The encounter seemed innocuous enough, but Lizzy was disturbed. She dreaded having to broach the topic with her husband when they were so near the wedding and then being able to put the unpleasantness behind them altogether. That it would enrage him was a given, and she wanted to weep at causing him any further anxiety or grief.
But, they had vowed long ago to have no secrets between them. They were aware that the other frequently glazed over during the maundering discourses that were a necessary part of their lives, ears listening to the words that recounted their day, but the details not always penetrating into the deeper memory banks. They did pay heed for the most part, however, with only the occasional slice of information forgotten and thus leading to humorous teasing or a minor argument later.
The drawback to all this communication, if one looked at it from a certain perspective, is that after all this time it was ingrained. Lizzy could no more withhold the interaction with Wickham than halt her breathing. But that did not mean she ceased fretting about it or wishing, just this once, she could remain mum.
A stroll along the twisting pathways through the grass and wildflowers was decided upon as a necessary exercise to soothe her frayed emotions, so she bundled the sleeping Michael into his perambulator, grabbed Alexander, and set off. Joining her extemporaneous excursion was Jane carrying Deborah, Mary pushing Claudia in her carriage, Georgiana, Mrs. Hanford and Mrs. Geer, and Simone. Ethan, Hugh, and Harry skipped alongside Alexander, staying in the open fields and miraculously managing to discover every remaining mud puddle from the winter rains. Laughter was prominent, birds were chirping in nearby trees, and the slight breeze was invigorating. Nevertheless, Lizzy’s pensiveness continued.
She unconsciously sighed, drawing the attention of Jane. “Are you well, Lizzy? You seem distracted.”
“Oh, it is nothing really.” She glanced around, but the children were picking dandelions and blowing the seeds, and the other adults were spread along the trail. She lowered her voice. “Mr. Wickham accosted me on the way back to Netherfield today.”
Jane gasped, Lizzy squeezing her hand as she continued. “It was nothing horrible, so rest easy. He made a few remarks against William, but generally was friendly and harmless. He spoke with Alexander about gardening and the ducks in Hyde Park.” She shook her head. “It was odd really. There seemed no point in it at all.”
“You will tell William?”
“Of course. We keep no secrets. But I will confess, Jane, that I hate to do so. He will be furious and so troubled. He has been certain from the beginning that Wickham meant harm of some kind. I have not been so sure of that and am still not convinced by this encounter, but William will assuredly perceive it as such.”
“Poor Mr. Darcy! To be so plagued by this one man. Oh, how could Lydia have been so stupid as to align herself with such a terrible individual?”
“Lydia is a fool, Jane, and I doubt she sees beyond that he provides for her needs.”
“And he seems to do that well enough.”
“Yes, it is strange, is it not?” Lizzy paused, staring into the air sightlessly. “She dresses fine, as does Mr. Wickham, yet she cannot say what he does for a living. Where does he get his money? William has mentioned that several times with suspicion. He is positive it a nefarious undertaking of some kind.” She laughed but with little humor.
“All Lydia says is that he keeps late hours and disappears for days or weeks at a time. She complains of that, but then boasts of all the parties they attend in the next breath. I overheard her tell Mama that he works for a rich man in the area, but when Mama questioned further Lydia grew vague. I gathered she does not know the details and was embarrassed by the fact. It was merely a feeling, but her face was flustered for a moment.” She shrugged. “It could be innocent. Mr. Wickham is an educated man, well-spoken and cultured…”
“Thanks to the late Mr. Darcy!” Lizzy interrupted with some heat.
“Indeed. But the point is he could be serving as a steward or some such capacity, could he not?”
“It is possible, and William has thought of that. But why be so secretive about it? If it were a position of esteem he would probably be bragging loudly, even if it was a huge exaggeration, just to annoy William.” She shook her head. “No, it is odd however you look at it but not conclusively criminal. William will be irritated and I cringe at the thought of enlightening him. Perhaps I shall wait until later tonight before we retire and he is especially mellow.”
