Mr. Darcy’s Complex Courtship

13. Chapter 13 Adventures in Bedford

Friday, 3 July

Hertfordshire

Darcy

I directed Regal to the shade of an elm tree. “Easy, boy.” I removed my hat, wiped the perspiration from my brow, and replaced it. For the past three hours, I had ridden over paths in and around Longbourn Estate with no sign of Elizabeth.

She ought to have breakfasted by now, and the sunny, mild weather could entice her out to the garden. If I waited in the adjacent grove of trees, I may be fortunate enough to glimpse her. At the moment, I did not have a better plan.

I eschewed the avenue in favour of an unobtrusive route through the woods past the house and towards the garden since Mr. Bennet could have asked his servants to watch for me. I tied Regal to a sapling and took a post beneath an elm. Thirty minutes later, I caught a flash of yellow clothing on a dark-haired female. She strode upon the path and sat on one of the benches. I drew nearer and fixed on the lady’s profile; unfortunately, she was not Elizabeth but Miss Catherine. I had never spoken more than a few words to her, yet maybe she could be persuaded to assist me. I continued in her direction. The sound of my Hessians upon the flat stones caused her to turn my way.

Miss Catherine shot to her feet with a sketch book clutched in her arms and curtsied. “Mr. Darcy. I did not know you had returned to Hertfordshire.”

I bowed and attempted to appear sanguine, or at least not dour, when I met her wide-eyed stare. “Good day, Miss Catherine. Might I impose upon you to give Miss Bennet a message for me?”

“Miss…um…do you mean Lizzy?”

“Yes. You see, when I last spoke to her—”

“Excuse me, but she is not here.”

“Oh? Where is she?”

“She and Papa left yesterday on a trip. They are to stay at the home of Mr. Baxter. He is an old friend of my father’s.”

Yesterday. Then Mr. Bennet must have taken drastic action to keep Elizabeth from me—but I should not be deterred. “Where did they go?”

“Mr. Baxter lives in Bedford.”

“Do you know how long they expected to remain there?”

She shook her head. “Oh wait—yes, Papa said they would stay for a fortnight.”

“Thank you, Miss Catherine. You have been very helpful.”

“You are welcome.” She gave me a shy smile.

I parted from her and returned to Regal. I must depart for Bedford at once. Somehow, I should find a way to see Elizabeth.

Bedford

Elizabeth

“Here we are.” My father directed me to the carriage window as we drew to a stop. “This is Baxter’s residence.”

The charming stone structure, perhaps half the size of Longbourn House, stood nestled between hawthorn trees, honeysuckles, and patches of blooming yarrow. Mr. Baxter resided less than fifty yards from the wood Father had mentioned.

A diminutive butler of perhaps forty years of age answered Papa’s knock and conducted us to the vestibule, where he took our hats and coats.

Rhythmic footfalls drew my gaze to the hall, where Mr. Baxter strode towards us. Although an abundance of grey hairs had infested his pate since we last met, his apparent agility defied his years. His round, merry countenance—a bit reminiscent of Sir William Lucas—inspired my grin.

Mr. Baxter gave Papa’s hand a hearty shake. “Bennet, I have seldom been more surprised and pleased than when I received your express. At long last, you are here.”

“Forgive me for taking so long to make the trip, old friend.” My father patted Mr. Baxter’s shoulder. “You look well and as spry as ever.”

“My arthritis comes and goes, but this has been a good week.” Releasing Papa’s hand, Mr. Baxter moved before me. “And you have brought this delightful rose with you. This could not possibly be the same Lizzy who leaped through your meadows like a roe deer and sneaked lizards into the house.” His merry eyes gleamed.

“The very one, I am afraid. These days I am content to admire reptiles from a distance.”

“Well, I am overjoyed to welcome you here.” A maid appeared at Mr. Baxter’s side. “Ah, here is Rachel. She will show you both to your rooms. When you are settled in, come back downstairs and join me in my parlour.”

Rachel led us to adjacent chambers. The room designated for me, though rather small, provided a bucolic view of the woods.

Upon our return downstairs, a footman directed us to the parlour. Mr. Baxter called for refreshments. When the provisions arrived, I poured the tea whilst Papa described our accommodations at the Grey Fox Inn at Steventon, a charming historic building. The night before, we had enjoyed a delicious and filling dinner there, which consisted of beef stew with raspberries and biscuits for dessert.

