Chapter 32
Three days! Three!
Darcy prowled his study, the corridors, the attics, the terrace, his sense of dread mounting with every passing hour.
The servants were still scurrying around at his behest. Already, many men had ridden out along all possible routes. But no sightings; no reports of her at passing inns, or on the post coaches.
The house had been searched from top to bottom and then again from bottom to top to satisfy his frantic hopes that she might yet be here, be safe.
The very first day, he had realised that secrecy could not be maintained; he had to find her.
So he scribbled a note to Richard and sent a man to Matlock with it, some hopeless part of him almost wishing he would find her there.
But she knew no one there, and it transpired that Richard was in town, on duty, and Darcy cared only that it would take his cousin time to extricate himself and come north.
She had carried almost nothing with her, no blankets, no food — unless she had saved a few biscuits from the plate on her night tea service. They would not sustain her for long.
Darcy dropped into a chair, his head in his hands.
The maid had said that Elizabeth had had one or two shillings remaining from the little she had brought with her from Longbourn — that had gone; but no money was missing from the pouch by the door, the coins ready to pay any postage on letters that arrived unpaid.
He shook his head despairingly. She would not have wished to take it with the night footman there to see. But she had her pride, she would not have taken anything of his on principle, regardless of opportunity.
Elizabeth. Where was she? Had she even expected to live long?
He woke in the darkness, still in his chair, as he had done each night, declining to go to his chambers, still hopeful that an express might arrive, his wife requesting a carriage to return home. Deep down, he knew she would not.
But she was alive. She must be; surely he would know if she had left this world. But he must find her. He must.
A gentlewoman alone with nothing was in a dire position in this world, and she would know it. She had not even her wedding ring to sell. Nothing.
A thunder on the front door brought him convulsively to his feet and hurrying through as the night man pulled the bolt on the great door.
He could hear his cousin’s voice calling the man to hurry and a wave of relief weakened Darcy’s legs and he almost staggered.
Finally, he would have the best man beside him that he could wish for.
Richard would help him; Richard would be able to see the whole picture from the outside, and tell him what must be done to find Elizabeth.
Elizabeth. She must be suffering terrible deprivation and it was all his fault.
His fault. He had driven her away with his paranoia, his avoidance of her, his coldness. His accident, and his temper and pain were no excuse for his cruelty.
Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “I am here now, Darcy. Come and tell me what this is about.”
In the study, his cousin poured them both a generous measure of brandy and produced Darcy’s note.
Richard, I need you. Come at once.
“So, what is this all about?”
Darcy stared blearily at the note, and dropped his head in his hands. “Elizabeth. She is gone, Richard, and I am entirely to blame.”
Richard had gone still and white. “What caused her passing, and why are there no mourning drapes?”
“No, no! She has gone. She has left!” Darcy dragged her letter out of his pocket and thrust it at the other man.
The clock on the mantel ticked loudly in the sudden renewal of silence.
His cousin looked up, his jaw clenched. “How long?”
“Three days now. She is nowhere to be found. The whole house has been searched, every inch of the grounds and the tenant farms. She has not been sighted at any inn or posting house, no one in Lambton or Kympton has seen her.” He shook his head hopelessly.
“We have followed every possible path and through the woodland. There is no trace of her, no trail to follow.”
His cousin got to his feet, and pressed his hand on Darcy’s shoulder as he crossed to ring the bell on the mantel.
When the night footman answered, Richard had taken charge. “Please apologise to the kitchen. We need some cold cuts and coffee right away please.”
Darcy blearily looked at the clock. Five o’clock. The coldest part of the night still. Was Elizabeth safe? Did she have shelter?
Mrs Kerr herself brought the refreshments in, seemingly pleased to see his cousin, who stood for her and pulled the small table forward.
“I am pleased to see you, Mrs Kerr. Can you tell me when and how Mrs Darcy’s absence was discovered?”
The woman glanced at Darcy and he nodded to her. “Well, sir, Mrs Darcy had told her maid that she did not wish to be disturbed the next morning as she was feeling indisposed and wished to sleep longer …”
“What day was that?” he barked.
“It was Friday evening, sir. She was not to be disturbed on Saturday morning.”
“So when did you go into her rooms?”
“After lunch, Colonel. I was a little concerned in case she had become worse. I knew … I knew she would not wish to trouble her maid if she possibly could.”
“What did you find?”
“She was not there, sir. Her bed had not been slept in and there was a letter addressed to Mr Darcy propped on her dressing table.”
“What was missing? Has a list been made?”
Darcy interrupted; it was too painful to listen to the pitiful list.
“Nothing! She took nothing, Richard. Nothing of any note at all.”
His cousin’s brow wrinkled. “So, had she taken anything else from the house at all? Had anyone seen her after her maid had left her for the night?”
Darcy nodded dismissal at the woman, and she curtsied and left the room, shutting the door behind her.
“I have had everywhere searched, Richard. Elizabeth took not even an old blanket from the store room. She must be so cold at night unless she has somewhere to shelter.” He gazed out of the window; the curtains had not been closed last night, and the cold light of dawn made him shiver.
“Come.” Richard’s hand was firmly on his shoulder. “We will go upstairs and you will permit Maunder to make you presentable for breakfast. Over the meal, we will plan the day, and I will speak to everyone with you so that I know how best to assist you.”
Darcy climbed the stairs behind him, but when Richard had turned into the chamber he always used, Darcy turned back.
He crossed from the family wing into the guest wing, and silently entered the room Elizabeth had been using.
She never even took her proper place in her own apartment.
He shuddered and sat in the chair in the window.
Had she loved this view? She must have, for her chair was at just the right angle.
He got to his feet and moved around the small room.
Two old books on her nightstand, and he opened the top one — a Longbourn bookplate.
And the one below. He glanced at the small bookcase.
Empty. Had she not taken books from the Pemberley library?
He frowned as he ran his fingers along the edge of the dressing table.
She had very little. And had taken nothing from the main house. Curiosity led him to open the wardrobe. It was very small, but she had few gowns. Something at the base of the wardrobe caught his eye, and he bent to draw it out.
It was an old, worn lap desk, and he set it on the side table and opened it, the feeling of intrusion into her privacy strong. But there might be some clue here.
There was little in it; a few blank sheets of paper, two inexpensive pens and an ink bottle. He opened that, but the ink was dried and cracked across the rim. She had written nothing up here for many months.
He noticed a sheet of paper, beginning to yellow with age, pinned to the inside of the lid.
15th May 1807
To my darling Lizzy
This was my grandfather’s lap desk, much loved. But you have proved yourself a steady and prolific letter writer and many have told me of their joy in receiving your lengthy, cheerful epistles.
You deserve to have this desk, my dearest daughter, on the occasion of your sixteenth birthday.
Your loving Papa
Darcy slammed down the lid of the lap desk convulsively, feeling utterly ill.
She had been a prolific letter writer, and he had stopped her — well, he had demanded to read all letters she wished to send.
He had never received a single one to examine and he knew now that she had chosen to cut herself off from writing rather than allow him to see them.
And he had forgotten it entirely. Until now.
His eyes misted over, and he carefully placed the desk back in its hiding place. She had been right in her letter to him; he was cruel. It might have been unthinking cruelty, but it was cruelty nonetheless.
He returned to the chair and stared sightlessly out of the window.
He had attempted to walk with her, tried to make conversation as they dined together.
But he had never once thought to lift the restrictions on her correspondence, never once thought to ensure she knew that she might use the library as she wished — never even thought to be certain she knew how to access her pin money.
He left the room silently, closing the door behind him. He was truly contemptible.