Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The late April day was fine with sunny skies and a refreshing springtime breeze.
Elizabeth resolved to take a bit of air as soon as her son was in the nursery for his afternoon nap.
With her footmen attending her, she strolled through the park, inhaling deeply and enjoying the loveliness and lightness of the spring air.
“Lady Courtenay!” Colonel Fitzwilliam called out to her with a hearty wave. “How fortunate to find you here. I intended to call on you later, but this is much better. May I join you?”
She agreed, and he fell in step beside her.
“I believe my aunt has bid you to attend this evening’s entertainment?”
“She has. I understand it has been some time since she has been in town.”
“Yes, it has. When my cousin Anne was seventeen, Lady Catherine brought her to town to begin the arrangements for her coming out the following year. While they were here, Anne became ill with pneumonia, which lasted for months and nearly took her life. My aunt decided that the filth of London was too much for any decent person to bear, and she took herself back to Kent as soon as Anne was able to go, vowing never to return.”
“Yet, she is come back. I wonder why?” Elizabeth gave Fitzwilliam an impish grin, having become well accustomed to Lady Catherine’s opinions in Kent.
“Monotony, and the understanding that none of us intend to leave the amusements of town to go to Rosings and entertain her. I do think she had dreams of being a bit of a society hostess before Anne was born. Perhaps she intends to begin living those dreams.” They shared a brief laugh at the notion.
The two strolled for a bit, chatting amiably about inconsequential matters until the subject of her brother-in-law’s execution arose.
“It was a shock,” Elizabeth said. “Such detail!”
“You should see the crowds that come to watch these wretched souls lose their lives. Bloodthirsty savages—the ladies included!”
Elizabeth shook her head in astonishment. “At least it puts some sort of finality to this matter. It has come to its end.”
“I would agree if I could but find the gunman. I despair of finding him, bit part that he was. Would that I might have been one day earlier to Hertfordshire!”
“The gunman was in Hertfordshire?”
“On business unrelated to this,” he assured her quickly. “It was in the autumn. Jervis apprised the Home Office that a man bearing George Wickham’s description had tried to take a commission in Colonel Forster’s regiment. Alas, Wickham saw Darcy in Meryton and left before we could apprehend him.”
“George Wickham.” Elizabeth puzzled over the name. “Did I make his acquaintance?”
“Darcy told me you met him briefly on the street one day. I do not think it was an acquaintance that pleased you. He might have been introduced as Geoffrey Willingham, friend of Lieutenant Denny.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth recalled the day on the streets of Meryton. “Yes, I do remember him. A bold and impudent man. Why did he go? I do not believe he ever joined the regiment, did he?”
“He had just joined the very day he saw Darcy. The trick of it was, he had joined under an assumed name only to then meet a man who had known him since childhood! Singularly unlucky, but I suppose the luck he has had in eluding capture more than compensates for it.”
It made Elizabeth oddly cold inside to imagine that she had looked upon the countenance of her husband’s killer. Had he known her? “I wonder whether anything will bring Mr Wickham back into the light of day.”
“Whoever would have believed that dissolute reprobate would exhibit such cunning in avoiding capture for so long? Not I, I assure you. I should not have believed he would remain free for two weeks, much less two years.”
“I can only suppose that the payment he earned has been sufficient to aid him in the endeavour.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted derisively. “Twenty-five pounds is a trifle to George Wickham. No, I assure you, it was spent before ever his hand touched it.”
Elizabeth went cold, a sharp pain lancing her heart. “Twenty-five pounds?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam continued, failing to notice the expression on Elizabeth’s face. “Yes, the investigators imagine that he was probably promised another payment on completion of…but everything happened so quickly he probably never—”
Elizabeth heard nothing of what he said after the impossible sum of twenty-five pounds was mentioned. A loud buzzing filled her ears as she fought to remain calm. Twenty-five pounds!
She never wanted to think of the profit the man—now known to her by the name of George Wickham—had gained by murdering her husband.
Somewhere in her mind, she believed it had been a sizeable fortune, something a person could use to survive for a long time.
Not something so little, so meaningless, as twenty-five pounds.
