Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation (19 page)

She rummaged in her reticule looking for her coin purse and, once found, she carefully checked the contents. Enough? Just about. No. Nearly two shillings short. Perhaps the kindly Mr Howe would extend her credit. Or she could ask Georgiana to assist her and cover the difference till their return home. It was not the most comfortable choice, but the dear girl would not mind. She would know the book would please her brother.

It was only then that she suddenly noticed the little shop had gone very quiet. Miss Fenton was no longer to be heard, nor could she be seen, and neither could her friend.

The book still in her grasp, she walked to the front of the shop. No one was there apart from Mr Howe, who smiled and cast her a benign glance over his spectacles.

“What have you found today, my dear Miss? Ah, I see, one of my treasures. Would you like to purchase it?”

“I would. But perhaps a little later. Have you any notion what might have become of Miss Darcy and Miss Fenton?”

“Aye, they walked out a little while ago. Miss Darcy wanted to find you and let you know, but Miss Fenton said I could just as easily convey the message. They went ahead to the linen-drapers’.”

“Oh. Very well. I shall follow them directly.”

“And the book?”

“If you would be so kind to keep it for me for a little while…?”

“Of course. No trouble at all, for such a discerning young lady. ’Tis not as though there is a crowd at the door, clamouring for it,” the elderly gentleman winked, stretching out a wrinkled hand to take the volume, then he smiled again. “Pray pardon an old man’s teasing, Miss Bennet. Of course I shall keep it for you. Or you could take it now and send someone from Pemberley to reimburse me at your convenience. Unless you want it added to the family’s account?”

“Nay, not that,” she replied swiftly. “As to the other option…” she quietly pondered for a moment, but did not have the leisure to decide. Peter, the second footman, came in and stopped before her with a bow that could not quite conceal the look of mild vexation in his countenance.

“Ma’am. Pray pardon the intrusion. Might I have a word?”

“Of course. What is it?”

Peter’s look of vexation grew more noticeable still.

“‘Tis Miss Fenton, Ma’am. She instructed us to return to Pemberley, said she would drive Miss Darcy and you home. But ‘tis not her I take my orders from and as I could not ask Miss Darcy, I came to find you. Should we go, Ma’am?”

Elizabeth’s patience with Miss Fenton was by now running thin.

“No, of course not. But why could you not ask Miss Darcy?”

“Miss Fenton came out to say she was not to be disturbed and gave us our marching orders.”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. Miss Fenton was taking a great deal upon herself.

“I fail to see what can be so engrossing at the linen-drapers’,” she muttered, and instantly regretted it. This was not Longbourn. It would not do for her to be grumbling with a Pemberley footman.

But Peter was quick to reply.

“They’re not at the linen-drapers’, Ma’am.”

“Where, then?”

“The
Crossroads
.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“The inn?”

She could not help feeling this was not altogether proper, and the look of vague discomfort in Peter’s countenance told her that he shared the sentiment.

“Aye. Miss Fenton said they went in for a cup of tea.”

With a quick apology to Mr Howe, Elizabeth took her leave of the elderly bookseller and left the shop with Peter on her heels. The
Crossroads
was straight ahead and she swiftly crossed the busy main street teeming with carts, cattle and hawkers peddling their wares. She headed to the low front door, but Peter laid a guiding hand on her elbow.

“They’re this way, Ma’am. Round the corner. The side entrance.”

He showed her the way and pointed at a narrow wooden staircase leading to the upper floor and Elizabeth took to the stairs, stopping halfway to ask what had become of the carriage and the coachman.

“They’re down the side road here, Ma’am. Joseph stayed with the horses.”

“Good. Pray rejoin him, I will come to find you shortly,” she swiftly instructed and hastened up to open the door wide and make her way within.

She found herself in a smallish private parlour, the only occupant of which was Georgiana, and Elizabeth gave a sigh of relief.

“I am so pleased I found you,” she smiled at her friend. “I was beginning to fret. Especially when Peter said you were at the inn. And where is Miss Fenton?”

