“Never leave witnesses,” he said to the parlour as he went about the business of cleaning both pistols, then reloading them; the weapons went into his pockets together with the tiny powder horn he used for priming. “Sorry about that,” he said to Nellie as he prepared to leave, “but it was quicker by far than hanging. I hope you go somewhere fairer, but you, Mr. Purling, are bound for Hell.”
Jupiter ready to ride again, Ned mounted and rode off, being very careful to pull the brambles together. Any with business at Mr. Purling’s house would take one look, and run. No one would report their deaths.
An hour later he found Mary. She had tripped over that root and fallen not yards from the road. What he saw were her white face and red-gold hair; the rest of her blended into the shadows. He made light work of picking her up and carrying her to Jupiter, but when he reached the beast he put her down and conducted a careful examination. No, not desperately injured, but seriously, yes. A huge swelling over her right brow worried him most, the more so because she failed to rouse. What to do? Were she any other female, he would have taken her to the nearest doctor, but well he knew Fitz’s dislike of gossip. Deciding that she would fare no worse for the ride to Pemberley, he put her across Jupiter’s withers and mounted.
What he hadn’t counted on was tainted meat in the pie he had had for breakfast at the Black Cat. Like many big and powerful men, he could work indefatigably for hours, even days, at a time. But that demanded good health, and he began to feel not quite himself just after he passed to the north of Chesterfield.
Jupiter disliked bearing a burden across its withers, but did so for Ned’s sake. Just after darkness fell, Mary stirred. The consciousness she regained was confused and irritable; thinking him Captain Thunder, she tried to fight. Having, as he saw it, no alternative, he tipped neat cognac down her throat, and was only content when she slipped back into oblivion. Once Mary sagged, Jupiter neighed softly and settled down.
Not half an hour later he lost the ability to control his gut, pulled Jupiter up, threw the reins over its head and lifted Mary down to lie on a soft patch of short, pungent grass and herbs. Tugging at his breeches, he went into a small copse of trees and endured some minutes of uncomfortable cramps and diarrhoea. Oh, what a bother! Lucky it hadn’t made him heave, but the runs were bad enough. Tidying himself as best he could, he stood waiting to see if there was more to come, but apparently not. How long had he been? A glance at his fob watch reassured him; no more than ten minutes. How bright the stars were, out in the middle of nowhere! Even without a moon, he fancied he might have been able to read the larger print in a newspaper. Certainly he could see his watch face.
Jupiter was standing in a grateful nap when he returned to the bridle-path, but Mary Bennet had disappeared. Confounded, he stared at the squashed herbs where her body had rested—God, no! No, no, no! Where had she gone? Into the trees to relieve herself, as he had done? She could hardly go far in ten minutes, not in her parlous condition.
But she was nowhere in the grove, nowhere on the bridle-path, and nowhere within an easy walk in any direction. Trembling, Ned stopped to think things through without panicking, and decided it was time to mount Jupiter, from which elevation he could see better and farther.
Two hours later he put his head against Jupiter’s mane in dull despair. Mary Bennet was nowhere to be found. And now he would have to report to Fitz that he had rescued Mary, only to lose her to some new, unknown peril. She had been stolen while she slept beside the bridle-path; nothing else made any sense, for walk off on her own two legs she had not.
“It is not your fault, Ned,” Fitz said when Ned reached him before breakfast on that Monday. “I blame myself and no one else. I gave you Lydia and Mary. So terribly unfair!”
“’Twas not you who lost her.”
“No, but how could you predict a bellyache? And why would you think her in danger on a deserted bridle-path well beyond Chesterfield? You are a rare man, Ned. You can plan well ahead, then seize the opportunity of a moment in a moment. I can trust you with these exceeding delicate matters, and in turn that leads me to overburden you. What undid both of us was a bellyache, but who could have predicted its outcome? Don’t blame yourself. And I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. As you say, who could have predicted a bellyache?”
He hesitated, then decided that he would have to tell Fitz about the fate of Captain Thunder and Nellie: a laundered version that would not upset Fitz’s own principles.