I passed steaming cups of tea to Mr. Baxter and my father.

Papa winked at me, then aimed his smile at his friend. “You may be interested to know I have a budding authoress in the family. Lizzy is writing a romance novel.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Baxter’s sight locked upon me. “How much have you written so far?”

“Six chapters.”

“That is excellent.” Mr. Baxter nodded. “With your agreement, I should be pleased to read your work.”

How kind of him. I hastily set my tea upon the table. “I should love to have your opinion, but I used a unique form of short-hand that would be gibberish to anyone else.” I glanced at Papa, who gave me a subtle nod. “I should be happy to read aloud from my manuscript to you both, perhaps after dinner.”

Mr. Baxter rubbed his palms together. “That is an excellent plan. I am in great anticipation of hearing your story.” He settled back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Your father has written of your visits to your cousin in Kent and your aunt and uncle in London. I should appreciate your recital of your travels.”

Dang , must I speak of this? No feasible excuse came to mind, and I should not be rude to him. “Yes, if you wish.” Although I began the account of my stays in Kent and London in a halting cadence, my composure made a gradual return. I made no reference to my romantic involvement with Mr. Darcy, yet I could not escape mentioning him. Mr. Baxter followed my narrative with undisguised interest.

“Although I am not acquainted with Mr. Darcy, he is well-known in town to be honourable. Notwithstanding, I have also heard him described as high in the instep. It is a testament to your charm and amiability that he not only encouraged a friendship between you and his sister but also introduced you to his titled relations.”

“You are too kind.” To my relief, Mr. Baxter gave no indication of having followed the newspaper society columns; he made no mention of Mr. Miles or my supposed romance with him. “Although he did not present himself well when we first met in Hertfordshire, upon further acquaintance, I found him to be a kind and generous man.” At the verge of my vision, I caught Papa frowning.

“And what is your opinion of your sister’s husband, Mr. Bingley?”

With this new, safer topic, my comportment relaxed further. I elucidated my new brother’s many attributes along with the tidings shared by Jane in her most recent letter.

After dinner, I removed my manuscript from my bag and ensured the pages had not fallen out of order. I returned to the parlour to find my father and Mr. Baxter imbibing nips of brandy. A chalice of claret awaited me on the table beside my chair.

My pulse raced as I met their expectant gazes. Would they approve of my story? Mr. Baxter took a notebook and pencil from the table and placed them on his lap. I coughed to combat the denseness in my throat. “My title is Meandering Hearts , but that is subject to change.” I began to read Chapter One aloud.

Thanks to my cryptic system of short-hand, the task required my full attention, distracting me from nervousness that otherwise might have plagued me. I began in a slow, tentative fashion but soon advanced to a smoother pace. Mr. Baxter jotted periodic notes throughout my recitation. At the end of the chapter, I glanced up at them. “Shall I continue?”

“By all means, I want to hear more.” Mr. Baxter raised his glass to me. Papa maintained a placid expression, which I took as a positive sign. I took a sip of wine and continued.

When I finished the second chapter, Mr. Baxter signalled with his hand to halt me. “That is enough for this evening, Miss Lizzy. I am most impressed.”

“Truly? You are not saying so just to be charitable?”

“No, indeed.” His eyebrows cambered. “It would be the height of cruelty to give false encouragement to a writer whose prose lacked talent. Do not mistake me—your work is in no way ready to be submitted to a publisher. At present it is unpolished and needs the attention of a competent editor.”

“Oh, I see.” I resisted the urge to round my shoulders. No doubt I had made a plethora of mistakes.

A chuckle shook Mr. Baxter’s chest. “Pray, do not be discouraged by my use of ‘unpolished’. For a first effort, your work is very good. Your characters are engaging and distinct from each other, with traits readers will recognise in people they know. The plot so far has familiar themes, yet you gave them fresh perspectives.”

“I appreciate that.” I turned to my father. “And what is your opinion?”

“While I am not in the habit of reading romantic prose, I enjoyed your story. It is a fine beginning.”

I grinned. “Thank you, Papa.”

Mr. Baxter sipped his brandy. “Have you made an outline of the entire manuscript?”

“I have not written one down, but the complete plot is in my head.”

