Chapter 26
Darcy
Darcy and Elizabeth checked in with Georgiana, who remained engaged with the younger Bennets. They told her that they were off to Netherfield for the purpose of investigation, and she nodded happily.
As he escorted Elizabeth towards the stables, Darcy noticed that her footsteps were getting slower and slower, and she looked quite hesitant. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.
“I am sorry to tell you, but I am no horsewoman.” She looked up into his eyes, and he had never seen her more tentative.
She continued: “I am afraid I have no idea how to control a horse, no matter how gentle the horse may be. Also, my father keeps no horses that could possibly keep up with your own.”
He found Elizabeth’s nervous stance about horses and riding entirely charming; but perhaps that was no surprise, because he also found her self-confidence in other areas equally charming.
He expected that he would appreciate every expression and attitude she could display.
“I had a feeling you were shy about riding,” he said.
“And when we have the time, I would love to teach you to ride. But for now, I think you would agree that walking to what we hope is the message tree would take too long, and certainly we cannot take a carriage to it.”
“So…?”
“So,” he said with an extremely pleased smile, “you will have to ride with me.”
A stablehand had seen him coming and promptly brought out his horse, Gulliver.
Darcy introduced Elizabeth to the stallion, encouraging her to curry his neck and flank for a few minutes.
Then he easily mounted Gulliver and offered his hand as she stepped on a mounting block and then up to Darcy’s protective hold.
Darcy focused on regulating himself before they started out for Netherfield. Being this near Elizabeth, holding her close to him, smelling her sweet lavender-infused scent—it was all even more distracting than he could have imagined.
“Remember, I am relying on your guidance,” he said, and Elizabeth directed him towards a patch of forest.
“There is a path that takes you into a glade,” she said, pointing out a barely-visible path beyond a rocky outcropping.
Darcy guided Gulliver that direction and soon saw a giant of an oak tree.
There was a very large hollow in the trunk around the height a tall person could, when standing on his or her toes, reach.
“This does seem to be the sort of tree one might use to pass secret correspondence,” Darcy said.
Without dismounting, he reached into the hollow and groped around.
His hand finally discovered a small cloth bag that had been placed under the thick lip of the hole.
He gave it to Elizabeth for safekeeping and groped some more, even standing up in his stirrups to peer into the hole before he decided that the cloth bag was the only secret the oak currently hid.
At that point, Darcy dismounted and helped Elizabeth down as well. Elizabeth opened the bag and poured the contents into Darcy’s hands.
She nudged the coins out from under the other items. “Five pounds,” she said.
“Four—no, five letters…” she paused to read the beginning of each one.
“Two letters of introduction, I gather, Introducing a young man named Peter James Clifford. Two letters of reference for the same man. One…letter of credit. Same name, as I imagine you already expected. A signet ring.”
“I believe that these are likely forged papers meant to enable James Clinton to take on a new name and identity.”
“Exactly my supposition,” Elizabeth said. “But what about the signet ring? Could the symbol carved in it be a made up family crest? Or is it a stolen ring that could be traced to some other name?”
Darcy studied the ring. “I have never seen this family crest before, but that does not make it fake. I probably only know, perhaps, four dozen or so crests by sight.”
“Well, knowing that many is impressive,” Elizabeth said. “But…would there be around one hundred, or perhaps multiple hundreds of crests in Britain?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Darcy said. “I have an investigator who might be able to figure out if this is stolen or faked. It will likely take some time, of course.” He began transferring the items back into the bag.
“In the meantime,” Elizabeth speculated, “since Mr. Clinton did not pick up the forged papers, the ring, and the money, I believe it is likely that he was killed, perhaps by Mr. Wickham with his pistol. I wonder if the bag was placed there by Miss Bingley, meant for Mr. Clinton as payment, and I wonder if Mr. Wickham knew of its existence and was planning to grab it as he left the area….”
“Good thinking, Miss Elizabeth. Tomorrow I will attempt to find any evidence of recent digging, in case someone killed and buried the man somewhere on Netherfield land. And I suppose I will send the ring off to my investigator.”
