Chapter Nine #2
Richard entered with Clark, each holding the arm of a squirming youth of about eleven years. He was clad in torn trousers and a threadbare coat. Clark released his hold on the boy. He tossed some clean cloth, a needle, and thread on the desk.
“This was the one in the trees,” Clark replied. “Mr. Perry confirmed he was the messenger. Says he was paid a shilling to deliver the message.” He motioned at his partner. “The shot came from behind Taylor—someone was in the rocks.”
Richard’s expression was grave. “Is she well, Darcy?”
Darcy nodded. “She was able to walk back to the house.”
His cousin nodded. “Good.” He shook the boy a bit roughly and addressed him. “Very good for you, indeed.”
Clark approached Taylor and gestured at the man’s coat. He removed a flask from his coat pocket. Taylor rolled his eyes, but did as he was bid, and Clark began to minister to the wound.
“Tell us what you did,” Richard growled.
“Nothing.” The boy crossed his own arms over his chest though Richard still held his upper arm. His bottom lip stuck out.
“What is your name?” Darcy asked. His voice was not kind, but it was not threatening as Richard’s had been.
“Billy.” The boy tried to step away from Richard, but he was held tight.
“Billy,” Darcy said, “a gentlewoman was hurt today, and Mr. Taylor was shot. You must tell us what happened, or you will be the one held accountable for it.”
The boy was sullen and silent.
“You must know,” Darcy said thoughtfully, “he meant for you to be held accountable rather than him.”
The boy glanced sideways and remained quiet.
Richard snorted. “Do you think you are the one in charge here?” He released Billy’s arm and grabbed his collar. With apparently little effort, Richard held the boy in the air, his small legs kicking hard. He was given a shake and set back on the floor.
“I can do this all day long, Billy,” Richard said flatly. He nodded at a thick brass hook on the wall. “I could just hang you up like a picture and leave you there.” He paused. “Would anyone miss you, do you think?”
The boy frowned and drove the toe of his boot against the floor. “He told me to take the message and then hide in the trees and scare the lady’s horse after she rode past,” the boy said through gritted teeth. “I saw no harm.”
“Ow!” Taylor complained loudly as Clark poured some alcohol over the wound.
“Ai, keep still, you great clodpole,” Clark said, holding a small basin beneath Taylor’s arm, trying to catch the alcohol and blood in it.
Taylor frowned at his partner. “Fiend seize it,” he swore. “Warn a man, Clark.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “Stop jumping around. No sense wrecking a fine rug over a scratch. This ain’t bloody Busaco.”
Taylor cursed under his breath but held his arm out where Clark could get at it.
Darcy blew out a breath as Clark prepared to stitch Taylor’s arm. The boy was eyeing them, too, his eyes wide.
“You saw no harm in startling a gentlewoman’s horse?” Darcy asked, his composure growing thin.
The boy clamped his lips shut.
“Billy,” Darcy continued, “I need to know who this man is so that he does not hurt anyone else. If you help us, you will not be in trouble.”
Richard clearly did not appreciate that statement. He glared at his cousin over the boy’s head. Darcy met that glare with one of his own. It is not the boy I am after.
“He gave no name,” Billy said with a scowl. “Just gave me a shilling to go to the house and promised another for hiding in the bushes. He ran off without paying that.”
Darcy surveyed the urchin, the chill in his voice turning glacial. “You cannot believe I will pay you for what you did today.” The boy had the sense to avert his gaze.
“Tall,” he blurted. “Not like you,” he said, pointing at Darcy. “Like him.” He nodded his head backwards, at Richard. “Dark.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Taylor asked.
Billy shrugged.
“String him up on the wall,” Clark suggested. “See if he gets hungry enough to remember anything.”
“He wore fancy boots,” the boy added, grudgingly. “His clothes was kinder old, though.”
“Worthless,” Richard sighed. He relaxed his hold and the boy darted for the door.
With one wide swing of his arm, Richard had him again.
“Now you hang,” he told the boy, who cried out in protest. He spun the belt of Billy’s coat around so that the buckle was in the back, then hung it on the brass picture hook.
The boy wriggled angrily like a fish on the line.
There was a knock at the door.
The men looked at one another. Darcy called out, “Enter.”
To his great surprise, Elizabeth was on the other side. She stepped in and glanced over at the small boy wriggling on the wall. She pursed her lips and turned her attention to the men. She cleared her throat. “Would you gentlemen care for anything?”