“Ah, well done. I should like to hear your synopsis of the rest of the tale.”

I provided a concise recital of the full narrative. Mr. Baxter pronounced my story to be clever and entertaining. He consulted his notes and proceeded to recommend revisions for my first two chapters. I took his initial, minor suggestions in stride. But he progressed to more significant changes, and I contended with a rising sense of umbrage; after all, this was my novel, and I had written the chapters precisely as I meant them to be. But when he explained the reasons for his proposed alterations and the improvements they would convey, my better judgment prevailed. I should be a simpleton not to take the advice of an expert like him to heart.

Later that evening, I retired to my room full of ideas for how to implement Mr. Baxter’s suggestions and eager to put pen to paper. I did not tear myself away from my manuscript until well past two o’clock.

Saturday, 4 July

Bedford

Elizabeth

I followed my father and Mr. Baxter into the gunsmith’s shop. The proprietor, a cheery pot-bellied man, regaled us with impressive tidings: two highwaymen had been arrested by the magistrate. One of the bandits had been taken into custody yesterday; this morning, a group of townspeople assisted in the accomplice’s apprehension and recovery of stolen property.

At my father’s enquiry, the proprietor directed him to a selection of pistols while Mr. Baxter approached a display of rifles. Before long, I lost interest in the shop’s wares and sidled next to Papa. “I should like to proceed to the haberdashery.”

“Huh? Oh yes, go on ahead, but ensure Sam accompanies you.” My father swung his arm in the direction of Mr. Baxter’s footman, but his sight never budged from the large, shiny fire-arm in his hand.

With Sam trailing me at an appropriate distance, I strolled along the high street. When I approached the large window of an inn, a gentleman therein reminiscent of Mr. Darcy drew my gaze. He stood in conversation with a tall, slender, well-dressed lady. It seemed I could not help comparing each gentleman I encountered to Mr. Darcy, and each fell short of the mark.

This gentleman, though, bore a striking likeness to Mr. Darcy. So much so that—I gasped, freezing in place. Had I dreamt up an apparition of him or…? No, that was Mr. Darcy! He had worn that same stylish dark-blue coat to Vauxhall Gardens. What could have brought him here, now—of all places?

And who could this brown-haired lady be? She did not match Charlotte’s description of Miss Rebecca Finch. Could she be a family friend or…?

The lady stretched upwards and kissed Mr. Darcy’s cheek. Good Lord. I averted my gaze as my stomach muscles contorted. My palm covered my abdomen, and I willed the possible onset of nausea to abate. For that woman to have initiated such an intimate act in public meant she must be his intended. When had they met? Perhaps he had known her for years. Not that it mattered—I had no claim upon him.

Mr. Darcy had no notion of my presence in Bedford, so I should take care to avoid him. Although I wanted him to be happy, I had no wish to witness his joy with another lady. I must retreat before he noticed me.

“Are you well, miss?” Sam moved closer.

“Yes, thank you.” Despite the warm weather, goose-skin erupted on my forearms. I kept my head down and walked back the way I had come. Papa and Mr. Baxter emerged from the gun shop and came to meet me.

My father inspected me with a slight frown. “Lizzy, is anything amiss? You look a bit…odd.”

“I am well.” Feigned cheerfulness infused my speech. “Before I reached the haberdashery, an idea came to me for my story. I am eager to return to the house and write it down.”

“Ah, I see.”

Mr. Baxter took my arm and grinned at me. “In that event, let us hasten back to the carriage. We must not impede your creative energy.”

On our way to the coach, I ventured a quick backwards look. Mercifully, it seemed Mr. Darcy had not emerged from the inn.

Upon our return to the house, I had no need to pretend an interest in working on my manuscript—the activity gave me the distraction I needed and provided a singular form of gratification. I had been writing for an hour or more when Papa came to my guest chamber.

He approached the desk and glanced at my manuscript. “I am pleased to see you continuing to take such a strong interest in this project and shall not delay you for long, but I have a surprise.” A grin brightened his countenance. “We shall attend a concert of Herr Mozart’s work tonight in the public assembly room.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“I thought you would be pleased.” Papa patted my shoulder. “I shall see you downstairs at five for dinner. The concert begins at seven.”

Not until the door closed behind him did it occur to me that Mr. Darcy might attend the concert. Well, at least I had several hours to prepare myself for the possibility. If we crossed paths this evening, I must greet him with at least an appearance of tranquillity.

