Darcy & Elizabeth (63 page)

What Went Before

When Mr. Darcy left Major Kneebone's house earlier that evening, he was bent only on locating Elizabeth. Wickham was nothing more than an obstacle to that means. He stood momentarily upon the stoop determining the location of the nearest coach for hire. From the shadows, Sally Frances called his name.

That he wore Major Kneebone's coat was no impediment to her recognition of that man. Mr. Darcy's presence was of a singular kind. Sally had seen him upon several occasions at Pemberley. Such was the observation of those who knew the couple that after Mrs. Darcy's arrival, Sally knew it would be only a short time ere Mr. Darcy came after her. It was nice to know of a married couple who loved each other as they seemed to do. Had it not been for the Darcys and Gardiners, Sally might have believed love and respect between a married couple was only that of fairy tales.

Sally was as much Mrs. Darcy's ally as she was hers against Mr. Wickham. She had wanted most especially to go with Mrs. Darcy when she saw Mr. Wickham, but Mrs. Darcy had asked her to stay in case Mr. Darcy came looking for her. Sally had no doubt that he would. Mr. Darcy, she had heard, was given to rescuing folks.

It worried her that Mrs. Darcy might need rescuing. She intended to have Mr. Wickham sign a paper giving up his right to Mrs. Kneebone and pay him for his time. (It came to light she had a second document—one Sally understood equally well.) But the coachman had returned to his stand only to find that document in the seat of his coach. In fortune, he observed Mrs. Darcy's doings and knew Sally was of her acquaintance so he returned the document forthwith to her. Sally had it with her then, tucked beneath her shawl. Mr. Darcy had been right to borrow Mr. Kneebone's coat. Had he left in the same shirtsleeves in which he arrived, he might catch his death. Mrs. Darcy would be heartbroken were that to happen.

When she called Mr. Darcy's name, it was clear he had no recollection of her. Still, he peered at her not with suspicion, but curiosity. He answered only yes, that he was Mr. Darcy and waited for her to speak again.

“Are ye in want of yer wife?”

“Yes.”

She liked Mr. Darcy—he was a man of few words. She learnt long ago that garrulous men were suspect.

“My name is Sally Frances Arbuthnot and I know where she went.”

“Thank you, Miss Arbuthnot, but I know as well,” Mr. Darcy said. Then he eyed her again, “I was just in that neighbourhood—but it was daylight still. I fear I may not find the way in the dark. Do you know Gowell St.?”

“Like the back of my hand,” she assured him.

“Come,” he commanded, “I will pay you well.”

“I had no doubt ye wouldn't,” she assured him, “but I got my reasons fer helpin' ye.”

As they were crossing the street to the single remaining coach, Sally brought forth Elizabeth's lost document.

“Mrs. Darcy forgot this in her coach. The driver brought it to me.”

Darcy took the instrument from her and squinted in the dim gaslight to discover its contents. Ever in want of being of assistance, Sally said, “It's a paper sayin' that Wickham is dead, and one that says there ain't no Wickham no more.”

Mr. Darcy looked at her in a singular manner and she added defensively, “I can read.”

“Is the coachman here who took Mrs. Darcy to Mr. Wickham's?”

Sally was not about to allow Mr. Darcy to leave her behind, but she did not have to fib to obtain that objective. “Naw, sir. He went 'ome.”

Mr. Darcy opened the door to the coach as Sally told the coachman their destination. She began to scramble in, but Mr. Darcy took her hand and helped her in like a proper lady. Sally was altogether pleased to be treated as such. So pleased was she, she thought it only fair to apprise Mr. Darcy of all she knew of the despicable doings of wicked Mr. Wickham. In doing so, she also thought it prudent to advise him of her connection.

“That soldier he kilt? He was me brother,” she told him.

That information gifted Mr. Darcy the strangest look.

“Your brother?” he repeated, then queried, “Your family name is Arbuthnot?”

“He's me half-brother—same Ma, different Pa.”

“I see,” said he.

“I mean to kill 'im,” Sally announced.

“Who?” Mr. Darcy inquired.

“Why, Mr. Wickham, of course,” she said impatiently.

“I believe it best to allow the authorities see to Mr. Wickham,” Mr. Darcy replied, as he attempted to ascertain the contents of the papers Elizabeth had written in the low light and incessant rocking of the coach.