Darcy moved to guide her back out into the hall. “Elizabeth,” he chided her mildly, “what are you doing downstairs? You should be resting.”
She looked at him askance. “As it turns out, standing is less painful than lying down.” She patted his arm. “The cool bath helped a great deal.”
He must not have appeared convinced, for she shook her head at him.
“Would you like some coffee or tea?” she asked.
“Or a light meal?” She waited, but when he said nothing, she added, “I have port coming for Mr. Taylor. I am afraid there is nothing stronger in the house.” She arched one eyebrow.
“Are we feeding the child you have suspended from the wall or are we now revisiting the Spanish Inquisition?”
Despite the anguish of the day so far, he felt a smile tugging at his lips at the pointed remark. Elizabeth must be feeling better if she was teasing. “I think Richard intends to let him remain a while. He has not been precisely… forthcoming.”
She rolled her eyes. “He is a child. He probably saw nothing beyond the few coins he was given.”
“Should we be kinder to the boy who caused your injuries than he was to you, Elizabeth?” Darcy replied, unyielding. “I am afraid I am not so forbearing.”
Her expression softened. “Very well,” she acquiesced. “I know I would feel the same had you been hurt.”
He touched her cheek, then let his hand drop. “Susan was unwilling to give us a description,” he admitted. “She was too afraid.”
Elizabeth nodded, pensive. “You believe the boy can.” Her lips parted slightly. “Oh.” She grabbed his wrist.
“Are you well?” he asked immediately, sliding a hand under her elbow for support.
A few hours were not nearly long enough to forget Elizabeth lying limp in his arms. Truthfully, he did not think he would ever get past it.
The memory made him angry, made him want to hang the boy upside down from his heels, but for Elizabeth’s sake, he was attempting to remain civilized.
“I think I may have seen him, Fitzwilliam.” She turned abruptly towards the stairs and he caught her grimace at the hasty movement.
“Elizabeth,” he said, still holding her arm. “Be careful, love.” He motioned to a maid who was approaching. “Let the maid fetch what you need.”
Elizabeth smiled but said nothing for a moment. “My paper and pencils,” she finally said in a voice not much above a whisper, “in my chambers.” The maid curtsied and hurried away.
Elizabeth perched awkwardly on the edge of a chaise in the drawing room.
Her back was continuing to cause discomfort.
She had held a hand mirror up with her back to the full-length glass so she could see the damage; bruises were already forming, the red marks beginning to turn blue.
The darkest of them appeared just below her shoulder blades, though Mrs. Gaines assured her the cold bath would speed healing.
While her ribs showed no signs of discoloration, they ached nonetheless.
As a result, it was painful to move her arms and shoulders the way she normally would when she drew.
Even her fingers felt stiff. Still, an image was slowly developing on the paper.
Dark hair in need of a trim. Thin face, laugh lines around his mouth, a smile that did not reach his black eyes.
She closed her own eyes for a moment, going over each small section of his face in its turn, lingering over the details.
He had a small mark at the end of his right eyebrow.
Freckle or birthmark, she did not know, but like everything about him—his clothes, his eyes, his mien—it was dark. She filled it in.
Mr. Darcy sat next to her, observing her work. Mr. Fitzwilliam stood near the window with his back to them, hands on his hips. When she at last lifted her hand, Mr. Darcy gave a satisfied grunt. She let him take the picture. He gazed at it for a minute.
“Richard!” he called. He placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “I think you should address Richard by his Christian name if you are to call me by mine. It can become a bit confusing otherwise.” He stood.
Ah, yes. Fitzwilliam. She smiled, recalling her aunt’s advice. “On the contrary, it is economical. I call one name and am rewarded with two men responding to my summons.”
Then Mr. Fitzwilliam was standing before her, a gleam in his eye. “I should be pleased to have you call me Richard, Elizabeth.”
“Very well, Richard,” she agreed, giving him a small smile. It felt odd to use his Christian name, but she accepted that it was more practical. He was nearly her cousin in any case, the same as John and Francis. She would grow accustomed to it.
Richard took the picture from his cousin and glanced at it.
He nodded slowly and then looked up at his cousin.
The men communicated with no more than a lifted eyebrow from one and a smirk from the other.
Elizabeth was very pleased to see proof, yet again, that they were so close.
She knew how difficult being responsible for a family name could be; it pleased her that her betrothed had not been alone.
Though she was loath to think on it, she had to admit feeling relieved that she would not be alone, either, when the time came.