CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
He had just settled in nicely to his bed with a proper portion of apple pudding when his steward knocked hurriedly. “This better be important ,” Bingley called, a bit sarcastically.
Wilshere entered directly and with a hasty bow before he began. “It is confirmed—Captain Carter is the contact.”
“We suspected as much,” reacted Bingley, scooping a spoonful of pudding into his mouth. “Is that all?”
“Should I arrange for travel back to Brighton?”
“So soon?”
“Mr. Bingley,” Wilshere answered, “are you not of the opinion that Captain Carter should be dealt with as a member of the cabal?”
“Of course, he must be dealt with, but in due time. As a member of the militia, whether he is moved to Cornwall or Carlisle will be no great imposition to me. It is hardly conceivable he will be off to fight the French any time soon. Furthermore, am I correct in the assumption that we have not yet unearthed his superior?”
“We have not.”
“Then he is at present of no use to us with his throat cut,” stated Bingley. “Maitland and Gallagher must keep close watch on him, following him to every tavern, every ball, every—”
“I can assure you, he is followed round the clock.”
“Then he will eventually make contact with the evildoer, will he not?”
“I assume so.”
“And with Wickham out of the plot, there must necessarily be a temporary reprieve in the acquisition of new victims?”
“Again, I concur with your reasoning.”
“Then will you get some rest, and for God’s sake, allow me a few days of distraction before we make that arduous journey yet again?”
“Of course, sir. Your time at leisure has been earned most commendably.”
“Did you say Brighton?” Bingley asked.
“Yes, the Captain returned to the regiment after four more days of searching for the couple in London.”
“Thank you, then, and good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Bingley.”
Bingley finished his pudding and placed the bowl on the bedside table. He blew out the candles and proceeded to toss and turn for nearly an hour. His conversation with Mr. Hurst, the mystery of Captain Carter’s master, and as always, thoughts of Jane Bennet swirled in his mind. Eventually he drifted off, though he was awakened at two different times by two distinct and utterly oppositional dreams.
In the first, he found himself atop a towering bluff, reclining on a blanket laid atop thick grass of the most vibrant green, the sun setting off over the sea. A warm breeze rustled his hair and a familiar, yet out of place, aroma wafted on its breath. Gently rustling footsteps approached from behind him, and delight overtook him to see Jane walking in his direction with all of her grace and charm, a wicker basket hanging by the crook in her arm. The hems of her white gown rippled with every gentle step across the lawn. He scrambled to his feet and bowed, as she approached. With a curtsey she said, “Mr. Bingley.”
“Miss Bennet,” he answered in glee. She motioned with her free hand toward the blanket, and he nodded his head and made way. Facing the sea, she sat with her legs curled elegantly underneath her. Bingley took his place next to her, only the basket between them. “It has been my most fervent desire to see you these many months.”
“I confess, I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Bingley,” she answered with a warm smile. For all the golden rays of the sun, the white foam of the waves crashing below, the verdancy of the rolling hills behind, he could not take his eyes from her for a second. He swallowed and smiled broadly. “Are you at all hungry?” asked she.
“Famished, yes,” he answered. “And I must say that whatever you have brought in that basket smells remarkable.”
“Why, thank you,” she answered, propping the top open and producing a plate with a steaming slice of pizza. He felt his jaw go slack in amazement. Jane handed the dish over to him before her brilliantly cerulean eyes caught his gaze.
Bingley slowly opened his eyes in the dark. He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead with one hand. It was a warm night and he had begun to sweat. After a minute’s hesitation, he went to the window and opened it. The air was still and not even a breeze penetrated the room. It took him quite a while to doze off again as, aside from the heat, he felt a nearly physical pressure in his chest, as if a large weight was fixed atop it. She had been unequivocally stunning in his dream, but even at this he was sure his memory had not adequately captured the fullness of her beauty. More than ever before he pined for his all-consuming business to be at an end.
The next hours of slumber were unremarkable, until he dreamt again. He was lying alone in his bed in Netherfield Park, when a moaning sound stirred his slumber. He sat up in this dream bed and lit a candle. The eerie groans were emanating from outside his door. The open window beyond the mammoth canopy bed creaked menacingly on its hinge. Just before he reached the door, everything went silent as something wet touched his toe. Bingley lowered the candle and by its luminescence witnessed a pool of thick blood swelling under the door frame. He instantly stepped backward, nearly tripping on his bedside table. In horror he observed the knob turn and a swell of light pierce the room. First a lantern became visible, then the figure of a man, his throat slit dreadfully, blood soaked through his nightshirt and dripping onto the parquet floor where he stood. Though the apparition’s eyes were sunken and black, his skin gaunt and sallow, Bingley recognized the face of Sir Andrew Fraser. The ghost’s eyes rose to meet Bingley’s stare. “You did not think you would get away that easily, did you?”
Just then, Bingley’s attention was drawn to the window as it slammed shut violently. When he turned back, Fraser was but an inch from his face, jaws open like a wild dog ready to tear into its prey. Bingley smelled death on its breath and heard a bestial growl before he awoke, back in Darcy’s guest chamber at Pemberley. Sitting up with a jolt, he felt the bed around him, his clothes included, soaked in sweat. He rose without thinking and crossed the room to shut the window, making sure to check the lock more than once. Peering outside into the dark, he clutched his heart, endeavouring to cause his panic to subside. After a moment or two of collecting his wits, he crawled back into the bed where he was suddenly unable to control the gush of emotions which flooded over him. Bingley sobbed furiously for nearly a minute, when he was finally able to control his breathing and calm himself to what extent was possible. Over the next two hours, he clutched a pillow close to his chest and eventually watched the sun rise over the grove of beech trees across the park.