Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation (22 page)

* * * *

Mist had begun to gather around hilltops and stretch long grey fingers down the slopes towards the valley. It was raining heavily by now. The ominous threat from the low-lying clouds had turned real just as Elizabeth could spot the first cluster of cottages that, along with a handful of others, formed the small village of Kympton. The church spire peeked out of the mist, tall and pointed, so unlike the crenellated church towers of home.

Home? Where was that? Hertfordshire, perhaps. Town, most likely. But that thought was for another day. If she would only find someone to take her to the turnpike inn, otherwise she would be thoroughly drenched by the time she got there.

Part of her dress already was. The unforgiving wind and every step she took made her cloak part and flap aside, allowing the rain in, so that the dress was now soaked below the knees and stuck to her legs in ice-cold folds. The heavy bag was cutting into her right hand, and Elizabeth moved it to the other side, then tugged the cloak closer and bent her head into the wind, so that the rain slanting towards her would not drench her face quite as much as her apparel. Which was why she did not notice the two women who had just come out of one of the first cottages, and were now under the meagre shelter of the tiny porch. She only turned in surprise mingled with panic when one of them called her name.

“Miss Bennet? It
is
you. Awful weather, is it not?”

From the first words Elizabeth had recognised Miss Bradden’s voice. She sighed and stopped – there was nothing to be done about it. She pushed her hood aside a little to greet her properly, and likewise the elderly tenant of the cottage.

“Miss Bradden. Mrs Deane. Good day. Forgive me, I have not seen you there.”

“Come, Miss. Come an’ take shelter,” the latter urged, but Elizabeth was quick to decline the kind offer.

“I thank you. But I must not linger.”

“Ye know best, Miss. This ain’t gonna let up any time soon, I reckon,” the old woman replied, only to break into a racking cough.

“Oh, do go in, Mrs Deane, and keep warm,” Miss Bradden entreated. “‘Tis too cold and damp for your weak chest.”

“Aye, it helps none,” the other good-naturedly grumbled. “I’ll do that, if ye don’ mind.”

“Not at all. I should be gone. I shall walk with Miss Bennet. But I will come to see you on the morrow and I hope to find you better.”

“Bless yer kind heart,” the woman smiled and bent her knees in an attempt to curtsy at both ladies, before making her way within convulsed by another cough.

For her part, Miss Bradden covered her bonnet with her shawl, rearranged her wicker basket in the crook of her arm and left the shelter of the porch to join Elizabeth in the lane.

“I hope you would not mind some company on the way,” she said diffidently and, regardless of the truth of the matter, Elizabeth felt compelled to reply warmly:

“Not at all. I am glad of it.”

The parson’s sister smiled consciously back, still obviously ill at ease with her following Mr Bradden’s unsuccessful suit, of which she was doubtlessly well-informed, as her recent reluctance to call at Pemberley had shown.

“I trust you and your brother are well,” Elizabeth tentatively offered from behind the hood of her cloak.

She could not see Miss Bradden’s face, just heard her quiet reply.

“Yes. Yes, I thank you. He rode to Alsop in the morning and I fear he will return quite drenched. I was not expecting such a downpour either when I came to call upon Mrs Deane, but I daresay it had to be done regardless. She is not well, the poor soul. This winter has been such a trial on her weakened chest.”

“Yes, I heard her cough. Not good.”

“Aye. Mr Darcy was ever so kind to send the apothecary after Christmas, when she was in a very bad way, but ‘tis not much that draughts could do.”

They carried on through the unremitting rain in silence after that, the wind tugging at their apparel, and to Elizabeth it seemed like an age until they reached the parsonage at last. She drew breath to bid her adieus, but before she could speak Miss Bradden laid a gloved hand on her shoulder and earnestly entreated:

“Do come in to warm yourself a little, Miss Bennet. Not for long. Just for a cup of tea and a spell by the fire.”

“I thank you. You are very kind. But I must not tarry.”

The friendly hand remained in place.

“I do not wish to pry. But if you are of a mind to go further than Kympton, pray allow Wilkins to take you in the gig. ‘Tis not the best nor the fastest that could be got, but at least it has a hood that might offer some protection. ‘Tis the wrong time of year for long walks in the rain.”

Elizabeth could not help wondering if Miss Bradden had spotted the bag she was carrying. Her words gave every indication that she had, but the kindly woman made no direct reference to it, and for that she was grateful. No less for the ever so thoughtful offer. In truth, she had hoped to find a conveyance in Kympton, but not at Mr Bradden’s house. It was too much of an unwarranted imposition on that gentleman’s ill-deserved kindness and affection.

