Chapter 23 The Protection Mandate
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE PROTECTION MANDATE
Darcy’s thoughts were troubled as he guided his horse through the towering gates of Pemberley.
The autumn afternoon painted the grounds with a beauty that made poets compose odes to the English countryside.
Darcy, however, was in a quandary. Blythewood’s advice was to treat Elizabeth as an imposter, a co-conspirator instead of merely misguided.
As for his sister’s affections, he was to nip them in the bud and isolate her from unsuitable influences.
The Bingleys presented a delicate problem altogether.
Business interests tied them together, and Charles was his best friend from Cambridge.
He’d taken it upon himself to steer Charles’s entrance into the landed gentry class by instructing him in the art of estate management as well as marriage to a gentlewoman.
That he would so soon abandon Miss Jane Bennet for Elizabeth was confusing at best and conniving at worst.
He urged his horse, Maximus, over the final rise that provided a clear view of the southern gardens.
His eyes narrowed at the tableau arranged like figures in a pastoral painting.
Caroline Bingley reclined in a garden chair with affected grace, displaying her fashionable spencer and ostentatious hat.
Louisa Hurst occupied another chair, fanning herself with languid movements despite the cool air.
Mr. Hurst stood nearby, examining something in his hands with the focused attention he usually reserved for his dinner plate.
And then, there was Elizabeth Bennet.
She walked between the flower beds on Charles Bingley’s arm, her borrowed green dress catching the light as she moved.
Her dark curls had escaped their pins to frame her face in a way that was both artless and utterly captivating.
She laughed at something Bingley said, her head tilted back to reveal the graceful line of her throat, and the sound carried across the garden like music.
Bingley leaned closer to catch some witticism, his responding laugh too loud, too eager.
The man was actively courting her, bending his tall frame to better attend her words, his eyes never leaving her face.
Georgiana accompanied them with her hand on his other arm, relaxed and animated in a way he had not witnessed after the Ramsgate incident.
Something primitive and unwelcome surged through Darcy’s chest. His fingers tightened on the reins until Maximus shifted restlessly beneath him, responding to the sudden tension.
“Easy,” he murmured to the horse, though the command applied equally to himself.
She is not yours, he reminded himself savagely. She may not even be who she claims to be. You have known her for less than a fortnight, and half that time has been spent in mutual antagonism.
None of which explained why he wanted to ride down there and separate her from Bingley with the point of his sword.
The group paused by the stone bench where his grandmother had often sat with her roses, Elizabeth gesturing expressively as she spoke. Georgiana’s delighted laughter rang out, followed by Bingley’s enthusiastic response.
Darcy reined his horse toward the stables.
He would not give them the amusement of a dramatic entrance.
Let them have their garden party. Let Bingley play the gallant suitor to his heart’s content.
Darcy would approach this situation with the same methodical precision that had guided every significant decision of his adult life.
After handing Maximus to a groom, he entered through a side door, intent on finding Mrs. Reynolds. The housekeeper would have information about the household’s activities during his absence—particularly anything involving Elizabeth and his sister.
Darcy found her in the gallery, supervising the polishing of silver picture frames.
“Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied promptly, dismissing the maids with a subtle gesture. “We did not expect you back until dinner.”
“My business concluded earlier than anticipated.” He clasped his hands behind his back, a habit that steadied him when his thoughts threatened disorder. “I see we have quite the gathering in the garden.”
“Indeed, sir. Miss Georgiana suggested showing Miss Bennet the south gardens this morning. The Bingleys joined them after lunch.”
“Have there been any other… activities I should know about?”
Mrs. Reynolds hesitated, a flicker of discomfort crossing her usually composed features. “Miss Bennet has been… curious about the estate, sir. Particularly its history.”
“What sort of curiosity?” Darcy kept his tone neutral, though his spine stiffened.
“She and Miss Georgiana spent the morning speaking with some of the older servants, sir.” The housekeeper’s tone grew cautious. “About Rose Cottage, and the unfortunate events of twenty years ago.”
A cold weight settled in Darcy’s chest. “They questioned the servants about my uncle’s death?”
“Primarily, Molly and Mrs. Winters, sir. Both were here during that time.”
“And what, precisely, did these servants tell them?”
