Chapter Six #3
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Whoever named that child ought to be flogged.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Be that as it may, Mr. Darcy and his cousin are in conference now with John and Francis. I have every confidence they will put an end to this nonsense. Have no fear.”
“I was afraid,” Aunt Olivia said, searching Elizabeth’s face. “I have never been so afraid.” She held Elizabeth’s hand in both of hers. “I am ashamed to admit that I was entirely undone.”
“It shows your love for me, Aunt,” Elizabeth said solemnly, “for which I have ever been grateful.” She straightened the blankets and tucked her aunt in. “Now you must rest. I need you strong.”
Aunt Olivia smiled again and patted Elizabeth’s cheek. “I will sleep a little more, dear. You should as well. We shall speak more this evening.”
Elizabeth bent to kiss her aunt’s cheek, and then impulsively kissed her hand as well. “I will see you then. In the meantime, I shall try not to disgrace you by invading the kitchens.”
“See that you do not,” Aunt Olivia scolded, but Elizabeth just smiled.
Darcy watched Richard surreptitiously as they lowered themselves into the richly upholstered chairs in His Grace’s study.
His cousin was limping ever so slightly, a remnant of his wounds two years ago at Corunna.
Darcy knew Richard would cut the offending leg off himself before turning down such a duty as Tavistock had requested, but the ride from Hertfordshire had been long and cold.
Darcy felt some guilt over having ridden in the carriage, but he knew his cousin was the better shot from atop a horse.
He dared not mention it now, but when they were alone, he would insist that Richard return to Darcy House where he could recover without his mother making a fuss.
“First order of business, gentlemen,” the duke said heavily. “You have my thanks. Please call me Bedford.” Darcy and Richard tipped their heads in an approximation of a polite bow.
“Second order of business,” he said, waving them all to chairs and turning to his son, “is the story. Clearly something of a serious nature has occurred.”
As Francis was explaining, there was a knock at the door. Bedford held up his hand and his son stopped speaking. “Enter,” he called.
One maid and an older woman Darcy thought must be the housekeeper entered with tea, coffee, and food. Darcy’s stomach grumbled.
“Miss Russell ordered a small meal, Your Grace,” the older woman said. “Mr. Darcy missed supper last night and she thought you all might appreciate refreshments.”
Richard turned his attention to Darcy. “You missed supper?”
He did his best not to color under the scrutiny. “I did.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Unger,” Bedford said.
“You are very welcome, Your Grace.”
Richard was sitting farthest from the duke, yet the younger maid walked to him directly to hand him a cup already filled with tea, and told him, quietly, “This has willow bark in it. Miss Russell says to tell you it will help.”
Darcy saw his cousin frown. “Thank you,” Richard replied, “but I do not require it.”
The maid continued to hold the cup while the housekeeper schooled her features and took over. “Miss Russell thought you might say as much, sir. I am now authorized to say, on her behalf, that you are to stop acting like a child and drink the tea.”
Bedford rubbed his mouth with one hand and turned to the window, while Tavistock just chuckled and shook his head. Darcy shrugged when Richard glared at him.
“You wait until she is dosing you, cousin. It will not be a joke then.”
“I did not laugh, Richard,” Darcy responded. He paused. “But you should probably drink the tea.”
The men remained in Bedford’s study for an hour.
The duke wanted to compare the forged Darcy letter with the one that had so panicked Olivia Russell.
Richard had concluded, and they had all agreed, the hand was not the same.
Still, it was not beyond the scope of possibility that they might have been written by the same man.
If the writer could forge George Darcy’s hand so well, he might be adept at composing letters that appeared to be from different people entirely.
“I remain convinced that these are two different issues,” Bedford stated, in the end, “but I suppose we have not enough evidence to entirely rule out a connection. You say your aunt held the letter for a time?”
Darcy nodded. “She did not say how long, but she meant to hold it until I came to her in April.”
“Then her parson wrote to tell her that you were courting Lizzy and she came immediately from Kent?” Tavistock asked.
“Evidently.” Darcy wished his head was clearer, his fatigue was weighing him down.
“It is not news she would spread about.” But it did not sit well with him.
The letter purporting to be from his father was likely sent recently—Lady Catherine was not that patient.
However, her delay might have frustrated the writer’s plans.
His aunt’s seeming inaction could have prompted the writer to pen another missive—one with a message that could not be mistaken.
Why? Who, outside of her friends and family in Meryton would know Elizabeth was a Russell?
Who would make the connection between Elizabeth and himself and wish to drive them apart?
“I believe we are finished for the moment, gentlemen,” Bedford said with a sigh. “We will think on it further. Lizzy has invited you back tomorrow, Darcy. Perhaps we can speak then, if you have any other ideas.”
Darcy stood and offered the duke a bow. He said his farewell to Tavistock, but when they emerged from the study, there was an older man waiting for them, his face lined but his manner of dress flawless.
