The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery (22 page)

“There, there.” The woman took her hand. “Ye be safe. We let nothin' happen to you.”

The girl opened her eyes wider. The room was cleaner and larger than she had expected. “Where am I?” She attempted to sit up, but the woman pressed her back.

“Might be best not to move too quickly,” she said.

The girl sank into the soft cushions. “I am thankful for your consideration, but I would prefer to know the name of my rescuers and of my current direction.”

The woman took her hand. The warmth felt good against her chilled fingers. Yet, a warning rang in her subconscious. She could not pinpoint the exact moment that betrayal manifested itself upon the woman's countenance, but it had made a brief appearance. Her breathing shallowed in response. “We be the MacBethan family, and you be at our home in Ayr. Me oldest son is the current laird. Of course, ye know me youngest Aulay.” She gestured to a young man in his twenties waiting patiently by the door. “One of arn men found ye and brung ye to arn home. Do ye remember any of wot I tell?”

Her mouth twisted into a frown. “I recall a different room, and I remember your presenting me with a fresh gown.”

“And that be all ye remember?” The woman asked curiously. “Nothin' of yer home? Yer family befoe ye came to Normanna Hall?”

The lines of the girl's forehead met. A figure stroking her hair softly fluttered at the edges of her memory. And another of water sucking the air from her lungs. Tentatively, she said, “Only what I have previously said.” She would not speak more of the comfort the figure had given her until she knew what she faced in this house.

The woman shot a quick glance at her son. Soothing the hair from her face, she told the girl, “The room must 'ave been the sickroom. Ye be lost on the moor for some time and be in despair. We not be knowin' if'n ye wud live. The family be thankin' the gods for yer recovery.”

She stared at the woman who tenderly stroked her arm; nothing of what this woman said rang true; yet, she could not dispute the obvious. She had suffered, and she was a stranger at Normanna Hall. “May I know your name?”

“Dolina MacBethan. Me late husband, may he rest in peace, and now me son be Wotherspoon.”

“Dost thou raise sheep?” The girl inquisitively asked before she could resist the urge to know more of her surroundings.

The woman pointedly dropped her hand. “The family surname comes from those who tend the sheep. It be an honest trade. Although our fortunes are now tied to Galloway cattle. The land be not so fit for farmin'.”

The girl shoved herself to her elbows. “I meant no offense.” The woman's tone reminded her that she would need to guard her impulsive tongue.

As she watched, her hostess purposely smiled. Yet, the gesture did not appear genuine. “Of course, ye not be offering an offense. Ye be part of the family. Or very near to being so.”

Suspicion returned, but the girl schooled her tone. “I am a part of the MacBethan family? When did that happy event occur?”

“It not be official.” The woman straightened her shoulders. “Ye have accepted Aulay's plight, and we planned a joinin' in a week or so. As soon as ye be regainin' yer strength.”

“I am to marry Aulay?” she said incredulously. “How can that be? Until a few hours ago, I held no memory of your son. He is a stranger to me.”

Dolina turned quickly toward the door; she shooed her son from the room. “I be givin' ye time to remember yer promise to this family, Lady Esme, and yer lack of gratitude for our takin' ye to our bosom.”

“Lady Esme?” The girl called after her. “Is that my name?”

The woman turned to level a steady gaze on her. “Of course, it be yer name. Ye be Lady Esme Lockhart, and ye be Aulay's betrothed.”

“Mam?” Aulay whispered in concern once they were well removed from the closed doorway. “Wot have ye done? She not be Lady Esme Lockhart.” He gestured toward the room where they detained the girl. “She no more be Lady Esme than I be Domhnall.”

Dolina shushed his protest. “Didnae ye hear the gel? She cannae remember her own name. We kin create the perfect mate fer ye. Do ye not comprehend? I knows ye be slow, but it must be as plain as the lines on me face. She cannae rescind her agreement without jist cause. It not be the 'onorable thing to do. Besides, when the gel recalls the bairn she carries, then she'll be glad to 'ave a man who'll accept another's child.”

“But we be tellin' her the truth?” he insisted. “We tell the gel of'er real family?”

His mother rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Certainly, we'll tell the gel of 'er roots. But for now, she be Lady Esme.”

Unsure of his destination, he had raced from the scene. He had taken what he had thought to be a clear shot, but the clergyman had swung into his sights just as he had squeezed the trigger. When Darcy had charged his position, Wickham had gloried in the possibilities. For years, he and Darcy had fenced their way through life, each besting the other to infinitesimal degrees. Although he had not anticipated a close-quarters confrontation with the man he had despised for his entire life, he had welcomed the opportunity to bury his fist in Darcy's perfect countenance.

