The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery (20 page)

Ravenously, she watched the woman place the food on the usual stool, but she made no move to satisfy her hunger. “Are ye not'ungry?” the woman asked quietly. Unable to remove her eyes from the broad-shouldered hulk filling the door, she shook off the offer. The girl could tell his figure to be squat, but strong and forceful.

Finally, the woman noted her distress, and although the lady remained in partial shadow, the girl saw the frown deepen. “Donnae
be afeared of Aulay. He wudnae hurt the smallest of God's creatures. I be tellin' 'im that ye be a smart one. Aulay and I be thinkin' ye might like 'is company. Ye kin play cards or read or just talk together.”

“In the dark?” she asked hopefully, but she refused to uncurl from her defensive position.

“Nay, Child. Aulay's brother 'as given permission to move ye later today. Be gettin' you some more clothes—clean water—ye be likin' a bath, wud ye nae?”

She cautiously unfolded her legs, but did not stand. The tingling had begun again. For what she estimated to be the past two days, her legs had felt numb from lack of use. “A bath would be an exquisite pleasure. Please thank your master for the privilege.” She continued to eye the man as he stepped into the light's circle. He possessed the same intensity as the one who had taken her prisoner, but his face was softer, with fewer lines and lighter eyes. Younger. Likewise, the dark curl falling over the man's forehead made him appear less formidable.

“I'll leave the door open. Aulay and I be returnin' for ye in an'our or two.” The woman handed the man the wooden plate from yesterday's meal and the used chamber pot. “Ye be eatin'. Ye need yer strength, gel.”

“And the light?” she said tentatively. She had hated to plead for any concession from her captors, but keeping the light was more important than the food.

The woman clucked her tongue in disapproval, but the girl did not care. She needed the light to survive. “The light'll remain, gel.” She pointedly set the candle on the small table. “We'll be returnin' soon.” Then she shooed the man from the room before sweeping out the door. Good to her word, the woman left the door ajar. Cold air rushed into the room. Along with it came the rancid smell of rotting flesh.

The girl straightened before lowering her feet to the stone floor. Wrapping the blanket about her shoulders for warmth, she ignored the pungent odor. All she considered was her need to survive. She would eat the bread and cheese. She would eat for the child growing in her womb. With difficulty, she pressed her weight into her feet and straightened her knees to stand.
Easy
, she warned herself as she shuffled forward. Fiery pinpoints of pain shot through her muscles, and her right leg buckled. She reached for the bed, but the manacle held her in place, and she crashed to the floor. Twisting her torso to protect her child, her head smacked against the dampened stones; for a moment, the light increased, and then everything went dark.

“Mam!” Aulay burst into her sitting room. “Mam!”

His mother was on her feet immediately. “What be it, boy? What be the fault?”

“The gel, Mam,” he choked out the words. “I's go to git her just as you says, but she be on the floor.” He paled as he pawed her arm.

She took him by the shoulders. “What mean ye on the floor?”

“Lyin', Mam. Beside her bed,” he said with urgency.

“Be she breathin'?” his mother demanded.

Aulay shivered. “Not knowin'. I not be touchin' her.”

The woman turned on her heels. “Come along,” she ordered as she rushed from her room in the solar. She hurried past arched openings to the chapel and down the narrow muraled stairs leading from the upmost rooms of the former castle to the rooms below the cellar, those which were part of the original monastery. Aulay tripped along behind her. Her youngest son had never moved with the grace that his older brothers possessed, but he had the kindest heart of her four children. Her husband had ignored the boy—leaving her to see to Aulay's upbringing. “The boy be too soft,” he
would accuse. “And not ret in the heed.” Then Coll MacBethan would blame her, saying, “If'n ye not be a bastard's daughter, then yer chillen wudnae be ill born.” But she had shown him. Coll had used his fist on her one time too many.

Dolina MacBethan rushed into the girl's room. “Bring the candle closer,” she told Aulay as he knelt beside her. She bent her head to hear the girl's heartbeat. “She be breathin'. Go git Blane. We need to move her.”

“Yes, Mam.” Aulay clumsily staggered from the room.

Dolina lifted the girl's head into her lap. Fishing the key from her pocket, she removed the manacle from about the girl's wrist. “Wot be ye doin'?” she whispered as she brushed the hair from the girl's face. “I'll nurse you and the child ye be kering. Then ye kin marry me Aulay. He not be the smart one, but he'll treat ye well.”