“Captain Thunder and his light-skirt are dead. When I found their house, a rather wild mêlée ensued that proved me better prepared—and the better shot.” He grinned sourly. “In fact, I begin to think that it’s the element of surprise and the pistol already cocked and levelled have made Captain Thunder the terror of these parts for fifteen years. The poor girl threw herself in the way of the first ball to save her love. Blew her brains out. I managed to prime and fire my second pistol while the Captain was still fiddling with his powder horn. He took my ball in the heart. I doubt anyone ever goes near the place—they had even hidden the track to it with a formidable hedge of brambles. With your consent, I would rather not divulge the events. Especially because I have to deal with Lydia for the next few days. Could we simply let the pair of villains rot?”
There was no pleading in Ned’s voice; Fitz considered his tale carefully, and decided he did not disapprove of the way Ned had handled things. Clearly it had been a matter of life and death, and the only other man he knew was as knacky as Ned over the exasperating business of getting a pistol ready to fire was Charlie. Even had their capture been peaceful, he could see where keeping the pair for the hangman’s noose would cause unwelcome publicity. Mary was too involved, and now Mary was missing yet again, which necessitated a new search for her.
Fitz shrugged. “I agree, Ned. Let them rot.” He poured Ned fresh coffee. “Today you must rest. Nurse your belly, yes, but most of all get a long sleep. Charlie, Angus and Owen Griffiths went out at seven this morning in search of Mary. They don’t know your story, but they might find out something interesting. I predict that they won’t return until tomorrow evening, which gives you plenty of time to recover. And yes, I could send someone to bring them home at once, but I would rather not. They will approach the task a different way than you, and we don’t know who took Mary off you.”
“As you wish, Fitz.”
Fitz got to his feet, came around the table and gave Ned a warm hug. “I thank you for your splendid work, Ned. Were it not for you, Mary would have died in the forest. As it is, I think we may safely assume she is still alive. I am deeply in your debt.”
“When do you want Mrs. Wickham escorted to Hemmings?”
“Thursday, I hope. Spottiswoode has had a letter from the proprietress of the agency in York he uses, saying she has someone on her books, but first must thoroughly check the woman’s recommendations. Now go home and sleep.”
Ned rested his cheek against Fitz’s hand on his shoulder, then got up wearily. He departed glowing, despite his sense of failure. Fitz had hugged him, the love was still there. Could anything destroy it? This business had been the most acid test of it, yet still it survived. Oh, Fitz, what would I not do for you?
All of Elizabeth’s time had been taken up in caring for Lydia, whose health was quite broken down. Nor did she see why she should be shifted from Pemberley, where there was always someone else to do the irksome tasks like keeping herself and her clothing clean. Who knew what other premises would yield?
“Lydia, in your heart of hearts you must know,” Elizabeth said, secretly sharing her sister’s sentiments about removal. “Pemberley is Fitz’s seat, famous enough to seem a pinnacle of social achievement. An invitation to stay here is an aspiration fulfilled. He needs Pemberley to further his political career. You did untold damage when you burst into the dining room mouthing disgusting obscenities and accusing Fitz of murder. Your audience included some of the most important people in England—and Caroline Bingley, who remains i
n residence here. She will use your behaviour to belittle and denigrate Fitz. How can you blame him for wanting to be rid of you?”
“Easily,” said Lydia sulkily. She surveyed herself in a mirror. “What dreadful clothes you wear, Lizzie! I want money to buy new things—fashionable things. And I refuse to wear black!”
“You may have the money and the clothes, but not here. Fitz has found a nice house called Hemmings, outside Leek. There you may live in the same sort of comfort as Mama did at Shelby Manor. You may shop for apparel in Stoke-on-Trent or Stafford—Fitz has given you accounts at certain modistes in both towns. Your companion, Miss Mirabelle Maplethorpe, has a list of the shops.”
Lydia sat up straight. “Companion? What can you mean, Lizzie, companion? I have no need of one!”
“I think you do, dearest.” Oh, what a wretched situation! Fitz had been happy to explain matters to Lydia himself, but that would have led to such ructions! So Elizabeth had begged to tell Lydia the news herself, thinking it best she wear the witch’s hat. She tried again. “My dear, your health is not what it should be. That means you must have company, if only until you build up your health. We have engaged a respectable lady to look after you—part nurse, part companion. As I have already said, her name is Miss Mirabelle Maplethorpe. She hails from Devonshire.”
