Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A fter gathering as much information on Anne de Bourgh’s history as the man was able to disclose, Darcy and Wickham left Mr Seymour in his neighbour’s capable hands and returned to the inn. He needed to see whether Elizabeth had sent him word. If she had been able to leave right away, she should have made it to Gracechurch Street by late afternoon, and he had no doubt she would have let him know she had arrived. It was nearing midnight—if she had indeed left Hunsford, he would know of it by now.
As there was nothing awaiting him when he walked in, he had to assume that she could not leave Rosings today. She was still at the parsonage with Anne nearby.
As the conversation went on, Mr Seymour had called her the most dangerous woman England has ever known, even using the words ‘bloodthirsty’ and ‘insatiable predator’. The more Darcy thought about Anne’s purported madness, the more he wondered what had happened at Pemberley the night his mother left. According to the doctor’s records, it was only one week after having left Derbyshire that Lady Catherine had first sought his assistance. The physician told him of the unnerving fear in that lady’s eyes as she spoke of her young daughter’s propensity for violent outbursts and how proud the girl was of her ability to stalk and dispatch her prey.
Darcy had asked him why Anne would have such wicked proclivities, what would motivate her to commit such acts of violence. He had explained that the mind of a lunatic was a mysterious thing and that no two madnesses were the same. Every kind of insanity existed in the world, and Anne de Bourgh’s inclination to kill was hers particularly.
Had not Darcy said it himself? “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.” Anne’s particular evil was more sinister than any Darcy could have imagined when he had uttered those words. She yearned for blood.
What if his darling Elizabeth was her next intended victim?
Darcy had to go to her. He would hire a horse and leave at first light. Wickham would go to Darcy House with a letter instructing his housekeeper to house and clothe him and ready rooms for Darcy’s return the next night. Darcy would not spend a moment longer in Kent than necessary.
That morning, as he was walking out the front door of the tavern, Sarah waved him down, a letter in hand. “Mr Seven! Tom-Tom came by yesterday while you were gone and left this for you. I forgot I had it tucked in my apron when I turned in for the night,” the maid told him apologetically.
Darcy paused, taking in the filigreed ‘B’ pressed into the wax seal. Bingley. As he had requested, he had not written Darcy’s name on the outside of the missive. Bless Bingley. Breaking it open, he took in the hurried scrawl of his good friend and gave a sigh of relief.
Darcy,
I must confess I was surprised to find your errand boy on my doorstep, but I was happy to do as requested, as Caroline and I always enjoy your sister’s company. We were able to leave for Matlock House within the hour and were fortunate enough to find her at home with the Earl and Countess. She and Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to be most congenially catching up, as he had apparently been away for some time.
Miss Darcy seemed well, old man. I was able to introduce her to my angel. I cannot wait for you to meet Miss Haversham, Darcy—she is heaven on earth! Anyhow, your aunt is keeping your sister quite busy, apparently, for they spoke of shopping trips, dinner parties, and even a picnic being planned. She looked very happy, except when we asked after you. Miss Darcy was clearly distressed that she had not had any letters of late, but your cousin reassured her that he had heard from you just this morning and that you were well.
I hope he is correct. All this intrigue with the moppet running about for you worries me. Where are you, Darcy? Are you in danger? Is there aught I can do to help? Please let me know?—
B
Darcy’s heart leapt and fell in the same breath. Fitzwilliam was here in London, probably waiting for him to appear at Matlock House. That meant Georgiana was safe in the company of her most ardent defender save for himself.
But it also meant that Elizabeth was in Kent without his or Fitzwilliam’s protection.
He must go to her.
Elizabeth kept to the paths near the parsonage that morning. She needed the fresh air to clear her head and attempt to wrap her mind around all that was happening, but she would not let the gravel road down which Miss de Bourgh might drive her phaeton out of her sight. She did not wish for Miss de Bourgh to be in company with Charlotte at all, but Elizabeth would certainly not allow her to do so alone.
She espied her ridiculous cousin amongst his hives, shrouded in the gauzy mesh of a beekeeper, a sand-coloured ghost wandering his back gardens. Her heart ached for Charlotte, for all that she had revealed to Elizabeth about the desperation of her situation.
Charlotte had entered her marriage with the hope of finding contentment in running her own home and being able to say she was married to a respectable man. But, with each passing day, it was made more clear to her that she was not running her home; that privilege belonged to Lady Catherine. And her husband’s grovelling at that woman’s feet robbed Charlotte of any respect she may have felt for him. To know that the man did not even write his own sermons, but rather read from a manuscript penned by his patroness, was the last straw on the camel’s back of her tenuous regard for her partner.
