Chapter 17
17
POCKETS
E lizabeth walked about her bedchamber in agitation. What must he think of me?
Whatever Mr Darcy thought of her, for better or worse, was thanks to Charlotte Lucas. Her dear friend once had stated that being guarded would be disadvantageous to a woman and that in concealing one’s affection from the object of it, one risked losing the opportunity of fixing him.
Fixing him. La! I either have fixed him for good or sent him running for the hills.
Earlier, while the three of them had been leaving the gardens, Miss Rigby had enquired whether she had found that which she sought. Elizabeth had smiled sweetly at Mr Darcy and said yes, she believed she had.
Well, there is nothing to be done about it now, brazen girl.
That walk in the wet gardens, however, had removed the clouds from Elizabeth’s mind…though perhaps not the part of her mind that controlled her tongue. Nevertheless, she hoped she finally might have an answer to ‘Hearts shall we ave’. She grabbed a shawl, rushed to the great hall, and approached the dais.
At the peep-hole, with the conversation she had overheard echoing in her mind, Elizabeth felt a draught, real or imagined. It was wrong to observe or listen to others furtively, but she had heard Miss Kensett and Mr Fordham’s conversation without their knowledge. The walls in this room have ears as well as eyes. ‘The walls have ears’. On her fingers she counted again the letters in that sentence. Sixteen. Perfect!
Wetting her lips with cautious hope, Elizabeth lifted a corner of the tapestry that disguised the peep-hole. Then she closed her eyes, unable to look without saying a prayer. “Please, please, please, let it be there.” Hopeful and fearful, she took a deep breath and held it. Slowly, she opened one eye, then the other.
There, pinned to the tapestry’s backing, was the hoped-for piece of foolscap. Finally, she exhaled, then covered her mouth with trembling fingers. Not only was Elizabeth close to tears, but she was also one step closer to winning Oakwood Manor.
While she unpinned, unfolded, and read the paper, her stomach fluttered. The page indicated the puzzle written on it was the ultimate conundrum. Heart rejoicing, she set off in search of Mr Monroe.
Leaving the great hall with spirits elated to rapture, Elizabeth startled when, across the way, the door to the games room creaked open just wide enough to accommodate Mr Hadley’s head. He looked left, then right, then began to close the door. At the last second, he spotted her and opened it fully.
“Ah! Miss Bennet, good day to you!”
Mr Darcy appeared behind him and asked her to join them. Elizabeth hesitated. “Who else is with you? ”
“No one else.” Mr Hadley held an index finger against his lips and beckoned her inside.
Frowning, Elizabeth approached and shook her head. “I cannot risk either my reputation or disqualification from the tournament.”
“Of course,” said Mr Darcy. “But perhaps Miss Rigby could be convinced to sit with us. Shall I have her summoned?”
The folded paper in the concealed pocket of Elizabeth’s gown screamed at her to decline, but the gentleman’s eyes drew her in.
Upon receiving her reluctant consent, Mr Darcy passed a cue to Mr Hadley and swept past them both. A moment later, Elizabeth heard him, in the vestibule, speaking to Christopher. In a matter of minutes, Miss Rigby appeared, and the two ladies joined the two gentlemen in the games room.
“I shall just sit here at this card table with Miss Bennet,” said the chaperon. “Pay me no mind. I have my embroidery to occupy me.” She smiled when Mr Darcy pulled out a chair and held it for her as she sat. Then he did the same for Elizabeth.
“All I ask,” said Miss Rigby, “is that the three of you not enter into any sort of conversation about the tournament.”
While Mr Hadley talked and the others listened, the two gentlemen played billiards; but it seemed to Elizabeth that they did so more for appearances’ sake than any real attempt at skill or friendly rivalry.
“…and whenever I visited here, Mr Fordham spent most of his time skulking about the place. I wish I could recall something approaching charity or benevolence in him, but, sadly, I cannot. More than anything, he and his wife seemed to enjoy the pleasures to be had while living off Miss Armstrong’s generosity. ”
As Mr Darcy leant over the billiards table, Elizabeth admired his tall, lean, athletic build. His muscles were not as obvious as a labourer’s, but they were well-defined and in proportion to the rest of his body. Nature has given him no inconsiderable share of beauty. He sank the red ball into a pocket and called out that he had scored three points for something called a hazard, but there was little enthusiasm in his voice.
