My Dearest Mr. Darcy: An Amazing Journey into Love Everlasting tds-3

by Sharon Lathan

  Almost.

  The falconry was located farther south, on the extreme edge of the gamekeeper's complex. Mr. Holmes, the falconer, lived alone in a tiny cottage tucked under the trees outside of the walled-in area with the mews yards away and semi-attached by a covered passageway.

  The Darcy family was one of a few who still practiced the art of falconry. An ancestor of Darcy's, Edward Darcy, had developed a passion for the sport in the early 1600s, when it was still a highly favorable royal pastime. It was he who built the falconry, captured and then bred the birds, and hired the men who served as specific caretakers. Edward Darcy was so enthusiastic about the endeavor that his exceedingly explicit journals with astoundingly precise drawings and diagrams were considered prized possessions among the Darcy family heirlooms.

  The passion ebbed and waned over the centuries with not every Darcy learning how to hunt with a raptor or even paying much attention to the existence of falcons on Pemberley lands. Yet, the inhabited mews remained as an indelible aspect of the estate with a falconer always employed if for no other reason than to uphold a tradition.

  Darcy's grandfather hunted with a falcon from time to time and did take his beloved grandson along on a few expeditions. Darcy held fond memories of the old man with a fierce peregrine or lanner on his arm. But his father was not interested in the hawks, and upon his grandfather's death when Darcy was twelve, he lost interest as well and did not embrace the sport. In truth, his energies were focused on the horses of Pemberley, his passion for hunting following the typical pattern of the day with the use of a firearm preferred.

  It was not until his return from London the previous summer, still grieving and ill from his failure with Elizabeth Bennet, that Darcy began spending time with the hawks. It arose out of a request by Mr. Holmes to update some of the woefully ancient and decaying equipment and facilities. Darcy rode to the gamekeeper's yard, and after one afternoon talking with Mr. Holmes and observing the raptors in action, he was entranced.

  In large part he knew it was a mental diversion from his ceaseless dwelling upon Elizabeth—and of course the concentration and commitment necessary to adequately train a young bird did effectively drive romantic thoughts away—but he also experienced a thrill nearly as strong as when he trained his horses. He quickly became addicted, spending hours every day with his chosen peregrine, Varda. Always a quick learner and extremely patient, Darcy and his hunting hawk rapidly built a successful relationship.

  Parsifal took it well, the screeching bird no more annoying than a blasting shotgun. Running after a fast-flying falcon with his rider urging him to greater speeds sufficiently pleased the equine. Since his marriage, Darcy had not been able to spend as much time pursuing his new-found hobby as he wished, but the zeal and excitement remained present.

  The majestic animals kept by Mr. Holmes were truly magnificent. Primarily peregrine and gyrfalcon with an array of other species added to the mix, all were bred for strength and speed. The falconer was a tiny man, barely five feet in height, with a beaked nose and fine-boned frame that rather resembled a bird. The largest of his falcons, when perched on a gauntleted forearm, looked scarily capable of snapping the limb in half or dropping him to his knees from the weight. But the diminutive, middle-aged man was surprisingly strong, and his rapport with the wild prey birds was remarkable.

  One never could completely trust a raptor, of course. Incapable of being truly domesticated, feeling affection, or bonding with their master, they were not pets who desired to please. Rather, they were wild animals with independent wills and intense survival instincts. Life involved killing for the purpose of eating and very little else. The challenge was in learning to control the beast as much as possible and forging a working partnership. The thrill was in the hunt. It was a sport nearly as old as hound coursing and every bit as exhilarating.

  For Darcy, who loved to hunt with his hounds, it was even more so as the birds are forever unpredictable. Working and hunting with them was never boring.

  “Mr. Darcy, glad to see you,” Mr. Holmes greeted, his voice as high-pitched as one would anticipate. “Burr told me you were coming out to see about the poaching problem. Terrible mess that is. I have been on the alert for days, barely sleeping, although I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to attack my hawks. Get a finger bit off, they would. Serve them right if they did. Maybe an eye gouged or earlobe torn. I know Pan and Shrill would not allow anyone to touch them. Varda either, Mr. Darcy, so you need not worry. But I have been alert. Set a few traps around the perimeter just to be sure. Burr said you would get 'im more so he did not begrudge me taking a few. Since the birds do not like the dogs about, I do not have that protection, so it was only fair. I am sure you understand. Of course, it might actually be entertaining to see one of those wretched scum try to take one of my birds! One swipe of Shrill's talons would damage more than Jen's bite.”

