Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion

by Ginger Monette

  He strode across the room and swung the door open. “Where’s Colonel—?”

  “Right here.” His cousin rounded the corner.

  Darcy hastened Richard into the office then swung the door shut. “Arrest Wickham. I think I figured it out.” His breath came hard with the rush of adrenaline. “Look at this.” Darcy pointed to the tiny etchings on the back of the medal. “E4T E5T. Do you know what that is?”

  Richard’s brow remained tense.

  “Grave markers. Those are grave numbers. If I’m right, the cemetery at The Ritz has two graves with those numbers. We unearth those graves, we solve the mystery.”

  “Why would they be on the back of a medal?”

  “Insurance.”

  “Insurance?”

  “Yes. Insurance should the agent who sent it ever need to share the information with someone else. Intended to dangle proudly from Miss Bennet, marking her as the person holding the secret.”

  Richard raised his brows. “Maybe you were right about Cowart being a double agent. Wasn’t he the one who sent it in the first place?”

  Darcy shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s a pin, Richard. The medal is a pin. The Belgian officials came to Elizabeth looking for a pin—a gift from Wickham. It wasn’t hairpins, it was this bloody medal! The medal arrived just after Cowart’s death. Wickham used Elizabeth’s rescue of Cowart as the excuse to award her. Since Cowart was dead, no one could refute that he sent it.”

  “Well....”

  “That’s not all. Elizabeth’s tent—I told you I thought it was demolished from the inside, not from the bombing. That night her tent mate, the other Elizabeth Bennett spelled with two t’s who went missing along with Sapper after the air raid, was conveniently working the night shift and escaped the blast. Elizabeth mentioned leaving a duffle bag of laundry on her cot. A duffle bag would look a lot like a body in the dark. With the agents clearing out, they no longer needed her. Thinking she was asleep on her cot, they blasted the tent to eliminate her just like they did the washerwoman. It would be the easiest way to cover their tracks. But I’ll bet they are keen to know where this medal is—assuming it holds the clues I think it does. Elizabeth even mentioned that it was Sapper who first noticed she wasn’t wearing it. And we know he’s one of the traitors.”

  A knock at the door preceded the entrance of Darcy’s aide extending a slip of paper. “Excuse me, sir—”

  “Not now, Edwards!” Richard shooed him away.

  “Sir, with all due respect. A telegram for the captain. From Lambton.” The young man shifted sombre eyes to Darcy. “It was backlogged from yesterday.”

  A chill ran down Darcy spine as he took two steps and plucked the paper from the young man’s hand.

  Stranger shot accosting Miss Bennet.

  She’s missing.

  Suspect Monday’s Daily Express or a letter.

  Please advise.

  Mrs. R

  “Edwards!” Darcy barked.

  The corporal turned back through the partially closed door.

  “Find me a copy of Monday’s Daily Express. Now!”

  “What the bloody hell is it?” Richard snatched the telegram.

  Darcy massaged his brow, his mind whirring. Was he too late? Had the operatives already—? His gut rolled. If only he could have protected Elizabeth for a few more days!

  Richard strode to the door, cracked it, and called to the other corporal seated outside the office, “Get Military Intelligence in London on the line.” Richard turned back to him. “Steady on, Darcy. We’ll find her.”

  Darcy whirled around. “But what if some other bastard has abducted her or—. I don’t even want to think what else could have happened.” Darcy turned to the office door. “Where’s that—?”

  “Right here, sir.” Edwards extended the newspaper.

  Darcy snatched the paper and spread it on the desk, scanning the headlines before the newsprint settled. Richard joined him as he flipped over a large page. His heart plummeted at the headline glaring in bold letters: “Clearing Station Nurse Suspected of Espionage.” He squinted closer, his eyes darting across the lines of text.

  ...field hospital air raid... eight German prisoners disappeared.... .... British nurse also disappeared...suspected of aiding the escape along with known German sympathiser Meneer Bongaerts. .... Young woman fitting the description was often seen outside the clearing station hospital...may have gone by the names Florence or Chérie. The suspect was spotted in the company of an unidentified officer the day after the evacuation....Commander of the British hospital was unavailable for comment.

