Chapter Fifteen #3
Still holding Elizabeth’s hand, William took a step forward. “Lady Catherine, I must ask what all this is about?”
She ignored him, stalking closer to Miss Annesley, her bearing more frightening than Elizabeth had ever seen her.
“Miss Annesley, twenty-seven years ago, you departed Number Thirty-Four Upper Grosvenor Street in charge of a perambulator that contained a baby of the male sex. You never returned. A week later, through the elaborate investigations of Scotland Yard, the perambulator was discovered in an alley outside of Marylebone but the baby was never found – and neither were you. I demand you tell me, Miss Annesley – where is that baby?”
Miss Annesley shook off the solicitude of her pupil and her admirer and approached Lady. Catherine is a posture of abject contrition. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh; I recognize you after all this time. I must admit with shame that I do not know where your nephew is.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“If it will be of any help, I will gladly tell you what little I recall, though it is unpleasant to speak of. I set out for a walk quite early that morning with my dear young charge. The streets were relatively empty at that hour, a peaceful condition which I enjoyed for my morning exercise. I tarried in front of a display window of a shop at the end of the row, admiring a bonnet and considering whether it was worth saving up to purchase for my cousin, who had lately married and was owed a gift. As I began to move along, I passed a carriage that was being loaded with trunks borne out of a small hotel. A young woman sprang out from behind the carriage and struck me forcefully on the head.”
Miss Annesley reached up and brushed her hand along a wide scar at her temple. Lady Catherine moved closer and examined the old injury. “Did you see this woman? What did she look like?”
“It happened so quickly. She was fair and young, well-dressed but not wealthy, I do not think. I saw her reach for the baby and cried out, but then I must have fainted from the pain. When I awoke, I was inside a room at the hotel. A gentleman brought me inside and called for a physician to attend me – he had even paid the physician for my care – but he had gone away by the time I roused from my awful, bloody stupor. The physician cleaned my wound and stitched it up, after dosing me with laudanum. I again lost consciousness, and the next time I awoke, a ruffian in the employ of the hotel had entered my room with – with what I can only describe as nefarious intent. I fled – I fled the hotel, and indeed fled London entirely.”
Lady Catherine thumped her walking stick with indignation. “You fled London? Why did you not return to your employers?”
“I was quite out of my senses from pain and fear and shock, but I managed to somehow make my way to the home of my cousin. I walked nearly twenty miles, through heavy rain near the end of my delirious trek, and I was afflicted with a fever that nearly took my life when I reached my cousin. I had not a penny to my name, for my assailant not only took the baby, but also my handbag.”
Lady Catherine drew in a sharp breath as if she had been stung, and she looked at William in horror.
He rushed toward Miss Annesley, grabbing her by both shoulders and causing her to cry out in alarm.
“Miss Annesley, what sort of handbag was it?” He instantly released her, muttering a hasty apology, and then ran out of the room, into his adjoining study.
Elizabeth knew very well what her mother’s line of questioning must be leading to – this must have to do with her beloved aunt's son!
Her heart beat faster as William returned carrying a large, weathered-looking leather handbag.
A small wooden bauble in the shape of a cat hung from one handle, sporting a highly embellished W. “Miss Annesley, is your handbag?”
“It is undoubtedly mine,” she said, brushing one hand over the adornment.
“Mother!” William began to embrace her, but she shoved him away.
“Mr. Worthing, I am unmarried!”
At the back of the room, Mr. Chasuble began to cough as if he might imminently expire, and Mr. Bingley clapped him on the back.
Miss Annesley gestured toward Lady Catherine. “I believe it is her right, and not mine, to tell you who you are, sir.”
But before Lady Catherine could speak, Richard flew at William, giving a merry cry as he drew his friend into a warm embrace.
“Cousin!” He released William, but rested his hand on his shoulder as he turned to address them all.
“Lizzy, it is your lucky day – I daresay you have manifested this day into being, through sheer stubbornness and wishful thinking. Allow me to present your cousin, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
William stared between Richard, Elizabeth, and Lady Catherine with a look of overpowering bewilderment, and then he staggered onto the sofa. “Can it really be possible?”
“I must ask myself the same thing,” Lady Catherine drawled. “I might also inquire as to how I could have possibly given the Almighty such great offense.”
Elizabeth let out a peal of laughter as she rushed to sit beside her beloved. “So you are really Mr. Darcy, after all. It is astounding!”
Lady Catherine rubbed at her temples, and Elizabeth relished the sight of her mother realizing she could not possibly deny her consent to a union between her daughter and Lady Anne’s son.
“Have you any knowledge, sir, of how you came to be in the possession of Sir Thomas Grey, and why he did not come forward and answer any of the advertisements posted in several of the major London papers?”
William only shook his head in bewilderment, but Miss Annesley cried out. In examining the old handbag that had been so serendipitously retired to her, she withdrew an aged-looking letter from one of the pockets. “This is addressed to you, Mr. Worthing.”
William took the letter, muttering admonishments to himself for never examining the pocket of the handbag, and Elizabeth peered over his shoulder to look at the letter as he read it aloud.
Dear William,
If you are reading this letter, it must mean that I have died before you reached a suitable age for me to explain to you the mysterious circumstances of how you came into my custody.
It is a sordid business, which I do not believe right to share with you at your present tender age of nine, but I do think it a right thing that you should someday know the truth.
Nine years ago, I was on a short trip to London, where I had business with my solicitor.
I was staying at a small hotel in Marylebone, and preparing for my departure when I chanced to look out the window.
Though it was early in the morning, in the dim light I saw one woman attack another in the street.
The woman assaulted had been pushing a perambulator up the lane when she was attacked, and I instantly rushed outside to her aid and cried out for help.
The woman was bleeding from her head, and had fallen unconscious.
Her assailant, a fair-haired young woman with a distinctive mole near her lip, fled before I could detain her.
I brought the woman into the hotel and sent for a physician to attend to her injuries, though to my great regret, I had pressing business at home and could not remain present to see her recovered.