“At the linen-drapers’, I imagine. But I thought by now you would know where to find me. Mr Wickham offered to send word when he left to make arrangements for the carriage.”

“Mr Wickham!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “What has he got to do with it?”

“He came up while we were having tea. Said he was in the taproom and was most glad to learn we were in Lambton– ”

“Was he!”

“Aye, he said… Oh, Lizzy, he seemed most distressed when he told me there is something very particular I must learn. Something of great import to my brother and their chances of a reconciliation. There is this lady I should see, who would tell me everything there is to know about what lies at the heart of their misunderstanding. He offered to take me to her– ”

“Alone?” Elizabeth cut in, panic and a surge of anger rising in her.

“No, of course not. You were to come with us, someone went to fetch you.”

“No one came to fetch me, Georgiana,” Elizabeth said with great emphasis. “No one but Peter, who told me that Miss Fenton sought to order our carriage away. I know not what they are about, she and Mr Wickham, but no good can come of it. We must leave here at once!”

“You think so?”

“Yes. Now. Come!”

She all but dragged Georgiana to her feet and they both rushed out of the little parlour and down the wooden stairs. Breathless with panic rather than the trifling exertion, Elizabeth looked up and down the side road for their carriage and, to her vast relief, she spotted Peter, one arm raised in the air to catch her eye. He jumped off the coachman’s seat and opened the door for them as they hurried to the safety of their conveyance, mud squelching underfoot.

Georgiana had barely made her way within when she spun around in her seat.

“My pelisse. And reticule. They are still in the parlour. Peter, would you fetch them?”

“No matter,” Elizabeth waved with energy, while the young footman stood nonplussed, not knowing whether he should obey his master’s sister or the lady charged with her welfare. “They are not worth tarrying for. We must take you home, Georgiana, as soon as may be.”

“You are frightening me, Lizzy. Surely there is no danger. Not in the middle of Lambton. Look how busy the place is.”

“The road to Pemberley is not,” Elizabeth retorted tersely. “I will not draw an easy breath until you are returned there. Come!” she urged again and made to get in, only to stop short, a foot still on the ground. “Wait!” she abruptly veered from her course, in response to a sudden thought. “Your reticule. Does it contain anything that might mark it as yours?”

“I… believe not. Let me think what I brought along.” She narrowed her eyes, seeking to remember, as she quietly enumerated: “Handkerchief… coin purse… perfume… pencil… gloves… No, I do not think… Ah! There is something. My pocket book. In my pelisse. It would have my name on it. Why does it signify?”

“In the wrong hands it could be used to tarnish your good name. It has no place in an inn’s private parlour.” She fully stepped out of the carriage. “It must be retrieved.”

“Lizzy! Not by you. Peter can fetch it.”

“Peter must take you home. Now,” Elizabeth enunciated and turned to the footman. “Pray tell Joseph to drive to Pemberley at once and stop for no one. On no account whatever. Run them over if need be,” she added grimly, but she had barely ceased speaking when her friend forcefully protested.

“I am not leaving you behind,” Georgiana declared with a mien so strongly reminiscent of her brother in his most resolute moments that Elizabeth found it comforting, little as she cared just then for further controversy and delay.

She reached to press her dear friend’s hand.

“Pray do not fret. I will be well.”

“But how will you get home?”

“A hired chaise from the
Crossroads
. You can send the carriage back to meet me on the way.”

But Georgiana crossed her arms over her chest.

“Peter should go. We will wait,” she said, and at that Elizabeth rather lost her temper.

“For God’s sake, go! How do you imagine I could face your brother if you came to any harm? I will be safe. No one would waste their time making designs on
me
. You are the one who must be kept safe. At Pemberley. Enough of this now. Leave, I beg you!”

She slammed the carriage door shut, signalled to Peter to take his place at the back and told the coachman to drive on. Joseph obeyed and the equipage rolled away at last, to Elizabeth’s unspeakable relief. She raised her hand in a wave of reassurance to the dear girl who was still peering back from the window and, as soon as the Darcy carriage rounded the corner, Elizabeth hurried across the road to fulfil her self-appointed task.