  Richard looked up. “Bongaerts, a known German sympathiser? Where the hell did he get this intelligence?”

  Darcy traced his finger along a line of text and read. “’An unnamed source provided the commander of the clearing station, now flying the Canadian flag, a sketch of the woman.’ I’d say the bloody unnamed source holds the answer.”

  “What? That’s rubbish. The Canadian commander hasn’t even arrived yet!”

  “Of course it’s rubbish! The Miss Bennett spelled with two-t’s is the suspect. She went missing after the air raid just like Sapper.” Darcy dismissed the paper with a flick of his fingers.

  Richard placed a hand on his shoulder. “Granted, Miss two-t Bennett’s appearance is uncannily similar to your Elizabeth’s, so there could be confusion about whose image was on the sketch. But you can’t deny your Miss Bennet conveniently stayed behind after the evacuation, and she’s missing now. Perhaps I was right about her.”

  “No!” Darcy pulled away. “The telegram said Elizabeth was accosted. And she stayed behind at The Ritz for a good reason. She was waiting for the housekeeper to return and wanted to clean up the wards before the Canadian medical team arrived.”

  Richard scratched his brow. “Not exactly a compelling reason for a vulnerable young woman to remain alone after an air raid.”

  “Then consider this,” Darcy bellowed. “How do you think she could aid in prisoner escapes when I found her tangled in a shrub on the side of the bluff?”

  “Perhaps she fell after she did the dastardly deed. How do you know she and Miss two-t “Tootie” weren’t conspiring together? They shared a tent, didn’t they? Darcy, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck.”

  “Not this time. I’ve got to find her. Something’s happened. She wouldn’t run away like a coward.”

  “Even a sly fox in the henhouse runs when the farmer appears.”

  “She’s not a fox, damn it! I’ve got to find her.”

  “Be reasonable, Darcy. I can’t have you gallivanting off to Derbyshire. You’ve got leave coming in a few months.”

  “Months, Richard, months! If some blackguard like Wickham is after her, she may already be....” Darcy shook his head.

  “I’ll get London—”

  “The reporter should have consulted British intelligence before spouting off.” Darcy paced. “Stories like this ruin innocent people.”

  Richard laid a hand on his shoulder again. “Darcy—”

  “No!” He jerked away. “You must let me prove she’s innocent.”

  “You’re too close, Darcy. You can’t be objective. I’ll get London on it.”

  Darcy opened his mouth to object, but Richard gripped his forearm.

  “Let it go. I’ll handle it.” His cousin leaned closer. “I promise to make you privy to the reports.”

  Darcy released a pent up breath and relaxed his shoulders. Richard was right. He was too close, too personally invested. He loved the woman, for heaven’s sake! He’d have to let it go.

  “Come sit down. We’ll sort out a plan and get Intelligence on it.” Richard gripped Darcy’s arm tighter. “I promise, if she’s innocent, I’ll do all I can to help you prove it.”

  “Then at least let me return to The Ritz to explore those graves and talk to that Canadian reporter. What does he think he’s doing writing piffle with half-baked facts?” He batted at th
e newspaper. “This is the second time there’s been a lack of communication among the Allies. The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. If we’re going to win this war, we’ve got to improve communication.”

  “Darcy—”

  The door creaked open. “Pardon me, Colonel. London Intelligence on the line.”

  Richard strode out of the door.

  Darcy paced. If only he could return to England and search for Elizabeth now—himself! Did she run away, or disappear? Had she left a letter or any clues? Damn war! It prevented him from attending to the things he cared about the most. He shook his head. This was one instance where all the money in the world couldn’t buy him what he needed.

  Staring into the room, he massaged his brow. Had he missed anything? Lowering himself into the chair, he picked up Mrs. Reynolds’ telegram and read it again.

  Stranger shot accosting Miss Bennet.

  She’s missing.

  Suspect Monday’s Daily Express or a letter.

  Please advise.

