The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (46 page)

“Fitzwilliam?” her trembling lips formed the word, but no sound filled the air.

Like a guardian angel, he extended his hand to her. “Come, Lizzy. I will protect you.” With his dark gaze penetrating hers, Elizabeth felt warmth spread through her veins.

Elizabeth's eyes drifted over his body. Rivulets of water trailed down his chest and arms from where Darcy had brushed his hair from his face. If the gods had seen her husband, they would consider him the male equivalent of Aphrodite rising from the sea foam. He wore nothing but a smile, and suddenly Elizabeth's mouth was dry for another reason. “How did you come to be here?” she rasped.

“You did not think I would abandon you when you most needed my assistance, did you?” he asked soothingly. She shook her head in the negative, but her heart had held such thoughts. She had wondered if Darcy had realized how hard this need to prove her determination really was. “Come, Sweetheart,” he coaxed. “I have paid the wagon owner not to bring anyone near, but the man can only stall for so long. I assume you would not wish for another lady to see me dressed thus.” Darcy's smile widened as he gestured to his state of undress.

With some feelings of resentment and mortification, Elizabeth rolled her eyes in supplication. “How did I not recognize how incorrigible you truly were, Sir? And here I had thought you the model of propriety.” As if they had a mind of their own, her feet, surprisingly, moved toward him. Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders and followed.

Darcy caught her close. “My lack of attire is model propriety for gentlemen when they sea bathe,” he teased. Darcy braced her steps as Elizabeth weakly descended toward the dark liquid death.

She gave a restless wave of her trembling hands. “It is cold,” she protested weakly.

Darcy assured, “Your body will become accustomed to it.” Elizabeth remained unimpressed by Darcy's guarantees. On the last step, her husband turned to her. “Do you trust me?” he demanded.

Elizabeth looked deeply into his eyes. “With my life,” she murmured.

Darcy kissed her then. Kissed her long and hard. Kissed her until Elizabeth slumped heavily against his strong body. His tongue claimed hers, and she gave herself up to the passion they shared.

Darcy adjusted his mouth against hers before stepping backward into the water, taking her with him. Warmed by his hands upon her curves, it took Elizabeth's mind several additional seconds before it realized she was under the water. Instantly, she thought to fight him, to free herself from the all-encompassing fear, which coursed through her veins. Yet, her husband held her close. They shared the same breath. Darcy's arms tightened about her as he kicked hard to bring them to the surface.

Elizabeth sputtered and spit as her husband released her; but her instincts took hold, and her feet fluttered to keep her afloat. She spun around to face her husband. “You are beyond irredeemable, Sir,” she accused.

Darcy remained near, and she realized he would protect her. With a sheepish grin, he said, “My means may lack finesse, Lizzy, but they obviously proved true.”

“I shall never hear the end of this, shall I?” she asked brusquely, but her condemnation had little effect on her husband. “You shall take great pleasure in reminding me of your dominance in this matter.”

Darcy caught her about the waist. No one could see them under the umbrella tent, so Elizabeth went willingly into his arms. They kicked together to stay afloat. “I could be persuaded,” he said as he lifted her braid across Elizabeth's shoulder, “to forget your weakness in this matter, if we replace it with a more memorable one.” He kissed Elizabeth's ear. “I have never known a woman in the water,” he said seductively.

Her body reflexively pushed against him. “We were intimate at the lake when we picnicked at Pemberley,” she countered. “Beside, I do not care to dwell on the thought of you with another.” In the modesty of her nature, Elizabeth immediately felt she had been unreasonable for expecting Darcy to never have known another, but her heart and her mind showed themselves independent of this great irreconcilable difference. She frowned deeply before pushing against his chest to free herself.

Darcy towed her closer to the wagon's steps. “You know I meant no offense. I never knew my heart until you entered my life, Lizzy.”

She stepped upon the lowest step. He reached for her, but she avoided his touch. “The moment has passed, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly. Elizabeth could not look at him. She was being foolish, but the pain she always experienced when she imagined Darcy enjoying intimacies—the same type of intimacies they shared—with another had taken hold of her heart. “I suspect it is past time for your return to the men's beach. I shall wait five minutes before I raise the flag.” She took another step away from him. “I shall meet you at the carriage.” Her slight had been most determined.

Darcy reached for her. “Do not do this, Lizzy. You knew I came to our marriage bed having known others. Most men have.”

“Yet, you are not most men, Fitzwilliam. You are the man I have married.”

They had gone to bed with the remnants of a silent argument hanging over their heads, and Darcy had regretted how his slip of tongue had ruined a perfectly beautiful day. He had almost wished they had had a “heated discourse”; at least then the words would be out, and he could deal with them. Elizabeth's cold exchanges were far from rude or demanding; in fact, they were almost subservient in nature. All of which frustrated Darcy to no end.

“Elizabeth?” he whispered to the darkened room. She lay on her side facing away from him, and Darcy gritted his teeth to keep from commenting on her act of defiance. “We must resolve this.”

