Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
D arcy awoke to the same rays of sunlight piercing through the filth of his small window, but no birdsong greeted him, only the clanking of pots in the kitchens beneath him and the shouts of men and women hawking their wares in the streets. His bed had not been comfortable, no matter how he shifted or contorted. The bread from last night’s meal had been underbaked, and he could swear he felt it continuing to rise in his stomach the whole night. The noisy bustle from the tavern and the streets below did not slacken until well past midnight and began again before dawn. And his meditations on the events of yesterday tortured him every moment.
To say he slept ill would be an understatement.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and inhaled sharply before the odours of the musty room hit his nose and made him regret it. Lifting himself to a sitting position on the rickety bed, Darcy set his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. His mind was swarmed with all the ideas that had assailed him throughout the night. While denial, frustration, grief, and uncertainty battled for supremacy, his focus continually shifted back to blame—who was responsible for this? Who had orchestrated this elaborate plan to make him disappear and die in ignominy? Who could have engineered such a thing? Who would have had the ingenuity, connexions, and funds to accomplish the feat? And what had he done to deserve such murderous hatred?
More than once had he recollected the Bible’s book of Job, which his father had forced him to study. He could not help but see himself in the patriarch as Job listed all the good he had done for those around him. Job had been a father to fatherless boys, brought relief to widows, fed the hungry, and clothed the naked. Job did not deserve the horrific trials the devil had put upon him.
Perhaps Darcy had not adopted orphans, but he had certainly made life more than bearable for all those in his employ. He contributed to several charities which worked for the betterment of England’s citizens and used whatever influence he had in political circles to make improvements in the lives of farmers and labourers.
Really, Darcy related more to what the miserable man did not do—he did not defraud others, nor did he tell lies or take mistresses. He was not cavalier in his responsibilities as a Darcy. He did not lend on interest or insist on special treatment just because of his name and wealth.
If people chose to give him such deference, that was their prerogative, was it not?
The injustice of the situation made his jaw tense. Had he not been kind and generous his entire life, raised with good principles, adhering to high morals? Why should he be repaid with such tribulation?
He had drawn up short the night before when he realised he was now living as a fugitive. Yes, his life was spared, but he was no longer free to live as he chose, to walk about as he wished. Never had he appreciated his innate liberties as much as he did now that they were stolen from him.
He had to do something.
If he were at home, or even in Kent, he would saddle up his stallion for a bruising ride. The fresh air and exercise always acted as a panacea for his heartaches and frustrations. Here, he could not even leave his room for fear of discovery. What is more, even if he could open the dirty window, the air in this part of London would never be what one might call ‘fresh’. No, any activity he might take up would have to be activity of the mind.
He made to ring the bell to have a newspaper brought up, but there was no bell to be found. Of course.Well, he was hungry in any case.
It only occurred to him after having decided to go downstairs that he would have to ready himself without assistance from Barnes. He thought about the razor his valet had sent him off with, but soon realised that he had no strop, no shaving soap, not even a mirror. Evidently, he would be growing a beard.
This recalled a catalogue of other items he would need over the course of his stay in squalid Clerkenwell. Recalling the sticking, empty drawer of the leaning desk, he lamented that he could not even write it all down. He added quills and ink to his mental list.
Darcy made his way downstairs and flagged the harried maid over. She gave him a scornful glare and continued with her task. At length, she ambled towards him and put a hand on her hip.
“How can I help you?” she asked as if it were one word in an accent so thick it made Darcy wince.
“Breakfast. Coffee. A newspaper if you got one,” he said, hoping he sounded convincingly common.
She walked off brusquely and returned with a mug and a folded paper. The mug she plunked down none too delicately, causing the mud inside to slosh over, and the newspaper she hovered over the coffee, waiting with an impatient expression for him to take it from her hand. He did so, turning in his seat to open it up so as not to soil it with the spill before him. She gave the puddle a cursory swipe with a corner of her apron before walking away. Darcy swallowed his vexation at her gall, which turned out to be more pleasant than swallowing his coffee.
At least it was hot, and it clearly had been for some time, syrup that it was.
He perused the headlines in the newspaper, interested to see if it held any information on outstanding warrants. The front page had, as usual, almost two hundred separate entries, some thanking Lady This or Lord That for some grand condescension they had bestowed, while others simply described the kind of girl they preferred for the maid-of-all-work position some household had open. He did not note a column or section of the periodical dedicated to those who were wanted by the law. Part of him wondered if such a serious charge would be posted in the paper at all, but another part of him wondered if it had not been just such a notice that led the two bloodhounds to his aunt’s door the day before. He folded the newspaper and set it on the counter intent on choking down as much of his coffee as he could stomach while he awaited his meal.
The tavern began to fill with locals as he ate, and Darcy began to feel the need to flee to his room. He gauged each face as men walked in, generally in twos. Among them was what looked like a messenger boy. Darcy walked towards the stair with his head down, then hailed the boy.
“Yes, guv?” the small creature said from under a worn-out patchwork cap.
“What is your name?” Darcy asked, just in case he had to hunt the child down later.
“Tom-Tom,” he replied with a tug of his forelock.
“Is there a shop around here, Tom-Tom? Can you fetch me some paper and ink? And a couple of quills?” Darcy was unconvinced of his Clerkenwell accent, but his hearer did not remark on it.
He nodded with large eyes and held out one hand. Darcy was not sure how he felt about handing over coin to this street urchin, but as he could not possibly go himself, he figured he had little choice. Putting two coins into the boy’s hand, he told him. “Deliver it to Seven. If you bring back the change, I shall double it for your trouble.”
With a wide smile, the boy clasped his hand around the coins and shot through the crowds zipping left, then right, then disappearing altogether.
Darcy headed upstairs and waited. The boy did not disappoint. Reward given, Darcy set to the task of composing his first letter.
An hour later, Darcy sat upon the end of his mattress with his knees under the desk, staring at the perfectly mended pen, black with ink and hovering over the paper marked only with today’s date. He had begun letters to his cousin Fitzwilliam and even his uncle Matlock, but Elizabeth’s words kept echoing in his ears— How do we know whom we can trust?
Fitzwilliam had ever been his confidante, his champion, a touchstone of practical wisdom. But he housed a soul embittered by the atrocities of war and the injustice of his having to buy a commission at all simply because he was a second son. How his cousin could benefit from his demise, Darcy knew not, but such reflections gave him pause.
It was the same with his uncle, Lord Matlock. It was rumoured that the earl had suffered some financial setbacks, but what that had to do with Darcy, he could not guess.
Round and round he had gone, crumpling up one leaf after another before realising he could not afford to waste a single sheet more—literally. So, he determined that he would pen a single letter and direct it to the one person he truly trusted, the person who had so recently crushed his soul and saved his life in one night.
He needed to write to Elizabeth.