The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery (11 page)

“How could I forget?” He shoved her hard against the wall. “You screamed like a cut pig. The innkeeper threatened to evict us. Then
you cried for your mother most of the night. It certainly lacked a romantic enticement.”

“I had not known how it was between a man and a woman,” she said defensively.

He snarled, “You still know nothing of desire and need. You think what you do in our bed is how it is meant to be?” He took her by the shoulders and gave her a sound shake. “A woman should do more than lie perfectly still.”

Lydia bit her bottom lip to keep from calling out. “Tell me what I must do. I would please you, George.”

He contemptuously chuckled. He thought his wife prodigiously stupid. “Please me.” Wickham shook his head in disbelief. “You would please me? Not in this lifetime, Mrs. Wickham.” He jerked her chin sharply upward. “Why else would I find my pleasure with anyone but you?”

“It could change,” she said hopefully. “We could start tonight. Start over. I would do anything to make you happy.” She tentatively reached for his cheek.

Wickham caught her hand again and wrenched her arm behind her back. “I do not want to start over. I do not want anything from you except your obedience. You disgust me.” He shoved her hard—sending Lydia to the floor in a crumpled heap.

“If you touch my daughter again,” Mr. Bennet's voice filled the small room with anger, “it will be the last thing you do, Sir.”

Wickham turned angrily to where his wife's mother and father stood framed by the open door. “Mrs. Wickham belongs to me. You no longer have any say in the matter.”

Mr. Bennet stepped into the room. “Maybe not legally, but morally, Lydia is my responsibility. I will not stand idly by and watch you manhandle my youngest child.”

“Be careful, Mr. Bennet,” his wife said softly. She had buried her gasp in a handkerchief.

Lydia struggled to her feet. “I am well, Papa.” She shoved her drooping hairstyle behind her ears. “Lieutenant Wickham is upset with our treatment at Pemberley. Lizzy and Mr. Darcy were horrid to us.”

Mr. Bennet stared in disbelief at his daughter. “I suspect your sister had her reasons. Now, I think it best that you join your mother in the carriage.”

“I cannot leave Lieutenant Wickham, Papa.”

He said as a warning to his daughter, “I insist, Lydia.”

Wickham frowned. “There is no reason to insist, Mr. Bennet. My wife is welcome to stay. I will leave.” He bowed briefly to the room. “I beg your indulgence, Father Bennet. Please tell my brother Darcy that I will never forget this snub.” With that, Wickham strode from the room, leaving the Bennets and his wife gaping.

“Uncle?” Finding his mother's brother in her private sitting room had surprised Domhnall MacBethan. “What a pleasant encounter. I assume this is a simple social call,” he said cautiously. “Otherwise, my mother should have explained that I have assumed the duties of lord of the manor.” He had returned to Normanna Hall only a month prior. His father's passing had demanded that Domhnall reclaim a life he had hoped to leave behind forever.

His mother rebraided her hair as she spoke. “Me brother be aware of yer propensity to wear borrowed feathers,” she said haughtily. Since his return they had had numerous confrontations. His mother was not an easy person to love—nearly impossible, in fact, but he had respected how, despite her low connections, she had proved herself a worthy wife for Coll MacBethan. That is to say, he
had respected the woman who had given birth to him until he had read his father's most private papers. Now, a rift the size of one of Scotland's largest lochs lay between them.

Domhnall remained standing. He would not permit his uncle a point of dominance. When he was younger, he had been afraid of his Uncle Oliver. Some fifteen years older than his sister, Lady Wotherspoon, his uncle's rough nature and butcher's-block features had always intimated Domhnall. Although he stood some four inches taller than Oliver McCullough, Domhnall realized his uncle could hold his own in a struggle. Square chin. Broad shoulders. A waist equally as broad. A muscular chest. Anvil-sized arms, and mutton fists, which could easily slice through the toughest shank. Not an ounce of fat could be found on the man. Tough. McCullough's chosen occupation required such strength. Dull blue eyes and straight black hair worn shorter than the current style finished off what could not be called an ugly countenance. Oliver McCullough was a self-made man, and his pride in that fact made him a dangerous opponent.

Domhnall forced a congenial smile to his lips before saying, “As the law does not permit you to be named Normanna's lord, Lady Wotherspoon, my ascension to the title's realm following my father's passing cannot be called a ‘borrowed' affair.”

His uncle's poorly masked gesture of warning to his sister did not go unnoticed. “Yer mother saved the MacBethan name fer you,” McCullough insisted.

“And I am grateful of her efforts in my behalf,” Domhnall began, “but I will no longer require her assistance. A man may not remain attached to his mother's leading strings forever. He must stand tall.”

“A man should not desert his family,” McCullough accused.

Domhnall bit back his retort. Somehow, his uncle had weaseled his way into a welcomed position with the MacBethan household.
Domhnall wondered what his Uncle McCullough knew of his mother's “madness”—of the way she had sent them all on a ticket straight to Hell. “Tell me, Uncle,” he said through gritted teeth, “when was my father's edict regarding your presence at Normanna rescinded?”

“It be no longer Coll's house,” his mother interceded.