There was no sign of either Mr Wickham or Miss Fenton, and she climbed the staircase at a run. She walked into the secluded parlour and cast around for the items she was seeking.

The pelisse was carelessly draped over a chair, with the reticule beside it. She gathered them both and looked about.

There was nothing else. No personal belongings alongside the tea things left in some disarray over the table. Nothing incriminating on the windowsill, nor on the three dressers and the–

Her head shot up at the sudden sound of footsteps ringing loudly on the wooden steps. She squared her shoulders, hoping it was some servant girl coming to clear the refreshments tray, but very much fearing it could be Mr Wickham.

As rotten luck would have it, it was not a servant girl.

CHAPTER 16

“Awfully sorry, but she cannot be found. Still, I believe– ” Mr Wickham began as soon as he came through the door, only to stop short, his glance sweeping over the small room. “Oh. Miss Bennet. But… is Miss Darcy not with you?”

“She is not.” Elizabeth retorted curtly, and could not quite resist the temptation to ask, “Who cannot be found, Sir?”

The man was unruffled.

“Miss Fenton. She seems to have vanished without trace.”

“Indeed? I thought her at the linen-drapers’.”

“Is that where Miss Darcy went as well?”

There might have been a great deal of satisfaction in disclosing Georgiana’s true whereabouts, but not quite as much prudence. Whatever Mr Wickham might have sought to achieve in weaving his tissue of lies, he could not hope to bodily prevail over Peter and Joseph. Still, he was best kept in Lambton rather than following the carriage. Elsewhere in Lambton, that is, not closeted here with her, Elizabeth determined and spoke up.

“Either that or the booksellers’. I was about to join her. You can escort me if you wish,” she casually offered as she walked to the door.

He was not so easily deceived. The door was pushed back on its hinges and Mr Wickham leaned into it to press it shut.

“A cold day, this,” he drawled. “Too cold for young ladies to be wandering about without, say, a pelisse,” he nodded meaningfully towards the selfsame item she was carrying. “Come now, Miss Bennet, your little game is up. Where is Miss Darcy?”

The too close proximity was decidedly unnerving. Elizabeth stepped back and attempted a nonchalant shrug.

“Quite obviously not hiding under the table, but do feel free to check the closet. Now, kindly step aside.”

He made no move, other than to cross his arms over his chest.

“Why do you interfere in matters you do not understand?” he asked, and there was quiet menace in his subdued tones.

She pursed her lips. The mask was slipping – it had slipped off already. The unassuming gentleness of manner, the amiable smile were gone, to reveal the chilling malice underneath. She had lent credence to Mrs Reynolds’ words, but it was frightfully easier to see their truth now, when faced with their living embodiment. He did look like a man with a bad name. A man who had turned very wild indeed. A dangerous man, especially when thwarted in his purpose.

Fear crept, but she would not allow it to take hold and cripple her defences. She looked around her. A sparse, functional room, with very little furniture and just one door – currently blocked. The window – closed, and overlooking a quiet side street. A meagre selection of movable objects, none of much use as a deterrent. Tray. Teapot. Candlesticks. Some chairs – probably too heavy to be lifted and employed with any effect. The glitter of a thin blade – a pen-knife next to the handful of quills on the writing desk. An option. Feeble perhaps, but less so than the rest.

Elizabeth ambled casually towards the desk and leaned against it, a hand behind her as though for support. She reached. Carefully. And tossed her head back in a show of disdainful unconcern as she spoke up to distract him.

“What do I fail to understand, Sir? Pray enlighten me.”

He did not reply, just kept watching her. She stopped trying to reach behind her for now and spoke again.

“What I do understand is that you had no business to endanger Miss Darcy’s good name. Your benefactor’s daughter, I might add. The man whose memory you would bless for as long as you live.”

Mr Wickham snorted.

“And there we have it. The moralising governess.”

“Lady’s companion,” she corrected, as she dared reach a little further. Her fingertips brushed over the quills and she felt some sliding from their place. She could only hope he had not noticed.

