The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (45 page)

Elizabeth had suggested that the earl should consider replacing the cook with one accustomed to more fashionable dishes and promote Mrs. Holbrook to the housekeeper's position. “It seems Mrs. Ridgeway frequently consulted with Mrs. Holbrook regarding household duties. Mrs. Holbrook's mother was a maid-of-all-work for a local family, and the Woodvine cook
assisted her parent with the household duties before assuming the position of cook for Samuel Darcy. The late Mr. Holbrook held his son's present position. He brought his young wife to Woodvine some thirty years prior.”

Darcy promised to speak to Rardin on Mrs. Holbrook's behalf. He also would speak to the earl about the possibility of Rardin purchasing Darcy's share of the property. Lord Rardin and his countess could then designate Woodvine as an inheritance for one of the minor children, and Darcy could use the funds from the sale as an investment for his own future family.

With the lights extinguished and his wife close, Darcy ventured, “Mrs. Darcy, we came to Dorset with two purposes in mind. However, having to put Samuel's affairs in order, one goal has superseded the other. Unfortunately, in the chaos in which we arrived, I have neglected a promise to see my wife enjoying Dorset's societal pleasures.”

As she walked her fingers across Darcy's bare chest, Elizabeth asked playfully. “What did you have in mind, Sir?”

“Sea bathing.” Darcy steeled himself for her reaction. He had considered his suggestion for the past several days and had come to the conclusion that it was best for his wife to return to the water soon. If not, she might never swim again.

Elizabeth shoved hard against his chest. “Sea bathing!” She spit the word into the empty room. “Do not ask it of me, Fitzwilliam. I am not certain I can bear even to walk along the shore.”

Elizabeth made an anguished, barely audible sound as Darcy sat beside her. He eased his wife to a reclining situation. “Listen to my reason, Lizzy,” he said calmly. When his wife did not respond, Darcy continued cautiously. “Although I did not experience what you did, I was there—at the lake—and I knew my own horror. But throughout your ordeal, I thanked God Mr. Bennet had seen fit to teach both you and Mrs. Bingley to swim. If he had not, we might not be sharing this moment.”

Darcy could hear her soft sobs. He knew them as tears of healing so he purposely did not rush to shush them away. “Someday, if God wills it, we will have our own children. You have seen the number of lakes on our property. I cannot believe you would wish to spend a lifetime in fear that one of our children had wandered into the waters and was in danger.”

She rasped, “You could teach them to swim.”

Darcy stroked the hair from her cheeks. “I could, and I will. Yet, that pleasure would be easier if their mother could sanction the skill as necessary, and it would be a pleasurable activity on a hot summer afternoon.”

“I promise to encourage them,” Elizabeth declared.

“Children know the truth of false platitudes, Lizzy. They will sense your fear and make it their own.” He brought her cold fingers to his lips and kissed them tenderly. “Is that what you wish for our children? To know fear in one area is to practice it in another.” He felt his wife's body stiffen in disapproval. Darcy offered his final persuasion, “And Heaven forbid any of our children would wander in too far, and have no one to save him but his mother, a woman afraid of going into the water's depths.”

“If my child needed me, I would be able to reach him,” she said defiantly.

Darcy said, “I am certain you would attempt it, but I would prefer for you to have the confidence to know success. I hold no desire to bury my wife and my child.”

Hope laced Elizabeth's tone. “Could we not wait a bit longer?”

Darcy kissed her palm and pressed her hand to his heart. “The longer you delay...”

Her voice caught on a sob. “Mr. Darcy, you do not play fair.”

“True, my Lizzy,” he said sympathetically. “Yet, as you are a sensible woman, I place the decision in your hands.”

Irritation had arrived, and despite the fact Elizabeth had given an angry tug on his chest hair, Darcy smiled. She would concede. “Do not present me that hackneyed speech about a horse throwing a person,” she protested.

Darcy rubbed where her anger still stung his chest. “Then I will bow to your wishes and say no more. Just think on it, Lizzy.”

She had complained of every rut in the road, the possibility of rain in a cloudless sky, and the lack of summer flowers on the new bonnet Darcy had purchased for her at the village's millinery and dress shop. However, none of those were at fault, and Elizabeth knew it as truly as did he: His wife questioned her sanity for agreeing to his previous argument. Keeping his eyes on the passing scenery, Darcy judiciously did not comment.

He would have liked to be the one to coax Elizabeth into the water, but Darcy realized his wife must face her worst nightmares without his assistance, so he would leave Elizabeth in Hannah's capable hands. Besides bringing a towel and a dry chemise for her mistress, the maid would take every opportunity to minister to Elizabeth's frayed nerves.

When they debarked close to the shore, Darcy breathed in the clean sea air. He loved the feel of the salt on his cheeks, and the sound of the gulls as they circled overhead. As an untested youth, Darcy had dreamed of living like Defoe's Crusoe on his own small island. The idea was quite impractical, but an unspoken reality for a boy with a very large imagination. Mudeford was no Bath, but there were still many couples promenading along the narrow streets, while vendors hocked meat pies and pastries. “Would you care to walk along the shore, Mrs. Darcy?” he asked politely.