Her voice held no emotion. “There is nothing for us two to resolve. I cannot control my abhorrence at considering you with another. I do understand what happened before we met has nothing to do with our future. I am being unreasonable. I do not deny the state of my reaction.”

“How long?” he pleaded. “I cannot bear this chasm between us.”

A long silence ensued. Finally, she said, “It shall pass, Fitzwilliam, but not tonight. The emotional chaos of the past week has me at wit's end. I shall be my former self soon, but for this night, I can make no such promise. Tonight, I must nurse my bruised ego. I must taste the bile in my mouth. Women are foolishly insensible of their uncommon good fortune.”

He had hurt her. Despite every promise Darcy had made to shelter her, it was he who had brought pain to Elizabeth's door. First, Darcy had infuriated the gypsies, which had likely precipitated Pias's attack, and then he had negligently made a glib comment that had wounded Elizabeth a second time. In his estimation, his words had caused the deeper wound. “I admit that in my youth I was guilty of entering into a life full of spirits and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son. However, with my father's sage advice, I soon discovered it was a shameful insensibility. Now, I take a prodigious delight in only one thing—one person. You, Lizzy.”

She said stoically, “I possess no doubt of your current affections, my husband. Yet, all your protestations will not serve as a salve to my disapprobation.”

Darcy turned on his side facing away from her. “As you wish, Lizzy. Good night.”

Needless to say, he had slept very little, and his disposition had not improved with the light of day. He felt a surge of frustration with the continuing conflict with his wife, and as quickly as he could, Darcy had finished his ablutions and then retreated to Samuel's study to take up the journals again. Over the past few days, Elizabeth had attempted to insert every date recorded in Samuel's Bible to the pattern Darcy had shown her, but to no avail.

He certainly was not in the mood for company, but when Mr. Williamson called, Darcy accepted the curate's interruption with more grace than he felt. “What brings you to Woodvine Hall?” Darcy asked once they were settled and tea had been served.

“I have news of the identity of one of your other victims,” the curate said gravely.

Darcy sat forward in the chair. “How is that possible? I thought all had been given a proper burial.”

Williamson quickly assured, “Each man has received a proper funeral, but I took precautions, especially regarding those for whom we possessed no identities. I have hired two widows to prepare each body with as much reverence as possible. The condition of each man has created its own issues, but I have approved the purchase of simple clothes for the men's burials and the wrapping of each in blankets to disguise the level of decay present. It would not do for the public to view the changes. Certainly, it would be too much for our female congregation.”

Darcy had always thought it ironic that men questioned a woman's sensibilities in regards to attending a funeral, but those same men thought nothing of a woman preparing the body for burial. “Your decision appears most prudent. I assume you have included the cost of the clothing and the women's efforts in your accounting.”

Williamson sighed with relief. “I have, Mr. Darcy, and I thank you for supporting my efforts in bringing dignity to these men as a viable expense.”

Darcy assured, “I recognize an honest endeavor, Mr. Williamson. Now, tell me what I should know.”

Williamson swallowed hard. “Needless to say, word of so many fresh graves in our little parish has spread.” Darcy had hoped such tales had not escaped into the community, but he had known it an inevitable reality. He nodded for the curate
to continue. “Mr. and Mrs. Lawson from over near Upton called at the curacy this morning. A relative in the neighborhood had sent for the Lawsons after he heard of the deaths. Mr. McGinnis is Mrs. Lawson's younger brother, and he had offered his nephew a place to stay while Felix Lawson found employment on one of the farms in the area. The younger Lawson left home in February, but he never arrived in Wimborne. Or so the Lawsons believed. The couple had prayed their son had changed his mind and had followed his dream to join the British Navy.”

Darcy knew the life of a sailor held its own dangers. “How did the Lawsons identify their son?”

“The clothing, Sir. Mrs. Lawson had given her eldest son a red scarf she had knitted from scraps of wool. It was a bitterly cold day when young Lawson departed. Plus, the youth carried his grandfather's purse.”

“Did Felix Lawson have any funds in his possession?”

“None in the man's purse or pockets. Likely, whoever killed him robbed Lawson first,” Williamson reasoned.

Darcy could not imagine a common thief or a highwayman committing the crimes. Those who took to the road to procure their living did not stop to dispose of their victims. “Would not our unknown assailant have taken Lawson's purse along with his money? I cannot image a robber taking the time to empty a man's purse and then return the item to his pockets.” He mused, “Were there any funds found upon the other victims?”

Williamson's face brightened. He had an inquisitive mind, and Darcy had just placed another piece of the puzzle in the man's lap. “There was no jewelry, other than Mr. Falstad's watch, and no money in the pockets. I have placed each man's belongings in separate boxes if anyone cares to search through them. Of course, I have given the Lawsons their son's personal items, and I plan to post the items we retrieved from Pugh and Falstad to their families once we have a confirmation of their proper directions.”

“What of Mr. Bates?”

“Bates came to the area alone and kept much to himself. I will ask about if anyone knows something of the man's family.”

Darcy suspected their conversation had come to an end. “I appreciate your efforts, Williamson. You have acted admirably in this matter. If you learn anything more of value, do not hesitate to call upon Woodvine.”