Chapter 25
After waiting for what seemed to be an eternity, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s shoulders eased a fraction.
He folded his arms and gave Darcy a long, searching look.
“I do not know if what you are saying is genuine,” he said at last in a measured tone.
“Nevertheless, one does not ignore a plea for protection on behalf of a woman in danger. If you are sincere—and I shall judge that as I may—then I will go.”
He hesitated, then added with grim humor, “On the other hand, if this is a trap... if Mr. Wickham has set a snare for me, you will find that I am not easily bested. You will answer to me. Do you understand?”
Darcy felt relief and fear in equal measure. He bowed his head. “Perfectly, Colonel. I will bear any consequence if this is a falsehood. But I beg of you, sir… please, come with haste.”
“Very well.” The colonel turned to the door as though setting a point to be made. “Give me an hour to gather myself and a small party. I will take my batman and a few of the strongest stableboys.”
As the colonel strode from the room, Darcy felt a surge of hope. Perhaps all can be made right.
As Darcy waited in the drawing room with the door now ajar, he could see Matlock’s front hall slowly began to fill with activity. Footmen and maids rushed to and fro, setting out more candles against the darkening night and closing the house for the evening.
Then, through the din, there was a the distinct sound of the click of a cane on the marble floor.
Matlock—the earl himself. I wonder if he is as cold in this lifetime as he is in mine.
Darcy was not left to wonder long. A rustle of silk announced their entrance as the Earl and Countess of Matlock swept into the room, every line of their bearing proclaiming authority and disapproval in equal measure.
The earl’s expression was carved in stone—his carriage that of a man well accustomed to deference—and the countess followed like a ship under full sail, her chin lifted, her eyes bright with cold inquiry.
Darcy rose to meet them, bowing low. Their gazes swept over him, assessing him from head to toe. The countess’s nose wrinkled slightly, and the earl sniffed disdainfully.
“You are the servant who demanded an audience at this hour?” His silky voice was menacingly soft and smooth.
“I am, my lord.”
“You come from Pemberley?”
“Yes, sir.”
The earl exchanged a look with his wife. Her lips barely moved, but the faint curl of them conveyed disapproval enough for both.
“And what,” she asked, her voice light with disdain, “could possibly warrant a servant disturbing the household of an earl after sundown?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone measured. “There is an emergency at Pemberley, your ladyship. Mrs. Wickham—your niece—has sent me in haste to fetch Colonel Fitzwilliam. Her husband has returned and poses a danger to her.”
The earl’s brows rose, and the countess’ fan snapped open with a sharp flick.
“My niece?” she repeated. “Mrs. Wickham? I had understood her husband to be… unfortunate, but not life-threatening.”
“Her situation has grown dire, my lady.”
The earl stepped forward, the weight of his scrutiny falling fully upon Darcy. “And why, pray, should I trust the word of a servant whose coat has seen better days and whose face I do not recognize?”
Darcy met his gaze steadily. “Because, my lord, whether you know me or not, your niece is in danger, and every moment we waste brings both her and her child closer to danger.”
A heavy silence followed. The countess’ fan stilled. The earl studied Darcy a long moment, weighing him.
Whatever he saw there must have convinced him, for he gave a long, weary sigh. “Very well, then. But if this turns out to be folly, you will answer to me for it.”
Darcy bowed deeply. “Yes, my lord.”
“And if harm comes to son because of my niece’s foolishness, then you will answer to me as well.” The countess punctuated her veiled threat by snapping her fan shut, then turning on her heel and striding from the room. Her husband followed close behind.
Darcy remained in the room, impatiently watching the bustle in the hall as servants passed in hushed agitation. From somewhere deep within the house came the muffled sounds of orders being given, shadowed by the steady tick of the great clock in the vestibule.
When it struck the hour—one solemn chime after another echoing through the hall—Darcy felt the weight of every moment pressing upon him.
He had not slept since the night before, and his limbs ached with fatigue.
How easily he could sink into one of the chairs by the fire, close his eyes for but a moment—yet he dared not.
If he allowed weariness to claim him, the colonel might change his mind, or reason might cool what pity had stirred his heart.