“Should you not do your office then, and keep your lady company? Incidentally, you still have not told me where she is. But I assume you have parcelled her off to Pemberley already, haven’t you? In some haste, I’d wager, if she left without her things.”

“Why is that any concern of yours, Mr Wickham?”

He ignored her question and darkly observed instead:

“Nor have you told me why you saw fit to meddle.”

“Should I have stood by perhaps, and colluded to abduction?” Elizabeth replied, her anger mounting. Yet, provokingly, he laughed.

“She would have come willingly enough. Goodness me. Abduction! This is what a steady diet of Gothic novels does to you.”

“Then what would you call it?”

He shrugged.

“Inducement into matrimony.”

“Through compromise,” she seethed. “Lured away without a chaperone, under false pretences. Or are you seeking to make me believe that the lady she was supposed to see was anything but a fabrication?”

“You would be surprised. She was quite real.”

“What of her stirring tale?”

“That was for Miss Darcy’s ears. But since you are so keen to listen to good stories, how about this one? What say you of a gentleman who thought himself very grand indeed and awfully noble as he went about giving false hopes?”

“What false hopes?” Elizabeth inquired to keep him talking as she reached further back and a little to the left, to be finally rewarded with the feel of a cold blade under her fingertips. She slid them sideways to brush against the handle and tease it closer, yet still not close enough for a firm grip.

“Hopes of a future that would mirror the expectations I was given,” Mr Wickham snarled. “Pray tell me, what was it but cruel mockery to raise me on an equal footing with his son and lead me to believe he valued me – valued my company, a great deal more than his – only to have the last laugh and destine me for a parson’s lot, to bow and scrape before the young master for the rest of my miserable life?”

The fingertips worked ceaselessly, teasing the handle closer by the thinnest increments on an inch, until at last she was assured of a fairly good grip. She pulled it closer still, careful that it should not clatter on the surface of the desk, and drew it behind her back, clasped tightly in her hand. And then she allowed herself the unwise luxury of a candid opinion.

“Perhaps the late Mr Darcy need not have troubled himself to give you a gentleman’s education,” she scoffed. “It seems a sad waste anyway.”

Provoking him was sheer folly, Elizabeth berated herself all too late when, instead of leaning casually against the door, Mr Wickham came to tower over her with a fierce scowl and his fists clenched.

“Perhaps he
should
have known better and kept out of my way. And the same goes for you. Oh, leave that toy alone, girl! I am in no humour to form designs upon your virtue, and if I were, a pen-knife would not stop me. Now, I would like to wring your pretty little neck, but it would be a nuisance to dispose of the body,” he sneered with cold sarcasm, then jerked his head towards the door. “Get out of my sight before I begin to think it would be worth the trouble. Be off, I say! Get out and hurry back to the pigeon coop.”

Elizabeth did not wait to be told again. Still clutching at the reticules, she dropped the pen-knife from her grasp, dashed past him and flung the door open, to clatter down the stairs without a backward glance, nearly tripping over the folds of Georgiana’s long pelisse, still thrown over her arm. He must have stood to watch her go, for the slamming of the door rang behind her only when she had reached the corner of the building.

That was also when the delayed shock caught up with her. Her breath came in loud, uneven gasps, and she leaned against the stone wall for support because her knees were shaking.

Deep breaths. Long, deep breaths to calm herself, before she had to summon the courage to make her way into the inn proper and ask for a post-chaise.

She burst into a nervous giggle. After the last encounter, nothing could unnerve her. Not even walking unescorted into the taproom of a country inn.

She straightened and tightened her hold around the armload she was carrying, then walked on. The noise of the carriage rolling to a stop beside her barely caught her notice in the surrounding din, but the crest did. Goodness, had she been waylaid by Mr Wickham for so long that Georgiana had already had the time to reach Pemberley and send the carriage back for her?

The door opened with a sudden jerk, and placid surprise gave way to boundless joy. This carriage had not come from Pemberley. It was larger, mud-splattered and above all, not empty. By the time it had drawn to a complete standstill, Mr Darcy was already out. He briefly touched his hat in greeting and stretched his hand, palm up. Then remained waiting, his back as rigid as a well-trained footman’s. He handed her in without a word, followed, and closed the door.

