Chapter 23 #2
“Richard?” Darcy asked eagerly, the name escaping him before sense could intervene.
Mrs. Reynolds stiffened, scandal flashing in her eyes. “Colonel Fitzwilliam is the son of an earl,” she reminded him primly. “And he is on the Continent, if I recall correctly, and of no use to us.”
“He is at Matlock, actually, which I understand is only a few hours away by horse.” Elizabeth looked at Darcy for confirmation. “He said he would come call on his cousin, and he would like to speak to Mr. Wickham.”
As if he could read her thoughts, Darcy said, “I could ride there to retrieve him while you remain hidden.”
“Precisely.”
Darcy began to move decisively towards the stables, then froze midstep. He turned back to Mrs. Reynolds and asked, “May I use Nell?”
Mrs. Reynolds hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I think that would be best. If you leave within the hour, you may return before nightfall—if fortune favors you. Your wife can stay in the kitchens. There is a small pantry there where she may hide should Mr. Wickham wander below stairs.”
“May I see to Mrs. Georgiana, first?” Elizabeth asked. “She must be quite distraught.”
Hesitating a few moments, Mrs. Reynolds shook her head. “We should not risk it. He will look for you in his wife’s chambers first. Best keep you well out of sight.”
“But surely I should be there to help—”
“No!” Darcy and Mrs. Reynolds interrupted in perfect unison.
The sharp echo of their voices filled the narrow room, and for one absurd instant, Elizabeth almost laughed. Darcy’s eyes widened slightly in surprise at himself, and the corners of her mouth twitched despite the danger.
“Very well,” she said with a small, wry smile. “I see the alliance is formed.”
Even Mrs. Reynolds’ stern face softened.
“Forgive me, my dear, but it truly is for the best. I shall take Mrs. Georgiana to her own chamber and tell anyone who asks that she is still unwell—not that anyone should. You will remain belowstairs until Mr. Darcy returns. I shall have Cook bring your meals, and if he comes down, you are to hide yourself at once.”
Elizabeth nodded, sobered again. “And if he returns before the colonel?”
“Then God help us all,” Mrs. Reynolds muttered.
Darcy caught Elizabeth’s hand, holding it firmly between both of his. “I will come back for you,” he said, his voice low and steady, though his eyes betrayed the storm within.
“I know you will.”
He pressed her hand once, his thumb tracing the edge of her knuckles, and for a brief, impossible moment, the world stilled—the air, the sound, even her pulse. Then he released her hand and turned toward the corridor.
“Go quickly,” Mrs. Reynolds urged. “The longer you linger, the greater the danger.”
Darcy nodded once and was gone.
Elizabeth followed Mrs. Reynolds through the servant’s passage to the kitchens, where the hearth burned low and the air was thick with the scent of broth and soap.
“The pantry will do best,” Mrs. Reynolds said, pointing to the narrow door at the far end.
“If he comes home, you slip inside and bar the inner latch. If the worst occurs, and he catches sight of you, tell him you are in desperate need of the chamber pot.”
Elizabeth managed a weak smile. “So I am to be as contagious as Mrs. Georgiana?”
“That excuse served us once already,” Mrs. Reynolds said dryly. “No harm in using it again.”
She busied herself with the kettle, pretending to tidy the counter while Elizabeth sat on a small stool near the fire. They both listened for the sound of hooves in the courtyard.
At last, it came—the crisp beat of a single horse galloping away from Pemberley.
Elizabeth pressed her hand over her heart, murmuring a prayer she could not quite form into words.
“God keep him,” the housekeeper whispered.
Elizabeth nodded, the sting of tears bright in her eyes. “Yes,” she said softly. “And let him bring hope back with him.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I will leave you now to Mrs. Wells’ company,” Mrs. Reynolds said at last. Her duty complete, the housekeeper gave a brisk nod and bustled away.
Elizabeth could hear her voice echoing down the passage as she issued orders to some unseen servant, until even that faded into the steady hum of the kitchen.
“Right then,” said Mrs. Wells, without looking up from the hearth.
She stirred a thick stew, tested the broth with a spoon, and began ladling it into a bowl.
“The mistress has not eaten a bite since breakfast, I would wager. I had best take her a tray. Here, you can make yourself useful with this dough. It needs kneading, and I am short on hands.”
Elizabeth moved to the worktable, grateful for something to do.
She dusted her palms with flour and pressed into the pliant dough, working it over and over until it grew smooth beneath her touch.
The rhythm steadied her thoughts. She could almost pretend it was an ordinary day, that Wickham was not out there somewhere, that Darcy was not risking his life and liberty on the open road.
Mrs. Wells was gone for perhaps ten minutes before returning. But she was not alone.
