Chapter 33
VANISHING ACT
Elizabeth did not exactly wait with bated breath to hear the earl’s opinions, but she could admit to a certain relief when he smiled in response.
“You are a very direct person, are you not?”
“I apologise if I seemed impolite. It did not seem likely that you would endure a call upon people unknown to you in order to expedite your reunion with your nephew by an hour—unless you had an important motive for doing so.”
“Ah.” But instead of addressing those concerns, the earl turned away, looking over the knoll to where Longbourn House sat. “Your property is lovely, Mrs Ashwood.”
For the first time, Elizabeth tried to examine it through a stranger’s eyes.
A stately manor with noble lines and glorious views of its acreage, it was nonetheless only half the size of Netherfield and—at least according to Miss Bingley—nothing compared to Pemberley.
Still, with its stout, imposing stone walls, arched doorways, wooden beams, and ample casement windows, the old Tudor had achieved a degree of grandeur; it was obviously well-suited to its prosperous surroundings.
But it was no longer hers in any sense, only a place she currently resided.
“I thank you. It is my sister’s home, however.
I have agreed that mine will be wherever Mr Darcy is.
I do not much care whether that home is a great house or a hovel—I have lived in both.
I can be happy in either. It is common to disparage the practice of marrying for love as irrational, but I lived without it in my first marriage.
I endured it, and even achieved something close to contentment—but I shudder at the thought of ever doing it again.
I can assure you, sir, that I would not willingly choose such a course, no matter how great the property, did Darcy not hold my heart. ”
His brows rose at her bold declaration, but his answering words were mild. “I hope you will forgive my small deception. I only desired a bit of privacy for this conversation.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I think, however, that your desired privacy is at an end. The cavalry approaches.”
Lord Matlock turned in the direction she faced, to see Darcy walking towards them with ground-eating strides, the look on his face stormy. She heard the earl’s sigh. “The cavalry, indeed.”
Darcy bowed to her at his approach, but the stiff, jerky bow he accorded his uncle did more to impart his feelings than shouting might have done for another man. He took her hand. “How are you, my love?”
“Very well, thank you,” she said earnestly, looking into his eyes, not wanting to be the source of any discord between them.
Keeping her hand tucked in his, Darcy turned to confront his uncle, stone-faced. “To what do we owe this impromptu visit to my betrothed? Could you not wait for my introduction?”
“Perhaps, Darcy, we could accompany Mrs Ashwood home, and then have this discussion privately?”
“Oh, no, you were the one who dragged her out here. Say what you meant to say. If there is anything you should not have presumed to say before a lady of quality, then you need not say it to me, either.”
The earl rolled his eyes, his jaw firming. “I hope you know me better than that, Nephew. But have it your way. It is about Anne.”
Elizabeth heard Darcy’s quick intake of breath.
“What of her?”
“She has run away from home. The day after she learnt of your forthcoming nuptials.”
“What has been done to locate her? Why am I only hearing of this now?”
The earl’s expression grew unsettled, and suddenly he no longer looked so elegant.
“My sister opted to conduct the search herself, hoping to find her daughter quickly. Unfortunately, in her state of distress, her tactics were too eager—she threatened so much retribution for silence, so much payment for information, that sightings of Anne became more common than postboys on horseback. She only came to me with the problem yesterday.”
Darcy sighed. “Did she obtain any useful clues?”
“Lady Catherine seems fairly certain that London was her destination. Anne drove the gig and took her companion with her. It is likely she has money enough to keep herself roofed for a goodly amount of time.”
“You think she planned this? It was not an impulsive action?”
Lord Matlock’s forehead wrinkled thoughtfully.
“In a manner of speaking, she had it planned to the smallest detail. Anne has taken to story-writing, you see—her journals are full of imagined travels, and she has filled reams with her tales. She has written more than one, some of great length, in which the heroine escapes from various confines and predicaments. It is not unlikely that she has planned one or more of her character’s plights to include a flight from Kent to London.
I knew of her writings, and I even encouraged them, blast it.
” He glanced at Elizabeth. “Beg pardon, ma’am. ”
Elizabeth waved off apologies. “In the moment, do you know how she took the news of our nuptials?”
“Surprisingly calmly, her mother said. No tantrums, no hysteria. But the next morning, she was gone.”
“At least we have that much,” Darcy said. “If she was not in a phrenzy, and assuming she had a careful plan and ample resources, I would think the odds of her safe return are quite favourable.”
“There is another problem,” the earl said, then hesitating, as if reluctant to continue.
Elizabeth and Darcy gave what were probably identical looks of consternation. Still, he seemed at a loss.
“What is it, man?” Darcy finally urged.
Matlock sighed heavily. “I asked Catherine what she had been doing and saying to prepare Anne for this outcome—for your eventual marriage to another. She admitted to me that…that she had not mentioned the subject to Anne, even casually, in years. To avoid ‘unpleasantness’, she said.”
“She promised me!” Darcy bit out, plainly furious. “Gently, she said, over time, she would prepare her. It is the only reason I agreed to say nothing to Anne myself!”
“She promised me the same.” The earl’s voice, already grave, deepened. “Darcy, Anne left no note—but she did leave one of her stories on her bed, perhaps, I fear, as a kind of message. It was one of her first efforts, actually. A rather gruesome tale of love scorned.”
Darcy frowned. “Do not tell me. The spurned heroine leaps to her death, or some such tragedy.”
“No. The heroine first flees her family, then sends anonymous threatening notes to those she deems her enemies. Finally she turns murderess, and slays the hero and his bride. Originally, she titled the tale, The Death of a Dream. But on the novel she left behind for us to find…that title was scratched out, and over it she scribbled The Death of Mrs Darcy.”