Twenty-One
Pemberley
Darcy
“Had I known you were not in London, I should not have written to you four days ago,” Darcy said as he handed his cousin a glass of whisky. “The post is likely sitting on your desk now.”
“My travels were a matter of urgency.” Colonel Fitzwilliam accepted the glass before lowering himself onto the settee with a weary sigh.
He stretched one leg before the fire, the stiffness of several days' hard travelling evident in the movement.
“What I discovered could not wait. We halted only when the horses could go no farther, else I should have been here yesterday.”
“Had you arrived earlier,” Darcy replied, taking the chair opposite, “I should not have needed to write at all.”
Fitzwilliam glanced up. “You have discovered something?”
“Yes.” Darcy rested his elbows upon his knees, his own glass forgotten in his hand. “I believe I know who has been behind all my misfortunes these past years, and why.”
The colonel's glass paused midway to his lips. “Who?”
“Our aunt. Lady Catherine.”
His cousin stared at him in disbelief.
“You hinted as much in your letter,” Fitzwilliam said slowly, “but you speak now with certainty. What has convinced you?”
“Everything, Richard.” Darcy set his glass upon the table between them.
“As I wrote when I quitted Hertfordshire, you know how steadfastly Lady Catherine has pursued a marriage between Anne and myself. You know she severed all intercourse after I informed her at Rosings, three Christmases ago, that such a marriage would never take place. Then her rector, Mr. Collins, appeared at Longbourn and offered for Miss Elizabeth. The circumstance follows too closely the pattern of Miss Harper and Miss Harwood to be dismissed. Had Elizabeth possessed less strength of character, she might have yielded as the others did.”
“And that is your proof?” Fitzwilliam's brow furrowed. “That her rector happens to be connected with the lady you mentioned in your letter?”
“That is not all.” Darcy leaned back in his chair. “Five days ago I attended a soirée at Hathersage upon the invitation of an acquaintance who had not thought fit to invite me anywhere these past two years.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head.
“Within ten minutes of my arrival, I was accosted by Lady Catherine.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his cousin's countenance.
Darcy related the evening in careful order, omitting nothing he believed of consequence.
Lady Catherine's unexpected appearance, her references to knowing where he had been and the rumours surrounding him, her renewed insistence upon his engagement to Anne as a satisfactory antidote to his misfortune, and the evident satisfaction with which she observed the attention their disagreement drew from the assembled company.
“She scarcely attempted to conceal her triumph,” Darcy concluded quietly. “Once she had said what she wished, she would not address me again before my departure. It was as though she believed me brought low enough that she might enjoy the spectacle.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam passed a hand over his face.
“I confess that is unexpected.”
“So did I.” Darcy rose and crossed to the hearth, staring into the fire. “Given all that has transpired, particularly these last eight months, I could not persuade myself it was mere coincidence.”
When he had finished, silence settled over the room.
Fitzwilliam did not answer at once. He turned his glass slowly between his hands, his gaze fixed upon the amber liquid as though the proper reply might be found there.
“At the risk of disappointing you,” he said at last, “I believe you are mistaken.”
Darcy turned sharply.
Before he could speak, Fitzwilliam continued.
“You were right to ask me to have Wickham and Mr. Collins watched. The Bow Street Runners I employed are among the finest men I have known in the course of my service in the Militia. They followed both gentlemen as closely as circumstances permitted, and what they discovered was...unexpected.”
Darcy resumed his seat.
“What did they find?”
“One of the men followed Wickham to an inn upon the outskirts of Meryton. There he observed him meet with a woman.” Fitzwilliam leaned forward, resting his forearms upon the table. “He followed the woman in turn. I shall spare you the particulars of the journey, but she proved to be Mrs. Younge.”
Darcy was upon his feet before he realised he had risen.
“Mrs. Younge?”
“The very same who assisted Wickham in his scheme against Georgiana.”
Darcy turned away, one hand braced against the wall. The drawing room seemed suddenly smaller.
"When the report reached me," Fitzwilliam continued, "I confess my curiosity was immediately awakened.
Knowing what had passed at Ramsgate, I could not believe such a meeting accidental.
Wickham, Mrs. Younge, and you in Hertfordshire, all at the same time, when Wickham himself had proved impossible to find these many years past? "
Darcy remained silent, still trying to understand.
“According to my man, when Mrs. Younge quitted the inn, she travelled directly to Buxton. Fortunately, my runner judged her haste sufficiently suspicious to follow. She hired a chaise and lost no time upon the road.”
“Buxton?”
“Yes.” Fitzwilliam emptied the remainder of his whisky before setting the glass aside. “There she met a gentleman who, after some enquiry, proved to be a footman in the service of a widow residing there.”
“What widow?”
Fitzwilliam reached into his coat and withdrew a folded memorandum. “A Mrs. Vane.”