Scrubbed clean of its paint, Lydia’s face looked curiously bald, for her fairness was extreme enough to extend to her brows and lashes, absolutely colourless. The puffiness had vanished; she had had no further access to wine or other intoxicants since Hoskins had given her port, and that had been six days ago. Which meant Lydia had now reached craving point, and was ripe for mischief.
“I want two bottles of claret with my lunch,” said Lydia, “and I warn you, Lizzie, that if I do not get it, I will create a scene that will pale the last one to insignificance. Is Fitz afraid of Caroline Bingley, then? Well, not as afraid as he will be of me!”
“No wine,” said Elizabeth, iron in her voice. “Gentlewomen do not drink to excess, and you were born a gentlewoman.”
“This gentlewoman drinks! Like a fish! And I am not the only one! Why do you think Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst are so prim and proper? Because they drink—in secret!”
“You know nothing about either lady, Lydia.”
“It takes one to know one. Is Fitz really afraid of Caroline? He won’t be after I get through with her!”
“Lydia, compose yourself!”
“Then give me claret with my lunch! And if you think that I am going off tamely to Leek or anywhere else with a dragon for my companion, you are mistaken!”
“You go tomorrow, Lydia. Fitz insists.”
“He can insist until he turns in his grave, I will not go!”
Elizabeth fell to her knees, tried to take the clammy, restless, plucking hands in hers. “Lydia, please, I beg you! Go to Hemmings willingly! If you do not, you will go anyway. That fearsome man Ned Skinner is to escort you, and he puts up with naught. Try him, and you’ll be treated as he treated you when Mama died. For my sake, Lydia, please! Go willingly! Once you are ensconced at Hemmings, what you do will be your affair provided you are quiet and discreet. I am led to believe that there will be plenty of wine, though you will not be permitted to entertain men.”
“What a mouse you are, Lizzie! Did the jewels, Pemberley and enough pin-money to buy the Royal Pavilion strip you of all spirit? Fitz snaps his fingers, and you scurry, squeaking. Once you used to stand up for yourself, but no more. You are a bought woman. Well, I would rather be an army wife than the chatelaine of Pemberley! Oh, George, George!” The tears began to pour down her face, her body rocked. “I am a widow at a mere thirty-six! A widow! Doomed to black crepe and veiled bonnets! Well, I won’t! How can I find another husband if I’m shut up at Fitzwilliam Darcy’s dictate? Do you really want to be rid of me? Then send me to Bath!”
“To become the talk of that place? No,” said Elizabeth, more iron erupting from beneath her pity and grief. A bought woman! Was that how her friends from Longbourn days saw her? Head turned by the material things Fitz could give her? “You will go to Leek and live at Hemmings with Miss Maplethorpe, there to drink yourself silly if such is your desire! Accept it, Lydia. The alternative, I have been informed, is to see you dumped in Cornwall with nothing more than the clothes you stand up in.”
The lids dropped over Lydia’s pale blue eyes, shielding her thoughts from her sister. “Let me hear this from Fitz.”
“Lydia insists upon hearing her fate from you,” Elizabeth said to her husband in the small library.
“I take it she doesn’t like her fate?”
“‘Like’ is too mild a word. She’s full of wild threats, and wants to go to Bath to live.” The smoky eyes turned up to his, full of an agonised pleading. “Couldn’t she be allowed that, Fitz? In no time she would become a joke to all and sundry, and no one would heed her.”
“A joke who is known to be my sister-in-law. No, Elizabeth, she cannot go to Bath, and that is final. She goes to Hemmings.”
“I fear it won’t hold her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’ll venture out in search of men. There is a side to Lydia that I don’t understand, and it involves lovers. The drink is only part of her trouble. She is—on heat.”
“Indelicate, coming from you, wife, but a very good description. I would prefer to call her a strumpet.”
“I don’t believe it can be so lightly dismissed.”
