B006O3T9DG EBOK (72 page)

He reported to Darcy, “His hair has gone white. It is his most notable feature—no doubt how he managed to avoid recognition for as long as he did.”

The only other thing of note was who happened to be visiting Wickham that day.

Fitzwilliam asked, “Do you recall the companion of Georgiana’s—the one with whom Wickham first conspired...?”

Indeed, Darcy did. Neither wanted to speak of that long ago (but not forgotten) betrayal. He nodded, therefore sparing Fitzwilliam the distasteful task of repeating the particulars of it.

“Mrs. Younge,” said Darcy.

“Yes, Mrs. Younge,” repeated Fitzwilliam. “I was able to observe Wickham because he was conversing with a woman. I am quite certain it was Mrs. Younge.”

“Is her dedication to him born of loyalty or love?” Darcy observed. “Neither is wise nor true.”

Shaking their heads, neither had more to say about such an odd, lasting affair.

When they learnt that Wickham was to be tried as Alistair Thomas, Darcy, Fitzwilliam, and Bingley engaged in lengthy discussions whether it would be right to interfere with the proceedings or not. The consensus was that they would not make his true name known unless he was found not guilty of Howgrave’s murder. They would only speak if he was once again free to prey on society. As there was no refutation save Wickham’s, Darcy knew he must believe that the murder took place as Juliette described. If his letter to Howgrave exposing Alistair’s true identity was read by him, Darcy never learnt of it.

For weeks, the letter Juliette posted to Darcy, upon the days prior to those events, lay unmolested (and routinely dusted) upon the table where Darcy had left it.

It did not remain unnoticed by his wife. As Darcy continued to ignore it, in time, curiosity got the best of Elizabeth. She picked it up, looked at the seal, and (to her great embarrassment) was gratified to see that it had not yet been opened. It was peculiar that Darcy had brought it all the way back with him. It troubled her not to think of a reason why he did. (Nor did she admit to herself that when she admired her husband’s bare back that she was relieved to see it unscarred by anyone’s fingernails but hers.)

Holding the letter to her nose, she took a small whiff. Perfume still clung to the paper, a reminder of Lady Howgrave’s tenacity.

“Shall you read it?” Darcy asked.

She had not heard him approach and he gave her a start.

Turning about, she bid, “Is there a reason for me to do so?”

“Only to satisfy one’s curiosity.”

“In the tale, something untidy befell that inquisitive cat,” she observed.

He replied, “In your own home, it is my advice to do what pleases you.”

Taking a candle, she held the corner of the letter to it until it caught fire. Then, she laid it in a porcelain bowl and watched it long enough to see that it would burn. Her only regret was that the flame might mar the finish of the bowl.

Steeling herself, she said, “I beg one question and, I freely admit, it is one that is beneath me.”

The only display of concern upon his countenance was a slight furrowing of his brow.

With a slight catch in her voice, she asked, “In your time with that lady did you ever call her,
mon cheri?”

He seemed taken aback, but only for a moment. As the question hung in the air, it sounded quite ridiculous to her. Indeed, it was not only a silly inquiry, but one that was ultimately pointless. Was he to answer, however, she knew that he would not lie. Both eagre and apprehensive, she awaited his reply. His answer was succinct.

“No, I did not. I have never spoken a word of endearment—in any language—to another woman.”

It would seem that time would never be quite right for him to apprise his wife of Lady Howgrave’s scandalous request. Some incidents are so peculiar one can only set them aside; in time, to be forgotten by all parties concerned. It was Darcy’s opinion that to tell Elizabeth of that aberration would serve nothing but his conscience. He had the strength not to speak of it to her.

Their time and thoughts were much engaged elsewhere during the days of the trial in London. When Alistair Thomas was convicted of murder, the general populace, for once, came to a general agreement; all concerned believed that The Vain Violator’s sentence was not harsh enough. Soon the newspapers found other, far more important events to report. Mid-winter, the old king finally died. . Decrepit, demented, and despised, he was buried almost as an afterthought.

Epilogue

It was a crisp evening, the sort of winter’s eve that the moon shone most inviting. The house was full of people. Their time had been so taken with their guests that Elizabeth hoped to escape them for a while.

In the music room, someone played the pianoforte. It might have been a waltz. Her mood was romantic and she did not want her husband’s to be compromised by music that she knew he believed to be loathsome. Tossing a shawl across her shoulders, she took Darcy’s hand, whispering to him that she would like to take a bit of air. She was surprised that he agreed to it so readily.

They escaped onto the promenade. The air was brisk, possibly too cold to linger. She shivered. He drew her to him, the warmth of his arms quite appealing.

As she placed her cheek against his chest, he held her more tightly.

She sighed.

He stepped back, and with a slight twinkle in his eye, inquired, “Has someone come between us, Lizzy?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but laughed instead.

She answered, “Never between us—an addendum, perhaps—be it boy or girl.”

Taking her again in his arms, she was caught a bit off-balance. As a dancer, Darcy was not the most proficient. That hardly mattered. When he began to twirl her around in the steps of the waltz, he astonished her once again.

To be in his arms was pure rhapsody.

As he swept her about, she allowed her head to fall back with abandon. Closing her eyes, she was lost in that moment—and all those yet to come—dancing to only music they could hear.

The Ruling Passion, be it what it will,

The ruling passion conquers reason still...