Chapter Five #2
Colonel Fitzwilliam pushed his hat back and surveyed him with a half-smile.
“Good evening to you as well. Blame the postmasters and their horses, not me,” he replied.
“I came straight from town in this gale and am in dire need of something to warm me. You have a genius for choosing the draughtiest inns in England,” His greatcoat hung open and his face was reddened by the cold and travel, but his eyes were alert.
“Then you have my sympathies,” Darcy said shortly.
They stepped into the relative warmth of the common room.
A fire burnt low in the grate, and a handful of travellers nursed their ale at scattered tables.
Darcy secured a private corner, and the landlord brought them mulled wine without being asked.
Gentlemen who arrived with such urgency carried the promise of generous custom.
“What have you learnt?” the Colonel asked, when they were seated.
“Too little,” Darcy said. “A chaise answering in some respects to theirs passed through yesterday morning, heading north. No one will swear to the passengers. Wickham may have changed horses elsewhere, or have left the road altogether. The magistrate in Meryton listened but I do not expect much from him.”
The Colonel drank, thinking. “If he is still on the road, you will nose him out at the posting houses before long. You have the patience for it, and half the landlords are in your debt besides.”
Darcy’s lips pressed together. “I have coin for those who are not. Stablemen talk readily enough when they are paid for their recollections.”
“Just so,” the Colonel said. “You were always better at frightening magistrates and bribing ostlers than at talking ballrooms into sense. Leave the local society to me.”
Darcy looked at him. “Local society?”
The Colonel set down his cup. “You have been riding the turnpike all day, Darcy, and it is well that you do so. If Wickham keeps to the inns, that is where you will find him. But if he has lost his nerve—or if our girl has escaped him—she will not present herself neatly at a posting house to be collected.”
Darcy set down his glass. The image that thought conjured was almost more than he could bear.
“If she is loose in the neighbourhood,” the Colonel continued, his tone steady, “the people most likely to have seen or heard anything are not innkeepers but the families who live within a few miles of the road. Every great house for ten or twelve miles will buzz with any tale of a strange young lady, alone and distressed.”
Darcy frowned. “You propose to ride from house to house, begging for news like a petitioner?”
The Colonel’s mouth quirked. “I propose to call upon such families as may have a right to expect a visit from a nephew of the Earl of Matlock, lately come into the county. A few cards left, a few civil enquiries after the neighbourhood, an expression of concern for a young relation who has been much over-fatigued by travel and has perhaps lost her way—”
“You mean to charm the entire county within forty-eight hours,” Darcy said dryly.
“If I can,” the Colonel replied. “Consider: within an easy distance of this road you have Hertford, Ware, Hoddesdon, Meryton. Each has its circle of respectable families—lawyers, merchants, small gentry—who know all that occurs within ten miles of their own door. They delight in a mystery. They will repeat any hint of a strange visitor a dozen times over before dinner.”
Darcy stared down into his wine. The plan had merit, and he knew it. Yet the thought of parading his family’s disgrace, even under another name, set his teeth on edge.
“You would go alone?” he asked at last.
“For to-day and to-morrow, yes,” the Colonel said.
“If I arrive in company with you, half the curiosity in the county will fasten upon the taciturn man with the large fortune. Let them attach themselves to me instead. You are better employed elsewhere. The road is your province. Drawing rooms are mine.”
A reluctant spark of wry amusement stirred in Darcy’s chest. “You take too much delight in that distinction.”
“It is a talent like any other,” the Colonel said equably. “You glower at magistrates until they forget their own authority. I laugh with their wives until they forget to hold their tongues. Between us, we may compass more than either alone.”
“Very well,” he said. “You will take the houses. I will take the remaining inns. I have not yet been as far as Hoddesdon, nor called at every posting house between here and Barnet.”
The Colonel nodded. “Then we divide the ground. You ride south again at first light—Barnet, Hatfield, whatever roads we have not reached. I shall begin with those families nearest the road between here and Hertford, and work outward. If either of us hears anything that may concern Georgiana, we send a note to the other at once.”
Darcy considered. “This Inn will serve as our point of meeting. I shall be back by to-morrow night, before nine. If you have found nothing, we reconsider our ground. If you have—”
“If I have, you will not need to wait until nine,” the Colonel said quietly. “I shall leave word here, or ride to find you myself.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the inn—voices, the clatter of plates, the occasional stamp of a horse in the yard—muffled by the weight of what lay between them.
