Chapter 22 The Inheritance of Distrust
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE INHERITANCE OF DISTRUST
Darcy departed the breakfast room with perhaps too much haste.
The presence of Elizabeth Bennet—or Darcy, if her claims proved true—had become unbearable.
Her attempted apology had almost unraveled his carefully constructed composure.
The warmth in her eyes, the sincerity in her voice—these were weapons far more dangerous than her earlier anger had been.
He could not afford such weakness. Not when Georgiana’s future, Pemberley’s legacy, and generations of Darcy stewardship hung in the balance.
His sister’s obvious delight in Elizabeth’s company was another complication he should have foreseen.
Georgiana had been so lonely since the Wickham debacle, so withdrawn and hesitant.
She naturally gravitated to the lively Elizabeth Bennet, so delighted in her company that she’d appeared happy for the first time since Ramsgate.
“She will break Georgiana’s heart,” Darcy said to the empty corridor. “When this deception collapses, as it must, my sister will be devastated.”
For Georgiana had already invested completely in Elizabeth’s story. Last night, after Elizabeth had retired, his sister had cornered him in the library.
“She has promised to share the inheritance with us, should her claim prove valid,” Georgiana had insisted. “She has no wish to displace us, Brother. Why can you not see the kindness in her?”
“Kindness?” Darcy had sneered, perhaps unkindly, at his sister’s naivete. “Or calculation? What imposter would not make such promises to lower our guard?”
Now, he strode down the corridor with long, agitated steps, his jaw clenched against emotions he refused to name.
What madness had possessed him to allow this woman not only into his home but into Georgiana’s affections?
And what of his own inexplicable reaction to Elizabeth?
The way his pulse quickened when she laughed, the twisting of his heart when she attempted to apologize, her voice soft with what appeared to be genuine contrition, and the lingering memory of her tears in the portrait gallery—these were dangerous indulgences he could ill afford.
Not when the fate of Pemberley and his heritage hung in the wings.
Gathering his riding gloves and hat, Darcy strode to the stables.
He had business in Lambton with Blythewood that could not be delayed, but first, he would speak with Hodge, the elderly groom who had been a coachman at Pemberley twenty years ago.
Perhaps the man might recall something about the night of the fire—something that could shed light on the veracity of Martha Wickham’s extraordinary claims.
He found old Hodge in the tack room, cleaning the leather with the careful attention to detail that had marked his forty years of service. The man’s face brightened at his master’s approach.
“Mr. Darcy, sir. Fine morning for riding, though there’s rain coming in from the west.”
“Mr. Hodge,” Darcy greeted him. “I hope I find you well this morning?”
The old man looked up, his weathered face creasing in a smile. “As well as a man my age can expect, sir. What can I do for you?”
Darcy hesitated, uncertain how to broach such a delicate subject. Direct inquiry seemed most efficient. “I require information about events from some years past. You were head coachman during my uncle’s time, were you not?”
“Aye, sir. Served your uncle John with pride, I did. Terrible loss when he was taken.”
Darcy settled against a wooden post, adopting the casual manner that encouraged confidence from longtime servants. “I am attempting to piece together details from the night of the fire. Were any of the estate carriages used that evening or in the days immediately following?”
Hodge’s expression grew thoughtful as he set aside the leather he had been cleaning. “Now that you mention it, sir, there was something odd about that time. It’s hard for me to remember.”
“Take your time,” Darcy leaned against a post.
“Aye, I do remember the fire. The alarm was raised, and we rushed to the cottage with a brigade of buckets. Was a lot of confusion, but…” He paused, brow furrowed. “When we returned, one of the carriages was missing.”
Darcy’s pulse quickened. “Who traveled, do you recall?”
“Not at first,” Hodge said, scratching his beard. “We supposed someone had gone to fetch a physician. But the carriage didn’t return, and none of the coachmen knew who had taken it.”
“Were any of the staff missing in the days following?” Darcy pressed, maintaining an outward calm that belied his internal tension. “Any coachmen, drivers, or stable hands unaccounted for?”
Hodge considered this, his face creasing. “Well, now you mention it… that nursemaid, Mrs. Wickham—she wasn’t about for several days. No one thought much of it at the time, her being so distraught over little Miss Elizabeth Rose being lost in the fire.”
“Anyone else?” Darcy prompted, his voice carefully modulated despite his quickening heartbeat.
