Chapter 50
CHAPTER FIFTY
Darcy had given his word that he would see to Wickham’s transportation if Lord Courtenay was found, and he could not say he regretted it.
He despised Wickham for his weakness and slothfulness, as well as for what he had attempted to do to Georgiana, yet Darcy’s conscience could not allow him to stand by and see the man hanged.
Wickham would be sent to a penal colony, and his death at sea was probable, but at least he would be afforded some slim chance at life.
It took a bit of effort—the charge of treason was not so easy to lay aside—and required some doing to show that Wickham was not a conspirator but a hired gun, and a poor one at that. At last it was done, and Wickham’s passage was set for Van Diemen’s Land on the next convict ship.
Darcy could not trust that Wickham had gone unless he saw the departure with his own eyes. Thus, he found himself on an unseasonably cold day near the end of March by the Wapping docks, watching as Wickham boarded the prison hulk.
Darcy turned to leave soon after. The neighbourhood was rough, and crime was prevalent, so he had no wish to linger. As he met his carriage, however, he saw a surprising sight: Lord Courtenay leaving a small building on a side street.
His curiosity aroused, he followed Courtenay as the man walked around a corner and found a hack chaise. Darcy could see no more without following him so continued his way towards home.
Wishing to discuss Lord Courtenay’s strange behaviour, Darcy diverted to Matlock House where he found his uncle and Fitzwilliam playing billiards.
“Darcy!” his uncle exclaimed. “Will you join us?”
“Continue as you were. I need to speak to you both.”
Fitzwilliam lined up his next shot. “About what?”
Darcy sank into a nearby chair. “I saw Wickham board the prison hulk today.”
“Why on earth did you go down there?” Lord Matlock demanded.
“Everything has been so irregular in this matter, I suppose a part of me half expected him to escape or otherwise subvert justice.” Darcy shrugged, accepting a drink from the footman.
“In any case, he is where he should be. But that is not what I wished to discuss. While I was there, I saw Lord Courtenay down by the docks.”
There was a crack, and the balls hurled about the table.
“Down by Wapping? A dangerous place for him as well as for you. I do hope you had adequate protection.”
“Both his lordship and I were alone, but as you see, I made it out unharmed, as did he. My point is: What was he doing there?”
Fitzwilliam shrugged, watching his father take his shot. “Does it truly matter?”
“He is rather eccentric,” Darcy insisted. “Curious behaviour from first to last.”
“How so?”
“He permits Elizabeth to do many things that I could not imagine most men in his situation would, such as dancing with me and leaving us alone when I call. Quite unusual, do you not think? I would not do it were I recently reunited with my wife.”
“He wishes for her to be happy,” Fitzwilliam said absently. To his father, he commented, “Excellent shot, sir.”
“Being happy is one thing; keeping company with a former lover is entirely another,” Darcy snapped, frustrated that they did not seem to apprehend the import of his words.
The two men looked at Darcy, Lord Matlock with a sympathetic countenance that immediately annoyed Darcy further. He turned his head to avoid seeing it.
Fitzwilliam said gently, “Perhaps he has a mistress or frequents a brothel down there, and he remained into the morning. Perhaps he has fallen in love with someone else. I thought of it the other day when Saye questioned why Lord Courtenay had not come back sooner. The only explanation that would satisfy was another woman.”
“I have considered that myself,” Darcy admitted. “Such a travesty! He loves another, she loves me, yet both must live out this marriage whether they wish for it or not.”
Lord Matlock clapped his nephew on the shoulder.
“Darcy, you must put these things from your mind. No matter whether Lord Courtenay has ten lovers, Elizabeth cannot belong to you. Always thinking of what you cannot have will do nothing but keep you in pain and prevent you from finding your own love.”
“I know.” Darcy felt a wave of fatigue overwhelm him. He rose, losing his balance for a moment.
“Darcy, are you well?” Fitzwilliam asked with alarm.
“Not at all,” he admitted. “I am exhausted by the effort of pretending I am accepting of this. I am frustrated and sad, and so very tired of it that I do not wish to awaken in the morning. My only comfort is that, when night draws near, another day is soon done—but it is a cold comfort, for the dawn is sure to follow.” He sighed.
“I wish something could be found to change this.”
“There is nothing,” Lord Matlock replied, his tone more gentle than his words. “You must see that, Darcy. This is how it is; everything has fitted up too neatly for it to be otherwise.”
Fitzwilliam was studying his next shot and spoke, unthinkingly. “Save for the two plans of course.”
“Two plans?” Darcy enquired, even as Lord Matlock made a dismissive snort.
“A contingency plan, Darcy, and nothing more.”
“The need for secrecy be hanged! I must know.”
Fitzwilliam was chagrined by his slip. “Darcy, believe me, it is nothing. There existed two plans for the murder of Lord Courtenay: one on the road to Crewe, which involved our friend Wickham, and another at Warrington Castle.”
Darcy grew excited. “There it is! Strange facts that do not align! It must mean something that—”
“A contingency plan,” Fitzwilliam repeated with a firm shake of his head. “They wanted him dead, and despite having planned for it twice, they were foiled. Rather ironic, but so it was.”
“But why two plans? Who was the other assassin, and where is he now? Surely, these things —”
Lord Matlock shot his son a vexed look. “Darcy, listen here. Two assassins, one assassin—what does it matter? Francis Warren is dead, and Lord Courtenay is not. Those are the facts, as incontrovertible as the fact that Elizabeth is Lady Courtenay. I am sorry; no one is more sorry than I.”
