Chapter 9 Fitzwilliam Darcy
FITZWILLIAM DARCY
DARCY
Four days ago, Elizabeth rose. When her gaze met mine, it rocked both our souls. Whatever denials she uttered afterward, whatever foolishness a listening stranger might conclude, I had seen the truth. My wyfe knew me.
I twitched the reins, guiding Escalus onto a cart path that led to a farmhouse. His gray head wandered longingly as we passed a shady patch of grass. Four days of travel, even carefully paced, had tired him.
Riding in pursuit had been impulsive, but travel imposed discipline. The outline of a plan had formed as I rounded the lake, and the long miles since had honed it like the relentless questioning of a Socratic tutor.
Hunting a woman on a dragon was futile. Instead, I hunted for bait.
The long miles had led here, the southern tip of Derbyshire. The local farmland was divided in twenty-acre parcels abutting a long, wild forest. Each parcel was planted with a single crop: wheat, oats, peas. Commercial production, not subsistence, and chosen for the wartime market.
Not perfectly chosen, though. I would have rotated those crops with clover and turnips.
Wars start with a blow, but they last for years.
Forage and fallow would matter. Still, this was clearly a managed estate…
although the gentleman’s name escaped me.
I blinked to steady my own wandering thoughts. I was tired, too.
I dismounted outside the farmhouse and stretched, spine grating, hamstrings unlocking with pinprick stabs. I dropped Escalus’s reins a few paces from a stone-rimmed well and signed Halt. That earned me a butt on the shoulder. I stroked his muzzle and whispered, “Patience.” His ears flicked.
The farmer emerged from the house, a stocky, half-bald fellow, arms crossed but in thought, not defiance.
I acknowledged him. “How do you do?”
“You tell me, sir.” He unfolded his arms and rubbed dusty, muscled hands against his coarse wool trousers. “Good enough, I should think.”
My appearance was little better than his.
At dawn, I had rinsed my clothes in a brook and hung them to dry.
That left them marginally fresher but, even after half an hour, damp.
They dried while I rode, but they were comically wrinkled.
That should not matter, but a lifetime of perfect dress was hard to dismiss.
At Pemberley, I would have told my valet to throw them in the nearest fire.
Still, they were a gentleman’s attire, and the farmer bowed.
I nodded. “I wonder if I could water my horse?” Escalus edged one hoof longingly toward the well.
The farmer shrugged. “Surely.”
I drew a pail. Escalus gulped noisily, and I began unhitching his saddle.
The farmer strolled over. “Fine mount you got there. Big, to be sure. Eighteen hands?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a little over run.”
“We have had a long road.”
I draped the saddle over the fence. The farmer’s gaze noted the pistol and sword. He studied me, a sturdy finger rubbing his chin, neither afraid nor dismissive. A sensible man. Sensibly cautious.
“Have you any oats?” I asked. Oats were the best feed for energy. He returned with a ten-pound sack, and I gave him two shillings, a fair price with pence to spare. That earned a pleased grunt. Did he not expect a gentleman to pay his debts?
I poured a third of the bag onto a patch of grass. Escalus dug in, and I began rubbing his back with the small towel that had wrapped the hoof pick and game snares. I wished I had a curry comb.
Impulsive trips are poorly equipped. On the second day, I bought a blanket and razor from a passing trader, but my quarry was too elusive to risk detours for proper supplies.
“Good to see a gentleman who cares for his horse,” the farmer observed.
“He has carried me for five years. It seems fair.”
“I’ll do his withers,” he offered. I passed him the towel, and he rubbed them down, leaning to massage the muscle. Escalus cast him a curious glance, then relaxed, bobbing his head in approval.
“You know horses,” I said, working my shoulders and looking over the farm. Any distraction was welcome to quell the tension of being stopped and far behind Elizabeth.
The field was tall with pea plants, but their color looked off.
“My father was a groom.” The farmer passed the towel back and patted Escalus’s shoulder. “He’s in fine condition.”
I wiped down Escalus’s flanks, then draped the sweaty towel beside the saddle. “Have you heard reports of Blackcoats?”
“Those raiders, you mean? Troublemakers, to be sure.” He pointed to the forest. “Rumor is they’re heading south. What’s left of them. If you follow the road a few more miles, you’ll hear fresher stories than mine.”