“Lizzy!”
She looked at her sister’s shocked, red face and laughed aloud. “Oh Jane! You are a treasure!”
“Mama, wellow ’lion for you.”
Lizzy turned to Alexander, who stood before her with a handful of yellow dandelions held up. She knelt and took the offered bundle with a flourish, inhaling the acrid odor as if the sweetest perfume. “Thank you, my lamb. They are beautiful! Now, repeat after me, ‘yellow dandelion.’”
“Yellow dannilion.”
“Close enough!” She squeezed him until he squealed, chubby arms gripping her neck as she rose with him in her arms.
It was then that she saw the carriage.
Their group strolled along a trail that ran beside a narrow creek. The wide expanse of meadow on the other side of the creek was laden with wildflowers in bloom amid the tall, waving grasses, but was barren of trees or larger bushes, thus the view of the road was unobstructed so she could easily see the parked carriage and, presumably, whoever occupied the carriage could easily see them. It was a simple coach, well constructed, but without any embellishments or identifying markings. The driver wore nondescript clothing, not livery, and sat erect upon his seat with eyes staring straight ahead and paying them no mind.
There were probably a dozen reasons why a carriage may be halted on the side of a road with no houses or buildings in sight, so Lizzy’s gaze barely noted the vehicle’s presence before beginning to slide away. But a sudden movement from within the interior caught her attention.
It was a mere flash. An arm reaching, the golden head of an ornate cane held in a pale hand rapping onto the ceiling as a signal. Then the barest glimpse of a face appearing in the window, eyes looking her direction. For a heartbeat only their eyes met, recognition knifing through her brain with an accompanying physical pain before the image was gone. As rapidly as it started the sensation began to fade, her stunned consciousness already doubting what she had seen since it just could not be possible. It was unfathomable that it was him.
“Mrs. Darcy? Are you well?”
She turned dull eyes to Mrs. Hanford, the nanny’s kindly face wrinkled with concern.
“Mama? Dannilion?” Alexander pushed the fisted flowers under her nose, sensing his mother’s fright and naively trying to comfort despite his innocence.
Lizzy looked to the carriage, but the windows were dark and empty. It was slowly rolling away, picking up speed with dust swirling until obscured further.
“I am fine. Just fine. I guess the sun has affected me after all.” She smiled at her son, kissing his nose. Another glance showed the carriage rounding a bend and then disappearing altogether. “Now, let’s see if we can find some tadpoles, shall we, sweetie? Or, better yet, a big, ugly toad! Your papa would love to see that!”
A man entered the darkened, smoky pub, pausing on the threshold for a moment to adjust to the sudden gloom, and searched the shadowed corners for the person he was scheduled to meet. He spied him finally, readjusted the crutch under his arm, and shuffled awkwardly to the table set into the alcove. With a groan of pain he sat onto the bench across, rubbing his shriveled left leg.
“You are late,” the waiting man said flatly, offering no assistance to the older, crippled man other than to scoot a mug of ale closer. “What were you doing? Watching the house again?”
“What I do with my time is none of your concern, Wickham. You are paid to do my bidding and not ask questions. Remember that.”
Wickham inclined his head. “Have no fear, my lord. I know where
my livelihood comes from and am grateful. You have my loyalty.”
“Good.”
“However, I am the one putting myself on the line as I traipse back and forth to London with the risk of being recognized. If you want this to succeed you have to stay hidden and trust what information I glean. What if one of them was to see you?” His tablemate looked into the foam in his mug, avoiding Wickham’s eyes. “No! Who saw you?”
“It was for less than a second and from a long distance. I am sure there was no recognition.”
“Do you truly imagine, all considered, that she would forget your face?”
“Why do you assume it was her?”
“Because if it was him you would likely be dead. Listen, my lord, you cannot allow your impatience to ruin all our planning.”
