He chuckled. “As you wish, Mrs. Darcy.” Then he pivoted and strode briskly back to the cave.
Miraculously, no one was severely injured. There were a number of scrapes and abrasion from falling debris or stumbling while running away. Three people suffered cuts similar to Darcy’s from launched shards. One man was impaled through the upper arm from a larger piece of rock, a wound messy and extremely painful but not fatal. Another man miscalculated his footing, slipping on a terrace edge, and tumbling down the slope to land in the river gorge. He hit his head hard enough to swoon and develop a huge knot, but aside from a massive headache and the pain from dozens of scrapes, he recovered without defect.
A boy was sent to Castleton to fetch the surgeon. He was a disreputable looking character, but he tended the wounds efficiently enough, so Darcy allowed him to examine his laceration. The wound was not deep, the bleeding clotted long before the surgeon touched it. He cleaned it well, declared that it did not require stitching—not that Darcy would have permitted the scruffy fellow to pierce his skin with a needle—and slathered the slice with an herbal poultice and resin ointment to adhere the skin edges.
The troglodytes rallied together admirably. Moments after the boulder landed, while the sound of impact still shook the air, they were soberly and resourcefully organizing. No one person appeared to be in charge, and few orders were given, but before Darcy or any of the visitors returned to the scene, the cave dwellers had triaged the injured to the main hut and were in the process of rescuing the poor man lying in the riverbed. Children were picking up the smaller rocks and women were sweeping the debris. Several burly men were staring intently at the heavy pieces of stone, clinically discussing where best to discard it, while others were examining the precious ropes and equipment for any damage.
Of all the sights seen that strange morning, in some respects the cool practicality of these hardy people who lived roughly among rock, darkness, and the elements was the oddest.
There was little for any of the gentlemen to do, so the Darcys were finally able to leave the Devil’s Arse with relief. The blood-soaked cravat was stowed in a pocket, and Darcy had washed his grimy hands and brushed the dirt off his jacket and out of his hair. The mundane tasks had served to restore his calm for the most part, and he rounded the corner beyond which the carriage waited with his emotions largely under control.
Lizzy, unfortunately, had not been so lucky in finding an outlet for her worry. Alexander had nursed, more for the need to be cuddled than for nourishment, promptly falling back to sleep. This left Lizzy with nothing to do but pace for what felt like hours. She envied the infant’s ability to pacify, as she was a bundle of nerves ready to explode! The trauma coupled with visions of her husband bleeding, even though she knew the injury minor, threatened to undo her. When Darcy finally reappeared, walking briskly but composedly, her frayed regulation ripped apart. Tears spilled and she flew across the short distance, barely halting before slamming bodily into him.
As abruptly as the tears fell, she flared irritably. The release of her fear brought on a case of serious pique and she grasped hard onto his upper arm while the other hand lifted his chin so she could examine the dressing.
“He did an adequate job, I suppose,” she declared. “I saw him arrive and his appearance did not engender confidence. George would sooner kiss Lady Catherine than dress so disheveled and dirty. Tell me he washed his hands before slathering your face with this?”
Darcy was smiling. “He did, sort of. Do not fear, love. I have sufficient knowledge of how to treat abrasions and lacerations. I have had a few others in my lifetime,” he said dryly, Lizzy snorting while she continued to blink her eyes furiously and fuss roughly. “I will send a servant to the apothecary for the necessary ingredients. I doubt it will leave a scar.”
He clutched her hands, stopping them from their incessant fidgeting over his garments and person, and brought her fingers to his mouth for a tender kiss. When he spoke, his voice was low, steeped in checked emotion. “We are all well, dearest. But, if you are not too disappointed, I believe I would rather forego the afternoon’s agenda and return to Chelmbridge. Not only do I desperately need to change clothing, I also desperately need to hold my family close.”
She nodded, smiling as her churlishness evaporated. She leaned into his chest, Darcy embracing and kissing the top of her head. “Indeed, I think I have seen enough caves to last me several years. Take me home, Fitzwilliam.”
