Chapter 11
Alighting from his carriage, Darcy stepped directly into an icy puddle, the chill of the water instantly penetrating his boot. He sighed, caring nothing for his discomfort, but immediately wondering whether Elizabeth was warm, wherever she was.
Elizabeth had now been gone over six months. Somewhere in the world, she had come of age, and they had been married a year complete. Perhaps she had given birth to their child. Perhaps she had died in childbed. Darcy tried not to consider that.
He had spent countless sums of money and every spare moment searching for her. Hired men went all over England, and Darcy himself spent many days and weeks going into little towns and places that had any small connexion to her or to them in the hope someone might have seen her.
When he was not traveling about, Darcy spent every waking hour thinking of her, going over the various reports and notes that had been generated as part of his searches, as well as interrogating the men he hired to find her.
In general, he slept little, he drank too much, and he accomplished nothing.
His money, his influence, his friends in lofty circles meant nothing for the recovery of his wife. Elizabeth was gone.
In London, the rumours begun by Lady Matlock continued to circulate.
Some said Elizabeth had consumption, others thought it was a miscarriage, and some believed it was a carriage accident.
Some said she had died, a tale supported by Darcy’s increasingly gaunt figure.
Others took his frequent absences as proof that he had gone to see her.
Saye proved ruthless for any who dared question the family lore; he had served the cut direct to one hapless maiden who had voiced her doubts, and the poor lady was not spoken to by any of her circle for a month complete.
After that, Mrs Darcy’s terrible sickness was not questioned, and her name was frequently raised in the prayer circles at St George’s.
It being Christmas, he had been bidden to appear at Matlock House for dinner in a manner that suggested refusal was not a choice. Lady Matlock had made it plain that she expected his presence even if she had to drag him bodily from his study.
“Darcy!” Lord Matlock exclaimed from the doorway a bit too heartily, obviously trying to force the cheer in his voice. “I doubted that even my wife’s relentless efforts would get you here!”
Tiredly, Darcy forced a grim smile to his countenance. “Happy Christmas, Uncle.”
“To you too.” Lord Matlock held out his arm, gesturing Darcy down the hall towards the salon. He entered the room to find only his aunt and Fitzwilliam awaited him. “Where is my sister?”
“Here I am,” came a quiet voice from the doorway. Darcy turned to see his sister and tried not to gasp at the pale, wraith-like creature who greeted him with a wan smile.
Darcy was so busy traveling and seeking his wife, it had seemed best to leave her in the care of Lady Matlock.
Georgiana sank into a deep depression following the events of the summer.
Recognising that she had ruined her own prospects as well as contributed to the destruction of her brother’s life, she could not bear to be in his presence.
He could not deny it—he was angry with her for what she had done. It was not his way to lay the burden of his errors on others, but neither could he hold her blameless. She had lied and schemed and all but lain with a man not her husband. He had failed, but so had she.
But now he would try to help her. He wanted to forgive her just as he wished to be forgiven—and when better, than at Christmas?
He had hired a new companion for her, Mrs Annesley, a woman in her mid-forties who was the widow of a clergyman.
He was frank with the lady when he employed her, explaining the situation with George Wickham, though not the truth of Elizabeth’s whereabouts.
He dearly hoped Mrs Annesley would help his sister heal from her past indiscretions and provide the needed remedy for his own failures with her.
After he embraced Georgiana and told her about her new companion, Fitzwilliam invited Darcy into his father’s study. When the two men had closeted themselves, the colonel went immediately to the sideboard. “Drink?”
“Thank you,” Darcy replied, as Fitzwilliam found his father’s hidden store of French brandy and poured some for each.
“I hear Bingley’s wife is with child,” said his cousin. “They anticipate the birth in late February or early March.”
A shock of commingled pleasure, pain, and envy went through Darcy.
In general, he dared not think of his own child—if indeed the child existed.
But it was close hitting, this notion of Bingley and his happy marriage turning into a happy young family.
“Wonderful,” was the only utterance he could make.
