Darcy & Elizabeth (64 page)

“I wouldn't call it that 'specially,” she said. “I wuz downstairs when he called for some ice—fat chance that this time of year. They said she 'it 'im with her bag upside 'is 'ead. 'Ad it comin', so's I hear.”

“Then she is well?”

“Perfectly, so's I heard.”

Darcy whispered, “Thank God,” under his breath.

Daisy asked, “So…ye still after this feller?”

With renewed determination upon his countenance, Darcy nodded once firmly, still intending to confront Wickham. He had not come all this way to return without that pleasure. But he wanted not only justice done to Wickham, but right done as well for John Christie's sister.

To her he said, “I intend to lay out to Wickham money in payment for…” here he bethought explaining himself, “…it matters not my reason, but he is owed. Anyone here who sees fit to confront Mr. Wickham over past grievances will be free to do so. I only advise you that I intend to report Mr. Wickham to the authorities. I shall tell them that he's done murder to a soldier under his command and then deserted his post. Mr. Wickham knows this will be my intention. After I leave, what becomes of him will be of no interest to me.”

“Ye can be certain, Mr. Darcy, that I will be waiting for you to take yer leave,” said Sally.

“Here,” Darcy said, reaching in his waistband and removing his pistol. “Wickham will be desperate. He is not to be trusted.”

“Thankee,” said Sally, “but yer gonna need it.”

“I think not,” he replied. “And I bid you good luck.”

“And you as well.”

Taking off his hat, he started out the window once again, but this time Daisy stopt him. “Careful someone don't cut ye another smile.”

She put her finger beneath her ear and drew it swiftly under her chin and across to the other one.

“I will keep that in mind,” said he.

Drawing his other long leg through the window, he paused, then leapt across the divide and pulled himself through. Then he disappeared into the darkness therein.

A Rescue of Sorts

When Darcy took his leave of Wickham, he was in a furiously satisfied temper. By the time his boots hit the cobbles, he was still seething with rage, gratification, and a sense of finality.

He took leave so embroiled in those emotions that he took to the street with hard steps and chin tucked. He had been exceedingly disinclined to return by the way whence he had arrived. He did not think his dignity would survive one more trip through that gates of hell of a brothel. He had not seen the girl, Sally, as he left, but he sensed her presence. What satisfaction he had not received from Wickham, he was certain she would exact.

The streets looked as vacant as they had before, but then he knew better what menaces lay there and could see rustlings just beyond the fringes of window-light. He kept walking, shoulders back. Still, he slowed a bit as he put on his hat. He dug into his pockets for the gloves he had stashed within. He sought them in defence of his fastidious nature rather than the chilly air. He drew them on whilst keeping careful watch about him, and when he could not fit his fingers into those of the gloves, he stuffed them back in his pockets without another thought. Only his own custom-made gloves fit him properly. These, he knew immediately, must have been someone else's.

Looking about for his hired coach, he wished he had his walking stick. (It was small defence, but some.) His coach was not to be found. He had been so single-minded in his confrontation with Wickham that he had not allowed small details to derail him. Only then did he recall the haste with which that coach had departed. Having never had occasion to sit in a hired vehicle, it had not occurred to him that his demand for the driver to wait would not be heeded without a coin in payment. He cursed himself for his cosseted life—not knowing what any street urchin would know.

The late hour was of even more particular notice to him now that he was without a coach. Few people were on the streets and not a horse was in sight. Dogs were certainly about; he could hear their howls as they scavenged for scraps. One animal began to follow him, for he had determined it was better to not to stand as if waiting for someone lest he be beset upon. His pace was certainly no guarantee of safety, but it improved his mood to be on the move. His intention was to move away from the wharves, but the yellowed fog that shrouded his feet made it difficult to get his bearings.

He was very aware of his fine attire. Kneebone's coat, he noticed only then, was a finely tailored one and very conspicuous. That coat alone would be deemed worth cutting his throat for by the denizens of this district. He endeavoured to walk quietly, still his footfalls echoed in the dampness. He rethought his distaste of returning through the brothel. Might that miniature brothel owner have advised him?

A crash of glass, a woman's screams, and a man's laughter bade him pick up his pace—to where he was altogether uncertain. He then rethought his decision to have given the girl his pistol—chivalry would not allow that, insisting he believe it better that she be armed than he. In truth, he had not altogether trusted himself to face Wickham with a weapon at the ready; it would have been too great a temptation to employ it. He had done murder once in his life, and that was quite enough.