They would not return “home” for two more days, but the Logans’ lovely estate was adequate for the requisite rest, affection, and sweet lovemaking they craved. Mutual agreement meant that Poole’s Cavern would be saved for another excursion at a much later date. They ended their holiday staying above ground, leisurely driving over the beautiful and unique landscape of the Peak from Chapel-en-le-Frith down to Buxton and through Tideswell to Hathersage before veering south. They reverted to the favored pastime of touring historical places and churches as they strolled along manicured lawns and easy pathways, pushing a fascinated Alexander in his perambulator.
The last days of peace and delightful entertainment were necessary to erase the fright that cast a pall upon the whole vacation, both of them glad they had not succumbed to their nerves and rushed back to Pemberley immediately. On their first night in the familiar mansion that was in every way their home, after Alexander was tucked into his bed, Darcy pulled his naked wife onto his bared body. He drew her earlobe between his lips, sucking lightly, and then whispered huskily, “Shall we see how our bed compares to the Chelmbridge one in the sturdiness department?”
He grinned, lifting his left brow, Lizzy dissolving in laughter as she nodded a definite affirmative. And with that declaration, and the passion that ensued, the holiday at the Peaks was cemented within their minds as one of tremendous enjoyment only.
Chapter Seventeen
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s Affairs
Riding alone through the ill lit secondary avenues of London as the midnight hour passed was generally considered an unwise option. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was a cautious man for the most part, but also one who, after years of war in places that made London’s mean streets appear as the golden paved lanes of Heaven, did not frighten easily. Nonetheless, he kept his right hand lightly resting on his thigh near the butt of a loaded pistol. He wore a nondescript suit of dark blue, blending into the shadows as his uniform would not allow. It was essential that his mission not be detected. Finding a balance between stealth while not so obviously trying to evade notice was the key. Fortunately, he was skilled at such tactics, the military thorough in the lessons taught to their officers, as this excursion was of the utmost importance.
He turned down another back alley that led to the main thoroughfare he needed to hastily cross, but which was empty, whereas the broader street would likely not be. Even at this late hour and with the vast majority of the inhabitants of the fine townhouses he passed gone for the summer, the traffic in Town was never sparse. The ring of his mount’s hooves on stone blended with the noise echoing from the streets, but he kept his chin down and wide-brimmed hat pulled low just in case attention was drawn. Anonymity was essential. He could not, under any circumstances, encounter someone he knew.
Outwardly calm and vigilant, inside his heart raced. This was the third night in the past two weeks he had embarked on this mission. It was late September, the worst of London’s oppressive heat passing as the trees slowly began to color. The afternoon breezes increased, the evenings shortened with impressive sunset displays, migrating birds flurried in droves, and fall blooms emerged as signs of the autumn season ahead. Not surprisingly, it was the first time in many long years that the hardened man of war who had also lived in the busy city for fifteen years noticed his surrounds in such a light. Fleetingly, he wondered if Darcy had experienced the same sort of sentimental, and rather foolish and embarrassing, tendencies as his love blossomed. Not that Richard would ever ask!
Yet, as ridiculous as he felt at
times, there was no denying that these past months were the happiest of his life. The “accidental” encounters with Lady Fotherby had continued unabated all summer long. Initial innocent meetings at The Green Park with brief walks gradually lengthening had led to additional “surprise” rendezvous about town, as planned agendas were shared while nonchalantly conversing. It was remarkably easy to arrange. The official social Season was over, but there were always events happening or places to meet casually. However, as amazing as it was to spend time with her in these settings, it was not as fulfilling as it could have been and as they both desperately wished for it to be. Frank or lengthy conversation was impossible.
Her family remained firm on the necessity for her to mourn officially for a year. Although she had not shared her interest in the son of Lord and Lady Matlock, their increasingly frequent chance assignations were notable. Pointed questions had not been asked, but she gleaned from oblique comments and meaningful glances that her father and uncle were suspicious, at the least, and not happy about the development. She was worried about their opinion on the subject, but refused to dwell on it. Rather she delighted in what even at her age and past history was the first love she had ever experienced.