“Oh, grow up, Elizabeth! Your family always showed a lack of propriety. That Kitty turned out so well was a minor miracle, but not one I can hope for with Lydia. She always was self-willed, and would go to any lengths to achieve what she willed. I knew George Wickham very well, and I can tell you that eloping with Lydia wasn’t his idea. She was crazed about him, and could see only one way to keep him—an elopement. George consented to the marriage only because I agreed to pay his debts. And have been paying his debts ever since, thanks to the identity of his wife.”
“Yes, Fitz, I understand all that,” Elizabeth said steadily, “but it is past history. You won’t keep Lydia at Hemmings.”
“Miss Maplethorpe comes highly recommended. Most of her work has been with the mentally afflicted, and so I regard Lydia.”
A cold sweat broke out on Elizabeth’s brow. “I cannot permit you to imprison my sister, sir.”
“That will not be necessary, madam. Miss Maplethorpe will not attempt to limit Lydia’s drinking, which will answer, I believe. She’ll be too drunk to go in search of lovers.” His eyes had turned to obsidian, a black, hard glitter. “It is a year since the Prime Minister was assassinated in the very halls of the Commons, and things have been in flux ever since, with Wellesley guarding the bone. I am within an amesace of becoming Mr. Perceval’s true successor, and I am not going to be cheated of office by a trollop like your sister!” The cold fire died out of his eyes. “I suggest you go back to Lydia and explain the facts more harshly than, it is apparent, you have thus far.”
“Oh, Fitz, what is this passion to be prime minister? Couldn’t you abandon public life in favour of your family? Of me?”
He looked astonished. “Family and wife are excellent in their place, but they cannot fulfil an ambitious man’s aspirations. I am determined to be prime minister and lead my country to a position of unparalleled power and respect. Our British reputation was severely damaged when we conceded the war in America to the rebels of the thirteen colonies, and we seem unlikely to win this fresh conflict there. However, we have beaten Bonaparte, and that must outweigh all else. Our navy rules the oceans, but strong action must be taken to turn our army into a body of soldiers even the French would quail to meet.” His chest swelled, he looked invincible. “I intend to turn Britain into Great Britain!”
“Hear, hear!” Elizabeth cried, clapping derisively. “I am so pleased you think me excellent in my place. Of late I have come to realise that you are every bit as proud and conceited as I thought you when first you
came into Hertfordshire!”
“It’s true that I had no basis for self-satisfaction in those days,” he said stiffly, “but the situation has changed. I knew well that I was marrying beneath me—oh, the follies of youth! Were I to have it to do all over again,” he said deliberately, “I would not marry you. I would have married Anne de Bourgh, and fallen heir to the Rosings estate. I do not grudge it to Hugh Fitzwilliam, but by rights it was mine.”
White-faced, she swayed, but righted herself without the help he probably would not have given her. “I thank you for that frank explanation,” she said with a stiffness quite the equal of his. “Would you prefer that I removed myself from Pemberley and your life? One of your minor estates would suit me very well.”
“Don’t be a fool!” he snapped. “I am simply trying to deal with the damnable nuisance your family represents. Lydia will go to Hemmings tomorrow, and very willingly. Not a difficulty, my dear. Ned will dangle a bottle of some lethal liquor under her nose, and she, donkey that she is, will follow it into the carriage.”
“I see.”
“However, I have another embarrassment looming. Namely, your sister Mary. She’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Oh, what other shocks would he produce?
“Yes. Somewhere between Chesterfield and here.”
“What are you doing about it?”
“If you had paused in your ministrations to Lydia, Elizabeth, you might have learned much from our son. Yes, we’ve all been worried about her, but he and Angus—and Ned, independently of them—have established beyond a doubt that she’s been abducted. Charlie can tell you the story.”
“He has grown in all sorts of ways, Fitz,” she said, sidetracked.
“I am not blind! I’m very pleased at what Oxford and young Griffiths have done for him.”
“I suspect Angus has had some influence too.”
Fitz laughed. “That is an alliance of mutual affection, my dear Elizabeth. Angus hopes to be your brother-in-law. Were it to come about, the last threat your family represents would be no threat at all, and I would have the Westminster Chronicle in my pocket.”
The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet Page 16