Chapter Nine #3
“Find Younge?” Richard asked.
Darcy nodded. With a grin and a wink, his cousin left the room, but not before making a show of ensuring that the door remained open.
“Take the boy off the wall,” she called after him.
“I am the only man you should be summoning, Miss Russell,” Mr. Darcy—no, Fitzwilliam –growled in her ear as he returned to his seat. It tickled. “My cousin will have to find his own wife.”
She would not be diverted, even pleasantly. “I presume from your response that the man was indeed George Wickham?” she asked.
He frowned and nodded. “It is. I am not surprised, but I am pleased that we at last have some surety.” He took her hand.
“It is a fine likeness. Even Richard recognized him, and he has not seen Wickham in many years.” His expression was boyishly rueful.
“I suppose I should be thankful it is not my face you are sketching this time.”
“I do not only draw people when they are behaving badly,” she responded, thinking of the collection of portraits she had drawn of her intended.
“Forgive me, love. My experience is somewhat limited,” he replied, smiling.
Elizabeth gave him a playful shove, and he placed a kiss on her palm—she hummed a little at the tingle.
“You say he was watching Bedford’s home?” Fitzwilliam asked.
She nodded. “He was there when I went out visiting a few days ago, and he saw us leave this morning as well.” She flipped her hand over to grasp his again.
“He might have been there more often without my noticing,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder.
Her side protested, but she needed the contact.
“I feel incredibly foolish that I did not realize he might follow us. It certainly did not take him long to learn Mr. Yeager’s name. ”
Fitzwilliam ran his thumb over the palm of her hand. “It is not information most would think important to conceal, and as we know, Wickham can be very charming.”
“I am not usually so rash,” she said with a contrite shake of her head. “But I could not remain at St. James. I missed you so dearly.”
“And I you, Elizabeth,” he replied. “But I would rather have had you safe. Bedford was not wrong about the sorry state of my affairs.” He rested his cheek against her hair. “I have warned the earl to guard Georgiana as well. I will not be easy until Wickham is caught.”
“As we know,” Elizabeth retorted without moving her head, “it is not only your family that has been the source of Mr. Wickham’s ire. He knows that my uncle and aunt spoke with your father about him before he was sent to Devonshire, and he seems to know I am the one who wrote Georgiana last summer.”
“Well,” Fitzwilliam said. He went no further.
She sat up. There was still something that was not clear to her.
“I do not understand what his purpose was here today,” she admitted.
“He shot at Mr. Taylor, but he could not have known Kensington would bolt as she did.” She smiled weakly.
“We shall have to train her to withstand Mr. Clark’s whistle. ”
“I do not wish to frighten you,” Fitzwilliam said, his expression somber, his thumb tracing circles on her skin, “but I believe he meant to take you. Perhaps hold you for ransom, perhaps force you into a marriage to gain your fortune. I cannot say for certain, but his object was you.”
She felt cold. “Did he not realize I would be attended?”
Fitzwilliam sat up straight and cupped her cheek with one large hand.
His eyes examined her for a moment before he replied, “He probably meant to kill them.” He cleared his throat—it had the sound of a low rumble, and she was inexplicably comforted by it.
“The boy actually did you all a favor, calling your attention as he did before Taylor reached the rocks. Richard believes, and I agree, that he likely meant to kill Taylor at close range and then deal with Clark. Better odds to take them one at a time. As Mr. Yeager had not sent for you, he would not have been alarmed when you did not arrive.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. And if Mr. Wickham had succeeded? What then?
“As it was,” he continued, “he attempted to shoot Taylor in the back.” He touched his forehead to hers, clearly uncomfortable with the disclosure.
“Fortunately, he was never a very good shot and a man on a moving horse is a difficult target. However,” he added, “Taylor is certain he wounded Wickham. If that is indeed the case, he cannot have gotten far.”
Elizabeth sat quietly as she took it all in. “I am pleased,” she said, “that you are willing to speak of these matters with me.” She ignored the twinge in her ribs as she reached to take his other hand. “It is not easy for me to hear them, but it is better to know.”
Fitzwilliam twisted his lips into a sort of half-smile, half-grimace. “It is not easy for me to say them to you, but Georgiana informed me after Ramsgate that remaining silent left her vulnerable. You reminded me of it at Netherfield when you demanded to read your aunt’s letter for yourself.”