Her mutinous expression spoke volumes. “Do not Mrs. Darcy me,” she said tersely. “You brought me to this place,” Elizabeth gestured wildly, “to bury my fears. Let me be about it.” His wife's choice of the word
bury
did not escape Darcy's notice. The gypsy's death would haunt Elizabeth forever.

Darcy bowed elegantly. There would be no point arguing over something in which they were essentially in agreement. Elizabeth was an intelligent woman. She would see the reason behind his insistence. “As you wish, my dear.” He pointed off to the right. “The gentlemen's beach is farther on. I will await you at the carriage. Say in an hour.”

“One hour.” Elizabeth grumbled and started across the sand, with Hannah on her heels. Darcy smiled at the determination in his wife's steps. She would know success today.

Knowing she could return to the coach and Darcy would never criticize her decision, Elizabeth counted each step and each breath that accompanied it. The brightly colored bathing machine reminded her of the ribbons and paint she had observed upon the gypsy wagons in the Woodvine clearing. All of which reminded Elizabeth of her gypsy attacker and made this task more difficult than it was. The image of Vandlo Pias's countenance brought her steps up short. Hannah skidded to a stop beside her. “No one would think poorly of you, Mistress, if you decided not to do this,” the maid whispered.

“I would,” Elizabeth admitted. She waited for the skittish beat of her heart to settle before she replied, “I would question my abilities for the remainder of my days.” The wind dried her lips further. “I would give my assailant domain over every breath I take in the future.”

Hannah caught Elizabeth's elbow. “Pardon my saying so, Ma'am, but you must have your freedom.” The maid gave a little tug, and Elizabeth's feet moved forward. “I have always admired your spirit, Mrs. Darcy, and I shan't have you forfeit it to the likes of Mr. Gry's family.”

Despite the terror clutching her chest, Elizabeth chuckled. Her instincts had proved sound when she had asked the young maid from the Lambton inn to join her at Pemberley. “Your loyalty honors me, Hannah.”

Wooden huts with tented sides, each painted with the colors of the British flag and emblems of the sovereignty, rested upon large wheels. A huge horse was hitched to the wagon's tongue, with a pixie-sized urchin upon his back.

Hannah approached the owner of one of the smaller machines and made arrangements for Elizabeth to use it. With a deep sigh of resignation, Elizabeth climbed the steps and entered through the draped opening.

The carriage was larger than she expected. A wooden seat ran along each side of the wagon. Hannah assisted Elizabeth from her gown and corset. Dejectedly, Elizabeth sat on the bench to remove her stockings and slippers. “Would you care to join me?” she asked Hannah. A thread of desperation laced her words.

“Oh, no, Ma'am,” the maid protested. “It would not be correct as I'm no lady. Besides, you must recognize your demons alone.”

“You sound very much like Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth hissed.

The maid stored Elizabeth's clothing in an overhead box. She laughed familiarly. “Himself be correct in this matter.”

Elizabeth shooed Hannah from the space. Her maid would wait obediently on the beach until Elizabeth's wagon returned to shore. With a lurch and a shriek she could not stifle, the machine rolled forward across the shale and into the water.

Her white knuckles gripped the bench as she fought to keep her balance. The wagon rolled deeper into the water, and the sea began to seep though the tied-down cloth of the tented side and the slats between the boards.

Elizabeth purposely blew out short
whoot
's of air to steady her breathing. The wagon made its required turn in the water so the door would face the open sea and her presence would be blocked from prying eyes on the shore by the wagon itself. Finally, the movement ceased.

She released the breath she had held for what seemed forever, but, in reality, had been only several elongated seconds. She waited in the silence. Her stomach pitched. The sea gently slapped the wagon's sides, but Elizabeth did not move. Could
not move. Outside the wagon, someone splashed and grunted, but Elizabeth remained on the hard bench. Shivering from the cold water, which splashed about her ankles, she stared at the closed door and wondered how she was to make her way to the stairs and the water on legs as stiff as the concrete pond on Pemberley's land.

Someone called from the other side of the portal, “The umbrella and tent are in place, Ma'am. Do ye require me hep?”

Elizabeth's mind searched for the identity of the voice before settling on the idea that it was the dipper, a woman who would dip her in the cold water. It could be that easy. She could open the door, and the stranger would assist her on the steps and into the water. Then it would be over, and she could return to the shore. Yet, Elizabeth could not permit herself to know such manipulations. Instead, she said, “I shall tend to my own needs. I shall raise the flag when I am prepared to return to shore.”

“As ye wish, Ma'am.” Then the stranger withdrew.

Elizabeth was alone with her anxiety, and she had yet to move. Swallowing hard, she pushed against the bench and stood in the wagon's center. Still staring at the door, which led to the sea, Elizabeth reached for it, but her feet remained locked in place. The cold water sloshed against her ankles and calves, but, other than her hand, nothing moved. She was caught by her inability to will her legs to freedom. She was just about to reject her attempts and order the wagon to shore when the door was pulled from its closed position to frame her husband's fine form with daylight.