One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (63 page)

After the briefest possible explanation of what had transpired between Wickham and Georgiana from Darcy, Sir Vincent divulged that Wickham had been occupied in a number of fraudulent schemes, not the least of which involved eloping with young heiresses to gain access to their fortunes. In this, he was aided by a woman of questionable character—a woman who presented herself in society as a widow. Although the woman went by several names—Mrs. White, Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Younge—that they knew of, they were by no means certain of her actual identity or her current whereabouts. She was known to carry on her person immaculate but forged letters of recommendation, used to engage herself as a governess and companion—the means by which she imposed herself on families in need of such service.

It was believed by Bow Street that in Mr. Wickham's short period of studying the law, he made connections with men who are now working attorneys. Their theory was that this was the means whereby Wickham discovered young ladies of recent inheritance.

When Sir Vincent mentioned Mrs. Younge carrying on her person letters of recommendation, Darcy was convinced of the idea that Mrs. Younge was the holder of Georgiana's letter and that she was the key to resolving the matter. This thought he did not mention to the officer, however, but a glance at Fitzwilliam convinced him that his cousin had the same thought as he.

The interview with the Bow Street officer concluded when Darcy called for the butler, instructing him to facilitate the cooperation of any in the household whose testimony was of interest in the investigation. Sir Vincent, a man of impeccable timing as well as impeccable dress, departed the house just as breakfast was placed upon the sideboard in the dining room. The two men ate hurriedly, but the colonel—long used to rushed meals with his soldiers, was done and gone to obtain costumes for their adventure before Darcy's toast had even turned cold on his plate.

~*~

It was eleven o'clock in the morning when the two men began dressing in their disguises. They changed upstairs in the nursery room of the house, for the staff rarely went into that room.

When they first donned the clothing of common men, they had still not appeared common at all, despite fabrics that chafed and ill-fitting cuts of the cloth. Once they had rubbed some soot on the collars and cuffs and roughed up the elbows and knees with glass-paper, the clothing took on a more worn appearance and was marginally more convincing. They gave the same treatment to some hats and shoes that were several years out of fashion and added a thin layer of grime to their faces as well. The transformation was now complete, and they both declared that they would not recognize one another at first glance. Darcy worried that they had overdone it, but the colonel felt that they had achieved the perfect look—beneath the notice of the higher classes, but well within the spectrum one commonly saw on the streets of London.

It took a bit of practice to modify their posture adequately, and then they turned to work on their speech. Colonel Fitzwilliam was very good at it, having spent more time among those of lower ranks, but Darcy simply could not adapt well enough to convince, and Fitzwilliam finally told Darcy in exasperation to pretend that he was mute, for he would surely give them away at the first word.

They left the house through the servant's area, where delivery persons came and went during the day as a matter of course. Colonel Fitzwilliam had obtained some sacks of vegetables along with the clothes, and the two men shouldered them in a way that combined with their hats, hid their faces, and they marched directly into the basement of Darcy House from the back stairway and “delivered” the produce as they passed through to exit. They blended well enough with the bustling hive of activity that no one appeared to take notice of them, and soon they were outdoors, at the base of the stairs that led to the street.

From their vantage point below, they could see that a carriage had arrived in front of the house, and they cautiously peered up through the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the area to discover, to their chagrin, that the carriage bore the crest of the house of de Bourgh. They could see the footman at the door, announcing Lady Catherine's visit, and they could also see, in shadowy profile, the great lady herself watching the door through the carriage window.

Fitzwilliam whispered to Darcy that this would be a grand test of their disguises, and with no hesitation, he bolted up the stairs, with Darcy trudging in mock weariness behind him. “Pratt, old man, do hurry up, we do not have all day!” Fitzwilliam turned so that his back was to the carriage as he berated the man behind him.

“Bah!” Darcy waved his hand dismissively, and he hunched down a bit to let the rim of his hat mask his face. “Smythe, you goat, I will come as it pleases my feet to do so and no faster!”

In this manner of mild harassment, the cousins walked undetected, right past the carriage of their aunt, who was disappointed to learn that she had missed catching her nephew at home. As instructed, the butler reported to the footman that the Darcy carriage had departed early that morning, and he could not say when it was to return. The news was received by Lady Catherine loudly enough that Darcy could hear her put voice to her displeasure as he made his way away from her. He was thankful to note that it did not occur to her to visit Georgiana alone, and within minutes, the de Bourgh carriage rolled right past the two men, Smythe and Pratt, as they made their way to where Fitzwilliam had a hired carriage waiting.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Pratt & Smythe in London

W
hen Elizabeth awoke the next morning, although her eyes were closed, she had the distinct impression of a person hovering over her. She lay still at first, slightly panicked as she listened to the breathing, but she finally peeked through barely open lashes to discover Jane smiling above her.

“Lizzy! You are awake!” Jane sat on the bed next to her sister. “You slept so soundly last night that I was very nearly worried that something more than the wine was amiss! You made not a sound, nor did you move about in the bed as you have the past few nights.” She placed her hand against Elizabeth's forehead, “It is as I had hoped—you do not have the fever this morning. I think you may soon be well!”

Elizabeth sat up. “I do feel better Jane—not quite myself, but ever so much better than I have these past few days. Tell me—did you speak with Mr. Bingley about Caroline?”

Jane turned somber as she nodded to affirm it. After a full minute passed in silence, Elizabeth prompted Jane. “Well?”

