Chapter 61
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Several days after Darcy and his newly reunited family returned home, he awoke from a short nap to find Henry at play on the floor of his bedchamber with Annie beside him.
He had noticed the boy doing this since their removal from Towton Hall.
Henry was as good-humoured as always, eating and sleeping as well as he ever had, but he was remarkably reluctant to allow Darcy or Elizabeth out of his sight for long.
More than once, Darcy caught him peering into a room where he thought his parents might be to verify their presence before returning to the nursery.
So many changes had ensued in his short life. Fortunately, by all accounts, Francis Warren had been good to the boy. He had played with him and had acted as a father ought. Another thing for which I am grateful but cannot comprehend.
It seemed Henry must have read his thoughts, for he paused and looked up at Darcy with his usual frank, friendly gaze. “Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Where is Father?”
Darcy inhaled sharply. He and Elizabeth had not discussed this. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew questions might arise, and he had hoped Elizabeth would be the one to answer them. Elizabeth, alas, was nowhere in sight.
He attempted to evade the question. “Henry, you are my son, and I am your father. I shall always be here to love you and take care of you. You need not worry about that.”
“No, you are Papa,” Henry informed him. “Where is Father?”
Darcy’s mind was frantic, desperately trying to form a plan of what to tell the boy. In the end, he decided upon a version of the truth, delivered gently.
“Henry, Father is, in truth, your uncle Francis, and he is in gaol. Your real father died a few years ago.”
“Why?”
“Ah, well.” Darcy cleared his throat and listened a moment, hoping to hear Elizabeth’s footsteps in the hall. It was disappointingly silent. “He did some bad things, things that were against the law, and when you do things against the law, you go to gaol and sometimes, ah, you die.”
“Father is bad?”
Darcy did not know what to say so he just nodded.
Henry turned his attention back to his blocks, clearly contemplating the information Darcy had imparted to him. Darcy watched him play until a minute or so later when Henry looked up and asked, “Where is Uncle Bingley?”
Darcy smiled, relieved. “Uncle Bingley is a very good man, and he is at his house with Aunt Bingley. He is not in gaol.”
“And I have a lot of aunts!” Henry announced enthusiastically. “I have Aunt Georgie and Aunt Bingley and Aunt Mary and Aunt Kitty and Aunt Lydia.” He grew sombre a moment. “Can aunts go to gaol?”
“Not your aunts,” Darcy assured him. “Your aunts always follow the law.”
“Who is your aunts?”
“Lady Matlock is my aunt,” Darcy told him, relieved the conversation was moving to a more benign tangent. “I have another aunt as well, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She lives in Kent.”
“Did they go to gaol?”
“No.” Darcy laughed. “They did not. Come here, sweet boy.”
Henry clambered onto the bed next to Darcy, fitting in under his arm and against his side, just as if he were formed to be there.
He looked up intently as Darcy gave him the first of what he hoped would be true fatherly wisdom.
“It is important, Son, to do what is right. To do your duty to your family, to God, and to your country. Your actions must be guided by your heart and your conscience. When you allow yourself to be blinded by greed for power or money is when you will go astray.”
He had seen Henry’s brow wrinkle at the word conscience, so he explained further, “Your conscience tells you what is right and wrong. Right now, Mama and I do most of that for you, but eventually, you will have to do it yourself, and if Mama and I have done well, you will make the right decisions—decisions befitting a gentleman of honour.”
Henry lost interest as he saw Annie up on a chair back, looking out a window and growling at something below.
He rushed over, encouraging his pet in her ferocity while Darcy regarded him with great fondness, eagerly anticipating the years ahead and hoping that some of what he said might remain with the boy.
A little more than a fortnight had elapsed when Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared at the house. Darcy was up and in his study when he was shown in.
“Well, sir?” Darcy felt surprisingly jovial. “You have quite the grave countenance.”
Fitzwilliam looked uncomfortable. “I am here in a bit of an official way. We should summon Mrs Darcy; I have news of Warren.”
Darcy’s joviality was dismissed in a moment. He summoned Elizabeth and some tea; then he and Fitzwilliam moved to the fireplace to await her. “Is this…will she be upset? I am not sure her spirits can bear much more. He remains in the gaol, yes? There has not been some escape?”
Fitzwilliam would say nothing. He just shook his head.
Elizabeth joined them minutes later. She sat with her eyes on the colonel, looking fearful. Her hand, when she slid it into Darcy’s, was ice cold.
“I have some news of Mr Francis Warren,” Fitzwilliam began gently.
“Yes?” She was steady and calm.
“He is dead. He died in the gaol.”
Her mouth dropped, and she regarded Fitzwilliam in surprise. Darcy leant forward. “How?”
“He killed himself,” Elizabeth surmised.
Fitzwilliam nodded. “His final act of rebellion, I suppose you could say.”
There was a short silence as they all pondered the information before the colonel continued.
“He saw, I believe, that there was no mark of sympathy for him.
Even his friends turned on him. They were eager to give him up for the promise of saving their own necks, and the government is far more interested in prosecuting the leaders.
The followers can always be replaced, but the removal of the leaders sends a message.
“In any case, he took the matter into his own hands. There is always someone about who grieves the plight of those imprisoned and can offer a way out for the right sum. There was an apothecary—or someone who would pass for one—who secured the right things to induce a peaceful, endless sleep. Francis preferred that to the hanging he faced and gladly paid the requested sum of, ironically, five and twenty pounds.”