“What was Mr Fordham’s bequest from Miss Armstrong?” asked Elizabeth. “I do not believe I ever heard it mentioned.”
“If you were to ask him, which I did,” said Mr Hadley, “Mr Fordham would say he received a ‘little bauble to present to his lovely wife’. Lovely, by the bye, is not a word I would use to describe her, but that is beside the point. I suspect the professed little bauble is a sixteenth-century Burmese ruby ring that was made much of by Mrs Fordham. It was too large for Miss Armstrong’s slim fingers, so she sometimes wore it round her neck on a gold chain. Personally, I thought the ring hideous.” He lined up a shot, and there was a double clack as his plain white ball, in succession, hit Mr Darcy’s then the red one. “My word! Did you see that? A cannon! I scored a cannon!”
“Well done.” Mr Darcy patted the younger man’s shoulder. “So, in your opinion, the Fordhams do not have any better principle to guide them than selfishness, is that correct?”
“They are regardless of everything but their own gratification,” grumbled Mr Hadley. Setting aside his mace, he pulled out a chair from one of the card tables and sat, knee bouncing. “What I am about to say is simply my own conjecture, but I fear the Fordhams imposed themselves on Miss Armstrong. They ingratiated themselves with an elderly lady and took advantage of her loneliness and infirmity. Eventually earning her trust and favour through flattery, Mr Fordham began taking her heirlooms to be valued. But I do not know that they ever found their way back to Oakwood Manor.”
The billiards game abandoned, Mr Hadley rose and placed the three balls back in the decorative box. “Mrs Fordham told me they wanted to please Miss Armstrong, improve her mood, and restore a sense of physical well-being during her infirmity. But I never witnessed either of them seeing to her comfort. What I did notice was that every time one of them admired a valuable article, it soon thereafter was bestowed upon them. They were bilking her, I fear. I think they stepped in only because they knew she had no children to whom to leave her legacy. The Fordhams hoped they would inherit everything.”
“I just remembered,” said Elizabeth, “that Miss Kensett said Mr Fordham thought of himself before anybody else and that he was intent on snatching—yes, snatching!—everything he possibly could.”
“Poor, dear Miss Armstrong.” Mr Darcy sat perched sideways on the edge of the billiards table, one foot on the floor. “Manoeuvres of selfishness, cunning, and duplicity are revolting to me.”
He seemed so angry and sad that Elizabeth longed to do something to comfort him but knew she could not. “I agree. Unscrupulous control and influence are despicable in every particular.”
Miss Rigby patted her charge’s hand. “There, there, my dear. Whatever a man sows, this he also will reap.”
“Tell me,” Mr Darcy said as he put away the cue and mace, “do any of you know whether opium was found in Fordham’s possession? ”
The younger gentleman glanced at the ladies. No one spoke up, so he did. “According to Mr Monroe, the only opium presently in this house is kept under lock and key in Mrs Vincent’s medicine chest and only used for tinctures of laudanum. No other was found during any of the searches.”
“I imagine a vial of powdered opium would be small enough to easily conceal,” said Elizabeth.
To that, the chaperon muttered, “Probably on his person. Never before have I so wished to put my fingers inside a gentleman’s fob pocket.”
Elizabeth and the two gentlemen in unison cried, “Miss Rigby!”
Alfred had lugged pails of steaming water from the kitchen, and Rachel had poured them into a full-size copper tub.
Sweet-scented then and feeling singularly well, Elizabeth had her clean hair dressed and was helped into her best primrose gown.
