Chapter 49 Balancing the Scales
BALANCING THE SCALES
I woke to the singing of thrushes. The linen roof glowed honey-yellow under fingers of morning sun.
The village outside was still. It had been a late night for the revelers.
It was a late night for us as well. The red cord that had tied our wrists lay in a corner, tangled with our clothes. We had worn the cord a long time, dragging it around like a clothesline hung with his coat and shirt and my dress and petticoats. What had we been thinking?
“I am married,” I said to myself wonderingly.
Mr. Darcy stirred. His hand slid over my shoulder blade and down my spine until it rested low on my waist. I felt myself warming below his fingers in a remarkable manner.
I nuzzled his shoulder. “What shall I call you? I can hardly refer to you as Mr. Darcy.”
“I should like to call you Elizabeth.”
I smiled. “Did you not name your ship ‘Lizzy’?”
His shoulder shook with a chuckle. “That was in the heat of the moment.”
“I approve of heated moments.” I traced my fingers across his skin, hair tickling under my fingertips.
I had never touched a man’s bare chest before last night.
His upper ribs were wrapped in thick muscle that rolled into impressive shoulders, a little more solid on his right side. All those fencing bouts.
“What are you pondering so seriously?” he asked.
Guiltily, I dragged my gaze up to his dark brown eyes.
“I am meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine shoulders can bestow.” He chuckled again.
But in fact, I was wondering about something.
“Had you done that before? What we did last night?” I felt biting jealousy at the thought, but it was rumored that gentlemen had such experiences.
“No.”
I pushed up on my elbows to see him better. “Then how did you have all those ideas?”
An endearing pink flush climbed his neck. “There are books in the Pemberley library. Documenting the duties of a husband to ensure that his wyfe binds.”
“The famous books! Mr. Bingley said you gave him one.”
“Lent him one, yes.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “I kept the best ones.”
“And what makes one better than the others?”
“Some have illustrations.”
I laughed and curled against his side again. “Well, I can attest they are effective. Although we shall never really know.”
Because we had not bound. The finality of that was a little strange. I had no regrets, but it would be challenging to explain to Mamma. Fortunately, Jane’s wedding had been very traditional.
What would I call Mr. Darcy? I could not imagine Fitz. But Fitzwilliam was a huge mouthful. Rather like some of those ideas in the dark. I chuckled, shocked at how wicked I was being.
My unnamed husband sat up and began untangling our clothes.
“You cannot be thinking of leaving,” I said in a warning tone.
“Only for a minute. I wish to confirm that sentries are set. We are in the middle of a war.”
I caught his arm. “A minute is too long.”
“Half a minute. Wait for me.” He kissed me hard, a hand on each side of my face. I was rather gasping when he finished, and I watched him pull on trousers and a shirt in a dazed state. He kissed me again, then pushed out through the white cloth flaps of our door.
I curled under the quilt to find the warmth of his body, then buried my nose for a hint of musk and maleness.
I woke with a start in the cold bed. The sun had moved. At least an hour had passed. Outside, I heard the relaxed chatter of people at breakfast.
I dressed and pushed through the flaps of the tent. There were a dozen vaguely familiar faces around the clearing, but no one I knew. I went to Aggy’s cottage. Her door stood open, so I poked my head in.
“Lizzy!” she exclaimed and came to take my hands. “You two surprised us last night! This will be a storied Beltane. I am so happy for you.” Her smile became predatory. “And such a man! I would still be abed.”
“Yes, I… have you seen Mr. Darcy this morning?” I was embarrassed by the question but too uneasy not to ask.
“No. Is he out and about, then? Here, let’s find Ed.”
She led me to where several men were talking, including Mr. Digweed and Lord Wellington, who rose as I approached.
“Good morning…” Lord Wellington’s greeting trailed off. Probably he wondered if he had actually witnessed a wedding.
“Mrs. Darcy,” I confirmed for him, and he nodded. “Have you seen Mr. Darcy this morning?”
“No,” he said, becoming brisk and efficient. “He is not in the camp. When did you see him last?”
“An hour ago. Or more. He said he wished to check if sentries were placed. I expected him back long before now.”
We walked to a group of boys talking in a mix of childish sopranos and freshly deepened men’s tones.
“Has Mr. Darcy been to see you this morning?” asked Lord Wellington. There was a chorus of No’s, but the boy who had met us in the woods pushed to his feet. With nervous eyes, he held out a folded paper.
“Here you go, ma’am,” he said. “He made me swear to wait ’til you come out.”
