The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (53 page)

The housekeeper came to an abrupt standstill. She turned to Elizabeth, and with a smile of what appeared to be satisfaction, she said, “Mr. Holbrook was to fetch the surgeon to tend your husband. It appears Mr. Darcy fought with the butler. Your husband was stabbed with some sort of ceremonial knife. Mr. Holbrook says Mr. Darcy has lost a sizeable quantity of blood.”

Elizabeth felt her legs buckle, and she could do little to prevent herself from sinking to her knees. Darcy had been seriously injured. While she slept at her small desk, her husband had lain in a field, possibly bleeding to death. “Dear God,” her trembling lips offered in supplication. “Do not take him from me.” She swayed in place as the darkness rushed in.

“Mrs. Darcy,” the housekeeper said brusquely. “We have no time for histrionics.”

Despite wishing to rock herself for comfort, Elizabeth gave herself a sound mental shake. She bit her lip to prevent the cry of anguish on the tip of her tongue. She looked up into the disapproving countenance of the housekeeper. However, Elizabeth did not apologize; instead she managed to stagger to her feet. “What else should I know?” Elizabeth asked fearfully.

“Mr. Stowbridge sent word of his late return to Stowe Hall. In the message, he indicated that the surgeon had seen to your husband and had advised Mr. Darcy to permit Mrs. Rupp to nurse him until a coach could be sent from Woodvine. However, Mr. Darcy insisted on returning to your side.”

Elizabeth thought how like Darcy it was to recognize her concern and, therefore, place himself in danger in order to relieve Elizabeth's anxiety. “Where is my husband now? At Stowe Hall?”

“They found him on the road after he could not sit his horse. Mr. Newby is treating Mr. Darcy in a small tenants' cottage while Mr. Holbrook escorts Mrs. Jacobs to Woodvine and returns with a wagon. Tregonwell's men assist Mr. Stowbridge with the investigation and the prisoners.” The woman turned back to the path, and Elizabeth fell in step beside her. “It was thought that Mr. Darcy would prove a better patient with you in attendance.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, a smile shaped Elizabeth's lips. She could easily imagine an aristocratic Darcy barking orders to the young surgeon.
That is if he were able
, Elizabeth cautioned the knot lodged firmly in her chest. “Where is this cottage?” she asked in concern.

“One more field to cross,” Mrs. Ridgeway said confidently. “See.” The woman pointed to where a thatched roof could be seen behind an overgrown hedgerow.

Elizabeth quickened her stride. “Why in the world would they have taken shelter in such a deserted area?”

The housekeeper shrugged her shoulders. “It is the way of men to make women's lives complicated.”

Elizabeth rushed across the field, which now stood fallow. Her heart pounded in her ears from the speed of their journey and from the all-encompassing fear that surrounded her. Would she be in time?
Mr. Holbrook had said Mr. Darcy had lost a sizeable quantity of blood
. Men did not normally worry so unless danger existed. Was Mr. Newby skilled enough to stop the bleeding? What of infection? She lifted her skirts higher and quickened her pace. Soon she was running, needing to reach Darcy before it was too late.

Gasping for air, Elizabeth burst into the small cottage, nothing more than a one-room sanctuary from the cold, to discover a profound silence. Nothing moved within. Her chest heaved from her run and from the heart-stopping realization that Mrs. Ridgeway had erred somehow. She caught at the stitch of pain in her side. “Where is he? Where is my husband?” she croaked.

An arm caught her across the neck while another hand placed a large damp handkerchief over her mouth and nose. From behind her, Mrs. Ridgeway's harsh words stung her ear. “Dead. Mr. Darcy is dead.”

For a brief second, Elizabeth's mind forgot to fight. She slumped heavily against the woman who had easily manipulated her into this trap. Heaven above, she had been such a fool. If Darcy were dead, she would have no reason to live, but a small voice said clearly, “
If Darcy were dead, you would have known the instant he died
.” And Elizabeth knew it was true. Her heart would have stopped at the same instant as did his. She had felt no such doom; therefore, Darcy was alive. With the realization, Elizabeth turned her efforts toward freeing herself from Mrs. Ridgeway's hold. She knew not what the woman planned, but whatever it was, Elizabeth would have none of it.

She kicked at the housekeeper's legs, but her efforts did little to allay the woman's attack. Mrs. Ridgeway's hold tightened across Elizabeth's neck, and Elizabeth's ability to breathe lessened with each second. She had always felt at a disadvantage physically when she had confronted Mrs. Ridgeway. The woman towered over her by several inches.

She twisted against the housekeeper's powerful hold, but it was fruitless. The realization arrived: She would die, and Darcy would survive. She had rushed to save him and found her own demise awaiting her. The handkerchief across her mouth and nose reeked of a sweet apple scent.
Satan's apple. Mandragora,
she thought. At Longbourn, they had often boiled the root
in milk to make a poultice for her father's indolent ulcers, but she had always heeded her mother's warnings regarding the temptation to taste the mixture. “You girls are never to act so foolishly,” Mrs. Bennet had warned the inquisitive Elizabeth and the compassionate Jane Bennet. “Mandragora can excite delirium and madness. It can put a grown man into a deep sleep, one which mirrors death.”
Will sleep be my only circumstance
? Elizabeth wondered.
And what does the housekeeper have planned for me
?

Elizabeth felt the blackness creeping across her mind. Mandragora; yet, something more. The damp cloth tasted of something sweet. Mrs. Ridgeway pressed the cloth into Elizabeth's mouth as the woman jerked upward on the arm which lay across Elizabeth's windpipe. With a powerful grip, one well beyond that of most women, the housekeeper spun Elizabeth about before delivering an elbow across her cheek. Elizabeth's head snapped to the right, and she felt herself teetering on the brink of an unknown land. Elizabeth instinctively fought to keep her balance, to maintain her mental clarity, and to fend off Mrs. Ridgeway's attack. However, winning any of those battles was not in her power. As she spun to the dirt floor, like a leaf floating on an autumn breeze, Elizabeth wondered if she would ever see Darcy again in this world.