“What do you mean, what’s left?”
“The angel caught two of their crews already. The rest are hiding.” His laugh cracked the air.
“Folks say angel, but you tell me. Forest burned away to rock, smooth as glass. Always at night, and there’s nary a tooth nor a buckle left behind.
I figure it’s devil, not angel. Not that those raiders don’t have it coming.
” He grinned, enjoying his story, not knowing I had heard a half-dozen variants already.
“You tell me. The devil barters for souls, then sends his she-devil to claim them. She drags them down. Hellfire spills up.” His grin widened. “I saw it.”
Hope replaced fatigue, but with a bitter edge. Every day in the saddle, I relived the idiotic words I spoke to Elizabeth by the lake. Why had I not listened and tried to comprehend the miracle I was witnessing?
My shoulders had tensed. I forced them loose and level. I had chased stories of the angel into Notts and back but never heard a firsthand account.
“You saw the angel?” I asked gruffly.
“Nah. Saw the hellfire. Three nights ago. Far away, past those hills, which was fine with me. Clouds lit up like gold fire. Night sky black as soot above them. Strangest thing.”
Three nights. But this was the closest I had come. “Are the remaining Blackcoats in that direction?”
He drummed his fingers on his trousers. “You tell me. But if you’re asking advice, I’d go the other way. The worst of them is what’s left. One man can’t challenge twenty. That sword’ll be no help. Men like that, they’ll shoot you at fifty yards for your hat.”
The house door opened, and the man’s wife came out. The rigor of etiquette was a relief. I bowed. “Madam.” The farmer gave a bemused snort.
She was staring in disbelief. “Lawks! You’s him.” She elbowed her husband. “That’s Mr. Darcy.”
The farmer winked at me. “The Darcys are far from here, woman.”
“I am Mr. Darcy,” I confirmed.
The wife clapped her hands. She then giggled in a very unbecoming manner. That happened when some women were introduced. I never understood why.
Her husband boggled. “Damn it! Deuce it, I mean…” He flopped into a bow. “My Lord.”
“I am not a lord,” I said. My eyes had a will of their own, drifting to the distant forest he had mentioned. “You have been a gracious host. Thank you.”
The wife caught her husband’s sleeve. “Did you show him?”
The farmer rubbed his chin, avoiding my eyes. No, his gaze was on the wilting peas. “That’s not his business.”
“That’s Mr. Darcy. He might know.”
Three nights. I could spare a minute. “Show me what?”
The pea plants were tall and scraggly, the leaves yellow-edged and curling. The farmer plucked a pod, bright green and grossly huge, five inches long and thick as my thumb. It was lumpy, as if stuffed with rocks instead of an orderly row of fresh peas.
“Best open it like this,” the farmer said. He dropped it on the ground, then prodded it with the toe of his boot until it split. “You tell me.”
Sticky black bile leaked, and a long, fat, white grub squirmed free. Sulfurous rot stung my nostrils. The grub writhed, lethargically hunting an escape from the sun.
I squatted to look. Where the black bile rubbed off, the grub’s skin was translucent. Shadows of many paired legs were visible. There were folded pincers at one end and stingers at the rear.
“A foul crawler,” I said.
The farmer swore. “Here I feared they were grasshoppers.” His wife blanched, her freckles dark on pale cheeks.
Georgiana had seen visions of a blight. I had thought it a metaphor for war and conflict. Not so… tangible.
“Send a messenger to Mr. Campbell,” I said—that was the landowner’s name. “Tell him I was here, and that I ordered the field burned.”
“Burned!” the farmer cried.
“Do you want them to hatch?” He shook his head, horror-struck at the rows of swollen pods. I added, “They do not yet seem able to sting. Summon your neighbors. Cut the plants, stack them with straw, and burn them. Today.”
“They’re not mine to burn!”
“I will pay for Mr. Campbell’s loss. And yours, if he does not compensate you. If you have paper and pen, I will provide a letter.”
I would write to my attorney. No, to Mary Bennet. She would muster Pemberley and tell Georgiana.
“Could you not speak with Mr. Campbell yourself?” his wife asked in a shaken voice.
“I cannot.” I crushed the grub under my heel. The skin split, the back splaying oddly. “I have tarried too long already. Fetch paper, then point me to the Blackcoats.”