But Miss Bradden did not seem to regard it as an imposition as she insisted:

“Do come. I will get us some tea and you might warm yourself a little while Wilkins readies himself and the gig.”

It was too difficult to refuse. At least Mr Bradden was away. To Alsop, far afield. She would be gone by the time of his return, and trouble him no further.

Elizabeth pushed the hood back and put into words the gratitude that was already showing in her eyes.

“Thank you, Miss Bradden, for your generous offer. I will do just as you say.”

“Good. Very good. Think nothing of it. Let us go in.”

They did, to be promptly met by a small and rubicund older woman, her bright-red cheeks in sharp contrast to the pristine white cap and apron.

“Ye’re ‘ere at last. Ye’ll catch yer death going about in this sort o’ weather. Come in, come in. Ah. Miss Bennet too. Good to see ye again, Miss. ‘Tis too long since I’ve seen yer pretty face. Why haven’t ye come in such a length of time?”

There was no suitable answer Elizabeth could make to the kindly woman who fussed around them like a mother-hen to help them out of their wet apparel, as she thought nothing of chiding both her mistress and the guest with all the affectionate familiarity of a trusted retainer. It was Miss Bradden who tactfully intervened.

“Do you think we might have some tea, Mary?”

“Right away, Miss Harriet. An’ some spiced cakes too, if that chit, Janet, hasn’t burned ‘em yet. I were watchin’ ‘em over the stove when ye came in,” she added, thus explaining her overly red cheeks as well as the delicious smell drifting from the kitchens.

“That would be just lovely. And would you also tell Jonas to harness Nellie to the gig, pray?”

“Surely ye’re not goin’ out again in this miserable weather!”

“Not for me. For Miss Bennet. Come, let us go into the parlour,” Miss Bradden turned to her guest and opened the door to usher her into the small and very cosy room.

Elizabeth had seen it countless times before but, on this day of wretchedness and unrest, its peaceful homeliness affected her more than ever. A well-tended fire burned brightly in the fireplace and two armchairs stood before it, a workbasket next to one and a large marmalade-coloured cat curled up in the other.

At their entrance, the cat leisurely unfurled and raised its head to blink in their direction and fix the newcomer with an unfriendly stare.

“Come. Do come and warm yourself,” Miss Bradden entreated, and when Elizabeth did as bid and walked closer to the fire the cat stood and stretched, then arched its back to hiss at the intruder, before jumping off the seat with disgruntled disdain.

“Now, now, Mr Harlowe, this is no way to greet our guest,” Miss Bradden admonished, then turned to smile at her companion. “I have named him after Miss Clarissa Harlowe’s father, you see, for more often than not he is about as friendly and accommodating as that fictitious gentleman.”

Elizabeth returned the smile and could not disagree, given the welcome she herself had just received from the namesake of the ill-tempered character in Mr Richardson’s celebrated novel. She took the seat Mr Harlowe had just quitted, to be met with another reproving stare from sharp green eyes, before the discontented cat settled on the rug on the other side of the fireplace, swished his tail thrice, then curled it under him and closed his eyes again.

Miss Bradden sat in the other chair and leaned towards her basket to retrieve some needle and thread and a piece of white lawn, then settled back with her work, to hem something that looked like a handkerchief. Most grateful for the welcome and no less for the tactful silence, Elizabeth spread the folds of her wet skirts, the better to dry them, and stretched her hands towards the fire, relishing the glowing heat that sent her fingers tingling.

“Would you care for a shawl?” Miss Bradden asked. “Or are you warm enough?”

“Oh, quite. I am very comfortable, I thank you.”

Yet comfortable she was not. Not truly. She could not possibly be. The word was by far better suited to this room, with its low ceiling and pleasant, unpretentious furnishings, from the cosy chairs to the soft-hued rugs and cushions, proof of skilled and industrious hands.

Miss Bradden must have sat thus with her brother evening after evening, she with her household sewing or her embroidery, he with his paper or his work, as they exchanged their thoughts on the goings-on of the day with all the affectionate ease of deeply attached siblings.

She might have become the third in this soothing picture of domestic contentment. Safe. Welcomed. Loved. If only she had not allowed her foolish heart to become so completely ruled by Mr Darcy…

She sighed.

Miss Bradden glanced up from her work, but said nothing.