The only words that passed his lips were, “Drive on, Morgan.” The only glance in her direction – dark and brief. Then he turned towards his window, and she to her shattered joy.

* * * *

He could not trust himself to speak, nor look at her. Uncivil, but so be it. It was either that or red-hot rage. He had given her his heart, his trust, was about to give her everything – only to find her on an assignation with Wickham, of all people.
Wickham!

The nightmarish journey had brought him into Lambton a short while ago, to the unspeakable relief of spotting the rogue climbing the side stairs to the upper parlour of the
Crossroads
. Which, the good Lord be praised, meant he was nowhere near Georgiana, at Pemberley or elsewhere.

A careful scrutiny of the carriages clustered around the inn had given further reassurance, for none of them bore the family crest. So at long last, after too many gruelling hours, fear’s grip had begun to slacken and he had sunk into the cushions, his chest expanding with the first unhindered breath he had drawn since reading Georgiana’s letter. Nor were his fingers drumming on his knee any longer in exasperation at the throng of carts and people cluttering the narrow road and slowing his progress. Slowing it to a halt eventually, right into the thick of it, where a large waggon and several overloaded carts were at a standstill, with crowds milling about and loud, persistent braying compounding the commotion.

He had half-heartedly leaned out for a glimpse into the cause of the disturbance, although the noise was sufficient indication. The bucking donkey could easily be spotted and likewise the irate peddler, cursing eloquently as he tugged at the taut rope. His efforts had no effect whatever as regards the bucking and the braying, nor could they prevent his wares from rolling out of the panniers onto the muddy road. Expletives poured, each more rounded and descriptive than the other, and over the ear-splitting din Darcy could hear his coachman apologising for the vexing delay.

“Not your doing, Morgan. Rest easy and take your time,” he had called back, settling in for the wait with all the patience he would not have felt, had he not spotted Wickham at the inn ahead.

The wait had not been overlong. More curses and the liberal use of a cane had finally coerced the donkey out of the way and a couple of bystanders had come to lend a hand, subdue the wretched animal and retrieve the scattered wares. The surrounding carts had jolted into motion to squeeze past each other, and the carriage had cautiously followed suit.

Not a long wait. Yet long enough to deal the crushing blow. Elizabeth – his Elizabeth – leaving Wickham’s parlour at a run. Stopping to draw breath. Laughing to herself. Not at Pemberley, where he had thought her, but here. At the inn. On an assignation. With
Wickham!

His fist clenched on his knee and he gritted his teeth with jaw-breaking force, rocked to his core by the vilest admixture of overwhelming hurt, fury and revulsion.

How
could
she?

Of all the men in all the world!

How could she?

* * * *

The silence was oppressive. The tension – unbearable. For some minutes now, having left the bustle of Lambton’s main thoroughfare, the carriage was progressing briskly past the last few cottages on a much quieter stretch of road. And still he had not said a word. Would not even look at her, but kept staring fixedly out of the window, jaw tightened, fist clenched on his knee. Clenched so tightly that the knuckles had turned white.

Never before had she seen him so angry, not once, and her heart broke for him. What made it a thousand times harder to bear was the knowledge that he was angry at her. So angry that he could barely greet her. Without a word there either, just a brief touch to the brim of his hat.

Much as it pained her, the chilling anger was deserved in no small measure. It was her duty to keep Georgiana safe, and she had very nearly failed her. Failed him. She had no business to allow Mr Wickham to call as frequently as he had – no business to let him call at all. Her instructions had been perfectly clear as far back as the summer. To keep themselves to themselves at Pemberley in Mr Darcy’s absence. She had no business to enjoy listening to Mr Wickham and secretly delight in glimpses of Mr Darcy as a boy. Foolishly grasp at a privilege that was not hers, instead of doing what she had been engaged to do. Look after Georgiana’s interests. Sharpen her ears and her senses to detect deceit and peril. See Mr Wickham for the schemer that he was, see through his ploys and vengeful designs sooner – a vast deal sooner.