by Webb, Brenda
“That would be my pleasure. First, I shall dispatch enquiries to my fellow officers in the outlying counties and see what I can uncover. I do not see that rat returning to London via the usual route from Ramsgate. He would fear running directly into you.”
“That is my opinion as well. I will rest easier knowing you are on his trail. That leaves me free to focus on Georgiana.”
“Of course. When do you leave?”
“As soon as Barnes tells me all is in readiness. I imagine he will avoid giving me clearance until I eat. My servants are very protective.”
“You have good people. For that you should be thankful.”
“Though I may not always appear to be, I am. And I realise that though I have no appetite, it will not do to ride all day without eating.”
“Well, I do have an appetite, so I have no qualms in indulging. Would that we had food like this in the army!”
William relaxed somewhat as he sat down at his desk and began pulling the covers off the dishes. Not hesitating, Richard took a plate and began filling it, unaware of his cousin’s amazement at the amount of food he had on his plate. Once Richard sat down to eat, William forced himself to do likewise.
~~~*~~~
Later, as the pair stood in the foyer before going their separate ways, Richard moved close so that the servants could not hear. “I can only imagine how torn you are between the desire to be in company with Miss Bennet and the need to focus on Georgiana’s safety. It must be very difficult.”
“I have no choice, Richard. My sister’s safety is at stake, and I cannot fail her.” The anguish in William’s voice was evident. “I pray that God keeps Elizabeth safe until she is able to return to London and that she refuses that reprehensible Wilkens if he offers marriage.”
“One can only hope. I found her very intelligent, but she did not act in her own interest by going to Ramsgate in the first place. You must brace yourself for what may transpire, as she may be willing to sacrifice her own happiness in order to help her sisters.”
If possible, William’s face fell even further. His shoulders slumped, and his head dropped as he murmured wearily, “I have resigned myself to this one thing—if she is to be mine, it will only be by an act of Divine Providence, as no sane woman would have me under the circumstances.”
“Then let us hope Providence is on your side, my friend,” Richard said, clasping his cousin by both shoulders and squeezing affectionately. “I wish you God’s protection and speed on your journey. Tell my cousin that I love her and will do everything in my power to apprehend that villain and anyone else that may have played a part in his scheme.”
“She knows you love her, but I will tell her again.” William forced a smile. “Please be very careful, Richard. There is no way of knowing how many are involved. I am certain that, left to his own devices, George Wickham could never have afforded the expense of parading about Ramsgate as a gentleman—hiring carriages, coaches and such or staying in decent inns.”
“In addition to locating that rogue, I intend on discovering just who is financing him.” Richard straightened to his full height as his hand settled on the handle of his sword. “And heaven help whoever that fool may be.”
~~~*~~~
London
Grantham Townhouse
Gisela’s Sitting Room
Gisela’s latest maid, Fran, barely two and twenty, moved cautiously into the room trying to avoid waking the woman still snoring on the chaise. In the short while she had been serving Mrs. Darcy, not once had she found her asleep in the large bed in the next room as one would assume. Instead, she was either on the chaise or splayed out on the carpet in front of the fireplace in the bedroom.
Though she had managed to fit in with the downstairs staff since being hired, she was not sure how much longer she would be able to deal with her employer since moving upstairs. It was well known among the staff that her ladyship’s personal maids never lasted for more than a few months, and they were not allowed to remain in other positions when they quit; thus, Fran had never been desirous of moving upstairs as she needed to keep the position. But she had been pressed into service forthwith after Jemima left without notice because the Mistress had noted that she had better deportment than the others.
Tiptoeing over to take a closer look at the slumbering woman, Fran shook her head in despair at the sight—dishevelled clothes and a mess of tangled hair, combs and pins. The maid had to wonder if the knots would ever comb out. Furthermore, as she got near the figure lying prone on the tufted seat, she noted a distinct smell, not unlike that of the guttersnipes in the alley—a mix of liquor and body odour. Just yesterday Mrs. Darcy had ordered a bath drawn and then when summoned to the dressing room to bathe, insisted that she had not.
And from the smell, she certainly could have used one!
Sighing at the prospect of another day listening to her mistress whine, Fran spied something on the carpet and stooped to discover bits of broken glass. She quickly surmised that it had come from a broken picture frame lying under a nearby chair.
It is a wonder that she does not run out of things to throw!
Striving to clean up whatever debris she found each morning, it was discouraging to see new items destroyed every day. Picking up the frame, she stopped to study the portrait. It was of Mr. Darcy and his sister, the one Mrs. Darcy had boasted of stealing from Darcy House. That revelation had come yesterday, just as the mistress had begun her evening ritual of complaining about her husband’s inattention while drinking until she lost consciousness.
Like the majority of the servants, Fran had never actually seen Mr. Darcy up close. He certainly never darkened the door of the residence, but she had glimpsed him and his sister once on the street, when another maid had pointed them out. She remembered thinking that while the girl was pretty, Mr. Darcy was the most handsome man she had ever seen. This portrait proved that she had not erred in her judgment. Examining the tall, attractive man with dark, wavy hair, light eyes and a chiselled jaw, she recalled the bawdy remarks of one of the kitchen help—He can leave his boots under my cot any time he sees fit!
