Chapter 45
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
T ucked snugly into Darcy’s least lavish coach, Elizabeth heard him give instructions to the driver and waited for him to take his seat next to her on the squabs.
“Clerkenwell?” she asked, surprised by the directions he gave. “I thought we were going to meet Georgiana and the colonel at Lord Matlock’s home.”
“I have a few belongings at The Fox I must retrieve first,” he explained, “and I must take my leave of Sarah and Tom-Tom.”
“Sarah and Tom-Tom?” Elizabeth remembered Darcy’s having mentioned a young boy in his letters, but she could not recall him speaking of any ladies.
“Sarah is the irascible maid who taught me how to light my own fire, but only after accusing me of trying to trap her in my room and assault her.”
Elizabeth gasped aloud—how could anyone think Darcy capable of such base behaviour?
“It was merited, I assure you. Not because of anything I did, but because of how other men have treated her throughout her life. Poor creature, all she desires is to keep her virtue and feel safe.”
“And Tom-Tom?”
“A street child. Probably a pick-pocket before he came into my employ. There are a dozen or so children who coordinate their thievery in the avenues nearby. But, Tom-Tom was eager to have employment, to learn and prove himself trustworthy. And he did,” he said with pride, not in himself as was his former wont, but in his little protégé.
Elizabeth’s admiration for her betrothed only grew that he would be so considerate as to take himself in all this state back to the scene of his degradation for the simple purpose of saying goodbye to a maid and a street urchin. How he had changed!
As they drove, he regaled her with stories of his time in hiding. She flinched as he spoke of his ineptitude in the boxing ring, and how his fellow pugilists patiently—and painfully—trained him in offence, defence, and fighting figures, as well as how he had come upon Mr Wickham. He related how they had both been accused of the same crime and had the same ne’er-do-wells following them. How they had bested Horace—apparently the brains of the operation—and elicited from him the confession that they had been hired to kill him by a woman. Though it was not a humorous topic, Elizabeth could not help but laugh as Darcy described Wickham hanging off the back of the hulking Nigel, whom she had seen at Rosings the night of Fitzwilliam’s flight.
Before the thought could take root that Nigel had not been apprehended, and was therefore likely still looking for him, the conveyance stopped in front of an old, dirty inn.
“A Clerkenwell staple, I am informed,” Darcy said with a smile as he stepped towards the door, which had been opened by a footman.
Stepping inside, Elizabeth saw an ill-lighted tavern full of tilting tables and dirt-filled corners, as if whoever was responsible for cleaning the place just pushed the broom or rag around as far as they could reach without stretching and left the corners untouched. She turned her attention to Darcy; to her utter amazement, he was smiling as if he honestly liked it here.
A middle-aged man behind a long counter took note of them, raised his eyebrows, straightened his shoulders, and approached.
“Welcome to The Fox it took all I had to convince him you’d be back whole and hale, and here you are!”
She began walking towards the stairs with an unspoken command that they follow, so Darcy took Elizabeth’s hand and obeyed. As they walked, he sneaked a glance at Elizabeth and noted the wonderment in her eyes as she took it all in. It was a great deal to absorb for one who was thrust into it so suddenly. He remembered that feeling all too well.
Strange how he had become so accustomed to it at some point. This place still felt almost like home to him.
Upstairs, they found Tom-Tom sitting on the edge of the mattress, elbows upon the rickety desk, reading aloud from an old copy of the Bow Street newspaper. He whipped his head ’round at the sound of the door opening, and his face became fierce as he took in Darcy’s form.
“Ain’t nothing in here for the likes of you! You go on!” the boy demanded in a voice far more ferocious than his small frame should support.
“It is all right, Tom-Tom,” Darcy offered in his Clerkenwell accent.
Tom-Tom’s expression went from threatening to beaming in an instant, and before Darcy knew it, the boy had flown into his arms.
“Mr Seven! I thought those baddies had got you,” Tom-Tom cried into Darcy’s chest.
“Nothing so easy,” Darcy assured him as the boy pulled away. “Sarah assures me that you’ve been guarding my possessions. I thank you for your service, Tom-Tom.”
After they had gathered all of Darcy’s effects into the sack Barnes had given him all those weeks ago, Sarah, who had disappeared momentarily, cleared her throat. Elizabeth looked up at her, and Sarah blushed, “If you please, Miss, Mr Darcy’s friend left these things.”
She handed Elizabeth a packet of papers tied with string, along with an empty burlap pouch, which Darcy recognised as having once contained Wickham’s small earnings from his winning boxing match. Darcy loosened the drawstring on his larger bag and held it open to Elizabeth, who dutifully dropped the bundle inside.
Tom-Tom had become very still. At length, the boy uttered, “Mr Darcy ?”
“That is my real name, yes, Tom-Tom,” Darcy told him gently.
“I thought it might be,” the boy said slowly. Darcy cocked his head quizzically. Then, reaching shakily into a pocket in his moth-eaten and badly-patched coat, Tom-Tom added, “Then this...belongs to you.”
He opened his small, trembling hand, and there, lying in his dirty palm, was Darcy’s father’s watch. Darcy sucked in a half gasp as he gazed at the golden gift his father had left him all those years ago.
Now Darcy’s hands were trembling as he grasped the timepiece. He turned it around in his fingers, his eyes following the scrollwork of the intricately inscribed ‘Darcy ’. He looked up at the boy, whose mop of blond curls suddenly struck a memory. He had been a pick-pocket, after all. Darcy’s disappointment in the boy must have shown on his face, for Tom-Tom soon piped up.
“I lifted it off you, but I wasn’t sure it was you. Then you was so kind to old Tom-Tom from the very next day, I could not bring myself to fence it, just in case it was yours. That’s why I was so keen to learn to read and to know what name we was looking for in the Hue and Cry , ’cause I knowed the names would match if it was yours.”
“So, you kept it all this time, just so you could return it to me if you found I was the rightful owner?” Could this boy, who had grown up in the mean streets of one of London’s seediest neighbourhoods, really have developed such loyalty towards him after having been shown just that small shred of trust? The evidence was lying in Darcy’s hands. His disappointment turned to gratitude as he clasped the watch to his chest and bent to grasp Tom-Tom by the shoulder.
“Thank you for returning it to me, Tom-Tom,” he said with more emotion than he wished to betray. “Thank you for being a true friend.”
Having both of his Clerkenwell comrades before him, Darcy took the opportunity to make his offer. If they could both be ready by tomorrow, he would be happy to have them in his employ from now on. This was met with embraces from Sarah and Tom-Tom both, who each nodded their happy assent.
Meanwhile, Darcy and Elizabeth steeled themselves for the less cheerful of their duties for the day. They had to tell Fitzwilliam about what had transpired at Rosings, and Darcy knew that such news would hurt his cousin deeply. But it had to be done.
Their next stop: Matlock House.