  He paused to laugh evilly, Darcy smoothly interjecting as he had many years ago learned was necessary to stem the verbal stream. “The fledglings have flown?”

  “All but Zell. She may never be strong enough to train for hunting, poor sweet. But no matter. She can be a breeder. That makes four new hunters. Mr. Davington wants two, as we agreed, so I have sent word. Since Leo died, I thought to keep one as replacement. Did you have anyone interested in the other?”

  They entered the mews—Mr. Holmes continuing to chatter about the newest hatchlings, eggs recently laid, the two latest young to be fledged, flight patterns, hunt statistics, and more in the same vein—with Darcy primarily nodding and commenting in short phrases.

  The original mews were built of rubblestone with thick coats of plaster, the remnants of those two-hundred-year-old lofts now used for storage. It was these that needed the most repairing, Darcy endeavoring to restore without altering the unique style. The newer mews, built nearly seventy years ago, were far larger. Constructed of ashlar blocks with a combination of partitioned perches for each bird and open freelofts for limited exercise, these mews were lovely as well as functional. Darcy's grandfather had expanded the structure, keeping the sculpted appearance of the rectangular bricks but adding additional perches and nesting boxes to the already generous-sized mews. There was enough space to easily house three dozen full-grown raptors. Currently the census was twenty-two, most of the larger species of falcon but also a breeding pair of hobby and merlin falcons and a small collection of hawks. Mr. Holmes loved all types of raptor, although he naturally preferred the larger varieties.

  Lizzy, on the three trips she had taken to the gamekeeper's facilities, found the whole concept fascinating and was intrigued by the blue-feathered merlin. At less than one foot in height, it was the perfect raptor for a woman to use. Mr. Holmes was instantly animated at the idea of teaching the new Mistress and thus crestfallen when she declined his offer. Unfortunately the fact that Lizzy did not ride made the possibility of hunting with a bird of prey next to impossible. However, she did enjoy observing the procedure, especially her husband with his Varda, a prime example of impeccable breeding.

  Darcy greeted the peregrine now. Varda gazed at her master, black eyes steady and emotionless, waiting impassively for him to make the first move. Like many birds of prey, the females are generally larger than the males. Varda was no exception. She stood close to eighteen inches high, her body compact and strong. Mr. Holmes had chosen wisely between the three choices available when Darcy first asked to train a bird. Varda was intelligent, adapting to her expected behavior easily, and establishing a bond with Darcy as complete as one could hope for. Furthermore, her speed, size, and power enabled her to catch bigger prey, adding to the thrill of the sport.

  Darcy smiled. “Well, my lady Varda. Since I am here we may as well have some fun. Hungry?” She lifted her black crowned head, yellow-rimmed eyes seeming to sparkle in answer. “As you wish, then,” Darcy said with a chuckle, reaching for the thick leather gauntlet, jesses, hood, and bells kept by her cage.

  No point in wasting the long ride
out to the gamekeeper complex, Darcy thought with a grin. Varda released a screech, apparently agreeing.

  A week later the small family gathered in the parlor after dinner. This was typical, of course, and it was also typical for Georgiana to entertain on the pianoforte. What was atypical was that the shy young woman had finally revealed to her admired older brother that she dabbled in minor musical compositions. True to Lizzy's prediction, Darcy was amazed but exceedingly proud. It had taken a bit of prompting, but Georgiana finally agreed to play her music in a miniature concert.

  Thus they now reposed in the lavishly decorated yet somehow homey room and listened to the songs flawlessly played by the talented eighteen-year-old. Her blushing had finally ceased as she concentrated on the task, absorbed and filled with joy. Darcy stood near Lizzy, George was comfortably sprawled in a chair, and Richard acted as official page turner. All of them were entranced by the music. Honesty would require them to admit that the simple sonatas were far from brilliant, but the melodies were pleasant and well constructed. Clearly Georgiana was a novice, but the evidence of a blossoming talent was firmly apparent.

