Chapter 49
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
E lizabeth and Colonel Fitzwilliam rode in silence as Darcy’s equipage conveyed them to Gracechurch Street, where she would spend the rest of her sojourn in London with her aunt and Uncle Gardiner. Darcy had been needed to comfort his poor sister, and Fitzwilliam, having finished answering all the magistrate’s questions, was only too glad to escape Matlock House. The hush was not uncomfortable; after the events of the day, Elizabeth welcomed it.
The afternoon had been a long one. And noisome. Evidently, the Earl of Matlock did nothing in quiet tones. And the death of Mrs Younge’s lover brought forth an incessant stream of cursing screams and wails of grief from that woman, forcing every other individual in the room to shout to be heard.
The earl had arrived home at the same time as Lady Matlock and Miss Darcy, and all three had heard the gunshot from the entrance hall as the earl gruffly called for a maid to assist them with their caps and gloves. Lord Matlock admirably rushed towards the din rather than fleeing in panic, bursting into the study with his own figurative guns blazing. Ordering the young servant to hunt down the nearest magistrate, he began doling out instructions to everyone present.
From Colonel Fitzwilliam—in whose hand was the still-smoking pistol—he required an explanation in full. Elizabeth, whom he had never met but over whom he assumed full authority, was ordered to assist the now-prone Lady Matlock. Nigel was perfectly willing to obey when the earl commanded him to reposition one of his beefy hands over Mrs Younge’s mouth.
In an act of understanding and compassion Elizabeth was surprised to see from such an imposing fellow, he had ordered Darcy to see to Georgiana. “This is not something a young lady should witness.”
From the doorway, kneeling upon the marble floor and holding up Lady Matlock’s head and shoulders, Elizabeth had heard snippets of the colonel’s account. “Wickham intended to make off with Georgiana…He and Mrs Younge had arranged to murder Darcy…Wickham aimed straight at him…I had no choice.”
“The weapon is still in the blackguard’s hand,” Lord Matlock observed.
“I can attest to that,” Nigel volunteered, seeming quite blissfully unaware that his word carried so little weight.
Elizabeth’s attention had been caught at that moment by another, softer voice. As she fanned the countess’s face, she heard Darcy’s gentle murmur. She looked over to see him holding his sister. “I am so sorry. My darling, darling girl.”
“It is…” she sniffed, “It is really him? It is G-George?”
“It is,” Darcy answered, cradling her blonde head against his chest and resting his cheek upon her curls.
In Elizabeth’s arms, Lady Matlock began coming around. The confusion in her countenance was understandable—her last memory had been of espying a dead man in her home, and now she was looking into the face of a complete stranger. Elizabeth had attempted a reassuring smile, something that would communicate to the woman that all was well.
Of course, all was not well.
George Wickham was dead. Her betrothed was heartbroken by his childhood companion’s betrayal. Miss Darcy was disconsolate, sobbing uncontrollably into her brother’s lapels. And Colonel Fitzwilliam had killed a man he did not know was not a true threat. Would Darcy ever tell his cousin of the ineffectiveness of his father’s duelling pistols?
She heartily hoped not. It would do no one any good for him to know that Darcy was not in real danger. He had done what he thought was right, protected a man to whom he was tenaciously loyal, and, in truth, rid the world of a calculating villain of the highest order.
As the coach rounded the corner onto Gracechurch Street, Elizabeth looked up to the man across from her in the squabs. Colonel Fitzwilliam was done for. His usually cheerful countenance was drawn, his posture defeated, and his eyes bloodshot. She ached for him, for all he had gone through, for the loss of his hopes, the loss of his love.
“I thank you, Colonel, for your service to my betrothed.”
“Your betrothed? I thought as much, but as there was no opportunity for an announcement— Congratulations. You could not have chosen a finer partner, and neither could he.” His smile, though weak, appeared genuine.
“I thank you, too, for escorting me to my uncle’s house. I am sure I could have managed the journey alone.” After all she had been through the last few days, Elizabeth would not have been daunted by a three-mile journey in a fine carriage.
“I am sure you could have,” he assured her. “But I am glad for the errand.”
“Then you must come in when we arrive. My aunt and uncle will be glad to make your acquaintance.”
Elizabeth knew the colonel’s financial circumstances would not allow him to marry aught but an heiress, but she could not help but hope that an acquaintance with her elder sister would remind him that there were women of worth left in the world.
Upon their arrival, the joyous surprise on the faces of all in the Gardiners’ home gave way to a very warm welcome. Jane embraced her tightly, as if she understood that Elizabeth needed her comfort and stability. Her aunt Gardiner was next in line, pulling Elizabeth into her arms with a strength she did not know her aunt to possess. Has news of the past days’ events reached them already? How did they know I needed their comfort so?
“And who is this gentleman?” Uncle Gardiner enquired.
“This is Colonel Fitzwilliam, Uncle. He is a friend with whom I had much association during my sojourn in Kent.”
“A friend , eh?” their host asked with a sly grin.
The colonel’s eyes sought Elizabeth but landed squarely upon the loveliness that was Jane Bennet. He opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came forth. Elizabeth had seen this phenomenon before; Jane’s air of humble perfection often left unwitting gentlemen speechless. She turned to her sister, who usually took no note of her effect on men and was gratified to perceive a sweet blush creeping up her cheeks.
“A good friend, Uncle, but only that, though he has done me a great service, and I owe him much.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam could not know that Elizabeth was already plotting schemes in which, as Mrs Darcy, she might convince her husband to repay the colonel his service to them with a cottage somewhere near Pemberley, where he might indeed settle with a new, deserving bright star, and perhaps a position at Pemberley as a steward or land manager. But that was a thought for a future date.
Right now, she needed refreshment. As if reading her mind, Aunt Gardiner suggested they all make their way to the parlour, where they would partake of tea while catching up on the events that took place over their long separation.
The colonel did not speak much, and Elizabeth could sense him trying not to look at Jane, and failing. He answered her uncle when asked about his military service, his family ties, and the probability of being sent back to the Continent. He even managed a bit of the cheerful banter he had been wont to engage in before the events of the last month. Elizabeth was glad to see it; the colonel would not be permanently downcast by the plagues of the past. He would heal from his heartbreak and again be the stout, jovial soldier he always was.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stayed well past the fifteen minutes of a social call. It seemed he was in no hurry to return to Matlock House. Or perhaps he was just happy to be in the cheerful company of kind, fashionable, not-insane people. When he finally did take his leave, bowing long over the hands of both Elizabeth and Jane, Uncle Gardiner nudged Elizabeth.
“Good friends make wonderful husbands,” he said with raised eyebrows.
“I am convinced that they do,” she answered, unable to stifle the wide smile overspreading her face.
Without another word, she grasped her sister’s hand and intimated that she required her company. Indeed, there was much to say.