~Thirty-two~
One week later...
Elizabeth Darcy harbored no fear about weather, for it had remained quite warm despite being late fall and far too early for snow. Wrapping her now creeping son warmly, she handed him to her maid as Miss O’Malley awaited her in the carriage.
“I do wish you would reconsider at least taking a groom. The roads can be questionable, and then there is your safety to consider,” her husband fussed, knowing it had no effect.
“We are only going to Redbyrne and shall stay on the main thoroughfares until we reach the estate. We shall be perfectly safe, and besides, I have Maeve with me, she is fiercer than any dragoon,” Elizabeth replied, and kissed him good bye.
With plans to only be gone a few days, the single trunk held all that would be needed for the two women and child.
The addition of a groom would not only require more trappings, but also the use of a larger carriage.
Elizabeth, never interested in becoming an accomplished rider, had mastered the small curricle quickly, and drove better than any man.
Of this, she gently reminded her husband, but Darcy shook his head anyway.
“It is a husband’s right to fuss over his wife and child, even when wholly unnecessary,” he declared, and waved them off, staring at the cloudless sky.
Rarely were they ever parted, but when the letter had come from Richard Fitzwillaim, stating his own worries and beseeching the Darcys to visit his own bride, Elizabeth had insisted she be the one to go.... and without him.
“If you come then she will know that he is worried, or worse, does not trust her judgement in his absence. No, you simply must remain here.”
Logic, as always, swayed his thinking, even when it added extra risks. Two women alone on the road made him nervous, even when Maeve produced the pistol she intended to use if ever necessary.
“An Irishwoman with a pistol is enough to frighten anyone,” the maid declared, brandishing the loaded weapon with a dexterity that made Darcy envious.
Indeed, his wife and child would be well protected, but that did not mean that they were immune to the foolish decisions of others.
But in the end, he knew it would be futile to refuse her, causing him far more grief than relief.
“I see you will be in excellent hands,” he finally admitted, unaware that Elizabeth also carried a pistol of her own.
“Husbands and wives need not know everything about one another. It makes for a much happier marriage to not inquire when one does not truly want an answer, and besides, it preserves an element of mystery when the secret is finally revealed.”
It was a belief that ironically, had been passed along to every Bennet daughter by both parents. As to what specifically it applied, Elizabeth did not know, but for now, her proficiency with firearms was one.
Making excellent time with bright sunshine and dry roads, the hours passed quickly.
Wee Duncan, as Maeve O’Malley was wont to call the heir of Pemberley, slept easily to the rolling of the carriage, leaving the two women to converse as they pleased.
It was not until the last few miles before Redbyrne, where the road elevated as the gentle fields and forests of Derbyshire gave way to rocky hills, that the clouds formed, threatening rain.
“Perhaps we should raise the cover?” Elizabeth suggested, her gaze drifting upward as the first heavy drops hit her face.
“Aye, and before his highness wakes,” Maeve agreed, glancing back to the sleeping child.
It took several minutes of fumbling with the unfamiliar latches and hasps, but eventually, just as the skies opened completely, the women found success and were once again, on their way.
Now, thunder accompanied the downpour, the deafening booms ceasing all conversation as Elizabeth concentrated upon the road.
How quickly the hardpacked earth turned into a river of mud, but her horse was steady, trotting onward as if realizing the increasing peril.
Yet just as quickly as the clouds had gathered, they soon parted, accompanied by much relief.
“That is good English weather for you,” Elizabeth muttered, urging the horse forward through the now mired lane.
“Irish is no better, and the roads far worse...” Maeve began, but before she could continue any further insult to her beloved homeland, another noise, far more frightening, rent the storm’s silent aftermath.
“A pistol shot!” Elizabeth declared, reining in the startled horse who had shied at the disturbance.
“Not just a shot...” Maeve shouted in reply, her hand running along the jagged tear in the carriage top, not six inches above her head.
But it was no stray ball that tore their conveyance, as but moments later, another shot, this time reaching a far more tender mark, raked the horse’s flanks.
The searing pain, wrenched the reins from Elizabeth’s hands as the beast broke into a headlong gallop of unknown destination.
Clinging to the carriage seat with one hand, she shouted at the charging horse to no avail as Maeve clutched a now wailing baby.
They were nearing the edge of the road, where it gave way to a deep ravine.
Only then, did Elizabeth hear voices other than that of her child....
her own, and that of Maeve, screaming in fright.
*****
Lady Gloriana Westlake watched the spectacle unfold with mixed emotions. Why had she been pressed to commit yet another act of violence? After all, was she not a gentlewoman, breed with grace and dignity?
“Unlike men, yet society has seen to it that it is men who hold all the power...” she muttered, nudging her horse forward as the carriage lurched along the edge of the precipice.
Why was something so simple, taking so long?
When the previous Earl had gone to his watery death, it had been relatively swift, if only his drunkard son had not been in the carriage as well.
Sloppy, that is what it was, and she, all more the fool for having relied upon a servant, yet another man, to do the job properly.
When she had maneuvered the Marlborough boys against one another, it had been swift, sparking jealous tempers already on the brink of explosion.
But this.... this seemed to move at a snail’s pace.
However, what better thing had she to do then watch the results of her handiwork?
Replacing her pistols into the leather bag strapped to her horse, Lady Gloriana adjusted her bonnet.
It was positively ruined, as was her riding habit, meant for show and not a downpour, but she would soon not have a care for such things.
Money, and plenty of it, would come to the lady who offered consolation in a time of grief.
If only the grieving part would commence.
Daring to leave her place of concealment, Gloriana Westlake cantered across the field to ensure a better view, but no sooner did she emerge, than another rider appeared, galloping at great speed, to intercept the runaway.
“Damn her! Damn her to hell!”
The rider, having lost her own bonnet some yards back, now bent over the neck of her stallion.
Chestnut hair streaming, it was easy to recognize Moira Fitzwilliam, Countess of Matlock as she was soon matching paces with the carriage.
If it were not she inside the carriage, then who?
How could her carefully laid plans have come to naught?
Had she not heard the cries of a child inside?
Did the carriage not bear the Fitzwilliam family crest?
Yet it was not her, for Lady Matlock had done the imaginable.
Not only had her nemesis escaped death, but somehow managed to heroically save whomever had been mistakenly targeted.
Having leapt from one horse to the other, Moira Fitzwilliam gained control of the wounded animal, turning it away from the dangerous edge of the road, safely slowing the horse’s flight to a gentle walk.
It was nothing short of a miracle. Drawing her horse up short, Gloriana gasped in disbelief as, now stopped, a familiar form crawled down from the carriage.
“Elizabeth Darcy!”
The name was uttered with distaste, as if the mistress of Pemberley were nothing more than mud upon her shoe.
Interfering cow! This mess was just as much her fault as anyone’s!
With plans in ruins, Gloriana continued to watch, uncertain as to what to do next.
Should she, as any true friend and neighbor would, offer assistance?
Perhaps even claim to have seen another, obviously male, rider?
It would be all to easy to lay the blame elsewhere, but as she pondered, the sound of her name, shouted in accusation, carried on the breeze.
“Gloriana Westlake! I saw what you did!”
Locking eyes with the Countess of Matlock, Gloriana could feel the rage across the distance. No, there could be no offers of assistance or friendship. Kicking her mare sharply, she turned way, uttering a reply that only the horse could hear.
“If I am guilty, then prove it.”