“That's just what Mrs. Darcy said,” Sally marvelled.

“Mrs. Darcy knows of your connection?”

“Indeed,” Sally replied, “I'm her associate in this business.”

He looked at her a bit dubiously, and she retorted, “She
told
me I was.”

His smile was not of the condescending variety. Apparently, asking for help from the likes of her was a turn of his wife's that he admired.

“I gotta tell ye, sir, that this time a night things can get a might rowdy down around Gowell St.”

“No doubt.”

He seemed unfazed by such a notion, and Sally wondered would he remain unfazed when faced with the likes of night life in Seven Dials? Moreover, she wondered when faced with the likes of Mr. Darcy, would Gowell St. be unfazed by him? It might be necessary for her to call upon past associates to make their way unassaulted. She had not been to that neighbourhood for many months, but she doubted much had changed.

***

Indeed, the coachman arrived at an approximation of where Darcy had last been taken. They had approached it from the other end, so Darcy's sense of direction was a bit askew. The street had been fairly bustling at dusk. The girl's description of what he would find when he arrived had him expecting a veritable circus of drunkenness and debauchery. A circus he did not see. The street was dark and almost deserted. He did not leave the coach until he caught sight of a landmark he recognised. The one he saw was the upturned arrow barely visible in the low-cast lights from the windows.

He opened the coach door and alit, placing but one page of the document in his breast pocket, the other he folded again and tucked into his waistband and instructed the coachman to wait.

Reaching in his waistcoat for a coin, he told Sally Frances Arbuthnot, “I thank you for your aid. I shall go alone.”

“Ye ain't leavin' me,” said Sally, leaping to the ground—having given up hope that her impetuosity would be rewarded by him taking her hand and escorting her from the coach.

“I think it best if I proceed alone. The streets are altogether vacant. I see the lodgings but a few steps from here.”

“Vacant, huh?” Sally snorted.

Darcy put his hands upon his hips, dissatisfied at his charge's impudence.

“See here, miss,” he began.

Sally grabbed his hand and tugged him into a shadowed niche. He had the good judgement to follow her lead and be quiet. Two men crept by them, one carrying what could ably pass as a bludgeon, in the other's hand, a knife glinted. Their whispering discourse involved the gentleman they had just seen and interest of where he might have gone.

“Rowdiness?” he mouthed to Sally.

She shrugged, but Darcy was affrighted to his toes. His own head was not his concern. His fear was for Elizabeth, who had trod upon these very steps not hours before. Silently, he looked skyward, begging God to look after her. Rather than cautioning him, the appearance of the men merely spurred his determination to locate her. His compleat recollection of her abduction and its aftermath had not yet descended upon him, but it was on the cusp of his thoughts. His heart told him to draw his pistol and walk down the middle of the street until he reached Wickham's lodgings, march up those stairs, and kick open the door. His head insisted otherwise, lest his rashness incite her murder.

“I must enter those lodgings,” he whispered to Sally. “There by the arrow—upstairs.”

He all but took a step onto the walkway, when Sally again tugged his arm.

“This way!”

Into an alley and up several buildings, Sally found an unlocked door. Weaving through barrels containing reeking substances (the contents of which he chose not to ponder) they made their way through what appeared to be a kitchen and into some sort of parlour. The remains of a silk scarf strewn over the top of a lamp cast a reddish hue through the room. It occurred to Darcy that such an arrangement was a fire-hazard, but by the time his eyes adjusted to its particular glow, he was nonplussed enough to have forgotten that trail of thought.

Seated about the room were several ladies, none of whom were fully attired. One nearest him immediately rose and went to him, putting her arm around his waist, announcing through a grin that evidenced a single tooth, “This 'ere's mine!”

To the murmurs of the others' disgruntlement at having been forestalled, Mr. Darcy unwrapped her arm from about his waist, observing, “I do beg your pardon, this is a misunderstanding.”

Not so easily rebuffed, the heavily rouged, scantily clad sexual vendor investigated the goods beneath his great-coat, saying, “See here, pretty feller, doncha worry, I'll be gentle.”

To that, screeches of laughter erupted.