The paper was addressed with a single word in Mr. Darcy’s hand: Elizabeth. A rush of foreboding made my fingers tremble as I unfolded it. Tucked inside was a folded envelope of different paper. I put that aside and read his note first:
“Dearest Elizabeth,
Forgive me for not seeking your permission. In this one thing, I have no choice. I will do all in my power to return to you.
Your loving husband, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
With a shaking hand, I pushed that into Lord Wellington’s fingers, then picked up the other envelope. It was addressed in savage, large letters: DARCY. A two-inch vertical slash severed the R in Darcy.
The boy said, “I found that when I checked Pemberley House this morning. The house was empty, but that was on the door. Stabbed through by a big knife.”
I pulled the envelope open and something sparkling fell into my palm. But my eyes were fixed on the text, which I recognized as Wickham’s hand:
“Life has a funny way of balancing the scales. Come alone and unarmed. We will be at her favorite place. Hurry, or I shall grow bored and amuse myself. —GW”
In my palm was a few broken inches of fine gold chain and a golden musical note.
“Wickham has Miss Darcy.” I said it even as terror froze my breath in my throat. She had planned to return to Pemberley a day after me. But if she traveled fast with few stops, she could have arrived last evening.
Men began running and calling. I was rooted by my frightened imagination. This would not be an honorable meeting. There would be no duel. Wickham would simply kill my husband.
Lord Wellington was beside me and repeating something. Finally, he said, “Miss Bennet!” I realized he had been addressing me as Mrs. Darcy. I must learn my new name.
He stood with another grim-faced man, both of them armed with musket and pistol. “Do you know where they are? Where Miss Darcy’s favorite place is?”
“She enjoys her music room at Pemberley,” I said. “But it cannot be that, if the house is abandoned.”
“You have no other idea?”
I shook my head. The men turned away and began conversing at a furious pace.
“I can find them,” I said. The ability to act altered my terror. Compressed it. Throttled it into a hard core of fury.
Lord Wellington turned, his cool eyes assessing me.
“I can find Lydia,” I said. “She will be with Wickham. But you must take me with you.”
“Impossible,” Lord Wellington said.
“My sister can kill you with a thought from a hundred yards away. Only I can counter her.”
I remembered Denny, killed by a massive foul crawler.
There had been some break between him and Wickham, and he had argued with Lydia as well.
Had he been targeted for death? His clothing had been smeared with foul crawler venom.
Did that attract the monster, or had Lydia commanded it to murder her friend?
“It is too dangerous for you to accompany us,” Lord Wellington was saying. “We have two saddled horses and no lady’s tack. I cannot lose a man to—”
I was becoming impatient. “I am not one of your soldiers, Lord Wellington. You do not command me. If you wish my direction, you have no choice in this matter.” He did not answer, so I continued, “Are the horses saddled? We must hurry.”
His lips compressed, but he nodded.
Mr. Darcy, of course, had taken his own horse. Fortunately, one of the remaining horses was a modestly sized mare. She was saddled for a man, but that was almost a relief. I had not ridden much since I was a girl, still young enough to ride astride.
Lord Wellington gave me a leg up, his face averted. I hauled up my skirts and threw my leg over the saddle, then plucked at my bunched petticoats in a futile attempt at modesty. I managed to hide my knees.
“Where?” Lord Wellington asked after he mounted.
I closed my eyes. That core of fury refused to fade—it blazed like a red-hot coal in my chest—but this time, emotion did not block me. Instead, the world snapped crystal-clear in my mind. The void surrounding the lake. Sparks of awareness elsewhere.
And there, on a hill beyond the lake, was a seething, churning spot of black filth.
I opened my eyes, comparing the hills ahead with my mental impression. “This way.” I tapped my heels and led off at a trot. For once, I regretted not being a better horsewoman—if I tried to gallop through these rough woods, I would be unseated in moments.
Mr. Darcy would have galloped. He handled his powerful stallion with perfect ease. He must be far ahead of us.
I tightened my legs, and my mare quickened her trot.
A mile was eaten up, then three. Twenty minutes. The astringent scent of horse sweat grew, my mount’s chest heaving as we climbed another peak. The valley with Pemberley lake came into view.
“Wait,” called Lord Wellington. I reined in, and he pulled up beside me. “Gunpowder. There has been a battle.”
A hint of sulfurous smoke caught my nostrils.
Distantly, I made out scattered bodies on the lakeshore. Dozens. All still.
“Has the army come?” I asked.