Friday, 3 July (One Day Earlier)

Bedfordshire

Darcy

“Help, please!” The plaintive female lament drew me to the coach window. A tall dark-haired lady stood in the road with another man, and they both waved to my coachman, Harry. At the side of the road, a stout older gentleman sat upon a fallen log.

As the carriage slowed to a stop, I opened the door. Hunter pressed closer as though to follow me. I held up my palm. “Stay, boy.” I approached the pair on the road. A tentative smile lightened the lady’s countenance. The man beside her wore the livery of a servant, and his hand gripped his opposite shoulder. I bowed to the lady. “I am Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. How may I assist you?”

She curtsied and pressed her palms together. “I thank you for coming to our aid, Mr. Darcy. I am Miss Barbara Nicholson”—she gestured to the seated gentleman—“and this is my father, Mr. Joseph Nicholson. Two armed men waylaid our coach.” She grimaced. “They shot my father in the leg and our driver in the shoulder.”

“That is terrible. I am sorry to hear this.” I faced the gentleman. “Despite the circumstances, I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Nicholson.”

He raised his hat and smoothed his chestnut hair. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. It is an honour to meet you.” A torn piece of white fabric had been tied a few inches above his right knee.

A baleful expression hardened Mr. Nicholson’s aspect. “Although both my driver, Bill, and I had our pistols nearby, we did not recognise the danger in time to obtain them. We encountered the taller man lying prone in the road. Bill and I alighted from our vehicle to assist him. When we neared the ruffian, he rolled over and brandished a gun. He shot Bill, then directed the weapon at me. The accomplice, a shorter man, emerged from behind a tree and aimed his fire-arm at my daughter. He threatened to shoot her if I made a false move. They ordered Barbara from the carriage and took everything we had—our weapons, jewellery, luggage, and money. Before they left in our coach, the taller man shot me in the leg—I suppose to ensure I could not follow them.”

I met Miss Nicholson’s gaze. “You must have been frightened. I hope you were not injured in any way.”

“No, merciful heavens, I am unharmed.” Her hand rose to her throat. “But the brute who pointed his pistol at me tore my peridot cross from my neck. It had been a gift from my late grandmother.”

“That is a shame. I hope your property will be recovered.” I turned back to Mr. Nicholson. “Did you get a good look at the men?”

He heaved a long breath. “They both had donned masks, yet I shall never forget the taller one’s hard, dark eyes. The pair wore brown coats and had black hair.”

No doubt the scoundrels had perpetrated many similar crimes. I ground my teeth. “We are perhaps five miles from Bedford. I shall take you there. You and your driver need medical care and must make a report with the magistrate.”

“Thank you, I am most grateful.”

“I am glad to be in a position to help.” I turned to the injured driver. “You may ride inside the coach.”

He bowed. “Thanks, sir, but I ain’t so bad off. I’ll sit with your driver.”

“Very well.” I let Hunter out of the coach to ensure he did not get in the way whilst Harry and I assisted Mr. Nicholson into the vehicle. Miss Nicholson entered next and sat with her father. I carried Hunter inside and placed him beside me on the seat opposite the Nicholsons; my ten-year-old dog could no longer jump up easily on his own.

Within a few minutes of our departure, Hunter went to the floor and sat at my feet, eyeing the Nicholsons. In time, he stretched his neck towards them, wagging his tail, sniffing at the gentleman’s boots and the lady’s skirt. Mr. Nicholson paid him no notice. Miss Nicholson, though, slid towards the window and held a rigid pose.

“Hunter, come here.” My dog turned back to me. I lifted him to the seat again and regarded Miss Nicholson. “I hope he did not make you uncomfortable. He is curious and enjoys meeting new people, but not everyone is fond of dogs.”

“In general, I do not favour them, but yours is an exception—few dogs are as handsome and well-behaved as this one.” She offered a full smile, which rendered her countenance more attractive. Nevertheless, I deemed her statement to be born of politesse rather than sincerity.

My sight veered to Mr. Nicholson. “Were you on your way home?”

“Yes, we spent the past few months in London. Last week, my wife and two sons returned to Bailey Manor, my estate in Leicestershire. I had business to complete, and Barbara chose to remain with me.” He patted his daughter’s arm. “I wish with all my heart you had gone with them and avoided this frightful experience.”