“Quit chastising me, Wickham. Must I remind you again who I am and where you were when we joined forces? You had connived your way into managing that inn and were doing a fair job of it, keeping your wife in the gowns she desires, but we both know it was an impasse. A man like you would never had been content doing that forever. With me you have a future. And, best of all, the means to punish Darcy.”
“We both need to be smart then. You have not learned to control your rage and need for vengeance.”
“It is too personal,” he hissed.
“I understand, my lord. It is personal for Darcy as well, but despite that he knows how to contain his anger. He was always proficient at that.” Wickham finished with grudging respect.
“How well I know,” the maimed man muttered, brushing a thumb over the long scar across his left cheek before taking a swallow of his ale. He emptied the mug and signaled the barmaid for another. “Now tell me what you have accomplished, if anything. I tire of my rustic accommodations. Have you learned of his activities? Divined any pattern?”
They paused as the barmaid brought fresh mugs of ale. She was a pretty thing, young and buxom, her smile inviting as she leaned near Wickham offering a generous view of her bosom.
“Anything else you needin’, sir? We gots a nice lamb stew cookin’ to warm your belly and other treats to satisfy if you wants.” The coquettish expression and sweep of one finger across her cleavage aided the innuendo, not that Wickham was confused. He winked, dimples flashing as his eyes raked over the breasts less than a foot from his face.
“Any stew cooked here is more likely rat than lamb and the ‘treats’ are probably the pox.”
The girl turned toward the grating voice with a biting rebuttal on her tongue but flinched and recoiled, the words undelivered. The Marquis of Orman glared at her, his dark eyes menacing. His sallow skin stretched over the harsh bones of his thin face, the only color blotches of pink flesh amid the puckered scar on his cheek. The odor of ale and cheap wine mixed with an alien sweetness permeated his clothing and was strong enough to supplant the smell of rot and vomit naturally drifting on the pub’s air.
She instinctively took a step backward but was halted by Wickham’s hand clasping her wrist. He followed with a sensuous caress up her inner arm, his smile mollifying while still being lewd.
“We are good here, love. I will seek you out when I am ready to take you up on your generous offer.”
The simper instantly returned, her lashes lowering in what she reckoned was demure flirting, and without a glance toward Orman, she moved away with a seductive sway of her hips that Wickham avidly observed.
“Later!” the marquis spat. “You can have your fun when we are done talking. Answer my question.”
“They have not been in the area long enough to establish habitual routines, especially with wedding plans and local activities. He rides every morning, usually alone, but not always. He forever has done that. The man is obsessed with horses.”
“Yes, yes! Go on!”
“But that is no help to us anyway. I am a fair rider but could never overpower him while he is mounted.”
“Just shoot him and be done with it.”
Wickham shook his head. “Have you ever seen him ride? I am not that accurate a marksman, especially as fast as he runs. I would probably wound him at best, and that is not what we want.”
“I thought you were a soldier. Does His Majesty’s army teach nothing?”
“I was a poor soldier, remember? And do not be treasonous.”
“Interesting morals there, Wickham. You chafe at treason but rejoice in plotting a murder. Intriguing.”
Wickham grimaced at the word “murder,” particularly as spoken in tones of jubilance. The Marquis of Orman glowed, his strange eyes sparkling even in the gloom and his wheezing pants faintly sexual. Wickham doubted the unbalanced man knew that he caressed over the wounds inflicted by the Darcys when he spoke of how he desired punishing them. It was eerie, especially added to the lopsided grin that displayed his rotting teeth and the crooked, bulbous nose. The once handsome Lord Orman was handsome no longer.
Hiding a shudder, Wickham looked away to examine the room. The place was filthy and dingy, perfect for this type of conversation, and they were the only patrons this time of day. Reluctantly he pulled his gaze away from the enticing view of the barmaid’s round derriere swaying as she cleaned a far table.
“The truth is, I have been giving this more thought and think we should change our plan. I have been telling you for months that together we can make the revenge sweeter than merely a quick death.”
“How so?”
