The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (49 page)

Elizabeth snuggled closer. “We stumbled into the best of worlds.”

Darcy chuckled, “
Stumbled
is an appropriate word for our courtship.” He set her from him before standing. “I admit needing to know my bed.” He stretched his arms to the sides, and then overhead. “Would you mind if I turn in before you?”

“Of course not.” Elizabeth immediately caught his hand to lead Darcy to the turned-down bed. “I would very much like to return to Cousin Samuel's journals. I believe I am close to deciphering the passages.”

Darcy yawned deeply. “Do not tire yourself with your efforts.” He kissed the top of her head before crawling under the sheets. “I would not have you exhaust your energies.”

Elizabeth released the ties for the draped four-poster. Before closing the heavy material to block the light, she bent over him, and Darcy accepted the kiss his wife offered. “Rest, my husband,” Elizabeth said softly as she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “I shall serve as your sentry while you sleep.”

Darcy's eyes scanned her lovely countenance and the room's décor before drifting closed. Unfortunately, reality invaded. His eyes shot open to attend to a most unusual object resting on the top of the wardrobe behind where his wife stood. He pushed himself to his elbows. “Please tell me that is not what it appears to be.” He nodded to the object.

Elizabeth's eyes followed Darcy's gaze. She laughed lightly. “A gift from one of the maids,” she confessed.

“It is a Sheela na gig,” Darcy said incredulously. “Why would a Woodvine maid present a fertility symbol to my wife?”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said in shocked surprise. “I suppose the carving could certainly represent a woman.” His wife giggled self-consciously. “Yet, I believe the wooden symbol is meant to protect us from evil, as are the painted eyes, the witch balls, the overuse of mirrors throughout the house, and the small gorgon figurines.”

Darcy collapsed against the pillows and rolled his eyes in exasperation. He brushed his initial thoughts away. “At least, your explanation adds light to what I perceived to be my cousin's sudden vanity in his declining years.” He glanced to the wooden symbol again. “Could we not turn the figure to face the wall, Lizzy? I am not certain I care to wake in the night's middle to have that creature staring down at me.”

Elizabeth's smile turned up the corners of her mouth, and Darcy knew his wife bit back any condemning remark, which had crossed her mind. “Certainly, Mr. Darcy.” She reached for the three-inch carved symbol. “However, I accept no blame if the Sheela na gig's powers are less effective because of your peculiar beliefs.” She giggled as she replaced the figure on the wardrobe's top shelf.

Darcy settled deeper into the bedding. “I absolve you of any fault, Wife,” he said dutifully.

The urgent tapping on the door roused Darcy from a deep sleep. Darkness had filled the room, and he was slow to respond. A fog of exhaustion remained, and Darcy groaned as he rolled to his side and swung his legs over the bed's edge. “Yes,” he said snappishly as he reached for his shirt. He had actually fallen asleep wearing his breeches, something he had not done since his wedding night.

He staggered from the bed and stubbed his toe against a chair; a curse slipped from Darcy's lips. He tottered toward the sound that had ruined his slumber: a tattoo against the wooden panel.

“Mr. Darcy,” came a pleading female voice.

He adjusted himself in the tight fit of the breeches before he jerked open the door to put an end to the annoying racket. From beside him Elizabeth slipped his robe into Darcy's hand.

“Thank God!” Mrs. Holbrook declared when the door opened. One of the cook's hands held a fresh candle while the other was raised to knock again.

“What is amiss?” Darcy demanded. He slipped the robe over his clothes. The sight of the distraught countenance of the manor's cook brought him fully awake. Behind him, he could hear Elizabeth moving efficiently about the room. One light after another invaded the room's darkness.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy!” The cook swayed in place, and Darcy reached to steady her. “You must stop him, Sir.”

“Stop whom?” he demanded. The sleep had retreated, but the need for a restorative rest had not, and Darcy's tone held his frustration.

The cook shivered visibly. “Mr. Barriton, Sir. He has taken Mrs. Jacobs.”

“Barriton?” Darcy looked to Elizabeth for an explanation, but his wife's shrug said she was as badly informed as he. “What has Mr. Barriton to do with Mrs. Jacobs?”

As if the woman expected someone to stop her from carrying her tale to the manor's master, the cook looked off toward the servants' stairs. “She meant no harm,” Mrs. Holbrook explained. “Mrs. Jacobs be of the old sect, those who believe in fairies and familiars and omens. There be no mischief in a few figurines scattered about the house. The late Mr. Darcy housed enough bits of ancient superstition on every surface of this house—what be the difference if there be a few English ones mixed in?”

Darcy considered how England had imported from Germanic peoples many of the superstitions the cook described as English, but rather than comment, he repeated his earlier request. “Tell me about Barriton.”

The woman's weight sagged heavily against the doorframe. She sighed deeply. “Millie Jacobs thought Mrs. Ridgeway be a witch, so Millie be hiding her witch bottles about the house to prevent the housekeeper from doing her evil.”

Darcy glanced knowingly at his wife. They had held similar qualms regarding the housekeeper. Clarifying what Mrs. Holbrook was attempting to explain, he asked, “As Mrs. Ridgeway has taken herself off to Stowe Hall, what business does Mr. Barriton have in this madness? Did Barriton think to punish the maid for bringing her superstitions into this household?”

Mrs. Holbrook paled. “Oh, aye, Sir, but not as ye think. Mrs. Ridgeway not be practicing witchcraft under Mr. Darcy's roof, but Mr. Barriton has. He has taken Millie to the stones, Mr. Darcy. I fear he means to kill her.”