Shaking these improper thoughts from her mind, Fran brushed several small shards of glass from the likeness and then placed it out of sight behind other items on top of the chest of drawers.
Perhaps if it is hidden, Mrs. Darcy will not spoil it. It would be a shame to ruin so fine a likeness.
Seeing Mr. Darcy’s picture also brought to mind the servant’s gossip about the odd marriage of their employer and the Heir of Pemberley. This topic was often debated below stairs, though she had never added anything to the conversation. She knew the story well and, in any event, she learned more by listening. Nevertheless, the long-time maids and footmen always had some bit of new information to share, including recent reports that Mr. Darcy may have taken a lover. And now that she had been moved upstairs, they were steadfast in their efforts to have her tell them what went on in Mrs. Darcy’s private quarters. Nonetheless, Fran knew that a lady’s maid was not supposed to gossip about her mistress, so she dutifully kept her mouth shut and hid all evidence that the Mistress continued to destroy everything that reminded her of her miserable state. That had not endeared her to the rest of the staff, but she did not mind. She was more interested in pleasing Mrs. Darcy to gain her trust.
Picking up several items of clothing strewn about the room, her mind wandered to Mrs. Darcy’s friend, Lord Attenborough. At first glance, she had thought him a distinguished gentleman when he appeared at the house on her first day in her new position. However, when she had delivered the news that Gisela Darcy would be delayed a few minutes, he had made her uncomfortable by not answering but continuing to look her over. Then when he had refused to wait any longer, she had been very happy to fly back upstairs to the Mistress’ sitting room to inform her that Lord Attenborough had taken his leave and had left her a letter. After reading the letter, Mrs. Darcy had thrown a tantrum, turning over things and breaking objects. It had disconce
rted her at the time, but her displays of temper had continued so frequently that Fran had swiftly adjusted and now barely raised an eyebrow when one occurred.
A sudden knock at the door proved to be Mr. Boatwright, the butler, with the post. She glanced at the two letters before laying them on the dressing table. About to quit the room, her employer startled her by sitting up and exclaiming groggily, “Is there a letter from my husband?”
Knowing well not to answer that question, Fran replied, “You have two letters on your dressing table, madam.”
Gisela grasped her aching head. “There is no need to shout! Have Mrs. Boatwright prepare one of her headache powders as soon as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fran replied, eager to be away from her mistress. “I shall have her do it straightaway and bring it with your tray.”
“No. No food! Just have her prepare some strong tea and the powders.”
Fran nodded, slipping out the door. Once in the hall, she leaned against the door, closed her eyes and took a deep breath before letting it go slowly. Then she hurried towards the grand staircase to find the housekeeper.
In her room, Gisela slid her feet to the floor and held onto the dressing table to stand. Feeling dizzy, she closed her eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning. Once it had sufficiently, she reached for the letters lying on her dressing table. The one from her solicitor was ignored as she broke the seal on the other. It was not from Fitzwilliam as she hoped, but from Wickham. In it he gave his account of all that had gone wrong in Ramsgate. By the end, when he wrote of heading to London so that she could provide him a place to hide, she was furious.
Why would he think I am willing to help him? That fool will get us both hanged! Thank God, Grimsby’s son reports that Fitzwilliam has left London. I imagine he is off to comfort that snivelling little sister of his. Perhaps I should return to Derbyshire until this incident is forgotten.
Throwing Wickham’s missive aside, she sank into the chair in front of the dressing table, and for the first time in days, actually stared at her image in the large, ornate mirror. She gasped audibly. That cannot possibly be me!
Grabbing a nearby candle, she lit it, holding it near the glass as she leaned in close to study her features. Her fingers flew up to glide over a visage she no longer recognised. Finding the skin rough and dry beneath her touch, she pictured wrinkles where once there were none. Reaching for a jar of some expensive French cream, she began to slather it over her face and neck. The more she applied, the more upset she became until, all of a sudden, she quit the exercise, flinging the jar at the costly mirror while cursing loudly. The glass exploded with an ear-splitting sound, and the clamour of servants running in the hall proved that a good number of the household had heard.
The door flew open and Fran rushed in, stopping abruptly at the sight of her mistress sitting before the broken pane with a layer of something white all over her face.
Lifting her chin in defiance, Gisela bellowed, “Do not just stand there gawking! Call someone to remove this now! And find Mr. Boatwright. Have him bring the mirror from Mr. Darcy’s bedroom.”
Fran wondered if the woman had lost her mind. There was a bedroom that would normally belong to the master of the house, if there was one. However, since Mr. Darcy did not reside there, it had always been kept locked. As far as she knew, no one ever entered that room, even to clean it. Thus, she had no idea whether it contained a mirror which could replace the broken one.
Gisela noted her hesitation with great irritation. “I do not pay you to stand about like a Drury Lane Vestal! 13 Do as I say, or I shall have to find another maid.”
I wish I could tell you to do so right now, Fran thought as she stalked out and closed the door soundly.