  The applause was enthusiastic and genuine, Georgiana's flush reappearing with the effusive praise from her family. Such was the zealous attention that it was several minutes before Darcy noticed a patient Mr. Taylor standing by the door.

  “Sir, Mr. Keith is in his office requesting an audience.”

  “Of course. Excuse me, please. Georgiana, keep playing your beautiful songs.”

  Darcy found his steward bent over his desk reading a folded parchment. Ollie, one of Mr. Burr's hands, stood by the window, nervously shifting from foot to foot and kneading his hat.

  “Mr. Keith. Do we have a problem?”

  “The opposite, sir. Ollie here has delivered a note from Mr. Burr. He received a summons earlier today from Mr. Lange, the surgeon in Rowsley. Apparently a man was dropped at his door in the late stages of acute blood poisoning from an abscessed wound on his right buttock. Upon cleaning the wound it became clear it was a bite inflicted by an animal. Lange had heard of the incident with the poacher—thank goodness for gossip swapped in pubs—and sent word to Mr. Burr, who rode to Rowsley to question the man. Apparently it was difficult as the man is near death, raving, and quite jumbled in his words. But he feels certain he learned enough to ascertain that the poachers are hiding in the abandoned limestone quarries at Cregg's Ravine.”

  “That is a dangerous place to dwell.”

  “Probably why they chose that as their lair. No one goes there anymore. Those collapsed caves and rocky terrain are treacherous.”

  “How many poachers are there?”

  “He could not be certain. The man named at least three that Mr. Burr could be sure of, but beyond that it was indistinct. He isn't even sure where they are exactly as those mines extend for a good half mile, but the man made a couple of vague references that led him to deduce they are near Struve's Ridge, where the river once flowed before being dammed and diverted underground.”

  “Odd place. There isn't much cover there and no water.”

  “The stream is now aboveground,” Ollie said. “The old dam broke years ago, and an avalanche off the ridge collapsed the ground so's that the stream now runs partially through the ravine, at least 'til Sawtooth Hill. Then it disappears again.”

  Darcy nodded. “Thank you, Ollie. I haven't been to that part of Derbyshire for well over a decade. If memory serves, there are a few caves, or at least semi-sheltered cliffs that could be fashioned into a dwelling of some kind?”

  “Yep. That is what Mr. Burr suspects,” Ollie continued with a nod.

  “He is gathering his best men, and Mrs. Burr, and plans to attack under cover of darkness,” Mr. Keith said, tapping the paper on his desk. “It is a good night with the moon at half brightness. Ollie here, as well as Lew, will be in front since they know that area best.”

  “We grew up just a mile away,” Ollie explained, “and it was a sort of dare to hike through the quarries. Lew almost died when he was thirteen and he slid on some loose rocks. Mama forbid us to ever go again,” he paused, his shrug and grin clearly stating how that order was disregarded. “That's how we know the stream is runnin' and that a few straggling trees and shrubs have grown up near there. It really is a good hidin' place, if you don't count the frequent rock slides.”

  “And flash floods,” Darcy said, shivering slightly in memory of a horrific occurrence in his youth when some thirty miners were killed after a deluging rain high on the Peaks rushed through Cregg's Ravine. Not long after that the quarries were closed.

  “That too. But the location is central. They can poach from several estates bordering, keeping the losses scattered. We figure this has been going on for some eight months now, but the takings were wide enough that no one gamekeeper figured it out. They made a huge mistake attacking the dovecote. That tipped us off for sure.”

  “That and bringing this man within Jen's teeth,” Mr. Keith offered with a chuckle.

  “So, what does Mr. Burr plan?”

  Ollie shrugged. “A simple frontal attack. Should be easy. These are low thieves who probably have no idea how to fight. The man dying at Doc's don't look too healthy or kept up. We'll wait 'til after midnight, just to be sure they're sleeping.”

  Darcy considered for a moment, reading through the brief statement penned by Mr. Burr. “Very well then. Tell him to proceed as he sees fit. I will be joining in, but he is in command.”