They had left their horses in the wooded area and had approached the field on foot. In addition to Holbrook, Darcy had recruited Mr. McKye, for the man was well versed in the local traditions, and Mr. Castle, who, according to McKye, had been the best shot in Tregonwell's former command. Castle was one of the men Darcy had hired as reinforcements. Over his wife's objections, Darcy had brought several guns with him. He would not use them unless necessary, but he had argued, “I know not what I may encounter, Elizabeth. Mrs. Holbrook's concerns were real, and I would be sore to ignore the strange world into which we have tumbled.”

His wife had begged to accompany him, but Darcy would have none of it. “It is too dangerous,” he had insisted. “I will not permit it, Elizabeth, so place your arguments on the shelf. I will not be swayed.” He had quickly dressed to join the others.

“I shall not sleep a wink until you return.” Elizabeth had followed him about the room as if she were his shadow. “Promise that you shall know care, Fitzwilliam.”

Darcy gathered her quickly in his embrace. “On our wedding day, I made a sacred vow to see you through a long life and to provide you a family. I have not met those obligations. I will return, Elizabeth.” Darcy kissed her tenderly.

“I swear, Fitzwilliam...” she began with tears in her eyes.

“I know, Lizzy,” Darcy said softly. He caressed her cheek. “I give you my word I will do nothing foolish.” With that, he had left her with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“There!” McKye whispered close to Darcy's ear. “See the fire.”

Darcy's mind had not understood the strange glow on the horizon until the man had brought it to his attention. “A fire?” His voice held a bit of awe.

“Aye, Sir. I have seen it before, when my family lived near Edinburgh. Part of the Beltane festival. To mark the blossoming of spring. It is a beautiful celebration of life,” McKye explained. “The relighting of the world from the Need Fire. The purifying of the herd.” The man nodded toward the lighted field. “That be the way of my home, but what we are likely to find beyond those stones will bear little resemblance to what I have known.” Darcy leaned closer to hear the man's tale. “There are rumors of the Wita calling upon the strength of the Celtic god Cernunnos to bring destruction to their neighbors. We know much of these tales, but we refuse to recognize the roots of such paganism within our souls. Have you not loved the stories of Sir Gawain and of Lincolnshire's Robin, Mr. Darcy?”

“Of course,” Darcy murmured softly.

“Yet, you never considered how closely related are the tales of Shakespeare's Robin Goodfellow to those of Viridios or Odin. The stories are connected, Mr. Darcy,” McKye said honestly. The former fisherman had the soul of a scholar.

Darcy pressed, “I am familiar with the stories, McKye, but I am ignorant of how those tales affect what is occurring in Mr. Rupp's field.”

The man continued, “Beltane is a celebration of fertility and of life's cycle: of birth, death, and rebirth. The Celts honored the cycle with offerings and sacrifices.” He nodded toward the brightly glowing spectacle.

As if he wished to hold onto his sanity, Darcy curled his fingers into a tight fist. “Could Mrs. Jacobs be a sacrifice?” His voice sounded strangely detached. The grim visage of a funeral pyre rose in his mind. Darcy rose on unsteady legs to stare off at the strangely lit horizon.

Beside him, McKye ran his fingers through his blond hair. “There be no way of knowing until we enter that circle, Sir.”

Darcy's heart lurched. The ramifications of their words lay heavy on his soul. “We must make haste.” Without considering how they would survive this encounter, he was on a run. The others followed closely. They crossed the road and easily vaulted the fence's stile, which marked Rupp's land. As he and Holbrook knew the path, they took the lead. The field had been recently tilled and planted, and the way was rough going.

When he and his cousin and Elizabeth had viewed the fields a week past, they had stayed to the lanes between each of Rupp's straight rows, but tonight Darcy led a diagonal charge across the field. Reaching the three trees which had marked Mr. Hotchkiss's grave, Darcy stopped to assess the situation. McKye crouched beside him, with Holbrook and Castle taking cover behind a nearby hedgerow.

“What do you think?” he asked softly. They looked upon a sight Darcy had never thought to see. He strained to discern what occurred in the confines of the oddly shaped circle defined by the heavy stones in the field's center.

Several revelers carried torches as they wove in and out among a dozen others. Most swayed from side to side and twitched to a low hum that filled the air. Two small bonfires highlighted the movements of those milling about the circle.

In his youth, when Darcy had first read the witches' scenes from Shakespeare's
Macbeth
, he had envisioned creatures of the night, and when he had told Georgiana tales of wee folks and ogres and wicked witches, Darcy had enjoyed the excitement the tales engendered. However, he possessed no point of reference in reality for what to expect when he looked upon those gathered in Rupp's field.

McKye leaned closer. “Mr. Rupp has turned a blind eye to the comings and goings of those in the field. I would wager Rupp has a stuffed bullock's heart studded with thorns and nails hidden up his chimney.”

“The man appeared ignorant of our purpose when the colonel and I viewed the fields previously,” Darcy protested.

McKye countered, “If Rupp had tilled the fields beforehand, how had the man overlooked Mr. Hotchkiss's grave? Surely, Rupp knows every inch of his land as well as he knows all the freckles peppering his arms. More likely, Rupp and his missus fear the authority of the witches. Many believe in the power of those who dance with the Devil to make a woman barren or to deliver storms that will destroy a man's crops.”