.
Jane attempted to understand. “Perhaps the location of the mortal wound gives some insight toward the motive of the killer? Certainly, if an individual with malicious intent wanted to cause permanent harm, he would shoot his victim in the heart?”
Aunt threw her arms up into the air. “Why does everyone assume it was a man? This detail practically confirms it to me that it very well could have been a woman! To aim at the heart, the seat of passion, is an emotional act which would most likely be done by someone of the feminine sex. Do you not agree?” She gripped the edge of her chair and looked excitedly at each of them, seeking support.
Elizabeth considered. In her mind, it did not make much of a difference where Mr. Wickham had been shot, but she had to admit it was as much a possibility that a woman could have committed the evil deed than for a man to have done it.
Mary was not convinced. “How would a lady know how to shoot a pistol? Are they not very heavy?” she asked.
Elizabeth noticed Kitty fix her gaze firmly onto her lap.
“They are much lighter than a hunting rifle. If a woman with a normal amount of strength were upset enough to cause bodily harm, surely she could find the strength to lift a pistol long enough to shoot it,” answered Aunt. “As for it being ready to shoot, my theory is that he left it loaded because he suspected someone meant to do him harm.”
Her mind churning with these new details, Elizabeth said, “I suppose it would not be that strange of a thing for a lady to load a firearm. Especially if she lived in a household with gentlemen— a father or brothers— whom she could have observed load their arms repeatedly…” Her words trailed off in thought. Now that the possibility opened before her, the list of suspects grew, muddying the murky water even more than before.
“You do not think Mr. Darcy did it?” Jane asked Aunt.
“A highborn gentleman like Mr. Darcy would never stoop so low as to murder a lowly lieutenant of the militia,” Aunt said with authority.
Elizabeth was not so sure the jury at the inquest would agree. She had seen his expression when he left Mr. Wickham’s tent after what must have been a heated dispute. What if others had seen him wearing the same dangerous expression?
Mr. Darcy was not a murderer, but he had secrets. And Mr. Wickham knew them. It had likely been a relief to Mr. Darcy to have his enemy disappear from existence. The idea disturbed her greatly. Should not her concern to bring Mr. Wickham’s killer to justice be greater than her concern over Mr. Darcy’s feelings about the murder of his adversary? She shivered at the thought.
“I am sorry, Lizzy. Let me close the window before you catch a chill.” Aunt signaled to the maid, who promptly did as she was bid.
Pouring another serving of tea, Aunt continued, “I am happy none of my nieces have formed unfortunate alliances with any of the officers. Too many of the girls in the village have had their heads turned and are acting in the most appalling ways. It is as if the scarlet red of the militia’s coats scatters their brains and all reason with it. But not my nieces. You girls have much more sense than that,” she looked at them with pride.
Kitty and Lydia squirmed in their chairs. Little did Aunt know that her sweet nieces would love nothing more than to be compromised by a handsome officer.
Mr. Collins shook his head. “It is shameful. I wonder what their parents are doing to keep their daughters safe from the militia’s corrupting influence.”
“They are not corrupting! They are here for our protection,” defended Kitty, her cheeks burning red.
“My child,” said Aunt, “there has not been a murder in Meryton these thirty years, and that one was a domestic dispute and was easily settled. The militia has not been here a month, and already the village is burdened with the murder of one of its officers. I have said it before, and I will say it again, the militia brings more trouble than it is worth, and I will stake my name on it that it was a jealous, spiteful woman who did the deed.”
She passed around the teacups and offered more gingerbread. Elizabeth had lost her appetite long ago. The images in her head of bloodstains and the smell of gunpowder only left a place in her queasy stomach for the tea remaining in her cup.
“If you believe it was a female who killed Mr. Wickham, I suppose you have a suspect?” asked Mrs. Yeats.
Aunt smiled. “I thought you would never ask! I have an inkling of an idea, and I have been dying to share it with someone discerning. Idle gossip is dangerous, you know.”
“It is, and it shows a great amount of delicacy on your part not to reveal her name and expose her to suspicion if, in the end, she is innocent. However, I do admit to some curiosity on my part and would like to know on what you base your suspicions,” said Mrs. Yeats.
