Chapter Twenty-Four
FOR THREE DAYS, ELIZABETH TAUGHT EDWARD FITZWILLIAM EVERYTHING she knew of George Wickham and how to vanquish vampires.
At each of the stops, they accumulated silver and iron and staves of ash and white thorn, bundling the items into blankets and tying them securely to the Darcy carriage.
In small villages, they purchased several crucifixes, cloves of garlic, sacks of salt, and wooden stakes, even purchasing bags of millet at one such stop.
By silent agreement, they prepared for war, knowing if Darcy failed, only they stood between Wickham and a continuation of evil.
Depending on the weather, they expected to be in the area described in Bramwell’s report by late the next afternoon or early evening.
It was significantly colder than in Derbyshire, but to their surprise, they met no snow or rain.
The colonel and Mr. Peters kept a steady pace with the horses, not pressing them too strenuously, knowing Northumberland and the shires surrounding it to be some of the least-populated in England.
Inns were fewer and farther apart, and the opportunities for changing the horses for fresh ones were scarce.
Their destination was between Alnwick and Berwick.
“A stake through the heart, a coin in the mouth, decapitation with an ax, boil the head in vinegar, chain to the grave with wild roses, bury at a cross-roads—my God, the list goes on and on. How will we ever know what to do?” The colonel began to feel the frustration she had known weeks earlier.
“We will listen to our intuition. Actually, I have a theory. Our action depends on when the person died. What I mean is, different generations placed their trust in different symbols. Afterwards, we will coauthor a vampire hunter instruction book,” she said with the first moment of levity she had permitted herself since she had departed Pemberley.
The colonel laughed easily. “Do you suppose there is a market for one?” He settled back into the cushions of the carriage.
“Perhaps it is the nationality difference of which you speak, rather than a generational one,” he mused.
“It seems many of the items have some relationship to purifying wounds or curing illnesses.”
Elizabeth weighed what the man said. Over the past few days, she had developed a real respect for her husband’s cousin.
If she had met the colonel first, she might have set her sights on him.
Shorter than Darcy, but not by much, the colonel was well made.
Long, dark lashes capped dark brown eyes, which matched his head of thick brown curly hair.
He possessed a compelling, almost sensual, masculinity.
She appreciated his logic and his amiability and his arresting wit.
Edward Fitzwilliam was not as intense in his interactions as her husband, but he was attractive.
By silent assent, they had avoided speaking of the possibility of Darcy’s presence already in Stanwick.
She and the colonel would either find Darcy a victor or find Darcy dead or find the battle still in progress. They would react accordingly.
“One of the things of which I am relatively confident is that Wickham does not believe in the Trinity. I have witnessed how he retreats from symbols of Christianity, but they do not destroy him. William threw holy water on him during their confrontation over Georgiana. Darcy’s efforts resulted only in a scream, the smell of burning flesh, and a short-lived withdrawal on Wickham’s part.
I had more success with the name reversal in London than my husband did with his attempts at Ramsgate.
The crucifix will work on my sister, but not on Wickham. ”
“Is Wickham so close to the Devil to be immune to symbols of God?”
“Wickham is closer to his own gods. Mrs. Annesley discovered the god Cernunnos, a classic stag-horned, pagan god of Celtic origin. The crown everyone describes as a mark on Wickham’s hand resembles the ram-horned serpent of the Meigle stone in Perthshire.
Some believe Cernunnos is the figure encountered in the tale of King Arthur and the Lady of the Lake.
Even Shakespeare mentions Cernunnos as Herne the Hunter.
However, the ash stakes should be effective in that realm. ”
Peters had turned off the main road towards the inn they had discussed previously. “What will you do if we discover Darcy did not survive?” The words hung in the air, a curtain of doubt between them.
“I will attempt to recover both my husband’s and my sister’s bodies and put them at rest. Then I will return to Longbourn.”
“You will not return to Pemberley?” He turned his head to study her expression.
“Pemberley belongs to Georgiana,” she argued.
The colonel returned his gaze to the window. “Darcy would provide for you. I am confident he would want you to be a part of his sister’s life.”