  Ollie nodded. He wasn't at all surprised at Mr. Darcy joining the expedition. In fact, he would have been shocked if he hadn't. He put his hat back on and headed toward the door. “We are meetin' at the east gate in one hour. It is quickest to head through the narrow strip of forest there and then turn north. Mr. Darcy, Mr. Keith.”

  Three hours later the group of seven men and Mrs. Burr dismounted. The five mastiffs stood calmly at attention and the two bloodhounds pulled impatiently on their leashes. They were a quarter mile north of the area known as Sturve's Ridge. Or rather the section of rubble, small caverns, and graveled flooring below Sturve's Ridge, a sharp precipice thirty feet high. The ridge and narrow ravine below the crag was a treacherous place very difficult to navigate safely without a detailed map and light. Unfortunately they did not possess the former, aside from the imperfect memory of Ollie and Lew, and had to circumspectly utilize the latter. It was deemed best to enter from the north rather than attempt to scale the escarpment too close to where the poachers were probably hiding.

  Each person possessed a tiny covered oil lamp, the screen to be opened only if absolutely necessary. It was doubtful that the thieves would post a lookout, but then again, they might be on a higher stage of alert after depositing their friend on the surgeon's doorstep.

  Darcy kept to the rear of the group, a shotgun tightly clutched in the crook of his right arm and two loaded pistols tucked into his belt. He had wisely waited until he was in the stables before loading the firearms, Lizzy already fretting enough at his involvement in the venture. She said little, but the anxiety was discernible on her lovely face. He hated worrying her, but Darcy had never been the type of Master to sit back and let his employees do all the work. Besides, this sort of adventure was simply too much fun to miss, not that he would have said that to his wife!

  Colonel Fitzwilliam, naturally, had come along. His expertise was valuable, although like Darcy he hung back and allowed the gamekeeper to command. Or rather the gamekeeper and his wife, since Mrs. Burr was stationed to her husband's immediate left, shotgun at the ready and Mole protectively flanking.

  Lew withdrew the bloody, crumbled garments worn by the unfortunate poacher lying in Rowsley, if he was still alive, and held them under the noses of the two hounds. They each sniffed and slobbered over the clothes, taking less than one minute to firmly and irrevocably plant the scent within their nostrils before beginning the search. Noses pressed to the rocks and dirt, their leashes given plenty of slack to scout about, the dogs led as the hunters tr
ailed behind.

  It took about fifteen minutes. The dogs searched for the one scent among all the others detected, ranging over a fifty-yard span before finally finding the poacher's scent on a narrow trail winding through a dead copse of trees at the base of a shorter cliff a bit north of the taller pike. The silent black and tan animals gave no vocal indication of their victory, merely launching purposefully forward. Once on the hunt, nothing would divert them and their handlers were forced to trot at a rapid pace in order to keep up with the relentless pursuit.

  The bloodhounds did not stumble, nor did the mastiffs. Their eyesight was keen and feet surely placed. The humans struggled more, no one escaping the occasional stumble, but gradually they advanced.

  The wide valley closed in as the walls grew steeper and higher. Attempts were made to be as quiet as mice, but the crumbled chunks of limestone littering the ground prevented this. Thus, everyone was wary, each sense straining and vigilant. Eyes swept the environs constantly with peripheral vision locked onto the mastiffs, who would definitely detect trouble long before the humans.

  The smell of water and sound of slow trickling over rock was noted before they reached the tiny creek and moderate-sized pond. A rapid assessment determined that the pond was not natural, a crude dam stopping the natural flow down the ravine's floor. It was their second indication—after the hounds' detection of the poachers' scent—that they were on the right track. The next question was how to determine precisely where they were hiding.

  “Well. Look at that! They lit the welcoming light for us. How considerate.” Richard's dry whisper reached Darcy, both men chuckling faintly at the sight of the flickering fire that answered the question.

  The rock ring was located approximately four feet away from a gaping opening in the solid wall, the small fire casting uneven illumination over the clearing before the cave. But it was enough to adequately visualize the raggedly dressed man sitting in a slump before it. The sentry, presumably, although he appeared to be dozing and his rifle was lying negligently across his lap. The light was not bright enough to conclude there were no other caverns in the area, so they advanced with caution. Still, with minimal intelligence, the plan was fairly straightforward: a frontal attack.