Jane shook her head woefully. “Oh Lizzy, I was so worried about what to say to him. I went downstairs to the drawing room, and Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were there, but my dear Mr. Bingley was not there with them, so I asked Mrs. Nicholls if she knew where he had gone, and she said I might find him in his study. When I came upon him, he was—well, he was so pale Lizzy; I knew not what to think!”

“Oh no!” Elizabeth cried. “What was wrong Jane? Was he ill?” Her countenance reflected her worst fear—that she would transmit her fever to those who had cared for her.

“No, no, he is well.” Jane reassured her. “He had just come across a letter left for him by Colonel Fitzwilliam.” Jane sighed deeply. “The colonel had expressed—most apologetically—a worry that Caroline may wish to harm you. I shall not go into the particulars of what he said, but when I showed the decanter to Charles and told him what had passed between you and Caroline, as well as of our discovery, he was terribly shocked.”

“What did he do?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

“Well, at first, he was so astonished by it all that he did hardly anything. His color changed though, from very pale, to a most worrisome shade of red. I could tell that he was in every way attempting to school his feelings, but I worried that he would go into some sort of fit if he did not calm himself.” Jane blushed. “So I determined that, as his future wife, it might be acceptable, nay, advisable for me to ease his distress.”

Elizabeth giggled at that. “Jane, what did you do?”

Jane sat down in the chair at Elizabeth's bedside. “Not very much. I just reached out to him and took his hand into mine and told him that you were well, which was the most important thing, but that he must go to speak with his sister, for such behavior cannot be tolerated.” Jane looked down at her lap, as a smile erupted on her face. “Lizzy, if you could have heard what he said to me then, you would have no doubt that we will be as happy together as two people can be.”

Elizabeth shook her head, as she encouraged Jane to continue. “What did he say?”

“He said that I gave him courage, that for many years Caroline had done as she pleased—insulted him, defied him, cut his friends and spent his money, but that he had been afraid of her all his life. He said that, with me by his side, she would no longer have such power over him, and that this act against you, Lizzy, was beyond the pale. And then what do you think, but he came around the desk—very abruptly, I must say—and kissed me!”

“Oh!” Elizabeth cried, “he did not!”

“Well, yes,” Jane smiled dreamily at her sister, “he kissed me most passionately, like a soldier going to battle might kiss his beloved under the fear that he may not live to kiss her again.”

“Mr. Bingley? We are still talking about your charming and unassuming Mr. Bingley, are we not?” Elizabeth shook her head.

“And then,” Jane's eyes shone, “He marched out of the room and went straight upstairs to Miss Bingley's chamber door.”

Elizabeth listened, wide-eyed. “I do not believe it!”

Jane nodded “I followed right behind him—he was in such a state that I was afraid he might do something foolish! He pounded loudly on the door with his fist and demanded that she open it, so that he might speak with her.”

“Did she?” Elizabeth almost whispered.

“She would not open it. She told her brother to go away and come back when he was not drunk, which he was not, but judging by the sound of her voice, she most definitely was.”

“What did Mr. Bingley do then?”

“Why, he accused her of poisoning your wine and trying to kill you.” Jane replied. “He told her that he was ashamed of her and that she would answer for it sooner or later, so she might as well open the door.”

“Did she?”

“No. Charles soon discovered that she had taken every key to her room in the household, so no one can open the door. She is still shut inside, for Charles posted footmen in the hallway to alert him the moment she came out. She started to open the door but once. When she saw the footmen, she locked it again,” Jane replied. “You were very safe last night. Not only did I come and sleep in this room with you, but Charles posted footmen at your door as well. He is very angry at his sister.”

“I cannot imagine Mr. Bingley angry, Jane,” Elizabeth said with a shake of her head. “He is too amiable.”

“I expect that you cannot imagine him passionate either,” Jane smiled sweetly. “Charles loves his sister, Lizzy, but he loves me too, and he knows that when we marry, he shall have four new sisters to look out for. He already cares for you dearly and will not allow Caroline to harm you. I am certain of this.”

~*~

By two o’clock, Darcy and the colonel had made their way through over a dozen pubs and taverns with no success in finding any information on Wickham or Mrs. Younge. They were careful only to sip at their drinks in order to prevent inebriation from sabotaging their goal, although they were not entirely unaffected—the sheer number of sips amounted to a less than fully sober state—which merely added to the authenticity of their costume.

Neither man had allowed this lack of early success to discourage him, and it soon paid off—they struck a chord of resonance in Covent Garden, when the mention of the name George Wickham triggered a marked change in demeanor of some people with whom they spoke. The cousins were immediately regarded with suspicion and distrust as soon as the name was spoken.

The reactions were visceral and generally resulted in aborted conversations marked by a string of vulgar epithets, threats and gestures aimed at the intruders—Mr. Pratt and Mr. Smythe. They moved on when this happened, but it was soon evident that word of their presence in the neighborhood preceded their movements. They became increasingly aware of the unfriendly stares of the inhabitants of the street. What they could not yet discern was whether the reactions were due to a generally held animosity toward Wickham or they stemmed from a misguided instinct of his friends to protect him.

As the behavior of those they encountered changed, so did the manner of the two gentlemen. Mr. Smythe took his swagger and his voice to new heights, while Mr. Pratt became more silent and stiff as they ventured into what was becoming an increasingly hostile situation. He took to grumbling his objections at Smythe, his face dark with frustration.