“I see,” Elizabeth said calmly, her face inscrutable and her bearing undisturbed.
“You are certain?” Darcy asked. Although he was neither the bloodthirsty sort nor one who found entertainment in a hanging, in this case, he might have wished to be present to see the body of the man and know it was done.
“I saw him myself.” There was a pause, and then Fitzwilliam added, “I saw the box sealed.”
Darcy nodded.
“At the end, he admitted to the magistrate that he was Francis.” There had been some concern for the Darcy’s marriage to that end. The letter from Henry Warren to Mr Silas Barnes had been submitted, and Mr Barnes had also written, bearing witness to the injury.
“It will be kept quiet. Our regent does not fancy such an error coming to light, that an earl was hanged without the proper process. Moreover, there is little evidence that Henry did anything treasonous. However, it will be acknowledged privately that Henry Warren, Earl of Courtenay, died in April 1812.”
“Thus, our marriage is entirely, indubitably, unquestionably valid.” Darcy could not stop the smile that came over his face.
His smile was mirrored on Elizabeth’s face. “I am exceedingly happy to be unquestionably Mrs Darcy.”
As Darcy’s health improved, they became inundated with callers, including many of their relations, all of whom had heard various rumours of what had transpired and sought the truth behind them.
Mrs Bennet wrote to Elizabeth almost every day, telling her of this or that bit of gossip and demanding to know the truth. Unfortunately, the truth did not satisfy her. She thought something more scandalous and salacious must surely be the cause of all the talk.
“What could possibly bring greater scandal?” Elizabeth asked Darcy incredulously. “What more could there be?”
Darcy did not wish to malign the foolish Mrs Bennet and replied cautiously, “Your mother has a unique perspective.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “You are too kind.”
Weary from telling the same tale repeatedly, Elizabeth held a family dinner for all their relations who were in town: Sir Edward and Lady Gardiner, Jane and Bingley, Lord and Lady Matlock, Lord and Lady Saye, and Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Elizabeth did her best to address the questions and concerns about the three months that she was the wife of a man who was not truly Lord Courtenay, but there was much about which she could not, or did not wish to, speak.
Moreover, for all that was asked, it was the most tantalising bits she would not disclose, not to anyone save her husband.
The past months had affected her deeply though she spoke of them in the most dispassionate way possible.
She could not fool Darcy: he well knew how to read the emotions in her eyes.
Nevertheless, he could not think of a way to pull her from it and reasoned that, just as his wounds required time to heal, so did hers.
When their guests had gone, they retired. Darcy joined her in her bedchamber as soon as he had changed, sitting in one of the chairs by the fireplace to watch as she brushed her hair. “Tonight went well. Did you think so?”
“Well enough.” She gave a slight shrug. “I despise speaking of it. It was a trial, and speaking of it only stirs up grief.”
“It will pass and soon, I would hope.”
She finished her brushing and settled herself on his lap, laying her head against his.
He asked quietly, “What are you thinking about?”
“Just how I long to be happy at last. I look at you and recall the days when I thought I would never have you again. Now I do, and I am so glad for it, but I cannot yet truly feel it. A cloud of uncertainty dampens my soul. I cannot help but think something more will happen. Something else will go awry.”
He caressed her back. “Anyone who has lived the ordeal that you have could not feel otherwise. You are a brave and strong woman, my love, and you have come through something that would make most people go mad. You will feel it in time. Your cares will go away, and happiness will take their place. You want only for time.”
“I suppose,” she replied evasively. Turning to him, she asked, “Can we just leave?”
“Leave?”
“Go to Pemberley. Get away from town and the gossips and the family. Just us, and Henry.”
Darcy felt idiotic that he had not thought of it before. “Of course we can.”
“You are not fit yet for travel, but when you are, let us go. Even knowing we shall go uplifts my spirit.”
Darcy laughed. “We shall miss the Season and enjoy spring at Pemberley instead. How stupid I am for not having considered it before.”
The idea of returning to Pemberley lifted both their spirits, and he slowly saw a return to the Elizabeth he had known all too briefly.
He watched her one night in the drawing room after dinner.
She was indulging him in a private musical exhibition by his request, playing and singing while he admired her from the settee.
His thoughts began by considering how wonderfully strong she was to have endured and persevered as she had throughout her ordeal; however, inasmuch as he admired her fortitude, it could not be long before her other charms intruded upon his notice.
He allowed his eyes to trace her figure as she sang, and he reflected on how very long it had been since he had lain with his wife—by this time, several months.
His healing body was an impediment, as were the rules set down by his physician.
“Your ribs are broken, Mr Darcy, and there is little to be done except to coddle them. No jarring activity. Carriage rides must be limited, do not ride your horse, do not run, no fencing, and you must not”—he paused, looking seriously at Darcy over his spectacles—“do anything vigorous.”
Darcy did not misunderstand his meaning and was dismayed at the prospect of such a limitation. “For how long?”
“Six to eight weeks, sir, and believe me when I say that to disobey this order is solely to your own detriment.”
Elizabeth knew of this restriction as well as the doctor’s none-too-veiled suggestion, but she was not as distressed as Darcy. “Six weeks is nothing. We shall manage.”