Chapter Twenty-Four
Solitude
Richard returned to London the next morning at first light.
Darcy rose early to help his cousin prepare his bags and break his fast. He was riding rather than taking the carriage, for haste was of the utmost importance, and only the early nightfall and slim crescent of the moon in a cloudy sky had kept him from departing the previous afternoon.
“Better have the news several hours later than have you dead in a ditch,” Darcy had admonished his cousin, and to his relief, Richard had acquiesced.
Now the house was silent. There had been no servants bustling about, save the housekeeper who insisted upon preparing their meals, and no other guests.
Even in the grounds, only the head groom kept watch over the stables, and it was he who had prepared Richard’s mount for the ride.
Darcy took another cup of coffee and tried to read some volume that he had found in the library, but the words swam before his eyes and he threw the volume down in frustration after only a few pages.
Anger, frustration, shame and helplessness all warred within him, to be met with a deep sense of betrayal.
He ought to have known; he had seen all the signs, but he had been blinded by trust. He had been so easily beguiled, his temperament and sense of duty so played upon by one whom he had considered a friend.
He stewed and thought and agonised over the various bits of information, but there was only one way in which every piece of the puzzle fit together.
The code word to a French cypher was in English!
That alone ought to have warned him that there were traitors about, even if Bennet was not one of them.
Whatever could lead an Englishman to cast aside all sense of loyalty to his home, his king and country, to England’s green and pleasant land, in favour of the Corsican monster?
The mind rebelled at the very thought of it!
And yet, by all evidence, it had been done.
Darcy strove to imagine himself in such a position as that.
Would money convince him? It was an easy matter for him to refuse, for his estate brought him more wealth in a month than most men could hope to earn in a lifetime.
For one of lesser fortune, a large enough purse might be adequate temptation, but this particular traitor, if Darcy had the right of it, had no need of such ill-gotten gains.
A title? No, for that he already had. Fame and glory likewise were already his. Perhaps some hidden blemish in the family history, a supposed wrong that he sought to right... None of these suited Darcy at all, and he sighed for the wrongness of the entire affair.
Worse than the codeword being English was its identification of the traitor himself!
Goldfinch—the word was so common, the creature likewise—an unassuming little bird with a red face and a stripe of golden yellow upon its wings, and a pleasant chirping song.
Carduelis carduelis, if his memory served.
His mind drifted to those long and pleasant hours spent with his mother and sister as they pored through those beautiful books on ornithology, discussing how to identify one bird from another, examining the lovely creatures with which God adorned the skies.
And then as naturally as a page turns, his mind moved to the cover of the beloved volumes, with the author’s name embossed in the rich leather: Raymond Orville Fynch, now Lord Stanton, who had rescued him from attack and saved his life; whom he had so welcomed as a friend.
Orville... from the French words meaning ‘town of gold.’ Orville Fynch.
.. Gold Finch. It could be none other but he!
No matter how Darcy attempted to recast the clues he had been given, he could find no other answer but that Stanton himself was the French agent, the very traitor he had sent Darcy to discover.
He had voiced his suspicions to Richard, who had nodded sagely and redoubled his efforts to prepare for his ride back to London.
The more Darcy tried to suppress this terrible suspicion, the more he wondered how much Stanton had learned of his own clandestine activities.
Had he spoken a word here or there that he ought to have kept close to his breast?
Had he let drop a suggestion that he knew more than he was willing to divulge, even to his supposed confidant?
He had been careful in speaking to Stanton himself, but what about Doctor Yarrow, when he had visited the man to assess his recovery?
Or worse, what of John, the footman, so capable and intelligent and yet as any good servant, so invisible?
He strove to re-envision the night of his megrim at Longbourn.
Had some word of what he had discovered passed his lips whilst the footman-cum-medic had tended to his aching shoulder and reapplied the balm to his temples?
And if so, what of his unwitting confessions might have reached Stanton’s ears?
John was in Stanton’s employ, but Darcy knew not whether he was in Stanton’s confidence or whether he had been ordered to remit regular reports, as Darcy had been requested to do, as to any new information on the machine and the people connected with it.
He might even have been asked, without knowing Stanton’s true purpose, to inform his employer as to Mr. Darcy’s health and to write of any other matters of interest about the man and the village whilst employed there.
He might, in all innocence, have passed along news to the traitorous baron that could jeopardise the operation and England’s security.
Indeed—what a dread thought!—on the night when Darcy had suffered his megrim, John had been housed under the very same roof as the renegade Frenchmen and their mysterious machine!
Had he been awake to notice the escaping Frenchmen?
Had Bennet perhaps let slip some information?
Darcy prayed the footman had seen and heard little not pertaining to his erstwhile master’s care.
The very recollection of the megrim, in combination with the weight of questions and worries now pressing on him, began to portend the onset of another headache, which Darcy was desperate to avoid.
He drank the last of his willow bark tea, then went to the kitchens and set about brewing another pot and finally brought out the small tub of lavender and peppermint balm, which he massaged into his own temples the way John had done under Elizabeth’s instruction.
The incipient headache was not receding, but neither was it growing worse, and he felt a brisk walk in the cold January air might soothe the gnawing throb that lay just below his consciousness.
If a cool compress upon his forehead was of benefit, cool air might prove equally efficacious.
The sun was now high enough in the sky for full light, though the hour was still early for social calls and Richard must be nearly halfway to London by now. Darcy pulled on his boots and many-caped greatcoat and crept his way from the house to take in the fresh country air.
He had walked for half an hour or so under the brightening sky when he saw he was not the only person about on this cool day.
The ground was frozen underfoot, but no new snow had fallen, rendering walking a pleasure rather than a chore.
There, far ahead, was a figure he recognised even at this distance, and he quickened his pace to reach her.
Whether she heard him or merely sensed him, she paused in her steps and directed her path to approach him.
“Elizabeth!” he called through the crisp air, to which she answered, with a brief curtsey, “Mr. Darcy.” They hurried towards each other until they were close enough to raise their hands and touch.
The desire to reach out and pull her into his arms was maddening, but he managed, with an effort worthy of Hercules himself, to restrain his need for her into a polite, “Good morning, I trust you slept well.”
Her response was a nod and an echo of his own question, but her eyes were bright and her lips dark, and the gaze she cast upon him nearly undid him.
He nearly went down upon bended knee at that moment to beg her to reconsider his proposal, and only the weight of the morning’s contemplation stopped him.
The deep betrayal of one whom he had considered a friend still stung at his soul, and no matter the pleasure he felt at meeting Elizabeth here in this cold and sunny field, he was sorely burdened by all that had happened.
His being cried out for comfort and love, but he could not in good conscience plead for her hand when his heart was so distressed.
Neither could he survive a second rejection from her, not now, at least, when his psyche was so wounded and fragile.
He could, however, take what joy he could from her company, and so he schooled his wild emotions and brought himself under regulation and offered his arm so they might walk together.
“Your cousin...?” She asked at last.
“He rode off this morning for London. If he found a fast horse at a changing post along the way, he might already have arrived.”
“And you? How long do you remain?”
He had not considered this, for all his thoughts had been on the machine and the cypher they had broken.
“I have not decided. I have little in London to return to, and I cannot return to Pemberley now. The weather is uncertain and the roads might be treacherous, and I do not know my sister’s thoughts on my return.
I have, however, some incentive to remain here, as long as Bingley allows me the use of his house. ”