Still smiling about the chaperon’s fob-pocket remark, she was determined to maintain an acquaintance with Miss Rigby. I must remember to ask for her direction so we may, at the very least, write to one another once the tournament ends. She would be sorry to bid farewell to Mr Hadley also, but they would not be permitted to correspond. Then there was Mr Darcy…
“There is someone at the door, miss.” Rachel, not quite finished with the back of Elizabeth’s gown, went to investigate. When she returned, she held out a folded sheet of writing paper. “No one was there, but I found this on the floor. ”
While the maid went to work again on the gown’s tiny buttons, Elizabeth unfolded the message. The writing was unfamiliar. Then again, the only person at Oakwood whose penmanship she would have recognised was Mr Darcy’s. She could not remember what the attorney’s hand had looked like, and she had never seen Mr Hadley’s or Mr Fordham’s. At any rate, the words were few.
Miss Bennet, meet me in the garret immediately. It is the only place we can be assured of privacy. I have urgent information to acquaint you with. Come quickly, please. And come alone.
It was unsigned.
Upon a second look, Elizabeth noted a particular elegance in the ornamental handwriting, the sort considered ideal for ladies. It had to be Miss Rigby’s. There was no other possibility.
Had it to do with Mr Fordham? Was she in danger from him?
Was it because of the puzzle she had found behind the tapestry? But that had been verified by Mr Monroe, and all she had to do was find a solution and then the prize.
“Please hurry, Rachel. There is something I must do before dinner.” Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the mantel. Already it was half past five, and they were expected in the parlour by a quarter to six. “How does one access the garret?”
“The garret? Do you mean the small tower at the very top?” Elizabeth nodded, and the maid’s hands stilled on her back. “Surely you do not want to be going up there, especially in this gown.”
“Yes, Rachel, I do. ”
“Then I shall go with you.”
“No. I must do this alone.” The instant her gown was buttoned, Elizabeth rushed to open the chamber door, then turned back. “Which way?”
The maid stood wringing her hands and looking wretched. Slowly she pointed left. “Go to the end of the hall and turn right. At the end of that hall, there are stairs that?—”
“Thank you.”
Within a few minutes, Elizabeth had found the narrow, spiralling staircase with steep risers. Hitching her hems in one hand, she held onto a rickety handrail with the other and climbed. Beneath her feet, wooden steps creaked.
At the top, in the shadows, was an alcove, large enough for a person. There was no window, and she wished she had thought to bring a candle. Of all places, why would Miss Rigby want to meet here? I should turn back. Peering into the dark, she groped blindly and tripped over a rumpled rug.
Opposite the stairs, Elizabeth located a latch, which she lifted, then pushed on the door. A shaft of sunlight slanted through a high window, and she momentarily closed her eyes against the dazzle.
The floor was uneven as she cautiously stepped inside. Nail heads protruded from the boards, and she felt every one of them beneath her soft slippers as she crossed the small room.
The garret was a dismal place. Its few pieces of blackened furniture were pockmarked and scratched. The ceilings were sloped, and she walked, face-first, into a series of ancient cobwebs. So much for my clean hair and coiffure. The air was dry, dusty, and cold. It smelt of old grains and onions.
Standing on a spindly chair, Elizabeth peered through the grimy window. All she saw were the manor’s rooftops below. She stepped off the chair lest it collapse beneath her, and her gown caught on a large, sharp splinter protruding from a rung. Bother! It had pierced her thigh.
From behind, there came a noise. Splendid. Mice. The floor creaked. Not mice.
Turning her head, Elizabeth tried to determine who was on the landing, but it was too black out there to see anything. She did notice, though, an unexpected glow from the direction of the alcove.
Struggling to free her skirt, she called, “Miss Rigby?” Why will she not answer? The sensitive skin on her nape tingled, and she redoubled her effort to release her gown and thigh from the splinter.
The next thing Elizabeth knew, she was being roughly handled. She heard her skirt rip, then she was shoved through the doorway. After being in the sunlit room, her eyes had not adjusted to the dim light of the landing. “Please! Please do not throw me down those stairs!” Never had her fear been so strongly aroused.
Her assailant kicked aside the rug and opened a trapdoor in the floor. With a thrust, Elizabeth was forced inside. The last thing she saw before the hatch closed, leaving her in pitch blackness, was her attacker’s face in the glow of a candle from the alcove. Then she heard the turn of a key in a lock.