Georgiana followed close behind, her cheeks pale and blotched with tears, her hands twisting the handkerchief she held.
“Please,” the girl whispered as soon as she saw Elizabeth. “Please, may I stay here? I cannot bear to be alone in those rooms.”
“I thought these might help you be more comfortable, Beth. Oh! Mrs. Georgiana!” The housekeeper stopped short, her eyes widening in surprise. “What… what brings you down here?”
Georgiana rose half from her seat, twisting her hands together. “I could not stay alone,” she whispered. “Every sound made me jump. I know it is not proper, but I—”
Her voice broke, and Elizabeth quickly stepped between them. “She was frightened,” she said gently. “And she thought, perhaps, that being belowstairs might be safer for a little while.”
Mrs. Reynolds’ stern features softened, though her brows still drew together in concern. “Safer, perhaps temporarily,” she admitted, “but not for long. If he returns and finds you both together… well, it would in actuality be more dangerous for Beth.”
“Not if he believes we are gone,” Elizabeth said, thinking quickly. “Tell him that Mrs. Georgiana fled, and that I went with her to protect her. He will not think to look for us here. No man like him would imagine his wife hiding in the scullery.”
Mrs. Reynolds blinked at her, taken aback by both the boldness and the sense of the suggestion. “You would have him believe you fled the house entirely?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. He is proud and careless. If he believes we ran, he will not trouble to search for long.”
Mrs. Wells, who had been listening from the stove, spoke up at last. “It does make sense,” she said. “If the master thinks his wife has bolted, he will go after her—or drink himself into a stupor. Either way, we gain time.”
“They could hide in the stables,” Mrs. Reynolds mused aloud.
“No,” Elizabeth said quickly. “It is too cold, and the ground is damp. The air would not be good for Mrs. Georgiana.” She gave a meaningful glance toward the younger woman’s stomach, relieved that Georgiana, still staring at her hands, did not notice. “Here, at least, there is warmth and quiet.”
Mrs. Reynolds hesitated a moment longer, then sighed. “Very well. But please, Miss Darcy, promise me you will keep silent.” No one seemed to notice the housekeeper’s use of her mistress’s maiden name.
“I will,” Georgiana vowed.
“I have sent John up the hill to keep watch. He is to light a lantern if anyone arrives,” Mrs. Reynolds informed them. “I will be keeping watch in the drawing room.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said earnestly. “Truly.”
Mrs. Reynolds waved a hand, already turning for the door. “No thanks, only caution. And prayers, if you have any left to spare.”
When she was gone, Mrs. Wells looked between the two women and gave a small, resigned sigh. “Well, there is no sense in starving while we wait,” she said, filling two bowls from the pot on the hearth. “Eat up, girls—begging your pardon, Mrs. Wickham.”
Georgiana startled, then gave a weak giggle. “It is quite all right, Mrs. Wells.”
The cook smiled faintly and handed her mistress a bowl, who immediately tucked in. “That is better, my dear. There is no shame in keeping up one’s strength.”
They ate in near silence, save for the occasional clink of a spoon or the soft pop of the fire.
The stew was rich and warm, a small comfort in a day of fear.
Elizabeth used a crust of bread to soak up the last of the broth, and when Georgiana looked scandalized by the act, she said with a teasing smile, “It prevents wasting food and makes washing dishes easier.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Georgiana mimicked her and dabbed the last drops from her own bowl.
Mrs. Wells chuckled, shaking her head. “I wager you gave your mother all sorts of trouble as a girl, Beth.”
“You have no idea,” Elizabeth said with a smile, though her mind was half elsewhere—listening for hooves, for footsteps, for any sound that might shatter the fragile peace of that small kitchen.
When Mrs. Wells at last glanced toward the clock and frowned, Elizabeth’s heart quickened.
“Best settle yourselves in the scullery,” the cook said. “If he made decent time, he will be back soon. When he does arrive, Mrs. Reynolds will tell him you have both gone. I will lock the door after you go in. Try to push a barrel or two in front of it, just in case.”
With a murmured word of thanks, Elizabeth guided Georgiana through the narrow door.
The air inside was cool and faintly scented with soap and coal dust. Together, they arranged the blankets at the wall shared by the kitchen, as it would be warmest. Looking around, Elizabeth quickly dashed out to the kitchen, then returned with a pail.
She caught Georgiana looking at her curiously. “In case we have need of a chamber pot,” she explained, causing the younger girl to blush.
Mrs. Wells lingered only a moment more, her weathered face unusually tender. “Keep quiet, girls. Be safe. May angels be with you, and the good Lord protect us all.”
Then she closed the door and turned the key.
The soft click of the lock echoed like thunder in the stillness that followed.