She shook her head. “No, Papa, I am well, and I should rather be here with you.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Mr. Nicholson lifted his hand to me. “And you, sir, what is your destination?”

“I am for Bedford and expect to remain for a few days at least.” It crossed my mind that Mr. Nicholson may lack funds. “In light of the circumstances, I should be happy to cover your expenses.”

“That is generous of you, and I appreciate the offer, but that will not be necessary. I have stayed in Bedford many times and have established credit with the local businesses.”

“I see.” I caught Miss Nicholson staring at me; she blushed and redirected her gaze towards her father. What had drawn her interest? My hand rose to my cravat to ensure the knot had not come loose.

In time, she regained her former poise and faced me anew. “Pray forgive me, Mr. Darcy, for gaping at you earlier. I have recalled why your name sounded familiar. I believe you have an estate in Derbyshire.”

“Yes, Pemberley.”

She beamed at me. “According to the newspapers, you recently discovered a distant cousin, a painter who shares your surname.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“I shall be the envy of my friends when they learn I have met the elusive Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy who is seen so rarely at Almack's or St. James’s.” Her head slanted to one side. “There is a general misconception that you are aloof and rude. I am glad to know the truth and shall inform my acquaintances of your amiable nature.”

An acrid taste filled my mouth. “In all honesty, in the past, I have often been far less cordial than I ought to have been. I placed little importance upon this shortcoming until I alienated someone whose opinion I valued. Since then, I have made changes to my behaviour.”

“It is not easy to admit one’s shortcomings.” She used a soft tone. “And it is still more difficult to correct them. Too few gentlemen of means manage to accomplish both.”

“In my case, I still struggle with politeness in certain situations, so this is far from a fait accompli . And the laudable course would have been for me to avoid the necessity for this form of betterment.”

Mr. Nicholson shifted his legs and betrayed a subtle wince. “Have your lodging arrangements been set?”

“No, this is an impromptu trip. Do you have a recommendation?”

“Yes. The Bedford Rest is the finest hotel in the area.”

“I appreciate the information.”

Miss Nicholson moved nearer to the window. “We have entered the high street. The surgeon’s office is farther up on the left, and—” She gasped and gripped her father’s hand. “Papa, look there, in front of the tavern. It is one of the men who robbed us—the fiend who shot you! I recognise his pointy chin and his ill-fitting, brown coat. Do you see him?” She pointed to a man with unkempt, black hair beside a sorrel horse, placing an item in the saddlebag. “And that is Rusty with him!”

“By God, you are right!”

I signalled my driver to stop and shifted forwards to address Mr. Nicholson. “Are you absolutely certain that man is one of the highwaymen?”

“Yes, there can be no mistake, and he has one of our stolen horses.”

I retrieved the box hidden under my seat, removed the pistol from inside, and slipped the gun into my right coat pocket. I gave Miss Nicholson a serious look. “Remain here with your father.”

“Very well. Please be careful!” She cowered against Mr. Nicholson.

“Do not be frightened. All will be well.” I stayed Hunter with a hand cue and stepped down from the carriage.

Harry jumped from his seat and joined me. “What are we doing ’ere, sir?”

“One of the highwaymen is over there.” I moved my head to indicate the man. “I shall confront him alone, but I want you to remain nearby.”

His lips curled into a sneer as he shot the robber a quick look. “Yes, sir.” He held back and feigned an inspection of the harnesses.

The area bustled with activity: people strolled by the businesses on foot, and others traversed the street on horseback or in carriages; thus, I must avoid drawing my pistol if possible. Furthermore, such a rare instance meant I should abandon the rules of gentlemanly conduct in the interest of public safety. I approached the dark-haired man at a leisurely pace. “Mr. Baker, what a coincidence it is to find you here.”

Although the man stood taller than average, he had to look slightly upwards to meet my gaze. He glanced right and left, and his small eyes narrowed. “You’ve got the wrong man. I’ve never seen you afore.” A film of dust covered him, and a dark stain tainted his lapel. Based upon the foul odour emanating from him, he had not washed in weeks.

“Indeed? Well, pardon me, but the resemblance is remarkable.” I fought the inclination to scowl at the miscreant who had attacked and robbed the Nicholsons.