  Mrs. R

  Who had accosted her? And who shot the accoster? Was it someone on his staff? He had instructed his steward to alert the staff to Elizabeth’s presence and keep a close watch for anything suspicious. He stared into the room. Was the assailant specifically targeting Elizabeth, or was he just an opportunist? If he was looking for her, how did he know she was there? Darcy had invited Elizabeth to Pemberley only a few days before—while they were alone at The Ritz. The day after, they had travelled to Boulogne.... Caroline Bingley! Darcy sat up. They’d encountered her on the street, and Elizabeth mentioned travelling to Pemberley. Darcy shook his head. It couldn’t be Caroline. She might be a petty troublemaker, but she was no malefactor. Who else knew Elizabeth had gone to Pemberley?

  Darcy retraced their steps in the quayside city and froze. The passport office. George Wickham worked there. Did passport applications require a destination? Who else could it be? A flush of fear swept over him. Wickham had motive and capability to send someone after her. Another thought struck. Darcy nearly choked for lack of air as Wickham’s words whispered in his mind: I’m sorry to hear of her misfortune.... I couldn’t have orchestrated your demise any better had I planned it myself. ...Never know what can happen at the Front. It all made sense. Darcy had been alone when he met Wickham in the pub. The rat probably assumed that Elizabeth had been killed in the tent sabotage—which would indeed be a destructive blow for Darcy. If the blackguard caught wind she’d survived and then travelled to Pemberley, he had the contacts and incentive to send a thug or two after her. Even if just to spite Darcy!

  He smacked the desk and rose. If only he could have told Elizabeth about the conspiracy investigation and his fears for her, she could’ve been on guard. Damn that medal and Richard’s orders! He raked a frustrated hand through his hair. She was now either running for her life, or another thug had—.

  Richard strode in, shutting the door with a bang. “London Intelligence verified Miss Bennet’s not with her sister in London. They’ve dispatched an agent to Bingley’s townhouse to obtain a list of Elizabeth’s relatives and friends. If Miss Bennet’s on the run, she’ll likely seek out someone she trusts.”

  “What about Pemberley?”

  “A Derbyshire agent is on his way there now. They want any clues you have as to her whereabouts and a detailed list of Miss Bennet’s possessions—anything you know she had in her possession when she crossed the Channel.”

  “I have a clue. I may have deciphered Wickham’s words. I think when he met me in the pub, he assumed Elizabeth had been killed in her tent during the bombing raid and was gloating how he’d so cleverly managed my demise. When he realised she’d survived and gone to Pemberley, he sent one of his thugs to finish the job.”

  Richard raised his brows. “I hope you’re wrong. If Wickham’s that close on her trail, it could get ugly.”

  “It’s already ugly! If I could have warned her—.” Darcy released a heavy breath. “It’s too late now.”

  Richard laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll do all we can. I promise. You start on that list of her possessions. I’ll find Knightley, then ring Canadian headquarters. Maybe they can tell us if that reporter is still at The Ritz before we go gallivanting off in the rain.”

  Darcy nodded and pressed a thin smile.

  His cousin clapped his shoulder, then exited in silence.

  Darcy sighed. First things first. Mrs. Reynolds would be beside herself with worry awaiting his reply. He sat down, pulled out a telegraph pad, then tapped his pen on the desk. A second later he touched the pen to the paper:

  .

  Leave everything as Miss Bennet left it.

  Military Intelligence arriving this afternoon.

  FD

  ~FIVE~

  The same morning—Stockport, England

  Late in the morning Elizabeth emerged from the Stockport hotel clutching her carpetbag, and glanced up at the overcast sky. Making her way down the street towards the railway station, she groaned with each step. Her five-mile trek yesterday had left her sore, and a restless night hadn’t helped.

  At least her coat and boots were mostly dry, but without a hat she felt like a battered flower missing its petals. She dared not use more money to purchase the accessory, lest she have insufficient funds for the steamer fare.

  Was it possible she could be on a ship bound for America by tonight? Her heart skipped a beat. It would be a completely different life. And one without Fitzwilliam.

