Chapter Sixteen
It was three days after he had departed from Hollydale and Darcy was exhausted.
Not as weary as the other men, he suspected, as he noted Thatcher’s lined countenance.
Even so, he envied them, for while Pemberley was normally a refuge for him, just now it felt as though all he could do was wait—and in this case, his patience was already gone.
He had thrown himself into the investigation with a fervour that surprised even himself, driven by an urgent need to unravel the mystery and return to Hollydale—to Miss Bennet.
“You are certain of this man’s honesty?” Darcy asked. He shuffled some papers on his desk so he had something to do with his hands.
The footman nodded solemnly. “Aye, sir. I have known Mr. Wilkins for years, served with his son. He is not one for exaggeration.”
Darcy gestured for Thatcher to continue.
“Mr. Wilkins was in the bookshop that day. He recalls seeing Miss Darcy—hard to miss her, being so tall for a woman and all. But he says he never saw Mrs. Bennet.”
“And the man he spoke with?”
“He was a stranger to Mr. Wilkins, but he said he thought the man had been imbibing.”
“Why?”
“Because he was rambling—pardon me, sir—he was saying how the Darcys were all out for what you could get. That you was sniffing around in hopes of persuading Mr. Bennet to make Miss Bennet his heir if you promised to marry her. Complained you already had an estate and questioned why you’d be wanting Hollydale too. ”
Darcy’s shoulders dropped. “I do not want Hollydale.” Perhaps the man was just a drunk, for how would a marriage to Miss Bennet allow him to take over Hollydale, particularly when she had so many other sisters who might inherit?
Yet Mrs. Bennet had believed him. “Did Mr. Wilkins challenge the man’s assertions? ”
“No, sir. Said the fellow seemed a little touched, so he thought it best to let him talk himself out. Didn’t want to cause a scene. Had a good laugh about it after, though. Everyone within twenty miles of Lambton knows the Darcy family is not grasping.”
“Thank you for that. Did Mr. Wilkins have any sense of who the stranger might be or where he came from?”
“He did not. But after we spoke for a time, he said the man spoke as though he knew Hollydale well. Having never been there himself, Mr. Wilkins thought the man was weaving stories, but I am not so sure.”
Someone familiar with Hollydale, spreading rumours about Darcy’s intentions within the hearing of a current occupant—it was too specific to be a coincidence.
“One more thing, sir,” Thatcher added.
Darcy looked up sharply. “Go on.”
“Mr. Wilkins asked me to convey his apologies for not speaking up on your behalf. He feels terrible that the man might have been dangerous, and he did not think to tell anyone. He just thought the fellow was odd, that’s all.”
“Mr. Wilkins is not to blame,” Darcy said, waving off the apology. “He could not have known the consequences when he did not even notice Mrs. Bennet.” He paused, considering all he had been told. “Your work has been invaluable, Thatcher.”
Thatcher nodded and took his leave. Darcy was surprised to see that Georgiana was standing in the doorway looking distracted.
“Come in, Georgiana,” he said, and she did.
“Brother,” she said, “I know why the gentleman in the bookshop looked familiar.”
Within the half-hour, Darcy was on horseback, riding hard for Lambton and the office of Mr. Holt, the solicitor for Hollydale House.
The bell above the door jangled as Darcy entered the small, cluttered office. Mr. Holt, a portly man with thinning grey hair, glanced up from his desk in surprise.
“Mr. Darcy! This is an unexpected pleasure. How may I assist you?”
Darcy wasted no time on pleasantries. “Mr. Holt, I need to see Mr. Ellis’s will.”
The solicitor’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “I am afraid that is not possible, Mr. Darcy. The contents of the will are confidential.”
Darcy’s frustration threatened to boil over, but he knew his request was unusual. “Mr. Holt, I understand your position, but this is a matter of urgency. The Bennet ladies may be in some danger.”
Mr. Holt’s expression softened, but he remained firm. “I do sympathize, Mr. Darcy, but the law is clear. Without Mr. Bennet’s approval, I cannot disclose the contents of Mr. Ellis’s will. Can you not make other provisions to see to their safety until Mr. Bennet can be summoned?”
“There are plans in motion, but . . .” Darcy took a breath, straightened, and clasped his hands behind his back. “If you cannot show me the will, perhaps you can answer a few questions without violating your professional obligations?”
Mr. Holt hesitated, then nodded. “I shall do my best to assist you, Mr. Darcy. Within the law, of course.” He waved Darcy towards one of the two chairs that faced his desk.
“Thank you,” Darcy said, and sat. “Can you tell me if there was anything unusual about Mr. Ellis's bequest?”
The solicitor considered the question carefully. “I cannot speak to the specifics, but I can say Mr. Ellis's decision was made with great deliberation. He was of sound mind and fully aware of the implications of his choice.”
Darcy nodded, filing away this information. “And the transfer of the estate—were there any conditions attached to it?
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Holt said, a note of warning in his voice, “I am afraid that ventures too close to the contents of the will.”
Darcy held up a hand in apology. “Of course, forgive me. Let me rephrase. In your professional opinion, is there any legal means by which the ownership of Hollydale could be challenged?”
The solicitor's brow furrowed in thought. “Hypothetically speaking, any will can be contested if there are grounds to do so. But in this case, I see no basis for such a challenge.”
Darcy leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. “Mr. Holt, there is someone who claims to be familiar with the estate who is slandering my name. My sister recognised him as a man she had met at Hollydale years ago, someone who may be related to Mr. Ellis.”
