Chapter 8 A Suspicion of Doom
Elizabeth
Ispread butter on my roll and sneaked a glance at Lady Catherine, who sat on my left. “Today I shall attend a meeting with Mr. Edwards, the vicar at Kympton, and several of the neighbourhood ladies. We shall discuss local families in need of charitable assistance.”
She gave no sign of heeding me.
“Lady Catherine, would you like to accompany me? You could meet several local gentlewomen, and I think you would—”
“No, I think not. I prefer to rest in my room today.” She spared me nary a glance and returned her attention to her meal.
I set down my knife and quelled the inclination to sigh. I did not expect her to accept my offer, but she did not need to be so rude. She seemed more disagreeable today than usual. Perhaps any attempt to break through her hostility would be a futile endeavour.
Seated at the table’s far side, my dear husband met my gaze. His dark eyes conveyed a searing zeal that warmed me from within, infusing me with vitality.
No amount of effort could be too much for him.
For his sake, I should persist in my attempts to reach his disagreeable aunt.
Hidden within the confines of Lady Catherine’s callous exterior must be an abiding affection for Fitzwilliam, or she would not have been so determined to have him for a son-in-law.
That same fondness should extend to his son and, in time, might induce her to tolerate me.
With renewed cheerfulness, I addressed Fitzwilliam. “What are your plans for the day?”
“I am riding with Mr. Cross to the estate’s southern border to inspect the fences in the area.”
Graham swallowed a large mouthful of food, took a sip of ale, and regarded my husband. “I should like to accompany you, Darcy.”
“Very well. We shall leave in an hour.”
Lady Catherine’s continued silence throughout the remainder of the meal struck me as a glaring oddity…and a bit of a blessing.
Kympton
Elizabeth
At the parsonage, I took a seat in the corner beside Mrs. Mead. Whilst the others carried on an animated discussion of local news with Mr. Edwards, I took the opportunity to engage my friend.
I bent my head near her. “Pray excuse my intrusion into your personal affairs, but since Mr. Graham is a guest in my home, I feel a certain responsibility for the situation. Although he insists you are content with the arrangement between the two of you, I want to ensure he is not mistaken.”
A coral hue tinted her complexion, and her sight dropped to her hands.
Oh dear, had I offended her? Maybe I erred in broaching the subject.
After a moment, her chin lifted. “You need not be concerned for me. I agreed to accept his…friendship with the understanding he would stay in the area for no more than a week.”
“Oh. I am relieved to hear that.”
“I had thought that once you learnt of our association, you would no longer want my friendship. I should have been devastated if that happened.”
My hand curled around hers. “No, that thought never entered my mind.”
With the merest tremble in her lips, Mrs. Mead recovered her poise. Yet her wistful aspect abided. Did she dread Graham’s return to Calabria?
No, that did not seem likely. For the whole of our acquaintance, Mrs. Mead had endured recurring periods of melancholy.
She had lost her husband less than two years before we met.
By all accounts, her marriage to Mr. Nicholas Mead had been a love match, so she had endured a dreadful loss when her husband died.
A shudder rippled through me. A few days ago, Fitzwilliam had had a narrow escape while out riding.
At the time, I had not allowed my mind to dwell on the incident, but I could have lost my husband!
How should I have coped without him? The concept of never seeing Fitzwilliam again brought a searing ache to my heart. I drew my hand to my chest.
“Are you well?” Mrs. Mead whispered the query.
“Yes, I am.” I removed my handkerchief and pressed the cloth to the corners of my damp eyes. “One of my lashes went astray.”
“May I be of assistance?”
“No, I have removed it now. Thank you.” What was wrong with me?
I had never been one to engage in histrionic conduct.
Fitzwilliam had not even sustained a scratch, and to my knowledge, he had always enjoyed the best of health.
He never even caught colds. In contrast, my mother and father contracted illnesses every year, yet both still thrived.
I had every reason to expect my husband to live a long life.
Mr. Edwards took the empty seat next to me and announced the start of the meeting. My friend and I shared a significant look; the opportunity for confidential conversation had passed.
Pemberley
Darcy
Graham, Mr. Cross, and I set out towards the southmost end of the estate. Graham kept to the rear and remained silent as Mr. Cross and I discussed the possibility of leasing out an unused parcel of land.