Edward bedded down for the night in a second-class inn. He would have preferred to ride farther, but the rain had come down in sheets of wet blindness. He could not continue on. The thunder had reminded him of the crash of the cannons. The sixteenth and seventeenth of June echoed in his memory, leaving an indelible mark. “Not as torrential as Waterloo's prelude,” he grumbled as he stared out the room's small window. Edward could see it clearly in his mind's eye. The storm of monumental proportions had taken its toll on both armies. “Thank God the rain delayed Napoleon's approach and gave the Prussians time to reach Wellington's lines. If not, I doubt the Duke would have known success.”

He forced himself to return to the bed. “When the storm breaks, I will be on the road again,” he declared as he sought a comfortable position on the lumpy mattress. Concentrating on conjuring Georgiana's face, he attempted to drive away the horrors of those days on
the battlefield: The roar of the guns. Rain beating off his shoulders. Thunder. Misfired muskets exploding in the soldiers' faces. Flashes of lightning. The harsh smell of blood. The roar of the cannonballs. The shrill cries of fallen horses. Deadly silence. Over the years, he had seen too many men die. Fate's fickle hand had chosen who was lost, and he was sore to understand the why and the wherefore. For a few moments, the utter chaos of the day dominated his memory, but then the exquisite beauty of his wife's countenance took over his breathing; and its shallowness came from a deep desire to know her again, rather than from the bone-melting fear of battle. “I am coming for you, Georgie,” he whispered to the darkness. “Wait for me, my love. I swear that when you are once more in my arms that I will never allow anything or anyone to come between us again.”

He had remained in Carlisle only long enough to pack a change of clothing before continuing north along the London Road. He knew himself to be several hours ahead of Darcy and the clergyman, who would reportedly accompany his old enemy to Scotland. As he crossed into Gretna Green, George Wickham thought of the irony of finally entering the infamous Scottish village. Mrs. Wickham had repeatedly begged him to take her to Gretna Green when they had made that ill-fated flight from Brighton. Little did the lady know that it was a pressing need to escape his creditors rather than Lydia Bennet's charms, which had induced his speedy withdrawal.

Thoughts of those troubled hours plagued him still. One evening, having imbibed in too much drink, he had unburdened himself to his only intimate acquaintance, Lieutenant Jules Norwood. “I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time I cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge—
that because she was a guest of the Forsters she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine,
she
must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding—I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment; and I often, with great reproach, recall the tenderness, which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish—I heartily wish it had never been.”

Of course, Norwood had pressed him for details of said regrets, but even in his most inebriated state, Wickham had not elaborated on the twisted panic that had plagued him daily. When he thought of his lifelong relationship with the Darcy family, he hated the pointy little spears of jealousy that impeded his ability to breathe. The prospect of rejection had reigned supreme, and he had done everything within his power not to be found wanting. Yet, wanting he was. His critics would address him with rather an injudicious particularity. In a situation such as his, he had done everything to be done to prevent a rupture. His actions were couched only to one end. He had recently conceded, “My business was to declare myself a scoundrel; and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance. I am ruined forever in Society's opinion. I am shut out forever from their companionship; they already think me an unprincipled fellow; my actions will only make them think me a blackguard one.”

He snarled in contempt as he dismounted before a small inn. “I made a terrible error in judgment when I allowed Mrs. Wickham to convince me that Darcy would once again accept my presence at Pemberley,” he grudgingly told himself. “Darcy could never understand my world: that limbo between the working class and being a titled gentleman. Never belonging to either,” he grumbled as he handed off the reins to a waiting hostler. “But he will learn the depth of my resolve. Darcy will pay dearly for this latest slight. No one offers George Wickham a disoblige and walks away unscathed.”

AS HE TRAVELED NORTH, Darcy could not shake the feeling that he should turn around and race home—that Elizabeth needed him—that Pemberley needed him. As he followed Matthew Joseph through yet another village, he closed his eyes and pictured his wife's countenance. He could easily imagine Elizabeth's eyes—those fine eyes, sparkling and beckoning, a bit of mischief playing across her lips. His heart had engaged long before his mind accepted her reality.

Now, as he shared his afternoon meal in a small clearing northwest of Lochmaben with the clergyman, his desire remained with a sprightly figure in Derbyshire. “I had thought all Galloway cattle to be black,” Joseph noted as he unwrapped the large napkin holding the hard cheese they would share. They had observed more than one of the animals grazing on the open ranges as they crossed the Scottish Uplands.

“Nay,” Darcy said. He distractedly watched the road they had traveled. “I have seen them with coats of red, brown, and dun. They are nothing like the Aberdeens.” He accepted the knife Joseph handed him and began to slice the cheese and bread that would compose their meal.

They ate in silence for several minutes before Joseph observed, “This journey appeared prudent at the time, but I admit to feeling deprived of seeing young William throughout the day. We could be away from our families for weeks.” He paused and offered a silent prayer over the food before he took his first bite. “Will my son even recognize me upon my return?”