“Would it not be more satisfying to make him suffer before he dies?”
“I want him dead! Do you understand me, Wickham? Only death is payment for what he has done to me!”
“And what about her? Sure, she will be grieved to lose the man she loves”—he choked on the word, uttering it with loathing—“but will have the consolation of his riches and…”
“You know we cannot touch his wealth,” Orman interrupted. “Believe me, I have inquired, but the man is too powerful and too smart. I finally accepted that reality.”
“Ah! I think I have a means to hurt him in more ways than either of us has ever imagined. I have your use of inhaled ether to thank for planting the seed of possibility. The effect on you when used cautiously to dull your pain…”
“Pain that is all his fault!” Orman snarled, rubbing over his upper thigh near his groin.
“Precisely why it is justice to use the ether that sustains you, my lord, as a means of exacting our vengeance.”
Wickham proceeded to outline his plot with words specific to feed the marquis’s ego and madness. The insane eyes across the table grew wilder and more maniacal, his countenance nearly orgasmic in his pleasure at the vision laid before him. His lust for what he envisioned befalling his worst enemy warmed his gut more than any woman ever had, even when he could still physically achieve satisfaction from that quarter.
“Yes!” Orman whispered, closing his eyes in bliss.
“Well, it seems as if you have attained rapture in the way that best pleases you, my friend. I, on the other hand, as much as I shall derive gratification at Darcy’s downfall, need release in a more fundamental way.” He glanced to the barmaid, who met his gaze with frank provocation.
“Does your wife not satisfy you adequately?” There was no judgment in the question, but a strong undertone of loathing and jealousy.
Wickham laughed gaily, draining his mug in one large gulp. “Let us just say I do not keep Lydia around for her cooking skills. But that fact in no way prevents a real man from tasting elsewhere. Diversity is true living, my friend. Now, go back to your lodge and stay out of sight. I found a chemist with no scruples and have a delivery coming tomorrow. Between that and a well-stocked wine cellar you are comfortably provided for, my lord Marquis. I will contact you in London.” He stood and bent close to Orman, smothering his repugnance behind a cheery façade. “I am off to slake my other thirst. Be at peace. We will win this time and be vindicated, I promise you that.”
Then he pivoted away and sauntered toward the maid, who deftly caught the coin Wick
ham tossed her direction.
Chapter Twelve
The Plot Thickens
A beaming Alexander proudly gifted his father with the slimy amphibian clutched in his tiny hands, rushing forward as Darcy knelt and showed the appropriate enthusiasm in his son’s acquisition. He listened attentively to the tale of how the boy had chased the toad into the reeds and toppled into the river during the hunt. The fact that he was wet with muddy smeared cheeks and grass clinging to his damp curls mattered not. Darcy hugged him, praised his bravery, declared the toad by far the most amazing toad in all of England, and immediately set to the task of providing a temporary home for the pet, after Lizzy replaced the wet gown for a dry one.
A wooden barrel was found in a shed by a baffled groundsman. The Netherfield cook grudgingly gave an old pie pan for a pool after stating firmly that she did not want it returned. Together father and son searched for the best rocks, grasses, and leaves.
“Toss the grass over there, Son. That’s it. Now he has a nice bed to lie on if he wishes.” Darcy arranged three large stones to form a type of shelter for the impressive sized toad who squatted on a large, flat rock. Darcy crouched next to the barrel with Alexander standing beside as he taught about toads.
“He will probably stay on the rock, or burrow into the grass or under the rocks, but he might go into the water too. However, toads, unlike frogs, prefer to be dry. He probably was not all that pleased when you fell into the water.” He laughed, kissing Alexander’s cheek. “They are nocturnal animals which mean they are most active at night.”
“Like bats, Papa?”
“Very good! Yes, just like the bats we have near Pemberley. So smart you are, my sweet.” He ruffled the dried curls, face flooded with paternal pride. “Remember how we watched them that one night? Flying through the trees?”
Alexander nodded. “Mama so mad.”
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