“Despite the officious prognostications, we were evenly matched as youths,” he told himself. “But he would rue the day he paid for my commission. While the great Fitzwilliam Darcy leads the easy life of a country gentleman, I train for war. While Darcy dines on the best of Pemberley's fare, I make do with the less-than-stellar efforts of Mrs. Wickham. I would hold the advantage in such a battle.”

Realizing that Darcy had not given chase, Wickham pulled up on his horse's reins. Looking behind him once more for security, he drew in a deep breath. “It is not likely that Darcy did not recognize me,” he reasoned. “And as the man has never felt the wine of common decency towards me, he will not rest until he sees me on the gallows.” He dismounted and walked his horse to permit the heavily lathered animal to cool. “I may be required to appreciate Mrs. Wickham's presence, after all. In such a case, Mrs. Darcy would likely intercede with her husband in behalf of her sister. I will keep Lydia in mind if I have no other options. ”

He led the horse to a secluded copse where he found a place to rest his saddle-beaten body. “Where should I go from here?” he wondered aloud. “I
should
return to my duty post, but sitting and waiting for Darcy's accusations is not in my nature.” He watched the road from his hiding place. “What will Darcy do next, and how much time do I likely have before he comes searching for me?”

Wickham carefully considered both questions. Quickly, he deduced that Darcy must first tend to the clergyman. “If I killed the man…” Wickham shivered from the possibility. He really had not wanted to kill Darcy, and especially not an innocent. All he had wanted was to inflict pain on Darcy—to make his old foe suffer—to wound the man's perfection.

“If I killed Darcy's traveling companion,” he forced himself to think only of the immediate crisis, “Darcy will have to arrange for the man's funeral and the return of the clergyman's remains. That will delay Pemberley's master from leading a search. It gives me time to escape.” With a deep breath, he settled his nerves. “Even if the man is simply wounded, Darcy will feel obligated to tend to his friend's recovery.” It hurt Wickham to think of Darcy having developed a friendship with the young minister. He had once claimed that position in Darcy's life, but his own jealousies and the foolhardiness of his father's shortcomings had doomed Wickham from the start. “I could have a week or so to make my retreat,” he reasoned.

He found the flask he had stored in his inside pocket and took a restoring draught of the liquid. “I require funds,” he said as he wiped his mouth on the back of his glove. “More than I could get from a penny card game. But whence?” Wickham returned his gaze to the empty road. “Darcy,” he grumbled. “You remain the bane of my existence.” Silently, he sipped on the warm liquid as he contemplated his options. “If you are the crux of my problems, you should also
be my redemption,” he told the silence. Striding toward the waiting horse, he made an impetuous decision. “Alpin Hall and the lovely Mrs. Fitzwilliam await. The lady is expecting a husband, and I am willing to serve in the Major General's stead. Plus, there is plenty of silver and riches to support my urgency for funds. Even if Georgiana drives me from the property, I can make my presence felt in the night's secrecy. I can be in and out of the estate before Darcy turns north.” Hurtling into the horse's saddle, Wickham turned the animal toward the northern shires. “Let us see what Darcy's family has to offer a weary traveler.”

“I need a surgeon,” Darcy shouted as he rode into the inn yard. Matthew Joseph slumped heavily against his aching arms, but Darcy had refused to relinquish the man's care to a country simpleton. He had purposely ridden toward Dumfries because the Scottish town was large enough to host several competent physicians.

“What be the trouble?” A gruff-voiced hostler demanded.

Darcy eased Joseph's body forward. “We were attacked by a highwayman,” he growled. Several others rushed forward to catch the horse and to lift Joseph's limp form from Darcy's grasp. “I require a room, and send someone for a surgeon. My traveling companion has been shot.”

Motioning for a stable hand to fetch medical care and for the men to carry Joseph inside, the same hostler said, “Who might ye be?”

“A man with a full purse,” Darcy snapped. “Now, get out of my way.” He shoved the man from his path and followed the men carrying the silent Matthew Joseph into the inn.

Not certain whether her experience had been a dream or reality, Georgiana eyed the woman whose features remained undefined. Should she trust the woman or not? Unfortunately, despite her qualms, she had accepted her need for the lady's assistance. “My leg,” she moaned through dry lips.