Chapter 22 Evanescence
The sky was still lit by the crescent moon when they loaded the carriage and left Mr Gardiner’s house at three o’clock in the morning.
Eighty-six miles later, Lady Ilse Louise Reimarus walked down the Harwich dock with her lady’s maid, followed by two stout footmen carrying her trunks.
She was finely dressed in her aunt’s best teal travelling gown and wore a salmon-coloured shawl over her shoulders.
Ironically, the infamous Mrs Bean had made the costume.
She had even coloured her lips to look like one of the painted butterflies of the nobility. The only chink in her disguise was that Karl and Otto’s brawn were a bit at odds with their fine livery, but it was the best she could do at such short notice.
To conceal her identity in the unlikelihood she should happen upon an acquaintance, Elizabeth had donned the largest bonnet she could find in her uncle’s warehouses.
Mr Gardiner had even refused her payment, declaring the monstrosity was impossible to sell at any price.
She now understood why, as a gust of wind ripped the offending article off her head, taking quite a few hairpins with it on its heavenly flight.
“Parasol,” Lydia barked at Karl, whilst Otto chased the wayward hat.
Karl obediently obstructed a laughing Elizabeth from view with the parasol, whilst Lydia repaired the damage to her hair. Otto managed to catch her bonnet before it landed in the sea, and soon she was put to rights, whilst looking about to see if anyone had noticed her mishap.
It was a miracle that they were here, that her husband had not found her yesterday, after she escaped Martha in Hyde Park. Grateful for small mercies, she boarded the Freihandel, a merchant ship destined for Kiel.
The weather was fair and the voyage exhilarating, though her heart ached in guilt for Mr Darcy.
It was to be hoped that he was not in too much despair, that her letter had mollified him, and that her sisters were consoling him as best they could.
And if not, her residual anger did not allow her compassion to overrule her sense of justice.
#
Darcy awoke in his bed, soaked in sweat and with a pounding head. His mouth felt as if he had eaten a bale of hay that tasted like horse manure, or rather what he imagined it tasted like.
Tormenting dreams still haunted the edge of his consciousness.
“It is about time you awakened.”
“Richard! When did you return from the continent?”
His cousin stared blankly at him with sleepy eyes. Then reality came crashing down and he flung away the cover, leapt to the floor, and swayed on his feet. The sun shone high on the horizon. How long had he slept?
“Easy, old man. It was not Mrs Darcy.”
Darcy halted on the threshold on the way out of his room.
“What?”
“The lady who drowned in the Serpentine. It was not Elizabeth. It was a young girl, about twelve years old, with blonde hair.”
The relief rushing through his body made him want to retch.
“Then, where is Elizabeth?”
He looked longingly down the passage to the mistress’s chamber. Had she returned?
“She does not want to be found.”
“You read my letter?”
“Of course, I am used to snooping in other people’s personal business. It is part of my diplomatic work.”
“Espionage, more like it… I must find her.”
“What about the divorce? I have spoken to her lady’s maid, and she donated a substantial number of gowns to charity only yesterday morning. It is hardly a coincidence. Could she have run away to avoid being sent to a godforsaken cabin in the Outer Hebrides?”
“There is no bloody divorce. It is all a misunderstanding.”
Richard whistled, whilst both Georgiana and Mary poked their heads out of their bedrooms.
Elizabeth cannot truly believe I would divorce her? Had he not repeatedly told her how much he loved her?
Perhaps not. Not in the weeks when he had been busy finding the culprit behind the rumours.
Yet, he had shown her every night how much he needed her, or at least the nights he had not been too tired.
Might she think his devotion was based on lust?
It was not! He craved her because he loved her, because she brightened his day, and because she was his best friend.
He was living through one of his worst fears, being subjected to ridicule, derision, and censure.
Yet he did not repine marrying Elizabeth. Not one iota! Society be damned…
The truth was that after believing his wife had died, he could not picture a life without her, not even a day if he were to be honest.
“Where could she have gone?” he asked aloud whilst rubbing his stubbled chin.
“If you are speaking about Elizabeth, Oakham Mount has always been her favourite place to think,” Mary offered. “Or sulk, depending on the situation. No one can hold a grudge quite like Lizzy when she deems she has been wronged.”
The exhilaration of realising that Elizabeth was alive made him ridiculously happy. He even kissed Mary on the cheek when he thanked her. Georgiana too, for good measure. Of course, Elizabeth had returned to Longbourn and the comfort of her beloved father.
“Do you fancy a trip to the rural countryside of Hertfordshire?” he asked Richard.
“Always. I have the luxury of three weeks at leisure. Does our final destination serve food?”
“Mrs Bennet sets an excellent table.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
The gentlemen left the parlour, ordered the carriage, and packed for a short journey. Darcy had reached the stairs when a shrill nasal voice halted his step.
“Mr Darcy!”
For a second he imagined Mrs Bennet had returned, but the voice sounded younger and even less pleasant.
“I am so sorry about your ball!”
Darcy turned slowly towards Miss Bingley. What did she mean by reminding him about a disaster that had occurred two weeks ago, especially given that he had seen her since? The woman was as brazen as a peacock.
“I have come to visit Miss Darcy. Is she at home?”
Darcy heard Georgiana and Mary discussing Mozart versus Bach. If he could hear them, it was clear that so could Miss Bingley. To deny that his sister was at home would make him look ridiculous, and that was an adjective he strived to avoid, most of the time.
“She is in the parlour, Miss Bingley. Follow me.”
Darcy escorted the lady to his sister and turned immediately to leave.
“Mr Darcy!”
He quashed a groan and turned even more slowly than before.
“Yes,” he growled.
“I would like to offer Mrs Darcy my consolation. She must be distraught by her rejection from society. It is horrendous in every way.”
“Mrs Darcy is not at home.” Darcy did not offer any further explanation; he was eager to be off and damn propriety to hell. Civility is overrated.
“Oh, that is a shame. Perhaps I should wait until she returns,” Miss Bingley suggested.
“That might be a long wait,” Mary remarked in her usual forthright manner. “Lizzy has fled, and we have no idea where she is.”
You could always count on Mary to speak nothing but the truth. Even when silence was infinitely preferable.
Miss Bingley gasped, rolled her eyes, and affected a swoon.
“Mrs Murray, fetch the smelling salts,” he ordered. “I leave Georgiana’s guest in your capable hands.”
He would not succumb to Miss Bingley’s machinations today of all days.
She had browbeaten him into dancing two dances with her at Lady Castlereagh’s ball, squeezing out crocodile tears due to her lack of partners.
He had agreed due to his guilty conscience.
It was not implausible that his marriage had damaged Miss Bingley by association.
That night he had been plagued by a terrorising dream where he had bedded his wife, who had transformed into Miss Bingley.
He had awoken in a pool of sweat, thanking the Lord for being alone in his bed and disgusted with himself for even dreaming of such horror.