Mr. Darcy announced (far too primly), “Unhand me, madam.”

“Unhand me, sez 'e,” the woman mimicked. “Unhand me—like 'e's some little virgin! Take off that hat and them gloves and I'll shew you what ye been missin'!”

Gratefully, his guide through this particularly lewd bawdy house then spoke in his defence. “Leave 'im be! 'E's after a murderin' scum, 'e is.” To the general lack of sympathy upon their faces, she added, “This murderin' scum 'e's after is a gentleman!”

Ahhs of appreciation were heard all round. One plump tart wearing curl-papers and an orange kimono knew the description well.

“Ye must mean that feller who lodges across up the street, in Mrs. Younge's house. He keeps more than one chit in pink stockings,” she said knowingly.

Just then came an interruption.

“Oh hush up, Mellie!” said a voice from the stairs. “And take those curl-papers out o' yer hair. How'd ye think a man's gonna want to tail ye lookin' like that?”

Once again, Darcy's new admirer clamped on to his waist with one arm and sent her hand scurrying for the inside of his leg. “Whoa, Papa Bear! What family jewels ye got.”

Whilst endeavouring to unpeel her fingers and disengage the personage attempting to caress his vitals, Darcy caught sight of possibly the oddest-looking apparition of his recollection. Before him stood a female no more than four foot tall, her yellow hair and ermine tippit much in evidence.

“Daisy!” Sally cried. “I been lookin' fer ye.”

“I been right 'ere,” said Daisy, unsuccessfully endeavouring to hide her delight at seeing her young friend. “Brought us a customer, did ye?”

To the woman with whom Darcy was still wrangling with over ownership of his genitals, Daisy demanded, “Let 'im be!” Then to Darcy apologetically, she offered, “I can do better for ye, she's got a face to inspire chastity if ever I saw one.”

“I thank you, no,” replied Darcy, giving Sally a flick of his head of indication that she was to explain that which by nature of his lack of intelligence of it he could not—for he had no idea what they were doing there.

Sally stepped between them. “We need to get over two houses without 'im gettin' thumped.”

Daisy did not ask unnecessary questions, but beckoned them to follow her. They trooped up the stairs through several bedrooms that were unoccupied and one that was (both tenants far too engaged to be aware that they were transgressed) to a window facing another across a small divide.

“Are ye lookin' fer a woman?” Daisy asked suddenly.

Taken aback, Darcy answered, “Why, yes. Indeed I am. At least,” he corrected, “a particular lady.” He thought it important to make that distinction.

“That why yer after this gemmen?”

Sally interrupted, “Nothin' like that, Daisy. Remember the feller that I told ye killed my brother? 'E's after 'im. 'Is wife is too. She come 'ere to get rid of 'im, not to…ye know,” she ended with a fit of decorum. “This 'ere's Mr. Darcy.”

As Sally had never told Daisy the name of the family for whom her brother worked as groom, employing only the name Pemberley, Daisy was unwitting until that moment that he was one and the same who was said to have killed her brothers. With only the moonlight shining upon them, the unmistakable grunts and groans of humping in the background, Daisy looked Mr. Darcy up and down.

Mr. Darcy allowed this measure taken without complaint. Although he knew not of their connection, he believed if he was to accept her assistance, he must acquiesce to her inspection.

This inspection was longer than Darcy anticipated. Even Sally wondered what Daisy's perusal of Mr. Darcy's person meant.

At last, Daisy turned and pointed to the window across the way. “Go through there to another stairs. Up 'em and across the other hall. That'll put ye in Mrs. Younge's landing. Mr. Wickham's at the far end of the hallway.”

It was then that Darcy again pondered obtaining the help of the authorities. He also once again wished for Fitzwilliam's accompaniment. Darcy thanked Daisy, but put the flat of his hand out at Sally, “If my wife is being held, trouble is inevitable. You must stay here, I'll not have anyone else endangered.”

Laconically, Daisy interjected, “Yer wife ain't there.”

“What?” said Darcy, one foot out the window.

“She left hours ago.”

“Are you certain?”

“Am I certain?! Course I'm certain,” she said indignantly. “Nothin' 'appens on this street that I don't know. She left 'im cold-cocked, she did.”

“There was an altercation?” Darcy asked worriedly.