In a hurried motion, he reached over to close the saddlebag, revealing a holster inside his unbuttoned coat. “Well, I’m in a rush.” He displayed an unpleasant smile. “So if you don’t mind—”

“Yes, of course.” I feinted back as though to retreat, then lunged forwards, pummelling the blackguard in consecutive blows, striking his cheek, jaw, and temple with a series of resultant thuds. Taken by surprise, he grunted, and his head jounced with each hit.

A woman’s scream rent the air from somewhere behind me.

The man staggered as though ready to fall, and I halted. But he righted himself and emitted a piercing bellow as he threw a wild swing at me. I swerved to avoid him and cast another right-handed hit to his temple, plus a final one with my left fist, punching him in the nose.

As the lout reeled sideways, I gripped his cravat and removed the pistol from his holster, dropping the weapon into my left coat pocket. When I released him, he tumbled to his knees and fell forwards to the ground. I glanced back at Harry. “Fetch ropes to bind his hands and feet.”

“Yes, sir.”

A small crowd gathered within a ten-foot radius of me and the robber, who moaned and lay prone. Harry appeared and tied the man’s wrists together. My left hand smarted, and I flexed and unflexed my fingers: in my haste, I had been careless with my form. At least my right hand appeared to be unscathed.

I beckoned to a skinny blond lad dressed in tattered clothing who stood nearby. “You there. Fetch the constable for me, and I shall give you a sixpence.”

His eyes opened wide. “I seen the magistrate at the post office. Will ’e do?”

“That is even better. Go on and get him.”

“Yes, sir!” The boy darted away.

Harry stood from the bandit, who now sat in a slouched position, his eyes half-shut, wrists and ankles bound. “Sir, ’e’s not going anywhere.”

“Good work, Harry.” I returned to the coach and opened the door nearest to Mr. Nicholson, who grinned at me.

“Your use of pugilism to subdue that criminal was admirable and appropriate for the circumstances. I commend you, Mr. Darcy. Few men could have handled the situation as well.”

“Thank you.”

Miss Nicholson leaned forwards to meet my gaze. “You have my deepest gratitude, Mr. Darcy. I never thought we should see any of our stolen property again, so it is a relief to have Rusty returned.”

“It is my pleasure to be of service. My driver will take you to the surgeon’s office and bring your horse as well. I shall wait here for the magistrate and join you later.” I parted from them, gave Harry my instructions, and returned to the reprobate.

Soon enough, a short, slight, bald-headed man pushed through the crowd alongside the blond urchin. The newcomer stopped to peer at the captive robber before he accosted me. “I am the magistrate, Mr. Plowman. What has gone on here?”

I introduced myself and recounted the Nicholsons’ plight and their identification of the fiend. The blond boy crept his way to my side, and I gave him the promised coin. “And the suspect carried this fire-arm.” I passed the seized pistol to Mr. Plowman. “This may be one of the weapons stolen from Mr. Nicholson today.”

The magistrate rubbed his chin. “The townspeople will be relieved to have one less highwayman in the area. I am eager to interrogate him—maybe he can be convinced to reveal the identity of his partner.”

“That would be ideal. And he may know where to find the rest of Mr. Nicholson’s stolen property.”

Mr. Plowman eyed me whilst he untied the robber’s ankles. “I need you to accompany me and provide an official statement.”

“Yes, of course.” I gnashed my teeth. I had yet to form a plan for obtaining an audience with Elizabeth. One way or another, I would see her.

The magistrate attempted to lift the suspect—who refused to cooperate—and mumbled an imprecation. I grabbed the prisoner’s opposite arm and wrenched him to his feet.

“Thank you.” Mr. Plowman gave me a nod.

“You are welcome.”

He indicated our route with a sweep of his hand, and we steered the prisoner forwards.

I glanced at Mr. Plowman. “It is fortuitous you happened to be in Bedford today.”

“Our constable is away on a trip, and the watchmaker called me to town because of a parcel he reported stolen from his shop that turned out to have been misplaced.”

Once the criminal had been secured in the local lock-up, Mr. Plowman directed me to the post office. A desk in a quiet corner of the building served as his make-shift office. When I completed my written statement, he skimmed my narrative.

“This will do very well.” He placed my statement in a folder. “How long will you be in town?”