“I congratulate him and wish them well.”
“He has not written?”
Darcy smiled faintly. “Even if he had, whether the news was legible would have been questionable.”
“True.” Fitzwilliam chuckled lightly.
After a pause, Darcy prompted, “But you did not call me in here to speak of Bingley.”
“No, no. I heard from Chester just a few days ago.” Chester, a lead agent with the Bow Street Runners, was the principal man engaged in finding Elizabeth.
A retired army man, he had formed a bond with Fitzwilliam, much preferring him to Darcy.
Despite the fact that Darcy paid his bill, it was clear Chester did not respect a man who had lost his own wife.
He watched as his cousin took elaborate care in pouring a second drink for himself, offering another to Darcy as well.
Then taking up a position by the fireplace, Fitzwilliam at last spoke, evidently choosing his words cautiously.
“Chester and I reviewed the status of the various tracks they have followed in looking for Elizabeth. From a…practical perspective, it might be worthwhile to reduce the scale of things, or so he suggested.”
“I do not understand,” Darcy said.
“With no new information and few good possibilities, it makes no good sense to employ so many men to go into places where she is not likely to—”
“He wants to quit?” Darcy interrupted angrily. “I had not realised that I had engaged such a bootless group. Let us find someone with a bit more fortitude then, someone who—”
“You misunderstand me,” Fitzwilliam hastened to say. “This is for your own interests. He does not wish to see you waste your money for vain efforts.”
Darcy was not mollified. “Until Elizabeth is returned to her home, these efforts are not in vain! She is out there somewhere, and surely someone must have information on her whereabouts!”
“The most likely clues have been exhausted, and the possibilities for significant enquiry depleted. Yes, he can continue to search blindly, going into random towns in search of her and billing you accordingly if that is what you wish, to continue mounting expenses—”
“Twice as many men,” Darcy ordered, “going into twice as many towns.”
Fitzwilliam held up his hands. “No one is saying you should give up on her, but putting more men onto a haphazard effort will only drain your coffers with little chance of reward.”
“What good is my money if my wife is…if she is…”
“She might have left England,” Fitzwilliam added gently. “If so, the chance of finding her is quite slim.”
“They would surely have found evidence of her passage on a ship, would they not? Somewhere in the manifest?”
“If she used the name Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said. “Or Bennet or Gardiner or any of the other names we supposed she might have used. One thing is certain—your wife was canny about her disappearance. We are not merely seeking someone who is lost, but rather, someone who wishes not to be found.”
“Her intelligence is one of the things I love about her,” said Darcy softly.
“At this point, I do not think that Mrs Darcy will—”
“Do not say it.” Darcy drained his drink in one aggressive motion, swallowing the fiery liquid and appreciating the pain in his throat. “Just…keep the men on. No changes. Find her—that is all I ask.”
Fitzwilliam studied him carefully.
“Perhaps in…another few months, we shall revisit the need for their services with an eye towards possible retrenching. I just think that—”
“Enough,” Darcy replied sharply. “It will have to do.”
“Very well, then,” his cousin said. “Shall we join the others?”
Not surprisingly, Darcy could not enjoy himself.
Even before the conversation with his cousin, he had been irritable and anxious; now he was prodigiously uncivil, and he knew it.
With his sister, he was gentler, but to the others, he was distinctly lacking in good cheer.
He excused himself as early as was decent, and no one tried overmuch to stop him.
It was a relief to be at home in his own bedchamber, safe within walls of familiar misery.
For a time, he restrained himself, sitting by the fire and staring vacantly into the flames.
At last, he rose and went to his desk, pulling open the drawer and selecting a parcel that lay inside.
He refilled his brandy, then went to sit by the fire once more.
He stroked the parcel, a small, elongated box that contained an exquisite and expensive necklace of opals.
He had spent hours selecting it at the jewellers, debating its merits against those of the other lovely pieces on display, but he had ultimately chosen it because its luminosity reminded him of Elizabeth’s skin.