“No, it is mine, and I am my father's child,” Domhnall growled. “I may be the product of my father lying early on with a bastard's daughter, but I do not need to be reminded of my lineage by my mother's equally ruined family.” He had enjoyed the look of surprise on the faces of his two companions. “You see, I know the truth of your relationship,” he said bitterly. He noted how the pair flinched at his words. “I know how Lars McCullough tricked my father into marrying you,” he pointed a finger at Dolina MacBethan, the woman he called
Mother
. “And if I am to continue my father's quest of bringing respectability to this family name, and if I am to make an appropriate match once my mourning period has ended, entertaining the village butcher as an intimate will not further that goal.”

Dolina sprung to her feet. Her hands fisted at her waist. Domhnall had expected the confrontation, and he stepped forward to dominate her with his height. “Ye have no right,” she spit out the words and raised her chin in defiance.

“That is your error, Madam, for I have every right.” He held her glare with a steady gaze. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have estate business.” Domhnall turned for the door. Over his shoulder, he said emphatically, “I bid you good day, Uncle.”

Elizabeth tilted her head back and let the sun touch her face. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the wind tugging at her bonnet. The season, the scene, the air were all favorable to tenderness and
sentiment. “Thank you.” Darcy's voice spoke of his continued concern.

Elizabeth smiled contentedly, but she did not open her eyes. She trusted Darcy to see to her safety. “I gladly accept your gratitude, Mr. Darcy, and shall bank it until I do something truly horrendous.” She peeked at him through slitted eyes. This was followed by a short silence before Elizabeth began again. “You seemed to enjoy your drive here very much. I was glad you were so well entertained. You and Miss Winkler were laughing the whole way.”

“Were we?” Darcy's eyebrow rose in amusement. “Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection at what. Oh, I believe I was relating some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. The lady loves to laugh.”

“You think her more light-hearted than I?” Elizabeth accused.

“More easily amused,” he replied defensively. “I could not have hoped to entertain
you
with Irish ancestors during a ten miles' drive.” Darcy wondered if his wife tasted jealousy. Although he found it a ridiculous concept, he subconsciously preened under her watchful eye.

“Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Miss Winkler, but I have more to think of now.”

Darcy slid his arms about Elizabeth and pulled her closer. “You have undoubtedly—and there are situations in which very high spirits denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before you. Besides, you would never do something horrendous,” he said with a cautious smile.

“Of course.” Elizabeth said begrudgingly. “I am a very mild-mannered female. I would dare you to prove my temper to be anything less than genteel.”

“I imagine your sentiment correct. I could not imagine, for example, that you would ever say something such as, ‘I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.'”

Elizabeth cackled. “How is it that I am blessed with a husband with perfect recall?” She smiled brightly at him. “I would place into evidence, my dear Mr. Darcy, that you speak of another Elizabeth Bennet. The Elizabeth Darcy who shares this carriage's seat is not that invidious creature to whom you refer.” She wound her arm through his. “I know this to be the truth because the loathsome woman once known as Elizabeth Bennet could never have earned a gentleman's goodwill, and I have just accepted your gratitude; therefore, I cannot be the woman of reference.”

Darcy shook his head in amusement before kissing the tip of her nose. “You never cease to amaze me, Elizabeth. I am the most blessed of men.”

“No more words of obligation, Fitzwilliam. You are my husband. The man I esteem above all others. How could you think I would ever turn from you? You are my life.” She turned her head slightly to the left and inhaled deeply. “Do you smell that?”

“What?” he said hoarsely.

Elizabeth paused briefly. “Hope. It is in the air today. Kitty and Mr. Winkler's hope for a fulfilling life. The hope of the children nestled safely in the Pemberley nursery. The hope that protected Edward in what had to be the worst possible moment of his life.”

“And the hope that my sister will know the type of happiness that I have found with you, Lizzy.”

“Exactly. The kind of hope that says no words of thanks are necessary between a man and a woman who truly love each other.”

“I CANNOT STAY IN THIS COTTAGE ALONE,” Lydia whined. She rested her head on her mother's shoulder. “It is all Lizzy's doing. She could have persuaded Mr. Darcy if she were not so pudding-hearted.”

Mr. Bennet's expression hardened. “If you expect my assistance in this matter, Lydia, you will not speak poorly of your sister or of Mr. Darcy,” he warned.

“But, Papa, Lizzy remains jealous of my good fortune. I married first, so both she and Jane had to come after me.”

Mr. Bennet's tone sharpened. “You mimic your husband's words. Neither Elizabeth, nor Mr. Darcy, has reason for jealousy, and I would venture that holds true for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley as well.”

His wife silenced the girl by saying, “Your father has developed a fondness for Lizzy's and Jane's husbands, as I am certain he would for Lieutenant Wickham once he has the opportunity to know your young man better.”

“That is not likely, Mrs. Bennet.” He sat heavily in a nearby chair. “It is time we speak with honesty. Lydia, your actions in Brighton were injurious to your sisters. Your mother was in error to encourage your acceptance of Mrs. Forster's invitation, and I should not have tolerated the constant lamentations from you two. I realized even then that you would never be easy till you exposed yourself in some public place or other, and I could not have expected you to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to me. I deeply regret my neglect, and I beg your forgiveness for my actions and lack thereof.” His were eminently reasonable remarks, but he recognized their tardiness.