In due course the long silence was disrupted by the minor commotion of Mary bringing in the tea. She laid the tray on the dresser and busied herself with pouring and fetching, having flapped at both young ladies to sit just where they were, for she needed no assistance. A saucer with a cup of the steaming brew was placed in Elizabeth’s hands and alongside her, on a little table, a plateful of spiced currant cakes, generously spread with butter.

“There now. Eat an’ drink while everythin’s hot. Now, Miss Bennet, Jonas asks if he’s to prepare for a longer journey, or juss up the road to Pemberley.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, not knowing how to phrase her answer, but before she could decide Miss Bradden spoke for her.

“Not Pemberley, Miss Bennet has just come from there. Go, Mary, and I shall come to let Jonas know.”

The older woman nodded and was gone leaving them in further silence, until Elizabeth found the wherewithal to glance at her host.

“If Jonas could take me to the turnpike inn, I would be exceedingly obliged,” was all she felt she could safely say.

“He can take you further,” Miss Bradden quietly retorted, not looking up from her employment.

“That is most kind. But it would not be necessary.”

“‘Tis no trouble, you know. He can easily be spared. There is no need for you to break your journey at the inn. And I would rest easier if you went with him to Bakewell, rather than by post-chaise.”

Elizabeth set down her cup and vainly tried to catch the other’s eye. She conceded it was fairly easy for Miss Bradden to conclude that someone who hailed from the south and was found purposely walking through the rain with a sizeable bag would be seeking to get to the nearest southbound stagecoach. Also, Miss Bradden very likely wondered why she was not conveyed in one of the many carriages belonging to the great house, and indeed not escorted by one of its many servants.

The epitome of civility and discretion, she asked nothing of the sort. But what she had to say was equally disconcerting to Elizabeth.

“In fact, I would presume to offer him as your companion for the full length of your journey. Pray allow me to.”

Elizabeth gasped.

“Oh, no, I could not possibly– ”

It could have been a very long controversy, as both of them felt themselves in the right. In truth, it had begun so – until Miss Bradden presented her with the one argument that Elizabeth could not refute:

“Miss Bennet, had my brother been at home, he would have stopped at nothing to ensure your safety. Pray understand that I can do no less. For his sake as well as yours. How can I face him tonight when he returns, and tell him that even then, and with my concurrence, you are travelling unprotected, at the mercy of strangers?”

Effectively silenced and with a heavy heart, Elizabeth could do nothing but let the matter be thus settled. Wilkins would go with her.

Not long afterwards, Miss Bradden stood at the window, watching the gig progress at a measured pace along the road. She was still standing there long after the modest equipage had disappeared round the corner. Eventually, she returned to her seat, but not her work. For a fair while she sat staring at the fire and silently prayed. Perhaps now her beloved James would find his peace at last.

CHAPTER 19

Not many miles away, Mr Darcy vainly craved the same blessing as he rode towards the great house that lay ahead, shrouded in mist and rain. He gained the stables at last and dismounted, with a rueful pat on the stallion’s neck. A lad came out to take the poor beast’s reins and a groom followed, to call out to his master:

“Mr Darcy. Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir, but ye’re needed at the house. Miss Darcy has been askin’ fer ye this half hour an’ more.”

Darcy tiredly rubbed his eyes.

“Anything amiss?”

“Don’ rightly know, Sir. Juss that her companion’s gone missin’.”

“Missing!”

“Aye, Sir.”

The intelligence sent him striding to the house. This was beyond the pale. She
had
flung back at him, when she had bolted from the carriage, that she would leave Pemberley as soon as may be, but surely she would have had the decency to do so in some other manner, not run away without a word to Georgiana and frighten the poor girl out of her wits.

He was past caring about the common courtesy due him, and likewise the forsaking of all procedure pertaining to leaving one’s employment. The lack of a civil adieu or the failure to give proper notice paled before the earlier, weightier transgressions. But to leave Georgiana thus! Good God, how had he been so thoroughly deceived in his estimation of her character?

There was no footman at the door and Burton was also absent. A stern call of “Hello, there!” brought young Simon scurrying to greet him and ask if he would be so kind to join Miss Darcy in the morning room – she was waiting for him there.

For a moment, he was inclined to request clarifications about the unwarranted upheaval, but he dismissed the thought. He might as well speak to his sister.