“Aye, that butler your uncle had dismissed just before. Rumsey, that was his name.” Hodge’s expression darkened. “Nasty piece of work, if you’ll forgive me saying so, sir. Always lording it over the rest of us, though he was no better.”
Darcy nodded, pieces falling into place with disturbing clarity. “And the carriage? Was it eventually returned?”
“It was, sir. A sennight later, with a hired driver at the reins.” Hodge shook his head at the memory. “Said he’d taken a family to London. A man, a woman, and a small child. Had several heavy trunks with them, he said.”
“This hired driver,” Darcy leaned forward slightly, “do you recall his name? Where might he be found now?”
“Can’t say as I do, sir. Some fellow from Matlock, I believe.
Didn’t give it much thought at the time, what with the household in mourning and all.
” Hodge hesitated, then added, “But Martha, she was in the carriage when it returned. Claimed she’d gone to her sister in her distress.
No one questioned it, with everything else happening. ”
Once again, Martha Wickham was in the center of things. She had been Elizabeth’s nursemaid. She had reported the fire and had been missing an entire sennight.
“You said the trunks were heavy. What did you suppose was inside them?”
“The footmen who unloaded them thought it was gold, but you know how stories get bigger with the telling. Course, there were always rumors about irregular cargo moving through the estate in those days. Things that came and went at odd hours.”
“What sort of things?”
“We didn’t question the master. Just prepared the coaches when requested.”
“Of course.” The implications settled over Darcy like a heavy mantle. Rumsey’s dismissal, the fire, and Martha’s mysterious journey with a “small child” who might well have been his infant cousin. A hired driver from Matlock. The connections formed a pattern too significant to dismiss.
“Thank you for your candor, Hodge,” Darcy said. “I appreciate your discretion in these matters.”
“Happy to help, sir. Always wondered what became of poor little Elizabeth Rose.”
An unwelcome stab pricked Darcy’s conscience. “Are you saying little Elizabeth Rose didn’t die in the fire?”
The elderly man wiped the sweat from his brow. “We cleaned up Rose Cottage. Me and the boys. Didn’t find her. Mr. John and Mrs. Rose, they was found at the tea table, wrapped together. Skin was blue with soot on their faces. No sign of the baby.”
“My father never told me,” Darcy gasped, wondering at the implications. “You searched the ruins?”
“Diligently, and men were hired to rebuild the cottage.” Hodge took off his hat and plucked a straw from the brim.
“No, sir, there was talk. Of changelings, you see—spirited away by the fae, and a quiet stone or root left in its place. Nonsense, of course,” Hodge added with a sheepish grin, “but Molly swore she heard the child crying in the hedgerow days after the fire, though no one else did. You know how Molly is…”
Darcy rubbed his forehead, the weight of long-buried silence pressing inward. “You believe the child lived.”
“Don’t know what to believe. Strange doings back then, but near the end of his life, your father put an end to the irregular carriage departures.”
“I see.” A fresh wave of unease washed through him.
“Such a sweet baby she was.” Hodge’s eyes took a faraway look. “Like a changeling—always laughing and reaching for whatever caught her fancy.”
Elizabeth Bennet possessed that same quality of reaching for what interested her, whether ideas, conversations, or challenges that others might avoid.
He reminded himself, though, that even if Elizabeth Rose Darcy lived, it did not follow that Elizabeth Rose Bennet was that child.
The baby’s body could have been taken away by a wild dog or perhaps buried by the debris.
Servants entertained themselves by telling outlandish tales, no doubt.
Darcy hitched his horse in Lambton and proceeded to Blythewood’s office. The solicitor served his grandparents, uncle, father, and now himself as a Darcy. If Elizabeth proved to be who she claimed, Blythewood’s loyalty would extend to her as well.
“Mr. Darcy.” Blythewood rose behind his desk, “I’ve pulled the documents you requested. The family settlements, the entail provisions, and the additions made during your grandfather’s final illness.”
“Additions?” Darcy repeated, focusing on this critical detail. “You mean the fee tail female was not part of the original settlement?”
“Indeed not.” Blythewood adjusted his spectacles. “The original document, drafted in 1772, established the standard male-line inheritance through the eldest son—your uncle John, and then to his male issue, with your father as secondary heir should the primary line fail.”
“And the amendment?”