Twenty-Four
Longbourn
Elizabeth
“You will never guess whom I saw at the market this morning.”
Jane entered Elizabeth's room already loosening the ribbons of her pelisse, her cheeks still bright from the cold.
“Who?” Elizabeth asked, not looking up from her needlework.
“Mr. Bingley.” Jane laid aside her gloves before turning to her sister with a smile.
Elizabeth smiled in return. “It seems you contrive to meet wherever either of you goes.”
Jane laughed. “Perhaps we do.” She paused only a moment before adding, with studied carelessness, “He told me Mr. Darcy has returned to Netherfield.”
Elizabeth looked up so quickly that she betrayed herself before she had time to think. Her heart gave a sudden leap, followed by such an immediate rush of relief that she was obliged to compose her features before answering.
“Has he?” she asked, striving for indifference.
Jane's brows rose before an amused smile spread across her face. “Lizzy, you smiled.”
“Did I?” Elizabeth bent her attention once more to her work. “Surely I may smile at ordinary news.”
“Ordinary?” Jane removed her bonnet, still watching her. “You look as though you have just been told of some great happiness.”
“You imagine far too much.”
“I do not think so.” She moved a little closer to the chair where Elizabeth sat. “I had believed you had come to dislike Mr. Darcy, yet you seem... very glad to hear of his return.”
“I never said I disliked him.”
“No,” Jane replied gently. “You did not. Yet when he left so unexpectedly, I confess I thought you disappointed. You have not quite been yourself these last few weeks, though I knew better than to ask why.”
Elizabeth lowered her eyes to the neglected embroidery in her lap.
It had been nearly a month since Mr. Darcy had left Hertfordshire.
Since he had failed to appear at Oakham Mount, and only Mr. Bingley's awkward explanation that business had called his friend suddenly to Derbyshire had accounted for his absence.
She had endeavoured not to dwell upon it, yet her thoughts had returned there more often than she cared to admit.
She had walked to Oakham Mount almost every day, half expecting to find him there despite knowing he would not come.
There had been a strange comfort in following the familiar path they had walked together, though each solitary visit had left her with a little less hope than the last.
“He is back,” she murmured at length, scarcely aware she had spoken aloud.
“He is,” Jane replied, her expression softening. “And I do not think I have ever seen anyone look so relieved to hear of another's return.”
Elizabeth offered no denial. She kept her eyes upon her work, though her fingers scarcely knew what they stitched.
Her thoughts had already gone elsewhere.
Would Darcy return to Oakham Mount, or had this month's absence altered that quiet understanding between them beyond repair?
Had whatever had drawn him from Hertfordshire at last been resolved?
More important still, had he discovered anything of the unseen enemy who had so long threatened him?
She found herself hoping, despite every effort at reason, that tomorrow's walk would not be a solitary one. Perhaps she would see him at last, and perhaps he would tell her why he had gone.
~
6th December, 1811
Darcy
Bingley's study had become, since their return to Netherfield two days earlier, the only room in the house where Darcy and Fitzwilliam could speak without fear of interruption.
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had each, in her own fashion, endeavoured to discover why Darcy had quitted Hertfordshire so abruptly, only to return with an explanation no more satisfactory than pressing business at Pemberley.
He had consequently acquired the habit of closing doors behind him before either lady found reason to linger nearby.
Fitzwilliam entered that afternoon with a folded letter already in his hand. He shut the door before crossing the room.
"At last Darcy," he said. "My man has returned from Buxton."
Darcy looked up from the papers spread before him. "What has he learned?"
"Mrs. Vane settled in Buxton some twenty years ago.
She entered the household of a Mr. Vane, a widower of considerable fortune, and remained there for three years before marrying him herself.
" Fitzwilliam read from the letter. "Among the older inhabitants there is a persistent rumour that she contrived the match.
They maintain she became his mistress first, well aware he had neither son nor close relation likely to dispute his will.
Whether true or not, it is universally believed.
Mr. Vane had amassed a considerable fortune through trade in the East Indies, and upon his death eight years ago, the whole of it passed to his widow. "
Darcy rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble upon his chin. Whether this Mrs. Vane was indeed the same lady he had met before remained uncertain, though he suspected he would soon learn the truth.
"So she has possessed an independent fortune these twenty years."
"It would appear so. Wickham had already shown us she was willing to spend freely when he admitted she bribed Mr. Grey's clerk to reveal the Meridian's movements.
" Fitzwilliam laid the letter upon the desk.
"This tells us the means by which she has accomplished it.
She has spent years purchasing information, influence, and loyalty wherever money would secure them. "
"I still find it difficult to comprehend that Mr. Grey's own clerk betrayed his master for money." Darcy shook his head. "I shall be interested to learn how Grey answers my letter once he reads the truth."
"We may not have long to wait." Fitzwilliam was quiet for a moment before speaking again. "There is, however, another circumstance I cannot reconcile.
Darcy's attention sharpened; his gaze fixed on his cousin.
"Mrs. Younge said she first became acquainted with Mrs. Vane six years ago.
That was before your father's death. Before you inherited Pemberley.
You were scarcely one-and-twenty, still learning the management of the estate under your father's guidance.
" Fitzwilliam met his gaze steadily. "What cause could a woman nearly twice your age have to devote six years to your destruction? "
"I have asked myself the same question repeatedly, and found no answer."
"I may have found the beginning of one." Fitzwilliam withdrew a second paper from his coat, its folds worn from frequent handling.
"The marriage register at the parish church in Buxton records that Mrs. Vane's maiden name was Hartley, Eleanor Hartley.
Further enquiries among the older residents revealed that her father was one late Thomas Hartley of Derbyshire. "
"Hartley."
Darcy repeated the name slowly. Something stirred in his memory, faint and indistinct, like a half-forgotten melody heard at a distance. He knew the name. Of that he became suddenly certain, though its place in his recollections remained just beyond his reach.
"I know it," he said quietly. "I have heard it before."
Fitzwilliam leaned forward. "When I heard he was from Derbyshire, I knew you must. But can you remember where?"
Darcy closed his eyes for a moment, searching years he had not revisited in a long while. A boy's memory surfaced, uncertain and incomplete. His father's study. An autumn afternoon. The name Hartley spoken with unusual gravity.
"My father spoke of a Thomas Hartley," he said at last. "I cannot have been more than six or seven years old. I remembered the name because, after my father's death, I encountered it again amongst his private papers."
"What papers?" Fitzwilliam asked.
"My father’s records. They concerned a legal dispute. I remember Hartley believed himself grievously wronged, though my father acted entirely within the law." He looked steadily at Fitzwilliam. "If Mrs. Vane is Mr. Hartley's daughter, then I believe I now know why she has pursued my family."