“My plans are uncertain.” It struck me that he must know the townspeople and could help me find Elizabeth. “I should be obliged if you would direct me to the home of a local resident, Mr. Baxter.”

His face brightened. “Baxter is one of our leading citizens. Do you know him well?”

“No, I…um…have not met him, but a friend of mine is staying at his residence.”

“Oh?” Mr. Plowman scratched a sparse tuft of brown hair at the side of his head. “I spoke to Baxter less than a week ago, and he never mentioned he expected a guest. At any rate, his property is easy to find. Go south on the high street, turn left onto Lurke Street, then turn right onto Howard Street. Baxter’s house is the second on the right.” He placed a pencil in his coat pocket and picked up the folder. “Will you go there now?”

If only it was that simple. “No, I am to meet the Nicholsons at the surgeon’s office.”

“Then I shall accompany you.”

At Mr. Plowman’s enquiry, the elderly surgeon informed us that Mr. Nicholson had been fortunate—the bullet had passed through his leg, and he would leave with a set of crutches. The driver, though, needed to have a bullet extracted from his shoulder and would remain in the surgeon’s care overnight.

The magistrate conducted interviews of Mr. and Miss Nicholson. Afterwards, I conveyed Mr. Nicholson, now equipped with crutches, and his daughter to the Bedford Rest. The innkeeper greeted Mr. Nicholson by name and obtained an abridged recital of the Nicholsons’ ordeal.

“And since I am in Mr. Darcy’s debt, you must add the cost for his stay to my account.” Mr. Nicholson directed his smile to me. “I hope you will indulge me and not argue the point.”

“Very well. Thank you.”

“It is the least I may do. And you must have dinner with my daughter and me tonight.”

Miss Nicholson’s brown eyes twinkled. “Oh yes, you must.”

Would they be offended if I begged off? After the unexpected events of the day, I craved solitude to devise the best way to approach Elizabeth. “Forgive me, but I must decline.” Miss Nicholson’s head and shoulders drooped, so I sought a gentler tone. “I should like to join you, but I have business matters that need my attention.”

“Of course, that is understandable.” Mr. Nicholson repositioned his crutches. “After all, you expended a great deal of time and energy on our behalf today. We shall speak again tomorrow.”

I parted from them, entered my rented room, and stood at the window overlooking the street. In all probability, Elizabeth would walk in the morning, and that would be my best opportunity to speak to her. Tomorrow, I should traverse the areas surrounding Mr. Baxter’s residence, and this time, I should find her.

Saturday, 4 July

Bedford

Darcy

I strode out of the door of the inn and stopped short, almost colliding with the magistrate. “Excuse me, Mr. Plowman. Good morning.”

He took a backwards step. “It is a fine day, Mr. Darcy, and I am glad to have caught you in time. I came to ask whether you would be willing to assist me. The suspect revealed his partner’s location—a hovel five miles east of here. He maintains the stolen property is there as well. I have recruited a group of local volunteers to accompany me, but none are skilled marksmen.”

“What makes you think I am?”

“Your agility with your fists combined with the acuity of your written statement led me to deduce you benefited from a comprehensive education.” His lips drew upwards. “And you have not denied the fact.”

Criminy , I did not want to put off seeing Elizabeth another hour, much less another day. But if I could help ensure the local roads would be safer… “Very well, I shall accompany you.”

Less than two hours later, we took the second highwayman into custody without incident: upon our entrance into the remote cabin indicated by his accomplice, we found him in an alcohol-induced slumber. We recovered the Nicholsons’ coach, along with three horses, a few purses of cash, several bags—which had been ransacked—and a collection of watches, rings, and other items of jewellery.

Mr. Plowman emptied a filthy, worn knapsack onto the table. Among the articles of male clothing, handkerchiefs, and scarves, I spotted a cross covered in green gemstones on a broken chain. I pointed out the necklace to Mr. Plowman and recounted Miss Nicholson’s attestation.

The magistrate handed the cross to me. “Since you are staying at the Bedford Rest, please return the necklace to Miss Nicholson.”

“Very well.”

On the ride back to Bedford, Mr. Plowman directed his horse alongside Regal. “Although we did not put your pistol or your fists to use on this occasion, I appreciated your assistance.”

“You are welcome.”