Setting down her teacup enthusiastically, Aunt picked up her fan and tapped it against her palm. “I will give no names, but I am certain you will draw the same conclusion I did when you think back to the events of the Netherfield Ball. Mr. Wickham is said to have been murdered around the hour of midnight.” She paused, making sure everyone nodded their heads as was appropriate. “Very good. Now, think. Who left the ball in sufficient time to have returned to Meryton before that fateful hour?”
Elizabeth did a mental checklist of all the people she had seen before entering the library. Her memory was a disturbed blur, but she soon fixed on a scene. Calculating the time, her alarm grew as she realized how well it fit the scenario Aunt suggested. It did not take much longer for her sisters to reach a similar conclusion.
“Surely, you do not mean to imply Miss Stallard?” asked Mary in shock, her book closed in her lap.
Mr. Stallard’s complexion was a shade darker than normal. “How good of you to join me… finally,” he said tersely, making Darcy glad he had made the gentleman wait a minute or two longer than necessary. He was certain he bore bad news, and Darcy was in no hurry to rush the inevitable.
“I held no hopes of receiving any callers today. I know where I stand.” Darcy sat opposite him.
“Not everyone in the village is against you, Mr. Darcy. I, for one, do not believe you are guilty. Otherwise, I would not have come today, nor would I have taken care to arrange for you to be brought here when no one would be likely to see you.”
Darcy held a blank expression, feeling Mr. Stallard’s eyes search his face for any indication of emotion. Whatever Mr. Stallard had to tell him, Darcy would not make it easy.
“How good of you to acknowledge my innocence. It is what I am, after all,” Darcy said dryly.
“You and I both know it, but I fear the jury at our inquest will not be convinced. They are unaccustomed to good breeding and high manners. Of course, if they vote for this case to go to trial, you stand a good chance of being acquitted. However, the damage done to your name by then would be irreparable.”
Mr. Stallard’s patronization grated on Darcy’s nerves, but he kept his composure. “That may be so, but the people of Meryton are not stupid. When there is no evidence to support the accusations against me, they will draw the correct conclusions.” So he hoped. His life depended upon it— if he failed to get to the bottom of this affair before he could be sent to trial.
“You are willing to stake your life on it? You are more optimistic than I believed you to be. Or perhaps I misjudged your character….” Mr. Stallard narrowed his eyes and considered Darcy for some time.
“It would not be the first time I have been misjudged, nor the last,” he replied, thinking of Elizabeth. Had she not known him for a fact to be innocent, she would have believed him capable of murder. As it was, she w
ho would have been his worst adversary, was his strongest ally. Her faith in his innocence gave him confidence. He added, “I believe in justice, but I am not so optimistic as to believe that the truth does not need some assistance in revealing itself.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Stallard gravely, avoiding looking at Darcy.
What did Mr. Stallard know? Darcy determined to find out what he could if he was forced to suffer through the gentleman’s call.
Mr. Stallard exposed his stained teeth in a snarl. “That is my motive in calling on you this morning. I mean to offer you my assistance.”
To Darcy, his offer felt more threatening than helpful. It would be wiser to have a witness in the room. “I would hope that if you were in possession of any information, you would reveal it to Colonel Forster and to me.”
“Ah, but my business is with you alone. We need not involve Colonel Forster. You see, it is a certainty you would be accused of murder unless some great evidence is revealed to help your cause. Mr. Wickham, despite his debts, was well-liked. He did not yet owe such great sums— having only recently arrived to his commission. And it appears that an honorable gentleman has already taken care to settle his debts, doing so in such a discreet manner, no one would guess it was you. If you cooperate with me, I will make your actions known.”
Darcy’s heart thundered in his ears. Lawrence had been right about Mr. Stallard. Darcy held his composure, but his stomach churned. He crossed one foot over the other to give the effect of indifference.
“Wickham made friends easily. Whether or not he could keep them is another story entirely.”
“Be that as it may, we will never know, will we? Mr. Wickham is dead, and you will hang for his murder unless you allow me to help you.”
“How do you mean to do that?” asked Darcy, careful not to sound interested.
“I want you to marry my daughter.”
Chapter 18
"You want me to marry Miss Stallard?" asked Darcy incredulously. Not once in their short acquaintance had Miss Stallard shown an inkling of liking toward him. In fact, Darcy had assumed her regard lay elsewhere.