The name struck Darcy with such force that, for an instant, every other thought deserted him.
Mrs. Vane.
Where had he heard...
His breath caught.
Ashcombe.
The lady who had stepped between himself and Lady Catherine.
His knees weakened, and he lowered himself heavily onto the settee.
“You appear more astonished than I expected,” Fitzwilliam observed.
Darcy lifted his eyes to his cousin.
“Unless Providence has resolved to drive me mad with coincidences,” he said after a long silence, “I met a Mrs. Vane five days ago.”
Fitzwilliam straightened.
“Where?”
“At Hathersage.” Darcy drew a slow breath. “She was the lady who intervened when matters between Lady Catherine and myself became...heated.”
For several moments, neither man spoke. Fitzwilliam seemed content to allow the revelation its proper weight before he broke the silence.
“Have you ever met this woman before?”
Darcy shook his head. His mind searched desperately for some forgotten acquaintance, some fleeting introduction, but found nothing.
“Never. I had not seen her before last week.”
“You must think carefully, Darcy.” Fitzwilliam pressed. “The name may not belong to one woman alone, yet I cannot believe it chance that the woman who interrupted your quarrel with my aunt should bear the same name as the widow connected with Mrs. Younge.”
"When she heard my name," Darcy replied, "she said she was glad at last to make the acquaintance of Pemberley's master. Had I met her before, she would not have said so."
His cousin gave a reluctant nod.
“I have already written to Colonel Forster to have Wickham discreetly detained. My men should, by now, have seized Mrs. Younge too.”
Darcy frowned.
“What grounds have we? None of this proves anything.”
“Wickham remains answerable for debts you discharged on his behalf.” Fitzwilliam's voice was steady.
“As for Mrs. Younge, she knowingly assisted him in his attempted elopement with Georgiana. That alone may answer before a magistrate. There is also reason to believe the testimonials by which she obtained employment with you were forged. That is conspiracy.”
Darcy inclined his head, though his thoughts remained elsewhere.
“I thank God you did not pursue the matter then,” Fitzwilliam continued. “It may now prove our greatest advantage. Faced with examination, I doubt either of them will preserve the other's secrets for long.”
“What do we do now?”
“We remain here today. Tomorrow, you return to Hertfordshire.”
“Hertfordshire?”
The name brought Elizabeth immediately to his thoughts before the greater puzzle reclaimed his attention.
"Yes." Fitzwilliam lowered his voice. "I have a plan, but it will only answer if we confront the two of them directly. There is more besides. I have begun to suspect you have been watched for far longer than either of us imagined. Perhaps even here, at Pemberley."
Darcy stared at him.
“Here?”
His cousin nodded.
“Consider it. How else has every endeavour of yours been anticipated? Crops destroyed. Livestock poisoned. Fires begun at precisely the wrong moment.
“Who besides yourself knows this estate as intimately as its master? Who knows your tenants, your servants, your habits, and every corner of Pemberley because he was raised almost as your equal?”
Darcy eyes widened as realisation struck him with dreadful force.
“Wickham.”
“Precisely. I do not suppose he acts alone. Men remain here who remember him fondly. Whether through loyalty or simple carelessness, someone has been supplying him or someone else with information.”
“Good God...”
“The more I consider it,” Fitzwilliam said quietly, “the more convinced I become that none of this began recently. It is too deliberate. Too patient. Mrs. Younge's complicity at Ramsgate no longer seems an isolated villainy. I believe it formed part of the same design.”
Darcy closed his eyes.
“No...”
“It would have ruined Georgiana's reputation beyond recovery,” Fitzwilliam said gently. “It would have stained the Darcy name for a generation.”
“How did I not perceive it?” Darcy whispered. “I believed myself capable of seeing through Wickham's pretences.”
“You were deceived because you loved him as a brother.” Fitzwilliam's voice softened. “That does not make you a fool, Darcy. It makes him a villain.”
Darcy rested his head against the back of the settee, struggling to order the chaos that had become his life.
At length, he opened his eyes. “This widow you mentioned, Mrs. Vane...who is she, and how does she fit into all this?”
“That,” Fitzwilliam said after a short silencr, “is precisely the difficulty. Beyond being a wealthy widow residing at Buxton, I know almost nothing of her.”
He met Darcy's gaze.
“But I have men making enquiries as we speak. If there is anything to be found, we shall have it soon.”
Darcy said nothing for a long while. His gaze remained upon the dying fire, the coals having burned low while neither of them had thought to replenish them.
Wickham. Mrs. Younge. And now Mrs. Vane, most likely the woman who had shown him nothing but civility at Ashcombe, yet who, by some unseen thread, appeared connected to it all.
He drew a weary breath. He had welcomed his cousin believing that, at last, he knew the hand behind the misfortunes that had dogged him these five years.
Instead, he was left with but one more name, and greater confusion than before.