Whereas Charlotte’s pragmatism usually won the day, the emotional awakening her pregnancy wrought had left the vicar’s wife resentful of her husband, regretful of her choices, and wishing to God that she could turn back time. Knowing this to be impossible, however, Charlotte contented herself with the thought that she might convince Mr Collins that it was customary for a woman to return to her mother for her lying in, and indeed, as much of her pregnancy as possible.
Thus, Elizabeth waited in Kent only as long as it took Charlotte to arrange matters, and then the three—Elizabeth, Charlotte, and her sister, Maria—would leave for Hertfordshire together.
The sound of horse’s hooves on the lane set the hairs on Elizabeth’s neck on end. She rushed towards the parsonage, determined to be inside before Miss de Bourgh could reach Charlotte, should it be her. When she looked up, however, she realised that the sound came from the direction of Hunsford rather than Rosings. Peering down the long road, she espied a townsman coming towards the house, wearing leather breeches and a floppy hat, his face covered in a dark red beard.
Her heart leapt in her chest when she realised that it was not a local labourer, but Mr Darcy. She had imagined his handsome face covered in a thick beard, but the reality was far more disguising. And attractive. He wore the clothes he had commandeered from Jem, his black Hessians the only remnant of his former appearance.
Elizabeth flew to him.
His speed did not let up until he was practically upon her, at which point he alighted from his sweating steed and caught her in midair. They crashed into one another’s arms, the force of their embrace lifting Elizabeth’s feet from the ground. He squeezed her breathless for interminable moments, and when he finally set her to the ground, his hands rose to stroke her face in a hungry exploration.
Her eyes welled with happy tears as she watched him take her in. After examining every inch of her, he pulled her in to kiss her forehead, then set to looking her over again, all the while groaning, “Elizabeth! You are well,” with agitated relief.
“I am well.” She laughed. “And you! Look at you! You certainly look the part of a Clerkenwell rabble-rouser.”
“Aye, and me Clerkenwell accent ain’t too shabby, neither,” he said, extracting from her another teary giggle. Elizabeth threw her arms around his neck once again. He pulled her flush against him by her waist and leant his face into her curls. She could feel the rush of his pulse against her cheek slowly calming from its wild thrum as he held her.
Elizabeth looked up to see his beautiful toffee eyes gazing down at her, his expression of relief turning into something decidedly more intimate. One arm he left around her waist, but his right hand he pulled back and slid around her neck, resting his thumb on her jaw. There was no fervour in his touch this time, no frantic search or worried survey. And his eyes, rather than roving over her entire person, settled upon her mouth.
She leant her head back in silent acquiescence as he gently pulled her face towards his, his fingers teasing the curls just behind her ear.
He whispered as he leant in to meet her lips, “Dearest, loveliest?—”
“Cousin Elizabeth!”
The cry from the Collinses’ back garden disrupted their perfect moment. She had been but a breath away from experiencing the kiss she had been dreaming of for four weeks now. Truth be told, she did not know how badly she wanted it until it was so unceremoniously stolen from her.
Mr Collins’s horrified shriek seemed to bring Darcy back to reality, for he quickly straightened his posture, released Elizabeth from the exquisite confines of his embrace, and shot a glance towards Rosings.
“It’s Anne,” Mr Darcy said in rushed tones. “She is insane. She has been on a tranquillising medication for over a decade to keep her from acting on her violent instincts. I believe she has ceased taking it. I must find her before she hurts someone. Or worse.”
“I am going with you,” Elizabeth said immediately.
“No! It is too dangerous, my love.”
“I am not leaving your side. Not now nor ever again.” She finally had him here with her; she would not watch him saunter into danger when she might be able to help. At that, without giving the slightest attention to the mesh-clad poltergeist clamouring towards them and berating Elizabeth for such indecent liberties with a common serf, Darcy lifted her onto his horse and climbed into the saddle behind her.
Elizabeth ignored the discomfort of the situation—the precariousness of her balance and the saddle sliding beneath her with each gallop of the mount. And though she was pressed against Darcy’s chest with his strong arms holding her on either side, she was unable to glory in her beloved’s closeness. Her mind was too full of the daunting task before them.
Elizabeth and Darcy were on their way to Rosings Park to confront and subdue Anne de Bourgh.