CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Bingleys were joined for Christmas by Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, Mr. Darcy, his sister Georgiana, and his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, among others of the genteel and wealthy class to which they belonged. In the bustling of the holiday festivities, there was hardly time for Bingley to enlighten his closest friend as to the near disaster at Brighton, nor of the mission of the newly attained services of Mr. Maitland in Spain. Aside from the multitude of visitors and the furore of the holiday, Bingley thought he detected an uneasiness in Mr. Darcy, though he could not reckon as to its cause. Mr. Hurst, for his part, had descended even further into dissipation, to such an extent that he was unable to attend the Christmas Mass. Georgiana delighted the party nearly every evening with her playing and singing, which really were quite proficient for a girl of her age, and spent much of each day with Caroline Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, though she was far less pompous in her manners than they.
Often during the evening, Caroline would make it a proper aim to ensure that her brother and Georgiana were seated within close enough proximity to converse. Bingley was well aware of his sister’s machinations, as well as he was of her own intentions upon Darcy, who seemed as time went on, and despite his superior manners and perhaps even condescension, that he would not be prevailed upon in that particular regard. In respect to his sister’s schemes of marrying him to Georgiana, Bingley was equally resolute. For as long as he had known Darcy, Bingley had considered Georgiana as a younger sister of his own. As eligible a match as she might have been, her charm and handsomeness aside, Bingley would not be prevailed upon to think of her in those terms. His feelings, particularly after the incident between her and George Wickham, in addition to the information he now possessed, induced him to see himself as more of an additional guardian over her well-being and happiness. He knew not whether to share the exact nature of his feelings with Darcy, but he had done so much as inform his friend that he would have no intentions toward his young sister. For his part, Mr. Darcy was truly thankful to have an upstanding man of such integrity and valour as a friend to Georgiana.
The second of January that year was a Thursday, and Bingley met with the officers of the companies his father passed to him, as had been his habit upon the dawn of each new year. The financial statements were strong from all quarters, despite temporary shipping woes produced by the New Madrid earthquakes in America, which had temporarily reversed the flow of the Mississippi River. A long day of meetings, figures, and calculations under his belt, along with what he sensed might be the beginning of a cold, Bingley was none too enthused to have his steward enter his bedchamber at half past eleven that evening.
“What news is so vital, Wilshere, that you shan’t allow your master to sleep until morning?”
“News from Spain, sir,” answered Bingley’s man.
“Let us have it,” the weary master said through a yawn.
“Maitland writes that Lord and Lady have quit Valencia for Barcelona, where they intend to spend five nights.”
Bingley rubbed his eyes and sighed. “What good does this information do, Wilshere? If I had set out last night, I could not have made Barcelona in time.”
“There is more, if you will allow me, Mr. Bingley,” the unaffected steward pronounced. Bingley rolled away and hugged the duvet, but with his right hand waived his acquiescence. “They intend to spend the following fortnight in Marseille.”
With those words, Bingley sat up and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his nightshirt. “Now there is something, finally, worth waking for.”
“There is one additional piece, sir, that is not quite so pleasant.”
“There you go again—”
“A constable hailing from Grantley recently paid you a visit, sir—”
“A constable ?”
“Aye, sir.”
“From Grantley ?” Bingley exclaimed and then sneezed.
“Aye,” Wilshere answered in his typically placid manner. “Three days before Christmas. He was the one who delivered your boot from Chambers’—” Wilshere held up his hands before Bingley could break in. “—He said he was a volunteer constable, and by trade was a cobbler, interested in learning the particular preferences of the wealthy in regard to their shoes.”
“What the devil?” the master stated with a shudder.
“I had a man look into it, sir. Seems the lad has been tracing your muddy footprint across England but lost his nerve when it came to confronting the man himself.”
“What does that mean?”
“He went home , sir. He is currently piddling about with shoes in his village shop.”
“Then this, too, is good news; is it not?”
“It is, except that I do not believe he has given up entirely.”
“But why wouldn’t he?—he has no actual evidence of any kind to link me, does he?”
“Not that I am aware of, sir, but his family stands to be well compensated by the estate if he were to bring Sir Andrew Fraser’s… killer to justice. And I do not believe that a man who so diligently traces a single boot print across an entire nation simply gives up. He saw the remains of Andrew Fraser. He saw the bedroom. I do not believe a decent man can walk away from that and not have a stain on his conscience until the day he dies.”
“So, what is he doing at present?”
“Gathering his strength, or perhaps he is attempting to formulate a plan to approach from another angle. I have had it confirmed that he has not informed the estate that his investigation is closed.”
“What then is our course of action?”
Wilshere shrugged, the shadow of a single candle’s flame tossing across his face. “We will have to alter his pursuit, by one means or another.”