Chapter 10 The Wrong End of the Stick #2
After their meal had been consumed on a throw the cook had added to the basket, Ellie fell asleep with her head resting in her mother’s lap.
Elizabeth relished the quietude and combed her fingers through her daughter’s natural ringlets.
Peace fell upon her, listening to the birds, gazing out over the lake and the fields of quivering barley.
Elizabeth sat with her back turned to the house on purpose.
She felt no need to gaze upon the beautiful but suffocating chambers of torture.
She would accept many whippings to be allowed to leave with her daughter afterwards.
Elizabeth shrugged off her maudlin thoughts and reclined on the throw. She pulled her daughter up into the crook of her arm and let her eyes rest for a while.
She must have fallen asleep because she was jolted awake by the quivering earth and thunder-like sounds. She sat up abruptly. Ellie protested and curled up in her lap, not entirely awake yet. Elizabeth looked up at a clear blue sky.
Slowly, her mind followed her body’s awareness and realised the sound was not thunder but fast approaching hoofs pounding on the ground.
The horse skidded to a halt behind her, and a heavy thump revealed the rider had dismounted.
Elizabeth stiffened and braced herself for the colonel to appear in her line of vision.
She would not show her trepidation by turning to meet him.
Her relief was substantial when it was Mr Darcy who rounded her throw. He did not look pleased though.
“Where is Jonathan? Where is he hiding?”
Elizabeth looked at her husband, bewildered.
“I have no idea. I left him at the bottom of the hill. He must have returned to the house by now.”
“Do not lie to me, Mrs Darcy. I saw him following you stealthily at a distance. Now, where is he?”
Elizabeth would have laughed had she not seen the rage suffusing Mr Darcy’s entire being.
A twig snapped in a nearby shrub, and Jonathan emerged from the bushes.
“I am sorry, Mr Darcy, but when Mrs Darcy insisted on continuing alone, I thought I should follow to make sure she did not become lost, sir. I beg your pardon if I was missed at the house, but I could not in good conscience let them wander off while Mr Wickham is unaccounted for.”
“How did you know Mr Wickham had left his regiment?” Mr Darcy asked. “I have yet to inform the servants about that development.”
And me! Elizabeth thought wryly, though she had no idea why Mr Wickham’s whereabouts should be of any concern to her.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam told all the servants to be on the lookout for him, sir. He feared for the child as she is an easy target for extortion. I have heard about the child-strippings and abductions in London. It is not even a crime but a misdemeanour—”
Elizabeth gasped and clutched her daughter.
“Very well. I see your point and must thank you for your diligence. You are dismissed and may return to the house.”
The footman spun on his heels and set out with long strides.
Elizabeth regarded Mr Darcy warily. What exactly was the man insinuating?
That she was having a liaison with a footman in a grove with her child at her side?
The thought was nauseating. The chance of her allowing a man to come close enough to touch her inappropriately was slim to none, and certainly not by her own choice.
Rage still lingered on Mr Darcy’s countenance.
Elizabeth had never regarded him as a violent man, but when he stepped closer, she had to repress the impulse to recoil.
He sniffed her. Anger rose from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair.
Was her husband smelling her to gauge whether she had entertained the footman in an intimate fashion?
Her arm rose involuntarily and slapped him across the cheek.
“I never thought the day would come when I wished I had accepted Mr Collins!”
Her hand stung, while the imprint of it bloomed on the left side of Mr Darcy’s face. She turned and bundled up the throw. With Ellie on her hip and the basket in her hand, she left her stunned husband in a fit of pique that had her fuming the entire way back to the house.
Dinner that night was the most uncomfortable meal Elizabeth had ever endured.
The atmosphere was frosty between the master and mistress as neither could stand the sight of the other.
The colonel looked confusedly between them, probably wondering what he had missed, while Mrs Fitzwilliam did not notice.
When the meal had been consumed, Elizabeth rose to leave, but Mr Darcy immediately stopped her.
“Let us all remove to the music room,” her husband suggested.
Mr Darcy included her in the invitation so he could torture her with his presence.
When he turned to leave the room, the handprint on his face became visible.
Elizabeth stifled a gasp. It was no wonder he was upset with her.
She had not imagined her lapse of comportment would have such a lasting effect. She owed him an apology.
Chagrined, she followed him to the music room and sat in the corner she usually occupied, away from the others.
She was searching through her mending basket for diversion when Mrs Fitzwilliam begged off playing the pianoforte.
The colonel had bought her a new novel, and she was eager to continue her reading.
“Cannot Elizabeth play?” Mrs Fitzwilliam asked innocently.
Elizabeth shook her head, but Mr Darcy did not notice.
“Yes, if you are not inclined to entertain us,” he answered for her, addressing his sister.
Elizabeth had scarcely played for the last two and a half years. She had taught Miss Freight, but the instrument at their house was an old and out-of-tune spinet. Certainly nothing to the grand pianoforte Mrs Fitzwilliam had received as a gift from her brother in the summer of 1812.
Sitting on the stool, regarding the music on the stand, Elizabeth could see that the score was unfamiliar and too complicated for her to manage with proficiency. She was leafing through the stack in search of something simpler when Mrs Fitzwilliam gave her a welcome reprieve.
“Why is it only men who write poetry?” she asked with her nose still buried in her book.
“Men have a greater depth of feeling,” her brother explained.