He found her at the window, listening intently to whatever the second footman had to say, her fingers drumming nervously on the sill. Fresh vexation gripped him at the sight. The dear child deserved a great deal better than being left to fret so, without cause.

“Brother! Thank goodness,” she exclaimed as soon as she saw him enter. “I needed you. We have some– ”

“Trouble,” he interjected darkly. “Yes. I heard.”

“That Lizzy left?”

“They told me at the stables that she has gone missing,” Darcy replied, not trusting himself with the name.

“Yes. Read this,” she urged him, coming to thrust a folded piece of paper into his hand.

Before complying, he glanced at the footman. She did likewise. Thus, as though to reinforce his earlier reflections, Peter was faced with both his master and his master’s sister settling matching looks upon him and starting to instruct him, at almost the same time:

“Would you– ”

“Pray leave us,” Darcy was the one to finish the request.

Miss Darcy allowed him to, then added:

“Aye, pray do. Try to discover if anyone drove to Pemberley this morning, to fetch or deliver anything. She might have gone with them.”

Peter nodded and hastened out, leaving Darcy to unfold and read the letter, and Georgiana to watch him doing so. As soon as he looked up, she asked:

“Why does she say that you might be willing to explain the reasons for her departure? What reasons?”

Darcy hesitated. But she would not let up.

“You knew she planned to leave in so abrupt a manner?”

“No the manner, no,” he frowned. “I am incensed she would leave you thus. But I did know she planned to depart. And as to where she might have gone, I have a fairly good notion,” he added crisply.

“Where?”

“Lambton.”

“No, this cannot be. Miss Fenton would have mentioned seeing her on the way when she called upon me a little while ago.”

“What has Miss Fenton got to do with this?”

“A vast deal. But this is not the time. Why would you think Lizzy went to Lambton?”

“To find Wickham, I imagine,” Darcy delivered through stiff lips.

“Mr Wickham!” she exclaimed. “Why on earth would you think that?”

Darcy turned away and raised his hand to rub his temples.

“This is not a fitting subject for one of your age and innocence, Georgiana,” he said, his voice flat. “Nor a conversation that I am prepared to have with you at this point in time.”

“Heavens, Brother! My age – my innocence. Surely you are not suspecting Lizzy of having done something improper.”

“‘Tis not a suspicion,” he tiredly imparted. “Rather, the evidence of my own eyes.”

“Nonsense! What evidence?” But, when he would not answer, she pressed him with a sternness he had never heard from her before. “
What
evidence, Fitzwilliam?”

It did not fail to rile him.

“An assignation,” he burst out. “This morning, at the
Crossroads
. With no worthier a man than Wickham.”

Her mouth fell open, in what he took as shock at her former companion’s unmaidenly conduct. He was about to apologise for losing his temper to the extent of sharing that intelligence with her, when she spoke up to shock him in her turn with her wide-eyed outrage:

“You know her so little, after all this time? Think her so low? Heavens above – an assignation! How could you even think it?”

Suddenly her outrage spilled into horror.

“You have
not
taxed her with this! Have you?”

The horror deepened as she read the silent confirmation in his eyes.

“You have!” she gasped. “So this is why she could not bear to spend another moment here. Fitzwilliam, I am ashamed of you!”

For someone who had been the perfect picture of demure sisterly deference for years, she had chosen the wrong time and manner to break that good habit, Darcy scowled. He could not miss the appellation – his given name, not ‘Brother’ – any more than he could have missed her belligerent and reproachful tone. And as for saying she was ashamed of him…!

“When I am ready to be taken to task by a sister nearly half my age, I will let you know,” he replied tersely.

“Even when you are so blatantly in the wrong?”

“Enough, Georgiana! I saw what I saw.”

To his further vexation, she glowered at him.

“I am not disputing what you saw. I am incensed at your conclusions. And your readiness to believe the very worst of her. What would you believe of
me
then, when I tell you that if anyone was on a semblance of an assignation with Mr Wickham, it was I?” she shot back in something so much like defiance that it would have shocked him, had the assertion not shaken him a vast deal more.

“
You?
What are you saying?”

“That I was foolish. That I was taken in. That by now I might have given credence to Mr Wickham’s lies and followed him to my ruin, had Lizzy not stopped me. That she went into the
Crossroads
for the second time to preserve my good name, only to be challenged by Mr Wickham and then condemned by you without a hearing. This is what I am saying! And why I am ashamed of you.”