“Georgiana has you, Sir. She does not require me. I am not meant for Pemberley’s grandeur. More than likely the staff finds me scandalous.”
The colonel chuckled. “Perhaps. If … if my cousin cannot be saved, as Georgiana’s only other guardian, I would be grateful if you would return to Pemberley, Mrs. Darcy. Your intuition is excellent, and I am assured my young cousin could learn much from you.”
Elizabeth was silent, but she was touched by the sentiment. Aloud, she said, “Let us not face that decision until it is necessary, Sir.”
Darcy scouted the area after his arrival at the local inn.
It would be dark soon, and it was important to become familiar with the lay of the land before it was too dark to observe the details of the buildings.
Several hours northeast of Chillingham, the village of Stanwick was little more than a turning-off point for Edinburgh.
Wickham’s residence could be accessed by one of two ways: through the churchyard and cemetery and then down a treacherously steep hill and through a wooded field or the direct route of over a drawbridge, across an open courtyard, and through the front door of the house.
Although Darcy did not come close enough to see into the house’s windows, several carefully placed questions told him the few steps before the house led to an unadorned open hall, evidently used as the center of activity for Wickford Manor.
A few of the more adventurous youths gladly told him how the pantry in the kitchen was bare and the well was only for show, because no water was ever seen within it.
From the road, Darcy could observe the garden and the lawn, which displayed signs of neglect.
Thinking the churchyard a better choice for his approach, he attempted to appear casual as he strolled through the graveyard, pausing periodically to read epitaphs: Make Wisdom Your Provision for the Journey from Youth to Old Age and Ye Shall Know the Truth and True Nobility Is Exempt from Fear were mixed with The Music of My Life, Matthew Horace and Charles McDane, Loving Father and Behold the Child, Mary Adams. Circling the perimeter of the cemetery, he stumbled across the Winch-combe headstones of Mairte Rosin and Domhnall Neill.
He suspected them to be those of Wickham’s parents, because they were the last ones before one exited the rear of the neighborhood’s churchyard.
He would not find Wickham’s grave there.
The great evil associated with George Wickham prohibited his inclusion in consecrated land.
More than likely, Wickham’s house was designed to embrace his grave.
Then his eyes fell upon the dual crypts dominating the center of the site.
Without reading the engraving, Darcy knew to whom they belonged.
These two faced the center of the cemetery, as if they stood staring into each other’s eyes for eternity.
Darcy could see them in his mind’s eye: Lady Ellender D’Arcy and Lord Arawn Benning, circling each other on the dance floor …
preparing to rush into each other’s arms in a moment of passion …
arguing heatedly over some domestic matter.
Slowly and methodically, Darcy made his way around the mounds until he stood reverently before the locked gate of the memorial to the woman whose renowned beauty began the madness he knew: Ellender D’Arcy Benning.
“Would you do it all again?” Darcy murmured, but he knew the answer—she would.
Lady Ellender executed her choice for the love of a man, the one person who completed her—the way Elizabeth completed him.
Darcy had no doubt he would risk it all for Elizabeth.
He was risking everything to protect Elizabeth and Georgiana.
He turned to stare at the other crypt, the one belonging to Elizabeth’s ancestor.
Sighing heavily, Darcy strode away from the all-too-raw memories of his wife.
He worked his way down the well-worn path leading from the graveyard towards the wooded field, which he crossed quickly.
He desired to view the back of the house before the dark set in.
At length, satisfying his need for information, he retreated to the inn.
Tonight, while the village slept, he would return to finish the battle with Wickham.
Near midnight, dressed all in black except for a loose-fitting shirt he had purchased in the village store, Darcy made his way through the graveyard once again.
Instead of hiding behind headstones and staying in the shadows of the hedgerow, he strode proudly through the center, crossing the point where the crypts marked the centuries.
He carried a silver sword and wore the iron crucifix, but his true weapon, he told himself, was his determination.
He had come to end the plague on his family, and, one way or the other, Darcy would know peace at last. Two hundred years of demonic hatred and fear would end with his confrontation with Wickham.