I have missed him so much. Elizabeth closed her eyes, taking in the pleasure of his endearments, the excitement of his nearness, his scent. It was an intoxicating mixture of sandalwood, musk, and… she wrinkled her nose.
“Fitzwilliam?” she asked, pulling back and planting an unrepentant kiss on the end of his nose.
“Yes, love?” He half-smiled at her.
“My aunt would like to see you. She asked, in fact, last week, before you were…” she gestured uselessly.
He nodded. “I see. Is she well enough to receive me today?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth told him. “Although you may wish to refresh yourself first.”
He gave her a wary look. “And why is that?”
She stared at him before chuckling. “Well,” she began, a tease on her lips. Be good, Lizzy, she warned herself. “Aunt Olivia is rather fastidious.” She patted his cheek. “And you smell like my horse.”
Olivia watched the children enter in response to her invitation.
They were so very handsome together, her Lizzy grown so womanly and beautiful, her intended so tall and strong.
The way he held the door for Lizzy and placed a very light hand on her lower back as she stepped through made Olivia want to weep, and she hated weeping—even when they were happy tears.
Therefore, no sooner had Elizabeth stepped into her aunt’s room with young Fitzwilliam Darcy in tow than she was asked to leave it.
“Aunt?” Lizzy asked, confused.
“I do not need you here for this conversation, Lizzy,” Aunt Olivia said tartly, shooing her away. “I wish to speak to your betrothed alone.”
Elizabeth made a face and raised her hands in mock supplication, an undercurrent of humor in her tone. “Fine, Aunt Olivia. Clearly, I am not wanted. May I play the pianoforte while I wait?”
Aunt Olivia considered the request. “Yes, so long as you shut the door and play very loudly.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, only to be brought up short.
“Is that how I have taught you to behave, Miss Russell?” her aunt scolded. “I do not recall eye-rolling as an appropriate response to an adult conversation. Shall I send you up to the nursery?”
Lizzy’s eyes lit up. “The nursery is not open, Aunt,” she said, tipping her head to one side in a teasing gesture.
“You should see to that,” Olivia shot back with a pointed look at Lizzy’s betrothed.
The poor boy’s ears were already red, and his cheeks were not far behind.
She took pity on him, recalling how long it had taken Phillip to grow accustomed to her sportive banter.
“Please, my dear,” she said softly, “I would like a few moments with your young man.”
“Very well,” Lizzy said, and Olivia reached out to squeeze her hand. Lizzy turned to face Mr. Darcy. “Any requests?”
He smiled shyly at her. “Anything by Handel would be wonderful, Elizabeth.”
Oh, Olivia thought, wistful, he is so formal. More like his mother in that than his father.
Lizzy sent him a quizzical look and reluctantly took her leave, closing the door between the rooms.
Olivia gestured to a chair. “I must apologize for receiving you in my chambers,” she said. “I have not been well and helping Lizzy earlier has done me in.”
“She is being incredibly stubborn and refuses to rest,” he said quietly.
“I cannot imagine playing the pianoforte is comfortable for her, yet she insists she is well.” He took the chair she indicated and lowered himself into it.
“If you have any advice on that score, I should dearly love to hear it.”
Had Olivia not known his father, she might have missed the dry wit in the statement. As it was, she simply looked him over. “Stubborn?” she asked, pretending surprise. “My Lizzy? I cannot imagine what you mean.”
His eyes twinkled at that. My goodness, Olivia thought.
Good looks and a sense of humor. Lizzy has done well.
She could see his father in his face, and whatever else he had been, George Darcy had been a handsome man.
I recall Fitzwilliam when he was in leading strings.
I did not think him so promising then. But when he returned from his first year at Eton, so intelligent and well-mannered…
The light notes announcing the beginning of Handel’s Chaconne Variations in G major wafted into the room, muffled by the shut door but still clear.
She smiled, closing her eyes to listen for a minute.
It was so like her Lizzy to select music based on her feelings.
This variation was light, even luminous—it revealed a sort of happiness Olivia thought Handel had lost as he aged.
After the day they had experienced, the choice was almost astonishingly optimistic.
When she opened her eyes, the youngest Mr. Darcy was gazing past her, toward the music, his eyes burning with a low heat, his lips drawn slightly up on one side. She watched him until he became aware of her observation, when he blushed and cast his eyes down to the floor.