“My wife and I should like to have a small dinner party on Tuesday night. I had in mind to invite you, Mr. Baxter, and his guest. What do you think?”

I shot him a quick look. “That is most kind of you, but that may not be the best idea. The situation is…delicate.”

His brows raised in a questioning look.

Blast , he left me little choice but to be frank. “The friend I want to see is a lady. Unfortunately, I have managed to alienate her father. In truth, he has forbidden me to see her. Both she and her father are staying with Mr. Baxter, and I am determined to speak to her—one way or another.”

“Do you expect the lady will welcome your presence?”

I averted my gaze. “I cannot be certain.”

“If I may ask, why does her father object to you?”

“Suffice it to say I made a consequential error, and I intend to correct my mistake. Once Miss Bennet hears my explanation, I hope she will forgive me.”

“Then my idea might be the best solution for you. If you and your lady friend are both guests at my house, you ought to have an opportunity to plead your case. I could ask my wife to set the two of you at a cribbage table.”

His suggestion might work—yet the situation could easily go awry. “There is a fair likelihood Miss Bennet’s father will become angry upon seeing me, and I should hate to expose your wife to any unpleasantness.”

“I appreciate your concern, but Mrs. Plowman is a strong lady.” He snickered. “And if the situation became heated, it would not be the first time we hosted contentious neighbours. If you would like me to set the plan in motion, say the word.”

“Thank you. Miss Bennet often takes walks of a morning, so I hope to find her on the morrow. If I am unsuccessful, I may take you up on your offer.”

“I see. There are abundant paths through the woodland across from Baxter’s home on Howard Street.”

No doubt she would tour the area. “I appreciate the information.”

“Aha!” Mr. Plowman slapped his thigh. “I know a way for you to encounter your friend tonight. My wife and I shall attend the concert in the town’s assembly room. Mr. Baxter never misses one, so I expect he and his guests will be there as well. Unless Miss Bennet’s father is willing to make a public scene, he will have little choice but to allow you to engage his daughter in that setting.”

Would this be a good idea? In all likelihood, a substantial conversation with Elizabeth may be impossible at a concert, yet I could not resist the temptation to see her. “Yes, thank you. I shall be there.”

***

I entered the Bedford Rest’s lobby, and Miss Nicholson rushed towards me, wearing a fulsome smile.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy, I am so grateful to you! I saw you, Mr. Plowman, and the other men when you rode through the high street with the second highwayman in custody. I recognised our missing horse and coach!”

“We recovered your luggage as well, and I have one other item for you.” I removed the necklace from my pocket and handed it to her.

“My cross!” Her fingers tenderly traced the peridot stones. “Thank you so much!” She shot forwards and kissed my cheek.

What the devil is this? Taken aback, it took me a few seconds to respond and move away from her. I took a quick glance around us. The only others present, a couple of men who sat in a corner of the room, seemed to pay us no mind.

Miss Nicholson raised her fingers to her mouth, and a crimson tint infused her complexion. “Please forgive me. It is not my custom to be so forward. I meant to express my appreciation for the exceptional help you have provided my father and me.” She lowered her hands and moved them behind her back. “I hope you will accept my apology. The last thing I should want is to offend you.”

“Think nothing of it. However, you ought to know the credit for today’s success goes to Mr. Plowman for his expedient investigation. I merely accompanied him to assist.”

“I shall be certain to thank him as well.” She canted her head, her eyes glinting. “But with a bit less…zeal, I should think.”

A vision of her kissing the magistrate and his resultant startled expression popped into my head, and I bit back a smile. “If you will excuse me.”

“Yes, of course.” She stepped to the side to clear the way, and I continued to my room.

An hour later, a maid delivered a note from Mr. Nicholson. He thanked me for my part in the arrest of the second robber and extended an open invitation to visit his estate at any time of my choosing. He related his plan to leave for home on Monday morning. Then he asked a favour of me: he cited his daughter’s fondness for music and enquired whether I might accompany her to the concert tonight in the assembly room.

I paced in my chamber, contemplating excuses I might provide for declining Mr. Nicholson’s request. But I had already decided to go; and it would be awkward if after my refusal, the Nicholsons discovered I had attended. I replied, indicating I should be pleased to escort her. Nothing—not the presence of Miss Nicholson, or Mr. Bennet, or anything else—would prevent me from speaking to Elizabeth tonight.