He put his arm on Darcy’s shoulders in a fatherly manner. “No matter what we might tease out of all of this, what conspiracies or intrigues come forth, it still cannot change. She is his wife. Would that I could change it, but alas, I cannot.”
“It must mean something,” Darcy protested weakly. “Was it investigated? Perhaps…” He could not immediately determine any reason for the double plan. He resolved to think on it further later that night. His insomnia might at least be useful in this.
One evening, Henry and Elizabeth were invited to dine with the Bingleys. The small party included Miss Bingley and her potential suitor, a Mr Alistair Neaves, son of Sir Richard Neaves, a baronet from Essex.
Mr Neaves had been at university with Henry, and Elizabeth thought bitterly how eager he must be to renew the acquaintance and thus be armed with fresh gossip to relate to his friends at the club about the ton’s most delicious scandal.
As the days of March slipped away, Elizabeth found herself less inclined towards weeping and sorrow but more predisposed towards vexation and irritation.
Everything was a source of aggravation, from the sounds of carriages and people passing by on the streets to the temperature of the air and the tightness of her corset.
She was short tempered with everyone—her husband included—and then she would be filled with angry guilt for having acted so.
The guilt, alas, vexed her further, which made her even more angry—and round and round she would go.
Some days she thought she might go mad, and she wondered whether Henry might wish to return to the mines to escape her.
She resolved that, for this night, she would make every effort to be amiable, and she smiled kindly at Henry when he came in to escort her to the carriage. He leant in to kiss her, and she turned her head to give him her lips.
It pleased him; his eyes became soft upon her, and he smiled as she stood. “My love, you are very beautiful tonight.”
“Must you say that every single time?” Good intentions were thus dispersed in the wake of Elizabeth’s irritation.
He looked shocked. “What do I say every time?”
“Nothing. I beg your pardon.” A fine effort towards being amiable, Lizzy. “Pray, do not regard me. I am not feeling well.” She forced a smile.
“Another headache? You are often unwell these days.”
“Forgive me, I—”
“If there is something I have done or something I am doing to cause your peevishness, let us discuss it.”
You have done nothing worse than remain alive. “I…I am sorry. I know I am uncommonly shrewish right now. I am trying to lift myself from it.”
He was hurt; she would have preferred him angry. “I am doing my best to repair this marriage and to break the wall that has been built between us. Your constant ill temper does not make that an easy task.”
“Surely, you did not expect any of this to be easy.”
“No, I did not, but neither did I expect it to be so damned difficult! I did not expect my wife, for whom I have longed all these endless months and years, to look disappointed whenever she beheld me!”
“That is ungenerous!” she cried, even as she knew the justice in what he said. “I am happy that you returned—”
“Are you? I do not think you can say that with truth. In fact, I think your low spirits are because you do nothing with your days besides sit about bemoaning the loss of your precious Darcy!”
“That is cruel and unjust.”
“Is it?” he demanded, his voice raised. “Do you have any idea how this is for me? How it pains me every day to know that I might have regained my wife but lost her love?”
His face was now angrily red, and catching sight of himself in the mirror, he gave a jerky bow and stormed into his bedchamber, slamming the door after him.
Elizabeth, horrified, began to cry. She was shocked out of her tears, however, when she heard a loud crash from Henry’s bedchamber and the tinkle of broken glass. She rose quickly and went to him.
Opening his door, she saw him in a chair at the side of the room, his head in hands. On the opposite wall was a mark in the paper, and on the carpet beneath, many tiny shards of glass glittered in the light.
“Take care, I broke my urn,”
She stepped around it carefully, aghast when she realised it was a hand blown glass urn he had purchased in Murano during his Grand Tour. “Henry! You loved this piece! You brought it all the way back from Italy!”
He had truly loved the urn and had expended no inconsiderable effort in bringing it from Italy, where the art of blowing glass was renowned.
She could not imagine what possessed him to throw it, but he clearly did, for it was a great distance from its customary place on the mantel above his fireplace.
He sat back in his chair, affecting calmness. “What does it signify? I was angry and I threw it.”
She looked at him uncertainly. She had not known him to have a volatile temper, but the situation they currently faced was very different from the life they had known.
She approached him slowly, pausing a moment before sitting on his lap.
He leant back to make way for her but did not put his arms around her.
After a slight hesitation, she pressed a kiss onto his cheek.
“I am so sorry for upsetting you. I have been unkind and selfish, but I do care about you.”
“I do not want you to care about me. I want you to love me as you did before.”
Stricken, she whispered, “I am trying to be what I once was. I shall get there in time. Please be patient with me even though you have borne so much already.”
He nodded, still looking glum.
“I am in a particularly bad humour this night. As much as I love my dear sister, I am disinclined to spending the evening with Miss Bingley and Mr Neaves, knowing what gossips they are.”
He appeared the tiniest bit mollified, and so she pressed on. “I abhor being the subject of interest. It has gone on for far too long, and I cannot abide it longer.”
With a deep breath, Henry replied, “We shall go to Warrington soon. It will be better for us both, I daresay.”
“Yes, it will.” She kissed his cheek. “I shall summon one of the maids to clean this. Are you ready to depart, or shall I send our regrets?”
“No, no. Let us go. I am ready.”