Twenty-five pounds to end a man’s life. Twenty-five pounds to make her a widow. Twenty-five pounds, and her son would never know his father. The pain of it was agonising. Oh, who, who was so cruel as to place a mark on Henry’s dear, wonderful head for such a paltry sum?
She dimly realised that Colonel Fitzwilliam was speaking to her. “Lady Courtenay, are you well? You seem pale my lady. Are you ill?”
She answered distractedly, “No, I…I seem to have a headache. I believe I have walked too far today.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam was solicitous and offered his arm immediately. “Let us turn back then.”
Try as she would, Elizabeth could not leave the torment of the twenty-five pounds behind her that afternoon, and she wandered through her home, lost and bereft, thinking of little else.
Some small corner of her mind protested, attempting to draw her back into the realm of reason: was any sum sufficient for the loss of dear Henry?
Still, the rest of her mind, the largest portion, railed and cried against the injustice, the sheer thievery of her beloved husband for a mere twenty-five pounds.
Alternately, she was angered and saddened, felt kicked and cried, until suddenly, she was overcome by a longing for something—some small bit of Henry—to console her.
She went to his study, a room never entered but for the occasional cleaning, to search his papers, longing to see his handwriting, desperate to find a note or a letter that contained his thoughts.
Elizabeth entered the room and rifled through his desk drawers, yearning for anything of him.
She was pleased to find a flask engraved with Henry’s initials, and she opened it instantly.
It had been there for two years and contained a drink not usually enjoyed by ladies of gentle breeding.
However, it was also probable that the last things to touch the flask were Henry’s lips, and that was reason enough for her to imbibe freely.
The first drink burned her throat painfully, and she gasped, wondering who on earth could enjoy such torture.
The second drink was far less painful, and the third was almost pleasant.
Elizabeth sat on the floor behind Henry’s desk, looking through his correspondence, which was, by and large, a mess.
Henry did not excel in the art of organisation and filed things every which way: investment dealings and information on various charitable ventures were mixed with personal letters to his brother and other correspondents.
His writing is truly awful. Just like Mr Bingley’s—blots and blotches in abundance.
The thought made her giggle. Elizabeth sipped from the flask, reviewing the letters, occasionally weeping and sometimes kissing his signature and in general, enjoying a bit of a nervous fit.
It was well past the time when she should have been dressing for dinner at Lady Catherine’s that her maid entered. Burney pursed her lips into a little frown upon seeing her mistress on the floor, surrounded by her late husband’s papers.
“I beg your pardon, madam, but it appears your…headache has worsened. Shall I notify Lady Catherine that you will not attend her dinner this evening?”
The task of repairing her appearance and attending a dinner, making witty conversation and fending off advances, seemed both impossible and insupportable. “Yes, I fear my headache will keep me home this evening.”
Darcy dressed for dinner at his aunt’s home, a frisson of excitement going through him at the thought of seeing Elizabeth.
He had noticed a marked change in her regard since their time in Kent.
She looked at him at times, and he hoped he did not deceive himself in seeing a tender regard.
He could not be so bold as to suggest it was love, but there was an admiration present that was sufficient for him.
He would offer for her again, perhaps tonight, believing that, by now, she was merely afraid—afraid to give herself to another and take the chance, once again, of permitting herself to care.
He hoped to push her a bit, to help her move past these obstacles to happiness, obstacles she had set herself.
All he needed was the assurance that a push would not send her running, assurance that he hoped to obtain this night.
Elizabeth was not at his aunt’s home when Darcy arrived, and he became increasingly anxious each time the butler announced a new arrival who was not her. At length, the butler arrived bearing a note to his aunt. She read it and offered some instruction, which the man noted before departing.
Some minutes later, Darcy made his way to his aunt’s side. “Lady Catherine, I notice that Lady Courtenay is not yet arrived.”
Lady Catherine waved her hand indifferently. “She has taken ill this evening and cannot join us.”
“Ill?” Darcy exclaimed. “What ails her?”
“Lady Courtenay did not specify,” she replied then turned to draw Sir Gerald Crane into conversation.