Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
April 23, 1812, Bow Street, London
Dear Sir,
As requested, I undertook a thorough investigation of the persons named in your letter. I do apologise for the delay, but as you demanded an in-depth search into the backgrounds and habits of the individuals, more time was required. If you would like any further information, please do not hesitate to contact me, as I have been assured of being promptly ‘consummated’ by your little Runner.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam of His Majesty’s Light Dragoons, 12th regiment. Thirty years of age. Currently on leave after fighting on the Continent, caring for family business in Kent. Second son of the Earl of Matlock. Younger brother of Viscount Reedsworth, heir apparent to the Matlock earldom. No criminal history. No military demerits or disciplinary actions. Hailed as a hero for saving his company during an ambush in the first battle of Badajoz, February 4, 1811. Named partial guardian of Georgiana Darcy of Derbyshire along with that lady’s elder brother, Fitzwilliam Darcy of same. Is in regular contact with Miss Darcy as well as her companion, Mrs Younge. Has a reputation as an honourable, jovial, diligent gent. No peculiarities found.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh, née Fitzwilliam, of Rosings Park, Hunsford parish, Kent. Sixty-two years of age. Widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, who was knighted by His Majesty King George III for conscientious performance of his mayoral duties in the late ’80s. Daughter of late Earl of Matlock, by whom she inherits lifetime rights to her title. Not often seen away from her domain, over which she rules with an iron fist. Neighbours say she is overly involved in the everyday affairs of the villagers and her tenants, advising them minutely on everything from which cuts of meat they should eat to how they should arrange the furniture in their private chambers. Not known for charitable deeds, but rather scolds the discontent in her midst into harmony and plenty. Began covertly visiting a Mr Seymour of Old Street, London, in November 1796. Soon thereafter, that physician began making the journey to her estate in Kent monthly. Our investigator was unable to ascertain the reason for such visits, but Mr Seymour’s speciality seems to be in treating depressives and lunatics, his main place of work being St Luke’s Hospital, London. No other peculiarities found.
Miss Anne de Bourgh, only daughter of Sir Lewis and Lady Catherine de Bourgh, heiress of Rosings Park, Kent. Twenty-eight years of age. Not often seen outside her house, except on occasion riding in a phaeton with her elderly companion, a Mrs Jenkinson. Was never presented at court. Reportedly not out in society. Reportedly of a sickly nature and unable to participate in social activities. Neighbours tell she was a bright, energetic child, often seen about the local village of Hunsford until the late ’90s, when she apparently fell ill and was no longer able to leave the house outside of church on Sundays with her mother and the occasional carriage ride as stated above. Nothing is known of her personality, her habits, nor her reputation. It is rumoured her health has improved recently. No other peculiarities found—though having nothing to report is peculiar in itself.
Do contact me with any further questions?—
Desmond Wright, Deputy Inspector
D arcy devoured the letter.
Mr Wright’s report on Fitzwilliam told Darcy nothing he did not know. He wondered if the detective had spoken to his fellow officers or ascertained Fitzwilliam’s feelings about that day at Badajoz. More than once had his cousin told Darcy the account in thrilling and heartbreaking detail, grief-stricken by the loss of the two men he had not been able to save from the Monster’s devious troops. What grated the colonel most was the injustice of it all—to be ambushed in the dead of night before the fighting had even begun among the four nations that had gathered to claim the city! Such inequity was simply too much for Fitzwilliam to bear.
And yet, as the letter before him showed, he was still the same ‘jovial, diligent gent’ he ever was.
But Lady Catherine had been seeing a mad-doctor for over a decade? This begged belief. That woman would never admit to the need for a physician, much less one whose expertise was in treating mental depravity and depressed spirits. It made no sense.
Unless he had been hired to see Anne.
His cousin certainly suffered from some ailment, but her illness had always been physical, had it not? Though it was strange that Anne had been in wonderful physical health until her twelfth year; it was only then that she had become lethargic and uninterested in life. Indeed, Darcy remembered her dancing energetically the night of the harvest feast at Pemberley, the night his mother?—
Darcy shook the thought from his mind and focused on the matter at hand. Perhaps Lady Catherine had hired other physicians to assist her daughter, and none of them had helped. Could Anne’s physical illness be a product of her mind? But, if his cousin had been under this man’s care for over fifteen years, why had she not improved? Was there nothing he could do for her, prescribe for her, that would lift her sullen spirits? Surely after all this time, someone who specialises in that type of care would have been able to come up with something to effect a cure, or at least an improvement, would he not?
Darcy did not know what to think about this circumstance, but he was determined to hunt down this Mr Seymour and find out.
“I am sorry my friends could not join us this morning, Colonel. Mrs Collins is feeling somewhat poorly, and her sister is tending to her. My cousin, it seems, is with his bees and must not have heard you arrive or else he would surely be here to welcome the right honourable nephew of his most esteemed patroness,” Elizabeth said, parroting the parson in her obsequious address.
Colonel Fitzwilliam chuckled, then replied, “No matter. Much as I respect Mrs Collins and Miss Lucas, I confess I am glad to have your company. I feel oddly…soothed in your presence.”
He looked into her eyes as he spoke, the last words coming out rather sheepishly. His sheepishness only increased with the entry of the Collinses’ maid.
“You do not find the company of your aunt and cousin particularly soothing, sir?” Elizabeth asked playfully as she accepted the tea tray.
“Not of late, no,” he admitted with a mirthless laugh.
“Then why do you stay, sir? Did you not hint that you had a lady whose favour you wished to seek? Would not your ‘bright, particular star’ ease your troubles?” She handed him his tea, black, as she knew he preferred it from previous calls. “Or has she no fortune to pull the second son of an earl from his miserable poverty?”
Her joke fell flat. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face flew to hers with nary a grin. He took in her every feature as he sat in what was quickly becoming an awkward silence.
He hesitated, and Elizabeth was sure he was about to confess that she herself was his bright, particular star. She berated herself as a thousand thoughts raced through her head in the seconds that passed without speaking.
How did I not see this? Had not Mr Darcy imagined he himself was courting her when he met her for early morning walks and visited the parsonage? Could the colonel have been thinking the same? And had he not sought her company at every opportunity, expressed interest in her family, her thoughts, her opinions? Oh, what a fool she had been!
How was she to deny him? The expression on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face was one of exhaustion and desperation. He needed comfort, not a polite refusal from a woman who had, as far as he understood, been willing to accept his suit all this time! She did not think herself able to add to his pain with a rejection, especially one in favour of his more privileged, better-favoured cousin.
What was this? She would reject the colonel in favour of Mr Darcy? Did this mean she was already set on accepting Mr Darcy, should he ask again?
At that moment, Mr Collins walked into the parlour, his arms flailing about as he struggled to wrest the great, gauzy apiary shroud away from his person. Without a thought to the conversation he must be interrupting or the ridiculous picture he made, the vicar apologised profusely for not being present to properly welcome his most noble guest.
The charming, distressed man across from her pasted on a sociable smile and forgave his host freely, but the vicar’s apologies only ended when the visit did. Elizabeth could not regret her cousin’s interruption, for the revelation she had just stumbled upon had stolen the breath from her lungs, and she was sure further discourse would have been impossible.
Could I be falling in love with Mr Darcy?