  Her chest constricted with longing. But she was doing the right thing by disappearing, wasn’t she? If she turned herself in, there were only two possible outcomes. Worst-case scenario, she would be convicted, and then shot or hung. It would be in all the newspapers, and her association with Fitzwilliam would either land him with a conviction or a reputation so tarnished he would never recover from it. In that instance he would have lost Elizabeth, his reputation, and perhaps his own life as well! They were doomed no matter what happened! At least this way she could keep him out of it.

  An hour later Elizabeth stared out of the train’s window, seeing nothing in the blur that passed by. She sighed and refocused. She needed to look towards her new future. A future she didn’t even want. All because of a letter and a newspaper report.

  Was she overreacting? Elizabeth was not a spy. What did Dr. Cowart know about her that she didn’t? He was certainly no gentleman. If know-it-all Cowart had suspected Fitzwilliam of being a spy, it would make a lot more sense. After all, at The Ritz Fitzwilliam had authority, access to unlimited resources, his own motorcycle, and the freedom to travel the area as he pleased. —Wait.... Was it possible? Fear shuddered over her. Could Fitzwilliam be a...traitor? No. It was impossible. He had worked tirelessly on behalf of everyone in his care, even if at times his manner was brusque.... But he also had a way of appearing out of nowhere.... She shivered at the recollection of her picnic with Dr. Cowart. When a young thief had tried to steal their horses, the doctor had been shot. Five minutes later, Captain Darcy had arrived. Was he somehow involved?

  Elizabeth pressed her fingers on her temples. It was all so confusing! She had been deceived so often—by Lieutenant Wickham, Lydia, Dr. Cowart, and Sapper—she didn’t know what was truth any more.

  The train’s whistle snapped her back to the present. The man across the aisle flopped his newspaper onto the seat beside him and gathered his coat. The conspiracy! Was there any more news? Had the authorities discovered her identity?

  As soon as the man started down the aisle, she snatched the newsprint. Flicking it open, her eyes darted from headline to headline. Then she froze: Spy to be Executed in Vincennes. She frantically scanned the article, then released her breath with a gush of air. False alarm. The subject of the article was Mata Hari, the much-publicised courtesan spy. There was no mention of The Ritz or a clearing station conspiracy in Belgium. Tipping her head back and closing her eyes, the paper crumpled to her lap. She drew several deep breaths. The article served
as a sobering reminder of a traitor’s fate.

  Was Fitzwilliam a spy? The thought niggled in the back of her mind, and she tensed, barely willing to even consider the idea. But she must. If he was a spy, her association with him would surely come to light and add further evidence against her. If he was innocent and she was found, her association with him would ruin him. In either case, the survival of each of them depended upon her disappearance.

  But could he be a spy? What incentive would he have? He already had plenty of money, and betraying his country would jeopardise everything he held most dear—England, Pemberley, Georgiana, and even her. No, he wasn’t a traitor. It didn’t fit his character at all.

  Relieved, she straightened the paper, and a picture of a large steamer caught her eye. She squinted closer at the ad’s caption: Liverpool to New York! White Star Line. Fares from six guineas. Her arms fell limp. So much for her plan to escape to America. She was woefully short of six guineas. But maybe it didn’t matter. Her name had likely been circulated to every port in Britain, and her passport would give her away. What would she do now? Her only choice was to return to her original plan. She would obtain VAD certification under her new name, then seek to transfer abroad—for the good wage it offered and its anonymity.

  Just before closing the paper, she saw the word VADs. Peering closer she read, London hospital seeking VADs. Training begins 17 October at First General. That was next week! London would be the perfect place to get lost in the crowd and would be much more impersonal than training with a local Red Cross chapter. Could the day hold any more twists and turns? Her mind whirred as the train pulled into the busy Manchester station.

  After exiting the train, she sidestepped through the bustling crowd to the ticket window. The train for London didn’t leave for another two hours. Good. She’d have plenty of time to purchase a hat.

  Motorcars and wagons rumbled by as she strode past shop windows in search of a milliner. At last she came to an attractive display of hats. Once inside, she milled about, then tried on several styles and settled on a serviceable one with a medium brim and a blue band to match her coat.