“Sirs,” he said, bowing crisply, “Miss Russell thought you might appreciate an opportunity to refresh yourselves.”
Richard opened his mouth, but Darcy placed a warning hand on his cousin’s arm and leaned in. “Do not even think about saying whatever it is you have rolling around in your mouth right now, Richard,” Darcy said darkly.
“My orders were simply to extend the offer, Mr. Darcy,” the man explained, his offense not so carefully hidden as to remain unnoted. “I believe Miss Russell’s words were ‘They might not wish to appear at Darcy House in such a state as to frighten the staff.’”
Richard grimaced and rubbed his jaw. “I suppose I would not be averse to a shave…” he let the sentence trail off.
“Parker, sir. I presume you are Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
Richard narrowed his eyes. “Why would you say that?”
The valet pursed his lips. “No reason, sir.”
Darcy was too weary to smile, but he inclined his head. “Lead on, Parker.”
Darcy had nearly fallen asleep during his shave—a dangerous business.
As Miss Russell had already seen fit to order water heated, both men were also treated to a bath, their clothing brushed out carefully before they finished.
Had they waited until they arrived at Darcy House, it would have been another hour to heat the water and carry it to the bathing room.
By then, he would certainly have been asleep.
He had to own that seeing Elizabeth walk into the duke’s London home and assume, at least in part, the duties of its mistress had made him very proud.
Neither of her cousins seemed to think her command of the servants unusual in the absence of Her Grace, and to tell the truth, he had never felt so well cared for in another’s home.
Despite his cousin’s grumbling about being alternately ordered about and coddled, and his own concern about the night’s events, he was a very happy man.
“How is it that you are still awake, Richard?” he asked his cousin blearily as they made their way back to the entry of the grand townhome.
“Training,” Richard replied. “It never entirely leaves you.”
Darcy said nothing but gave his cousin a look that had Richard shaking his head.
“I know you are exhausted when you get that mawkish expression on your handsome face, cousin,” he said. “Do not say anything that either of us will regret. Old woman.” Darcy pressed his lips together and was silent.
Although neither man remarked upon it, they were both grateful to find a smaller carriage better suited to the crowded London streets waiting for them at the front of the house.
They had not wished to take a hackney after such a night, and the walk on London streets would take them through at least one rather uncertain neighborhood.
“You have lost your limp,” Darcy said innocently as they stepped outside.
“Shut your bone-box,” was his cousin’s sullen reply.
After breaking her fast with her cousins, Elizabeth composed a brief letter to her father and made certain it would be sent with the morning post. Then she drew a rough outline of her portrait of Jane and Mr. Bingley.
Once that was complete, she was finally able to sink into bed.
She turned on her side, pulled the blankets up around her ears, and closed her eyes.
She tried to make the spinning of her thoughts slow down, but it was difficult to stop them. Who would send such a note?
She had spent the past two years taking care of her uncle’s business and while there had at times been tense negotiations, it was always John who had conducted those interviews face-to-face.
She had herself not initiated new business other than with Uncle Gardiner and, more recently, the steam engine patent, which had required no negotiations.
To her rather exact knowledge, there had not been any bargains struck by her Uncle Phillip that had not been beneficial to both parties, though there had been opportunities he had not taken because he did not trust the men in charge.
She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. If she could just stop gnawing on this puzzle like a dog with a bone, she might be able to sleep. She felt safe at St. James’s Square. All she required was some rest to help her think more clearly.
She tossed the blankets back. From experience, she knew that putting her mind on something else entirely would help her sleep, so she sat at her escritoire and drew out several sheets of paper.
As disappointed as she was to have left Hertfordshire early, London also held its pleasures, not least among them being able to renew old acquaintances.
Dipping her pen in the bottle of ink, she quickly composed notes to Amanda Cooke, Penelope Finch, and Lady Sophia Cecil, her closest friends from school.
They had exchanged monthly letters nearly without fail during Elizabeth’s time in the north, and Amanda had made the long trip to Weymouth House once the official year of mourning for Uncle Phillip was over.
During the six weeks Amanda was in residence, Aunt Olivia had roused herself to play hostess, but the moment her friend’s carriage had rumbled down the drive on its way back to London, her aunt had kissed Elizabeth’s cheek and returned to her rooms. Elizabeth had made the decision to put off any further visits until her aunt was more fully recovered.
Amanda resided in town most of the year.
Penelope had written to tell her that she would be visiting family in Berkeley Square for the festive season; she planned to arrive the week before Christmas.
Sophia was likely to be with her younger brother at Burghley House, but Elizabeth thought her note might be forwarded.
The scratching sound of the pen on paper, the satisfaction of watching the ink forming words, and the anticipation of many happy visits calmed her racing mind.
The business complete, Elizabeth was able, at last, to rest.