So, he paced the room instead, his steps quick and uneven, his thoughts urging them to hasten. If only I were myself again, he thought bitterly. Then I could be at Richard’s side, urging him to move more quickly.
Of course, if Richard knew me as he once did, then I would not need to beg for his belief, nor wait while he deliberated. He would have been gone before the hour struck.
He turned sharply at the sound of boots in the passage. Colonel Fitzwilliam entered, his coat buttoned and sword buckled at his side. “We are ready,” he said shortly.
Darcy followed him out into the chill night air. The courtyard was alive with movement—lanterns swinging, horses stamping against their tethers, grooms tightening girths. Darcy glanced about, seeking the familiar outline of Nell, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“The nag you rode in on was near spent,” the colonel said, adjusting his gloves. “She would not see the end of the lane, let alone the road to Pemberley.” He gestured to a tall bay whose eyes gleamed with fire beneath the torchlight. “Can you manage something more spirited?”
Darcy’s only answer was to seize the reins, swing himself into the saddle, and bring the horse firmly to hand. The animal tossed its head once, then yielded to his command.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s brows rose. “I see you can,” he said dryly. Turning his gaze upward, he added, “We are fortunate—the moon is full and the clouds have cleared. It will give us light enough to ride swiftly, though we must take care. The roads are slick with ice from the rain earlier.”
Darcy nodded. The air was sharp with the scent of wet earth and horseflesh, the cobblestones glistening like mirrors under the pale light. Without another word, the two men set off, hooves striking against stone as they cleared the gate and took to the open road.
The countryside stretched before them in shadow and silver.
Every gust of wind seemed to whisper of Pemberley—of home—and of the woman who waited there in fear.
They would not arrive before dawn, perhaps the sixth hour at the earliest, but Darcy pressed his mount onward, his heart a silent, ceaseless prayer.
Please, let Elizabeth be safe.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth awoke with a start, uncertain at first what had roused her. The faint clatter of crockery and the low murmur of voices reached her through the half-open door to the kitchen. Dawn’s first light filtered dimly through the scullery window, painting the flagstones with a thin, cold gray.
Her neck ached from the angle at which she had slept, half-propped against the wall with Georgiana’s head upon her shoulder.
The girl still slumbered, her fair hair spread over the folded blanket that served as a pillow.
For a moment, Elizabeth simply watched her, relief softening the edges of her exhaustion.
Georgiana’s breathing was even and untroubled at last.
Gently, Elizabeth eased herself away, careful not to disturb her companion.
At once the chill crept back into her limbs, biting through the thin gown she had worn since the day before.
The small scullery felt colder than ever, the air heavy with damp stone and the faint smell of ashes from the dead fire.
She moved softly to the corner where a small basin of water and a bowl had been set aside. When she returned, the distant hum of the kitchen had grown louder—the scrape of pans, the thump of a kneaded loaf, and the unmistakable voice of Mrs. Wells giving brisk orders.
Elizabeth moved as close to the door as she could before the barrels impeded her movements. “Mrs. Well?” she called softly.
The noise in the kitchen paused, and Elizabeth could hear the sound of footsteps approaching the door.
“Oh, Beth, I wondered if you were awake. It is a wonder if you were even able to sleep at all, you poor lambs. I was just saying to Mrs. Reynolds that I hoped you two did not freeze to death sometime during the night.”
Elizabeth managed a faint smile. “We are quite safe, thank you. Has there been any word from my husband or Matlock?”
“None, I fear.” The cook’s voice trembled slightly. “Johnny never lit the lantern last night—neither your husband nor Mr. Wickham has returned or sent word.”
Throat tightening, Elizabeth gripped the barrel on which she leaned.
In the hours of half-sleep she had allowed herself to believe that he must be safe by now, that help would already be on its way.
But the morning light had brought no certainty.
What if something had happened on the road?
What if the Matlocks had not believed him—or worse, had detained him for presuming too much?
Or—her heart faltered—what if Wickham had found him first?
Before she could ask another question, she heard a loud gasp. “Mrs. Wells?” she called out anxiously. “What is it?”
“Hush, Beth!”
The terror in the cook’s tone caused Elizabeth to freeze.
Through the early-morning stillness came the sound of hooves clattering on the loose gravel outside of the kitchen where the path led down to the stables.