“With Miss Bingley being the likeliest person to be making a payoff to Mr. Clinton, could the signet ring belong to the Bingley family? I know that Miss Bingley’s father was very wealthy, but his money came from trade; could he have aspired to having a family crest and using it when sealing letters? ”
“Brilliant!” Darcy said. “I hope Bingley will know.” He was silent for a few moments, and then he said, “I also wonder how Miss Bingley could arrange for such forgeries? Bingley too readily gives her money when she exceeds her allowance, so she could likely afford falsified papers, but I would have not the smallest idea of who to approach for such, would you?”
“No indeed. Perhaps your investigator would be able to make headway.”
“Here is another question: should I be turning over this evidence to the magistrate rather than my investigator?”
Elizabeth smiled wryly. “Sir William does not strike me as particularly motivated to put much effort and time into seeking the truth. He would likely tell us, ‘Mr. Wickham died of an accidental shooting, by his own hand, while committing a crime. There is no need for further investigation.’”
Darcy nodded. “I believe you are correct.”
“Mr. Darcy, you managed to get Miss Bingley to answer some of your questions, did you not?”
“Yes. Perhaps I should ask her about the bag, the papers, and the ring.”
“It seems we have a great deal to look into, sir. Will your cousin be rejoining you at Netherfield?”
“We had not yet determined that. But I should send him an express with our findings so far. Let us see if your sister and my friend have discovered anything about M. B.”
He was delighted to hold Elizabeth by the waist as he put her on Gulliver’s back. He mounted and, threading one arm around her waist, he lowered his head to hers, to breathe in her scent. “I meant to teach you to ride, but now I think we should always ride this way.”
“Sir…”
“Please call me Fitzwilliam,” he whispered. He nudged Gulliver into a sedate walk towards Netherfield’s stables.
“May I call you William instead?” she asked. Her voice sounded merry, and Darcy could easily picture her eyes sparkling as she spoke.
“I would allow you to call me anything at all. Given the fact that I am so very eloquent, especially when in crowded ballrooms, you might want to call me Tangletongue.”
“Oh, but then people will assume that you are a very silly man, and Sweet Will, you are many things, but you are definitely not silly.”
“Well, given the fact that I needed a young woman not yet one and twenty to guard me from my hostess, you could call me Lilyliver.”
“No one who saw you the night of the fire would dare to pretend you are a coward!”
“Very well, then, William shall do.” He kissed the top of her head, and she sighed—a sound that he interpreted as happy.
He was extremely happy, himself, although every part of his body urged him to act in such a way that he would be even happier.
Soon, he promised himself. But not yet.
Bingley and Miss Bennet reported that they had discovered that Alice Pott, going by the moniker Mlle.
Bonaparte, had obtained a position at Haye-Park, serving the Goulding family, but her position was much lower than that she had enjoyed at Netherfield years ago.
“She now serves as just a housemaid, I gather,” Bingley said.
“And none of the staff here at Netherfield have seen her at this estate for years,” Jane said. “Of course, someone could be prevaricating, but we think they are being honest.”
Bingley added, “Our Molly and Nancy both reported that they see her often at church, and Susan sees her once in a long while at shops or street markets. Molly said that she has become quite bitter, and she criticises the Gouldings a shocking amount. Nancy said that she never liked the woman and has continued to avoid her whenever she sees her. Susan said that they always politely greet each other but never talk further.”
“So, should we pay a call to Haye-Park this afternoon?” Elizabeth asked.
Everyone exchanged glances and nodded.
“Now for our report,” Darcy said. He showed Bingley and Miss Bennet the contents of the bag they had found in the tree hollow, and he particularly asked Bingley about the signet ring. “Had your father designed a family crest before he passed? Is this his ring?”
“No, my father discussed the idea that I, or perhaps my sons, might adopt a family crest some day, but he never took steps to do so himself, and I have never seen this ring before in my life.”
Elizabeth explained their theories of why the papers had been left in the tree, and Darcy said, “I believe I should ask some more questions of Miss Bingley.” They began to discuss the questions that should be asked, and Elizabeth swiftly moved to a table for pen and ink, keeping a record of their ideas.