That her emotions toward Richard Fitzwilliam were real and profoundly deep was without doubt. Clearly his devotion was as strong. Two weeks ago while meeting at the British Museum’s Roman wing, Lady Fotherby had slipped a folded parchment into his jacket pocket. She was so devious and sly in the transfer that he had not discovered the missive until late that night when preparing for bed!
My Dearest R,
I know this is incredibly forward of me and pray I will not earn your disrespect, but I find that my heart can no longer restrain its need to speak with you in a more intimate setting. Therefore, I beseech you to visit me this Tuesday hence. Come discreetly, I beg of you, at the midnight hour to the rear entrance of my house. My trusted servant will be waiting and escort you in undetected. My only wish is to converse openly and adequately express my feelings. No demands are placed upon you, I promise. I simply yearn for the joy in seeing your face. Yours, S
The agony of waiting through the intervening two days until Tuesday was nearly more than he could bear. He vacillated between unparalleled excitement and intense nervousness. The latter emotion was somewhat embarrassing to admit. The truth was he did not know precisely what she contemplated by “adequately express my feelings” and was unsure what his outlook was on the prospects! Richard was not an innocent and obviously neither was Lady Fotherby. The physical attraction they felt for each other was palpable and the thought of loving her as he wished to with every particle of his body was a joyous imagining that he lived each night in vivid detail.
Yet in every dream, she was his wife.
For the first time in his entire life, the mere notion of intimacy with someone other than the woman he hoped to be wed to before the year was out was an untenable concept. He was more than willing to wait and found the abstaining strangely sweet. Still, as thrilling as the vision of consummating their sacred vows in the proper manner and time, he was only human!
He need not have fretted over the matter, however. It is not that Lady Fotherby—Simone, as she would forever now be to him—was not involved in her own struggle over physical desires; but the simple delight in just sitting together holding hands, talking, and stealing kisses was exalting. They talked until the sun sent its first hazy rays over the horizon, Richard hastily escaping into the few remaining shadows. Embarrassment, hesitation, discomposure, unfamiliarity; it all faded in those hours spent communicating.
He shared his past as he had with few people. Honest tales of his wartime experiences, reminiscences from his youth, blunders and ridiculousness of adolescence, University incidents and education, and so on. She spoke of her arranged marriage to the kindly Lord Fotherby, a man she respected and cared for, but had never loved. Mostly she talked about her sons: Harry who was now seven, and four-year-old Hugh. They were the light of her life, Richard understanding and accepting that his love would never supplant the place they held in her heart, but merely come alongside.
They confessed their mutual infatuation all those years ago, admitting honestly that although real, it was of an immature nature. Perhaps it could have escalated into a deeper love, but no time was spent on worthless regrets. Besides, their current affair possessed all the traits of a silly, juvenile romance in how giddy and delirious they were. Now was all that mattered and by the time the first night waned into the blush of morning, their declarations of love were made and plans for a future together were set in motion. October ten was around the corner and Richard fully intended to make his intentions known and officially ask for permission to court Lady Fotherby no later than October eleventh!
Successfully, he traversed the distance between his house to the grand manor in secret. Miss Hale waited at the servant’s door near the kitchen, guiding him through the dark passageways leading to the parlor. She took her seat situated near the doorway, prepared to attentively guard from any unwanted nighttime wanders, while he knocked softly and waited for his love’s welcome.
It came quickly, the door opening to reveal her smiling face and seeking hand that grasped his and pulled him into the room. In a heartbeat, Richard yet fumbling to latch the door behind, she was in his arms.
“I missed you so much!” she breathed, raining kisses over his face.
“You just saw me today at the art exhibit,” he said with a laugh.
“Yes, but we hardly spoke for all the others demanding my attention. What a bother! Why can they not leave me alone and allow me to gaze upon your face in abstracted contentment?”
“There is little to look at, my dear. You would be bored in minutes.”