He then sensed shadows behind him and turned to face his attackers rather than be taken from behind.

To his great relief, he saw only that a second dog had joined the first following behind him. Both stopt and returned his gaze, unafraid. He clapped his hands and said, “Scat,” dispersing them—for how long, he knew not.

Ahead of him, he espied a cross-street and made for it in hope of finding a street sign. It was then that he heard an odd sound. It was maddeningly familiar, but he could not place it. It was either a squeal or a whistle—perhaps an animal in distress. Whichever it was he cared not, but he walked briskly in that direction to determine its origin.

There it was—he heard it once again. It
was
a whistle—one of a singular nature, known only unto himself. He strode with even greater determination in its direction. When he came closer, he saw a carriage, but one that he did not recognise. It was once a fine carriage, but it had seen better days. As he drew nearer, the mist thinned and through it he saw the coach more clearly. He recognised it—but not only because of the livery. He recognised the pale face protruding from the window, peering at him almost as dearly as he did at it. The feeble whistle then ceased. By the time he reached the carriage door, the driver had released the brake and started upon his way. The door opened and the steps were tossed down; he leapt upon them on the run, drew himself into the carriage, and slammed the door behind him. He quickly rapped the roof with his knuckles, thereupon doffed his hat to stick his head out of the door to call to the driver to make all due haste. When the driver obliged, the coach leapt forward, causing the occupants to be tossed against the seat backs. Only then did the breath that he had been holding release into a huge sigh of relief.

“I was astonished you heard me,” Elizabeth said.

“
I
was astonished I heard you.”

“You do not think I have improved?”

“No, I do not—nor do I think you should.”

“One never knows when it might be useful,” Elizabeth said.

“With any luck, it will never be necessary for you to employ it again,” he answered.

With that, he wrapped his arms about her, crushing her to his chest. Thereupon with similar enthusiasm he planted a kiss upon her lips—one that she returned with particular warmth. Still holding her, he pushed her back at arms length, unable to stop himself from gazing upon her.

Before he could chastise her, she said, “I am sorry I was no nearer than I was. Only luck found you. It does not look at all as it did in the daylight.”

He could not have agreed more, but did not say so.

Happy that she did come, still he admonished, “You should not have come down here alone. It is unsafe.”

“Unsafe, you say—and for you as well. I have a driver and a footman, and what do you have?” She chastened him in return, reminding him, “I have been sick with worry for you. I would never sit back to await your injury.”

“I hired a carriage,” he answered mildly, reminding her, “as did you the first time here.”

She ignored that. “Where is your hackney? Why did you not pay him to have him await you?”

He was disinclined to address that particular error upon his part, hence he altered the subject.

“What coach is this? Kneebone said you had sold your coach and horses.”

She knew this would be a sore point. As much as she would have hoped the subject would not arise, she knew it was imperative to reclaim them forthwith lest the purchaser resell them. Therefore, she identified the location. To her relief, he seemed remarkably unvexed.

“I'll have my man go there directly,” he replied mildly.

“This one I obtained from our Mayfair house,” Elizabeth explained. “The coach was dusty, but two good horses were stabled there.”

Both knew that there were many other things of which they must speak.

“How did you know where to find me?” he asked, wondering at her intuition.

“After I left Wickham…”

“I saw a large contusion upon Mr. Wickham's head. I understand that it was through your doing? My compliments for your aim,” he interrupted her.

“Did he tell you that?”

He shook his head, but did not explain further. The tale of the brothel would wait.

She continued her story. “I returned to Lydia's to repay Major Kneebone the money with which I struck Wickham and he advised me you had sought Wickham—and,” she held out her hands, “vôilà, I am here. But you should not have worried me so. I have spent all day endeavouring to keep you from facing Wickham—but to no avail,” she stopt, suddenly alarmed. “Pray, you did not do him harm, did you?”

“No, I did not,” said he, withdrawing a document from his waistcoat, “I paid him to sign this.”

She took it from him. Recognising her own hand, she looked perplexed.

“Lydia is free of him! Wherever did you find this?”

Rather than answering, he employed a gesture that meant
do not ask
.

“Did he refuse the other?” she inquired.

“He did not see it.” He felt in his waistband and breast pocket but did not find it, and said, “I discarded it.”

The expression upon her countenance was a blend of disappointment, contrition, and disapproval.

“Perhaps I should not have endeavoured to rid us of Wickham employing only my own volition. But I truly believed—I still believe—that to have him sign a disavowal of his name would the best course. That paper would mean that George Wickham was dead, forever from our lives.”