“You should be the one to interview her, again, Darce.” Bingley had never looked more downcast. “She barely respects me, she despises the Bennets—” he turned towards Miss Bennet and murmured an apology, and then he went on to address Darcy again: “But she still has great regard for you. And you figured out a way to appeal to her vanity, last time, and she told you far more than she told me.”
“Of course. I would not wish the task on anyone else,” Darcy said. “But I think that you must accompany me, Bingley.”
“I would be happy to do so.”
Darcy took the list from Elizabeth and said, “Thank you for the effort to record our thoughts and questions, Miss Elizabeth.” Their fingers brushed together as she relinquished the paper, and they both smiled.
Walking with his host, Darcy strode off to do a duty that he could only loathe.
Miss Bingley was looking considerably worse.
Her maid was attempting to feed her, but Miss Bingley apparently vacillated between being hungry enough to ask for another spoonful of soup to being angry enough to change her mind and use her tongue, chin, or entire head to bump the spoon.
The spilt soup was soaking into various spots of her dress and, in some cases, even her hair.
Apparently the oldest spilled soup had already dried into a brown crust that dotted her costume here and there.
Darcy’s heart squeezed for his friend, to see his sister thus, but of course, a glance at Bingley’s swollen, bruised, and cut face pointed out exactly why Miss Bingley was in restraints and being spoon fed.
Bingley spoke in a low voice, “Miss Maureen, I am appreciative of your patience. Just know that, until I can relocate my sister to a safe place, I will be paying double your usual wages.”
“Well done, Bingley,” Darcy said.
“I have learnt some things from you, Darce.”
Darcy nodded solemnly at his friend, and then turned to his sister, carefully keeping his face neutral and his eyes focused on hers.
He certainly did want her to see him staring at the broth dripping from her chin.
“Miss Bingley, we are hoping that you can help us. Since it is rare that I have met anyone with your intelligence, I thought to turn to you about some puzzling questions we have.”
She sat up straighter, and her facial expression was identical to the supercilious mien she donned every time the Bennets were around. It was a proud expression, and it looked decidedly odd in the context of a lapful of barley and carrots.
“Of course I will help you if I can,” she said. She sounded normal, which is to say self-important and status-conscious.
“We need to find a man called Peter James Clifford. Have you heard of him?”
Miss Bingley smiled slyly and narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you want to talk with him?”
“We are hoping that he will know a man by the name of James Clinton, who has been missing for some time. I believe Mr. Clinton may be feared dead.”
The mad woman giggled a little but then raised her nose again and said in her poshest accent, “I am certain that Mr. Clinton is not dead. I have heard of this Mr. Clifford creature, but I have no idea where he is.”
“Thank you, Miss Bingley.” Darcy said carefully, “I believe that my new wife, who will be the mistress of Pemberley, may not want my sister Georgiana to remain in residence, but I also do not wish my sister to be spurned wherever I send her. I could marry much quicker if I could somehow find someone to create documents that will present my sister under a new name. We thought that Mr. Clifford would know who we could go to for help, but we cannot find him.”
“Your new wife? Who will it be?” Miss Bingley looked fierce as her eyes darted all around.
“I am certain that you, of all people, will approve of my choice, Miss Bingley….”
“Oh!” Miss Bingley simpered and smirked and said, “Well, I do know of a person who could help you get the papers you would need. I do not know his name or direction, but our old footman, John, was most helpful in understanding my needs and organising for the papers to be drafted and delivered.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Bingley. You are a true life saver. Although, do you know where I might find this John fellow? Do you know his full name?”
Miss Bingley flapped her wrist quite dismissively. “He is with the Gouldings now. After I used him to get the papers, I no longer wished to see him every day. I am not sure I could remember his surname.”
“Oh, dear,” Darcy said. “I may not be able to find him, then, and if I cannot get the papers, then I may have to delay being wed, because—”
“Robert Patterson!”
“The footman who was so helpful in getting the papers was named Robert Patterson?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Bingley, you have once again proved your worth. Such a memory you can boast! Thank you so much for all the information.”