At length the Colonel drained his cup and rose. “You must sleep, Darcy, if you are to ride at dawn. Brooding at this table will not bring her any nearer.”
“Sleep,” Darcy repeated, as if the word belonged to another language. “I shall attempt it.”
The Colonel laid a hand for a moment on his shoulder. “We will find her,” he said, with the simple certainty of a man accustomed to believing his own assurances.
Darcy inclined his head once, unable to answer.
They agreed their hour and parted—Darcy to a narrow chamber under the eaves, the Colonel to order his horse and maps for the morning. Outside, the wind worried at the sign of the Red Lion, and the great North Road lay in darkness.
Under Mr. Bennet’s Roof
Elizabeth climbed the back stairs with Jane and Mary close behind. Her heart hammered against her ribs. In all her years, she had never so dreaded facing her father.
At the nursery door, she knocked softly. “Georgiana? We must speak with you.”
The bolt slid back. Georgiana stood in the doorway, still pale but composed.
“Our father has deduced that we are concealing you,” Elizabeth said. “He has asked to see you.”
Georgiana closed her eyes briefly. “Of course. I shall come down.”
“Are you certain you are ready?” Jane asked gently.
“No.” Georgiana’s voice was steady despite her pallor. “It must be done.”
They descended together, Georgiana between Elizabeth and Jane. At the study door, Elizabeth paused, her hand on the latch.
“He is not unkind,” she said quietly. “He can be sardonic, but he is not cruel.”
Georgiana nodded, though her hands trembled.
Elizabeth opened the door.
Mr. Bennet stood by the fire, his back to them. He turned as they entered, and his gaze turned immediately to Georgiana.
For a long moment, he simply looked at her—taking in her youth, her fear, the way she held herself as though expecting a blow, despite the ill-fitting gown borrowed from Kitty’s wardrobe. “Thank you, Lizzy. You may leave us.”
Georgiana’s head turned sharply, panic flaring in her eyes.
“Papa,” Elizabeth said quietly, “she is terribly afraid. May I remain?”
Mr. Bennet hesitated, then inclined his head. “You may sit there,” he said, indicating a chair a little to one side. “You will, however, allow me to ask my questions without interruption.”
Elizabeth obeyed.
Mr. Bennet waited until she was seated, then addressed Georgiana again. His voice, when he spoke, had lost its earlier edge.
“Miss Darcy,” he said quietly. “I am Thomas Bennet, father to these silly girls. Please, sit down.”
Georgiana moved to the chair he indicated, perching on its edge. Her hands pleated the fabric of her gown.
Mr. Bennet pulled a chair closer and sat, leaning forward slightly. “I am not going to shout at you,” he said, his voice gentle. “I wish only to understand enough to know how best to help you.”
Georgiana’s eyes widened slightly.
“My daughters tell me you left London with a man named Mr. Wickham,” Mr. Bennet continued. “They say he claimed to have married you, and that you escaped from him. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Georgiana whispered.
“You have been hiding here because you feared both Mr. Wickham and your brother’s reaction?”
Georgiana’s face crumpled. “I feared Mr. Wickham above all. But I am certain my brother will be so disappointed in me. He trusted me, and I—”
“You are fifteen years old,” Mr. Bennet interrupted gently. “Scarcely older than our Lydia. Whatever occurred, I very much doubt your brother will hold you responsible for the actions of a scoundrel.”
“But I let Mr. Wickham call upon me. I did not see through his—”
“You were not entirely alone in London, I think,” Mr. Bennet said. “You had a companion?”
“Mrs. Younge,” Georgiana whispered. “She was engaged to look after me.”
“Did your companion see through him?” Mr. Bennet ask.
Georgiana blinked. “No. She—she helped him.”
“Then how were you, at fifteen, to discern what an older woman, paid to protect you, could not—or would not—see?” He leant back slightly.
“Miss Darcy, I have five daughters. I know something of young ladies and the pressures placed upon them. I also know something of scoundrels. They are exceedingly good at what they do. That is what makes them dangerous.”
Georgiana stared at him, tears spilling over.
“Your brother is searching for you,” Mr. Bennet said. “He has gone to the magistrate. He is frantic with worry. As a father I am certain he cares more for your safety than for any imagined disappointment.”
“He must know I am safe,” Georgiana said, her voice breaking. “I am so ashamed.”