“Lizzy, I understand, I truly do. You wanted to spare me contending with Wickham. If he signed that disavowal, he would take his leave under an assumed name, never to bother us again. Despite the name, in his breast Wickham's cold heart would beat. It would be unfair to turn him onto an unknowing populace free to do murder again if he so chooses.”

She sighed, “Then nothing is done. Wickham is free to haunt us all.”

“No, not necessarily. I gave him a stack of bank notes and a running start ere the dogs were set upon him—so to speak. I left him and a pistol in the able hands of your associate,” he explained.

“Beg pardon?”

“Little Miss Arbuthnot.”

She raised an eyebrow, then smiled.

Quite formally, Darcy said, “We shall report Major Wickham's reappearance to his regiment. I will give testimony to what I know of his crimes. We shall leave it all to fate.”

“Fate may not find much left of Major Wickham,” she observed. “I do not suppose you told him of his connection to you.”

“No, I did not. If Wickham survives, I will leave that to fate as well.”

She was curious. “How much did you have to lay out to Wickham for him to sign away his husbandly rights?”

The understanding that in any other situation Wickham would have been happy to pay Kneebone to take Lydia off his hands remained unremarked upon.

“I honestly have no idea,” said he. “It was Bingley's. I must determine that and repay him.”

Without fanfare, she asked, “Pray, sir, may I inquire as to how it came about that upon Regent St. this very afternoon your arm was adorned by your former lover?”

Now that he was safe, it was clear that the events of the day had not worn out the resentment she had formed upon beholding that abhorrent sight. At her inquiry, however, Darcy gave a slight shake of his head. Indeed, for Elizabeth to have happened upon him at that very moment proved the unerring bad luck such circumstances invariably attract. He knew her too well to suppose her pique was merely because of the unseemliness of being seen upon a public street with a woman of Juliette's reputation.

He hurried to assure her. “Our meeting was coincidental to my visit to Sir Howgrave…”

The arching of her brow reminded him mid-sentence that he had employed the term “coincidence” when characterising his last encounter with Juliette. When he had used that term to describe their meeting once again, he had believed that it was nothing but happenstance. In looking at it through Elizabeth's sceptical eyes, he began to rethink the matter. Still, that she believed it was possible for him to be beguiled by another woman insulted both his honour and his reason. His indignation lasted only long enough for him to recall what his own resentment would have been had their positions been reversed—had he seen her upon the arm of a former suitor. At the thought of it his breath grew heavy. He closed his eyes to rid himself of that image.

When their eyes at last engaged, all his resentment was lost. Hers, however, still festered.

Regrettably, the depth of his empathy temporarily stole his powers of speech. As he struggled to conquer the catch in his throat, Elizabeth grew uneasy. His discomposure to her looked uncommonly like contrition. As to what act might have caused him remorse, she awaited to hear with more than a little impatience. This rising anxiety too was betrayed by her countenance. Noting the subtle arrangement of her features into what could best be described as dubious, he hastened to reassure her—but met with little immediate success.

“I happened upon Mademoiselle Clisson as I—or I should say as Bingley and I—had just taken our leave of Sir Howgrave's apartments,” he explained.

“I did not see Mr. Bingley.”

“Of course not,” he reminded himself to be explicit. “Bingley awaited in the carriage, for my business with Mademoiselle Clisson was of a private nature.”

“Indeed?” she said, a raised eyebrow intimating a sardonicism her inquiry did not.

Unappreciative of the cynicism of her eyebrow, he replied a bit defensively, but this time had the good sense not to employ his former lover's name. “She advised me that a visiting acquaintance had news of Mr. Wickham. I returned with her to Howgrave's to hear what the lady knew of Wickham's situation. I asked Bingley to wait in the carriage due to the delicacy of the information.”

“What business did Mademoiselle Clisson have with Sir Howgrave?”

“They are affianced.”

That was a curious bit of information, but of the particulars of their connection she would inquire upon another occasion. Instead she asked, “It was through her agency that you learnt that Wickham was in London?”

“Yes. You can imagine my surprise and dismay.”

Indeed she could.

“I fear that I will always be an ungenerous wife. I am unhappy to admit to such a failing, but there it is.”

It would have been easy to accept the lightness of her tone and speak no more of Juliette Clisson, but Darcy believed that the time had come for him to put her mind at ease on the matter once and for all.

“I must have you understand, Lizzy, that my ineloquence cannot allow me to tell you the depth of my feelings for you. I am left only to say that my heart is, and always will be, yours alone.”