Every word fell like a red-hot blade that seared as it cut. Deeper and deeper, laying him open. Open like a gaping wound. Everything made sense now. New, horrifying sense. Yet he could not grip hold of any thought save one.

Good Lord in Heaven,
what
had he done?

* * * *

Neither knew how it came to pass, but Georgiana was now ensconced in his arms, weeping, as she disjointedly revealed more fragments of the wretched story. Weeping bitterly in his embrace, not caring that his coat was soaking wet, just relishing the comfort of his arms and the feel of his lips against her hair.

He heard little of what she was saying and registered less. She would have to tell him everything again. But not now. Not now. He had not a moment to lose. She must be found!

He broke away from Georgiana, but took her hands and clasped them in his.

“Where has she gone? Have you learnt anything?”

The dear girl drew breath, seeking to calm herself, and not quite succeeding. Her voice broke with another sob as she imparted:

“Only that she has not ordered a carriage. I sent word to the stables and they told me so. She must have gone on foot. In this dreadful weather.”

Involuntarily, Darcy’s eyes shot to the window. The deluge had not abated in the slightest. On foot! Heavens above!

“The maids, the gardeners – have they seen nothing?”

Georgiana shook her head.

“Nothing. I sent Peter, Thomas and Simon to ask, but no one has seen her. I cannot imagine where she would go. She knows so few people in the area. The Braddens are the nearest.” She frowned. “I should have sent word to the parsonage. Would she have gone to stay with them till this blew over? Or at an inn? But no, there was… finality in her note. It suggested a permanent separation. Goodness, she has not set out to Netherfield, surely! Would she?”

Darcy winced.

‘You should leave to be with your sister as soon as may be.’

Good Lord! On the stagecoach – alone and unprotected!

He let Georgiana’s hands drop.

“I must leave at once.”

“Where to?”

“Bakewell.”

“Bakewell?” she gasped. “You think she is heading to one of the coaching inns?”

“I fear so.”

“Fitzwilliam, she must be stopped!”

“Yes, dearest. I know.”

“Let me send for the carriage.”

“No. I shall ride.”

“Ride? In this downpour?”

“The very same she is walking through. It would be faster.”

“At least change your coat, ‘tis soaked already,” she pleaded.

“No matter. An overcoat would do.”

“I will not hear of it! There is time, while your horse is fetched,” she retorted with a protective firmness that brought fleeting warmth into his eyes.

She went to ring the bell and the second footman appeared with commendable haste. Darcy was just as quick to instruct him:

“Ah. Peter. Pray send word to the stables. I need to ride out instantly.”

“Yes, Sir. At once. But I came to say that we have some intelligence at last. I thought you would wish to know.”

“Intelligence? What intelligence?” Darcy and his sister spoke in the same voice.

“Some girls from the kitchens said they came across Miss Bennet a while ago. Just over an hour gone. She left by the tradesmen’s entrance. Looked like she was heading into Kympton.”

“The parsonage! Brother, let me send word to see if she is there.”

“If you wish. But she will not be.”

“You are still thinking of Bakewell?”

“Aye. Most likely. Nevertheless, go, Peter. Send word for my horse and have someone ride ahead to the parsonage anyway.”

With a nod, the young man hastened to obey.

* * * *

A groom had already left to do his master’s bidding by the time Darcy’s mount was brought to the door – just as dark as the companion of his earlier bedevilled ride over the hills, but a great deal more spirited and not in the least tired. But the groom’s modest advantage was soon lost. With his far better horse and hounded by all demons, Darcy made it to Kympton much sooner than his man expected. Thus, instead of encountering his master on the lane leading back to Pemberley, the groom had barely quitted the parsonage when he saw Mr Darcy riding into the village. He promptly swung into the saddle and came up to meet him.

“What news?” Mr Darcy inquired curtly.

“She ain’t here, Sir. I spoke to the parson’s sister. She were mightily tight-lipped to begin with, goodness knows why, but in the end owned that Miss Bennet were here for a spell, had some tea, then Wilkins set off to take her to Bakewell in the parson’s gig.”

“How long ago?”

“Mayhap a half-hour.”

Mr Darcy nodded his thanks and turned his mount about, barely leaving his man time to ask:

“Want me to ride with you, Sir?”

“No,” his master cast over his shoulder. “Go back and let Miss Darcy know what you have learned. She ought not be kept fretting. I should not be very far behind you.”

And, gripping the reins, he urged his horse into a gallop with heels and crop and an impatient “Yah!”, to thunder down the wet lane out of Kympton.