Mrs. Reynolds clasped her hands at her waist, a gesture that mirrored his own attempt at composure. “Molly’s memory is not what it was, sir. She spoke of… inconsistencies regarding what was found after the fire.”
“What inconsistencies?” Darcy stepped closer, his voice dropping to ensure privacy.
“She mentioned that only two bodies were recovered, sir. And Mrs. Winters…” Mrs. Reynolds hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.
“Continue.”
“Mrs. Winters has always maintained her own theories about that night, sir. Rather fanciful notions about your uncle and his family escaping.”
Darcy’s pulse quickened. These were precisely the details he had uncovered through his own inquiries, yet hearing that Elizabeth had accessed the same information changed everything.
If she were calculating enough to seek corroboration from long-serving staff, her strategy was more sophisticated than he had credited.
“Did they speak with anyone else?”
“Myself, briefly.” Mrs. Reynolds met his gaze steadily. “I advised caution, sir. Some questions are better left unasked, particularly when those who might answer have kept silent for twenty years.”
“Indeed.” Darcy weighed his next words carefully. “And Miss Bennet’s reaction to these… stories?”
“She was most affected, sir. Particularly by the family portrait.” Mrs. Reynolds’ expression softened slightly. “The resemblance is rather striking.”
“That proves nothing,” Darcy said sharply. “She is Rose Bennet’s acknowledged niece. Family resemblance is to be expected.”
“Of course, sir.” Mrs. Reynolds’ neutral tone conveyed neither agreement nor disagreement—the perfect servant’s response. “Later, I saw Miss Darcy take her to the stables to speak to the ostlers. I suspect they asked about Mrs. Wickham’s movements after the fire.”
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” he said with deadly quiet. “I shall address the matter immediately.”
Mrs. Reynolds nodded, her expression sympathetic. “If I may say so, sir, the young ladies seemed quite determined in their purposes. Miss Bennet, in particular, struck me as someone accustomed to pursuing her objectives despite… obstacles.”
Darcy could have kicked himself. He should have told Mr. Hodge to keep his theories to himself. Young gentlewomen should not be gallivanting around stable boys.
“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. That will be all.” He dismissed the loyal housekeeper and stormed from the gallery to the garden door.
The sound of conversation and laughter grew louder as he approached, and he could distinguish Elizabeth’s voice among the others, warm with amusement at a comment of Bingley’s.
The autumn air struck cool against his face as he stepped onto the flagstone path.
Bingley spotted him first. “Darcy! Excellent timing. We were just discussing the fascinating history of Pemberley’s gardens. Miss Bennet has been regaling us with stories of her uncle’s horticultural efforts.”
“Has she, indeed?” Darcy recognized Elizabeth’s chin lifting, a gesture preparing for combat. Her dark eyes met his with unflinching directness, though he noticed the color had risen in her cheeks.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said with cool disdain. “We didn’t expect your return so expeditiously. I trust your business concluded satisfactorily?”
“Indeed, it did.” He allowed his gaze to move deliberately over the assembled party, noting the tension that had replaced their earlier ease. “Though I find myself curious about the… activities that have occupied your time during my absence.”
Georgiana stepped forward, her face brightening. “Elizabeth and I have been exploring the estate. We’ve been learning family history.”
“Ah.” Darcy’s tone could have frozen wine in July. “And what aspects of that history have proved most illuminating?”
The question hung in the air. Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, clearly recognizing the trap being set. Georgiana, however, took his arm.
“Oh, brother, we learned the most extraordinary things. Old Molly remembers the night of the fire, and she says they never found the baby’s body in the ruins.
Not even bones or ashes. She says a roast doesn’t simply disappear in a fire, much less a child.
” Georgiana’s voice gained enthusiasm. “And Mrs. Winters claims she saw Uncle John and Aunt Rose leaving the estate alive that very night, with valises and the baby wrapped in blankets. She thinks they were fleeing from danger, not dying in a fire at all.”
The silence that followed this revelation was profound. Caroline Bingley looked as though she had swallowed something unpleasant. Bingley’s usual cheer had evaporated entirely. Even Mr. Hurst appeared alert for once, his eyes moving between Darcy and Elizabeth.