“Stop that! I weary of you speaking nonsense, Richard Fitzwilliam. Yours is a face I can drown in. Now, come and sit. I have hot tea and your favorite berry tarts. Tell me about your day. You left the exhibit early.”
“I really should not have come at all as my duties were overwhelming me, but I could not resist. Speaking with you, however obliquely, stealing a touch of your fingers or perhaps a kiss, has become my intoxicant. I am addicted to you, dearest Simone.”
She shook her head, blushing as she poured the tea. “The things you say! Ridiculous.”
“Now it is you who are wearying me by not believing the truth of my words, poorly romantic as they are.”
“They are beautifully romantic, Richard. Forgive me. I know you speak the truth in your love for me. I suppose I yet have difficulty grasping it fully. It has not been a topic I have allowed myself to dwell on in the past.”
He gently clasped her chin in his fingers, lifting to gaze into her eyes. “Are your doubts assaulting you today, my love? Is that why your eyes look sad and tired?”
“Only partially. Actually it is Oliver. I returned from the exhibit to discover the physician here and Oliver suffering an episode. I was furious that he ordered not to send for me. He always thinks more of others than himself, sweet boy.”
“Is he better now?”
“Yes, but it was a horrid afternoon. It frightens me so, Richard. The spells occur with increasing frequency and he responds less and less to the treatments. The physicians are confounded. This disease, whatever it is, has no cure or definitive course. All is an unknown while my poor boy suffers.”
“You should be sleeping, Simone. Now that I step back from the sweetness of your lips I see your fatigue. I should leave you to your rest.”
“No! Please! I… needed to see you. I did rest for a bit once his crisis was over.” She cupped his cheek, smiling with the wealth of her love evident. “I, too, am addicted, dearest Richard.”
“Well, I am more than pleased to fulfill your requirements, my Lady.” And they lost themselves for a time in blissful, but controlled, kisses.
The Fotherby tales of sadness and woe dated back many years prior to Lady Simone Halifax joining the family. Her now deceased husband had been ma
rried twice prior to taking his young bride to wife. His first wife, a woman he reportedly had loved deeply although he never spoke of it to Simone, had died along with their only child during the birthing process after a mere five years of marriage. Lord Fotherby had refused to remarry for nearly twenty years. His second wife was thrust upon him by frantic family members fretful about the line’s continuation. She was the daughter of a Duke who, despite her impeccable breeding and pedigree, was hiding a chronic illness. None knew of her ailment, the secret hidden carefully behind a stunning dowry and pretty face. Lord Fotherby was furious when the deception was revealed on their wedding night when she was too ill to consummate their marriage.
For fifteen interminable years, they would be married before she finally succumbed to the puzzling disease that defied all medical expertise. In that time, they would rarely speak and even rarer still perform the marital duties necessary to produce an heir, the whole reason for the trumped up marriage in the first place. Nonetheless, three children would be born, two dying in their infancy and a third, Oliver, surviving but clearly stricken with the same malady as his mother.
Lord Fotherby adored his son, worshipped the ground he walked on. It was this overwhelming devotion that prompted him again to take a wife. Left to his own devices, he would not have done so. His heart still belonged to the love of his youth and his physical needs were met by the bevy of mistresses easily accessible to a man of his wealth and power. But Oliver needed a mother. And, as painful as the thought was, Lord Fotherby recognized that he needed another heir.
Well into his sixtieth decade, he was still a vigorous and handsome man, respected throughout the country and fabulously rich. His choices for a third wife were vast, not a father of his class unwilling to give a daughter to Lord Fotherby. In fact, the atmosphere was disgustingly similar to a cattle auction! He had his pick of every available female in all of England. Lady Simone Halifax, daughter to the Earl of Westgate, was not chosen arbitrarily. Physically she was beautiful, but many others were equally so. What drew Lord Fotherby was her innate kindness and empathy balanced with a wit and spunk that he found attractive. He wanted a partner who appealed to him in a sexual way, but who also could take on the various roles necessary for Lady Fotherby and as mother to his son.
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