In time, Graham drew Rusty alongside Regal, and my under-steward lagged behind us.
Graham stared at one of our shelters for the cows. “The more I see of Pemberley, the more impressed I become. Each building we have passed has been maintained with impeccable care. Even the structures for the cattle and sheep are well made. One might even describe their design as artistic.”
“My father insisted upon maintaining an exacting standard of care for our tenants, and I have attempted to continue in that vein. As for the new animal shelters, my stablemaster deserves the credit for their design.”
“Yet you allowed them to be constructed to his specifications instead of using simpler plans, which would have been cheaper to build. Most other estate owners are far less diligent to these details.”
“What happens on other estates is not my concern.”
We reached the southern border, and after a thorough perusal of the fencing, I pointed out the areas needing repair. Mr. Cross parted from us to gather the men needed for the work.
Graham and I rode side-by-side towards the house at a sedate pace, and my thoughts drifted to the plans for the next two days.
Could I have forgotten any pertinent details?
Mrs. Reynolds had readied the rooms for our guests' arrival tomorrow, managing to keep Elizabeth in ignorance of the preparations. We should have my wife’s birthday dinner that evening.
On Wednesday, a neighbourhood party would be held on Pemberley’s grounds.
I had managed everything within my control, yet how might my aunt and Lady Rebecca hinder the proceedings?
“Darcy, I take you for an astute and responsible gentleman.”
My vision shifted towards Graham. His tense carriage and the downward draw of his mouth gave him an odd appearance. What happened to his customary, almost constant jollity and serenity? “I hope that is true.”
Graham nodded. “Throughout the years, I have observed many instances in which men, even wealthy, landed ones, have died without warning, leaving their widows insufficient funds to live their lives in comfort. I understand that in England, a husband is responsible for ensuring his wife is left financially secure in the event of his death. I do not believe you are the sort of man to neglect such an important matter.”
Why had he posed that particular question? “You are correct.” With effort, I maintained an even tone. “Gentlemen must ensure their heirs will receive an adequate reserve of assets with carefully written wills and marital settlements.”
“Ah, I knew you would have considered this vital subject.” Graham’s shoulders relaxed, and he gazed at the path ahead without further comment.
My pulse raced. I could not mistake the sinister implications of Graham’s speech.
He seemed satisfied, even relieved, at my assurance that Elizabeth would be affluent after my death.
Did my demise loom in the near future? Why else would Graham—who, as an angel of death would know my fate—be concerned with this subject?
One particular turn of phrase from my first meeting with Graham emerged from my memory, and a chill invaded my core. On that occasion, Graham maintained he had saved my life and further remarked that he could have delayed the death of another man instead.
A perturbing sort of logic could be applied to the situation. If I took Graham at his word, perhaps my death could be postponed for a set amount of time and no more. Given this, how long did I have left?
I almost demanded an answer from Graham but stopped myself. It seemed he had lied by omission at our first meeting, giving me a false sense of security. Therefore, I could not be certain he would provide a truthful answer.
Regal nickered and tossed his head. My intelligent horse seemed to sense the significant alteration in my mood. I stroked his neck and bent towards his head. “All is well, my friend.” My softly voiced words, although spoken for Regal’s benefit, helped to pacify my own frayed nerves.
Back at the house, Graham proceeded to the library, and I went to my study.
Once alone in the room, I composed two missives—one to Elizabeth and the other to Bennet. By the time I quit the study, each letter had been sanded, sealed, and stored in my desk where my wife could easily find them.
Despite the tumult of emotions that threatened my self-possession, I resolved to conceal my distress. I should do everything in my power to ensure nothing spoilt Elizabeth’s birthday celebration tomorrow. With a resolute set to my jaw, I strode upstairs to change for dinner.
After I dismissed Winston, faint sounds of voices—Elizabeth speaking to her maid—reached me from the next room.
My longing for her company impelled me to knock on the door rather than wait.
At her call, I entered the dressing room and occupied a nearby chair as Gibbs finished working on my wife’s hair.
Elizabeth directed a smile at me via the mirror. “I shall be ready in a few minutes. Do you not think Gibbs has become expert at taming my unruly mane?”