~~~*~~~
On the Road from London to Milton
Slattery and Musgrove, trusted footmen of long-standing, nodded at each other as Mr. Darcy nudged his horse into the yard of the small Inn which served as a stop for post coaches. Both had been surprised at the pace their employer had kept since taking the road to Milton that morning and were as weary as the animals beneath them when the familiar landmark came into view. The only respite they had thus far was when they stopped to let their horses drink from a creek, devouring what food Mrs. Parker had packed whilst still mounted. Since their destination was only a half-day’s journey from London, they had thought Mr. Darcy would stop at the first small inn along the road, but he passed by it without even slowing in favour of this one further along.
“Let us stop here,” William declared, dismounting and throwing the reins of his stallion to an older man who came running from the direction of the stables. “Cool him down, Mr. O’Malley. Give him some oats and do the same for the others.” He motioned to the footmen’s horses, adding, “Stable them until we return. Please saddle three more from those I keep on the premises.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy!” the man replied, signalling another fellow to come forward to help with the horses. “Right away, sir!”
As William headed into the inn, he waved his servants to follow. Once they were inside, the Master was nowhere to be seen. Unsure of where to sit, as they usually ate in the servant’s quarters, Slattery and Musgrove stood looking about the small dining room. Suddenly, a maid appeared, asking that they follow her. She led them into another section of the inn and pointed to a door.
“The gentleman would have you wait for him here. He said to tell you that he would join you as soon as he settles his account.”
Both men did as instructed and found themselves seated in a private dining room, something they had never enjoyed before. A maid quickly appeared, setting plates, cups and forks on the table before leaving. Finally, Mr. Darcy appeared, taking a seat at the end of the table.
“I know that I have pressed you to your limit, but it is urgent that I get to Milton as soon as possible. I appreciate your willingness to ride so hard, and there will be extra in your pay this month.”
Both men nodded, and Slattery spoke. “You pay us well, sir. We cannot fault what you ask us to do. Besides, not having to hang onto the back of a coach is a welcome change.”
Musgrove agreed, though he added with a smirk, “Aye, it is good to be on horseback for a change, though I fear I am going to be sore for a month after we are finished.”
As even William chuckled at his quip, a stout woman appeared at the door with a large pot of stew, while a smaller one followed, carrying a tray with a pot of tea, a bottle of wine, bread and cheese. After the food was spread on the table and the maids had gone, each stared at the bounty before them.
“Let us eat then!” William urged. “This is the last stop we shall make before we reach Milton.”
As conversation gave way to eating, William’s thoughts drifted for the hundredth time to Georgiana and he took a deep breath, trying not to let his servants see his discomposure. Would she be as traumatised as she had when each of their parents died and be withdrawn for months? He could only pray that Aunt Audrey’s influence would make a difference in how she dealt with setbacks now that she was older.
Without warning, Elizabeth invaded his thoughts next and, as usual when she crossed his mind, he was flooded with a different fear. There was absolutely nothing he could do to protect her, for as far as the world was concerned, she was not his to protect—at least not yet. Closing his eyes, the memory of the night she slept in his arms permeated his being like a gentle rain. He opened his eyes to take a sip of the wine, hoping to gain control of the familiar ache that had begun.
“Are you not going to eat?” Slattery asked. “It is quite a good stew.”
Musgrove nodded his agreement, though he did not stop eating to comment.
“Yes,” Darcy murmured woodenly. “I was just going over some matters in my head.”
“Well, you had best eat, Master. It will not do for you to be faint in the saddle, not with those stallions you prefer to ride.”
William offered a wan smile before doing something at which he had bec
ome an expert—forcing all thoughts of Elizabeth from his mind. That was the only way he had been able to function without going completely mad these last few months. But he had found that even that skill was not without its drawbacks. Suppressing recollections of Elizabeth during the day meant that his nights were fair game for all of them to reappear.
Suddenly no longer hungry, William began to choke down one bite of food after another. Slattery was right. He must be able to maintain his strength with all the miles yet to cover.
Chapter 31
Milton
Ashcroft Park
The Drawing Room
Audrey Ashcroft watched Lord Landingham pace back and forth across the imported carpet, all the while running his hands through his hair. His actions were very reminiscent of her taciturn nephew, but she had never noticed the similarities before now. Since they were waiting for Fitzwilliam to arrive, she had used the time to enlighten Marshall in regards to Georgiana’s confession of keeping Wickham’s presence in Ramsgate a secret. There was no getting around the fact that her nephew would have to be told when he arrived, and she hoped that by telling Georgiana’s godfather beforehand that he would be of aid in helping Fitzwilliam to see reason when he was informed. She never dreamed that Marshall would need to be calmed himself.
“I am sorry. I did not realise how much this would upset you, Marshall. In your present condition, you do not need something more to make your head ache.”
“Please do not apologise,” he broke in a little too sharply. His pacing came to a sudden halt as he faced her. “Georgiana is the one with a lapse in judgment, you are merely the messenger.”
“Regardless, if you keep treading back and forth, your headache will no doubt return, and all you will have accomplished is to wear a hole in the carpet.”