Elizabeth managed not to laugh aloud but rather wished to direct the conversation away from such treacherous waters. “Are you reading poetry? I thought it was a novel.”
“It is. Poetry is only mentioned,” Mrs Fitzwilliam explained.
Elizabeth nodded and returned to her search for a simple piece to play for her audience.
“Would you say gentlemen or ladies love the longest when all hope is lost?” Mrs Fitzwilliam enquired.
“Gentlemen!” “Ladies!” the master and mistress of Pemberley exclaimed in unison.
“Ladies are much more fickle in their affections than gentlemen,” the master hurried to explain.
“I could mention two gentlemen who have proved themselves to be exceedingly fickle. Some are too easily persuaded by their friends, whilst others are effortlessly deceived by their family,” Elizabeth retorted and clunked down on the keys to quell any rejoinders that might be budding.
A Scottish air filled the room, effectively preventing further conversation.
Elizabeth played two other pieces she knew by heart, curtsied to the room, and retired for the evening.
#
Searching for Mr Wickham in Lambton became the order of the following days.
A number of clues had led to an equal number of disappointments.
The colonel had promised a substantial reward for those who could lead them to his capture, which hitherto had proved as futile as their other efforts.
Wickham was expertly avoiding detection, which was probably spurred on by the knowledge that a deserter from the army during wartime would face a severe penalty.
Elizabeth had written to Lydia but had yet to receive an answer.
Either the post was slow or Lydia could have already left for Longbourn.
She would have expected an answer no later than today if Lydia had replied in a timely manner.
Her youngest sister was not the most reliable correspondent, but if she was in trouble, it would be in her self-interest to exert herself.
The most anticipated prospect was the Bingleys’ visit.
They were due to arrive in two days’ time if all went well on their journey.
Jane was probably already informed about Lydia’s trouble and could accomplish whatever must be done.
Elizabeth had modest means and even less opportunity to do anything.
Mr Darcy would hardly allow her to travel to Newcastle and certainly not with Ellie.
Leaving her daughter at Pemberley without her protection was inconceivable.
#
After Elizabeth had accused Darcy, in a convoluted fashion, of not taking a practical, direct role in raising his child, he had begun to attend Ellie in the nursery.
Every afternoon he spent half an hour with his daughter.
Elizabeth stayed in the background but never left them alone.
Ellie had taken to her father with little to no fuss.
The quiet, brooding man did not intimidate her sociable daughter at all.
The rascal sat quietly in his lap whenever he read to her.
Especially if he was reading from the Tales from Shakespeare, written by Charles Lamb with large etchings by William Mulready, which must have cost a small fortune.
The colonel burst into the nursery, scaring Elizabeth witless. She immediately backed into the opposite wall whilst clutching her chest.
“Darcy, was your mother buried with any jewellery?”
What an odd question to ask, Elizabeth thought as she tried to relax her rigid stance.
“Yes, she was wearing her wedding ring. My father did not have the heart to remove it.”
The colonel groaned. “Did Wickham know?”
“It is a well-known fact. It has been retold as a romantic notion in this house and the local area for nearly two decades. Why do you ask?”
“He was just spotted walking towards the mausoleum.”
Mr Darcy rose abruptly, forgetting about the daughter in his lap, but he at least had the wherewithal to hold onto her. Elizabeth moved across the room to relieve him of Ellie, and the cousins left in a hurry.
Elizabeth stood indecisively in the middle of the room before she came to her senses.
Wickham was depraved, selfish, and would go to great lengths for monetary gain, but grave robbery was excessive, even for him.
His debts must be substantial if he was willing to degrade himself in such a manner. Poor Lydia!
Elizabeth did not see hide nor hair of her husband for the rest of the day. The colonel arrived fifteen minutes late for dinner with a solemn expression on his countenance and announced Mr Darcy would be late and they should eat without him.
Elizabeth barely touched her food; something sinister was afoot, but she was not sure what, exactly. She retired to the nursery as soon as the Fitzwilliams had finished eating. Fortunately, neither of them tried to detain her. The meal had been awkward enough.
Mr Darcy was not in attendance at breakfast the next morning either.
According to the colonel, he had slept at home but had left again at first light.
His absence did not provide the relief Elizabeth would have expected.
It brought more uncertainty to have the colonel in the house without the protection Mr Darcy provided.
One more day and Jane would arrive with her serene calmness and unconditional support.
Mr Bingley was an additional advantage; he had risen much in her esteem since his first visit to Meryton.
Jane had been the making of the man, increasing his confidence and calming his propensities towards acting impetuously.
The light drizzle of the morning intensified into a summer storm.
Wherever Mr Darcy was, he was not likely to come home during a downpour.
Neither could Elizabeth take her daughter to play in the gardens.
She would have preferred to be out of the colonel’s way; she kept encountering him, and he looked more sombre by the hour.
It was to be hoped nothing sinister had happened to Mr Darcy.
Her husband had most likely chosen the colonel as guardian for their daughter if he had made any arrangements at all.
Elizabeth had not thought she could ever feel anything but relieved by Mr Darcy’s absence, but there was an alternative that was even less tempting.
Finally, the clouds abated, as was typical for the capricious summer weather. The sun burst through and dried the ground. Elizabeth and Ellie escaped for a turn at their favourite activity—the swing in the rose garden.