The solicitor’s lips pressed together.
“I made a promise to Mr. Bennet to look out for his wife and daughter until he returns, and these rumours have separated me from Hollydale House. Do you know if there is anyone who might have a motive to do this?”
Mr. Holt was silent for a long moment, clearly wrestling with the conflict between his professional obligations and his desire to help.
When he spoke, he chose his words with great care. “Mr. Darcy, while I cannot speak to the specifics of Mr. Ellis's will, I can say this: in cases where a substantial estate is left to someone outside the family, it is not uncommon for disappointed parties to complain.”
Darcy's pulse quickened. “You are saying there was someone else who expected to inherit Hollydale?”
Mr. Holt held up a hand. “I am not saying that, Mr. Darcy. I am merely pointing out a general truth about these situations.”
Darcy nodded, understanding the solicitor's need for caution. “Of course. But, if such a person existed in this case, who might they be?”
The solicitor sighed, removing his spectacles, and polishing them absently. “Mr. Darcy, I have already said more than I should. But . . .” he paused, then seemed to come to a decision. “I suppose it can do no harm to mention that Mr. Ellis did have a relative, distant though he might be.”
Darcy leaned forward, his entire body tense with anticipation. “Go on.”
Mr. Holt replaced his spectacles, his expression grave. “There was a cousin—she is dead, but her husband still lives. I do not believe he was in contact with Mr. Ellis, as he had borrowed a generous sum of money from him which was never repaid.”
It was this man. It had to be. “His name?”
“He is not mentioned in any of Mr. Ellis’s documents, Mr. Darcy, so I am afraid I do not know.”
Darcy stood, his mind already racing with this new information. “Thank you, Mr. Holt. You have been most helpful.”
He left the solicitor’s office with a renewed sense of purpose and gratitude for his sister’s excellent memory. She had only seen the man at Hollydale once or twice, when he was gone to school and their father had taken her to call.
A cousin by marriage—someone connected to Hollydale, but not by blood.
Someone who might have felt entitled to inherit when he ought not, who might be bitter enough to steal things from the estate and spread malicious rumours.
In the absence of any other possibilities, he felt it had to be this man behind everything—the thefts, Mrs. Bennet’s fears .
. . Now all he had to do was find the man and prove it.
With the final week of November upon them, Elizabeth would have liked to be working on the last of the children’s clothing. Instead, she found herself spending all her time with her mother, trying to ease her fears and restore some sense of normalcy to their routine.
It had been three days since Mr. Darcy and his sister had removed from Hollydale, and Elizabeth missed them both.
She had been looking forward to spending more time with Miss Darcy, but the search for the thief and Mamma’s exuberance had prevented it.
Though it had been a source of irritation at the time, now Elizabeth wished for even a small part of her mother’s relentless cheer to return to her.
She had coaxed Mamma to the drawing room and now could only watch as her mother plucked nervously at the embroidery in her lap.
“Mamma,” she began, “do you think—”
“No, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet interrupted, her face flushed with agitation. “I will hear nothing more in his defence. I know what I know.”
Elizabeth was about to respond when a knock at the door interrupted them.
Mr. Riggs entered, carrying a silver tray.
“An express for you, Miss Bennet,” the butler announced.
Her heart quickened as she recognised her father's handwriting.
She broke the seal and began to read, aware of her mother's anxious gaze upon her.
As she read, she felt many emotions—relief, concern, and a touch of exasperation.
When she finished, she looked up at her mother.
“It is from Papa,” she explained. “He should arrive by the end of the week. Jane and the Gardiners will bring everyone else as soon as they are able to prepare for a long visit.”
Mamma’s eyes lit up at this news, but Elizabeth was not finished.
“Papa also says”—she hesitated, knowing how her mother would react— “that we ought to ask Mr. Darcy and his sister to remain until he arrives.”
As expected, Mamma was adamant. “No! Absolutely not! I will not have that man in this house!”
“But Mamma, Papa specifically requests—”
“I do not care what your father says!” her mother cried, her voice shrill. “He is not here! He does not understand the danger!” A few tears escaped and trickled down her cheeks. “He is not listening to me.”
Elizabeth watched in dismay as her mother again worked herself into a state, her breathing becoming rapid and shallow. “Mamma, please, you must calm yourself. This agitation is making you ill.”
But her mother was beyond reason. She rose from her chair and swayed. “Lizzy, you must write to your father at once. Tell him we cannot have the Darcys here. Tell him . . .”
Mamma’s words trailed off as she pressed a hand to her forehead and her face drained of all colour. Elizabeth jumped to her feet just as her mother's knees buckled.
“Mamma!” she exclaimed, managing to catch her mother and ease her to the settee before she could fall. “Mrs. Riggs! Come quickly!”
And then it was chaos. The housekeeper rushed in, barking orders to the maids who scattered in search of smelling salts. Despite her concern for her mother, Elizabeth noted fleetingly that Mrs. Riggs had never been required to carry salts for her mother and so was delayed in locating them.
And indeed, the salts were not needed. It was only a few seconds before Mamma opened her eyes again and Elizabeth released the breath she had been holding.
In her mother’s current state, there simply would be no possibility of fulfilling her father’s request. She could not even write to him, for he would be travelling before an express could arrive at Longbourn. They were on their own.
No, not on their own. For though she had not heard from Mr. Darcy, she knew he would not have asked her consent to continue his search for their thief if he had no intention of acting upon it.