Darcy reined in the horse before Woodvine's main entrance. There was not a muscle in his body which did not scream out in protest, and the knife wound had opened again to burn with hell's fire. It could not be more than eight of the clock, but Darcy desperately required a bath and his bed, preferably with his wife within his arms. The young groom, whom Mr. Holbrook had described as an orphan, scrambled to catch up the horse. “Holbrook will be bringing in a wagon. I came ahead.” The head groom had secured a flat wagon in which to escort Mrs. Jacobs to Woodvine.

“Aye, Sir.”

Darcy wearily made his way up the main steps. Without the butler, there would be no one to greet him, so Darcy let himself into the manor house. The halls were deathly silent. “Anyone about?” he bellowed. Despite the fact his wife's chambers faced the rear gardens, Darcy half expected her to scramble down the stairs to launch herself into his embrace.

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Sheffield appeared on the landing. “My goodness,” his man gasped before the valet regained his composure. “Allow me, Sir.” Sheffield rushed to assist Darcy with his filthy, blood-stained jacket.

Darcy braced his arms about Sheffield's shoulder. “Where is my wife?” he groaned as they negotiated the steps.

“I have not seen the Mistress nor Hannah this morning, Sir.” Sheffield shoved upward on his master's arm, and Darcy hissed with pain. “How bad is it, Sir?” the valet asked softly.

Tightening his jaw, Darcy murmured, “Worse than I care to mention.”

Sheffield tightened his hold about Darcy's waist. “Permit me to assist you to your quarters; then I will seek out Mrs. Darcy.”

Exhausted, Darcy leaned heavily on his valet. His only thought throughout the three-mile return to Woodvine had been that he had witnessed another man die, and the smell of death clung to him. It was in his nostrils and the pores of his skin. He was not certain he would ever escape the odor.

“Did you find the butler?” Sheffield asked cautiously.

Darcy shook his head in disbelief. “Barriton is dead, and Mrs. Jacobs is badly injured. I am weary of this madness.”

His valet remained silent until they reached Darcy's private quarters. He assisted Darcy to a nearby chair. “Perhaps we should return to Pemberley, Sir.”

Darcy sighed heavily. “I am of a like opinion.” He lazily tugged at what remained of his shirt. “I will undress myself if you will arrange a hot bath and send my wife to me.”

His man bowed politely. “Immediately, Sir.”

Alone in a room he had rarely used since coming to Woodvine, Darcy wrestled the remnants of his shirt over his head before dropping it on the floor beside his chair. He glanced at the furnishings, which should have become familiar in the short time of his residence, but which suddenly felt foreign and uninviting. He had decided after his first joining with Elizabeth that he could consider any place his wife resided as ‘home'; however, Woodvine Hall had defied that concept. From the moment Darcy had entered his cousin's province, nothing of normalcy had survived. “Witchcraft and sacrifices and Egyptian treasures and murder. How can such things coexist without one seeking dominance over the other?”

He loosened the makeshift bandage Newby had wrapped about his waist to examine the jagged opening in his side. Reluctantly, he struggled to his feet to make his way to the washstand. Pouring fresh water into the basin, Darcy wet a cloth and purposely scrubbed his face with a healthy dose of soap. He badly required a shave, but he would wait until after his bath. Rinsing the cloth clean, he soaped it again. This time he dabbed at the dry blood and the rough edges of the opening of the cut. In the back of his mind, Darcy could hear his mother's voice warning him to keep an open wound clean. Once, he and Edward had climbed the old oak tree behind Pemberley, but upon their descent, Darcy had slipped to land on a sharp branch. A rip in his new breeches had earned him a swat of a switch from his stern-faced father, while the jagged cut across his thigh had brought the tender care of Lady Anne Darcy. His mother had succumbed to her illness by that time, but Lady Anne had left her bed to tend to her only son. The tiny scar on Darcy's leg was a reminder of the love he had shared with both his parents.

He looked up in anticipation at the sound of Mr. Sheffield's entrance, to be disappointed not to see Elizabeth in his valet's wake. “Do not tell me that my wife is still abed?” Darcy asked as he reached for a towel.

His man grimaced. “No, Sir.” When Sheffield swallowed hard, dread returned to Darcy's chest. “Mrs. Darcy was seen leaving the manor on foot early this morning.”

He rubbed his tired eyes as his impatience increased. Darcy warned, “Do not coddle me, Sheffield. Tell me the whole of it.”

The valet nodded curtly. “Hannah woke to find her mistress not in Mrs. Darcy's chambers. When she checked, no one reported seeing Mrs. Darcy leave the estate. Hannah assumed her mistress had stepped out for a walk.”

Darcy spoke through tight lips. “There is no need for you to invent an excuse for Hannah. I am not seeking to place blame. I simply desire word of Mrs. Darcy's whereabouts.”

Sheffield shifted his weight nervously. “Of course, Mr. Darcy.” The man's Adam's apple worked hard. “Hearing Hannah's tale, I questioned the staff below stairs. The scullery maid was the only one with news of Mrs. Darcy. The girl claims to have seen the Mistress leave Woodvine with Mrs. Ridgeway.”

“Ridgeway!” the word exploded into the room. “What the hell was this house's former housekeeper doing at Woodvine?”

Sheffield's eyes stared at a point past Darcy's shoulder, and it irritated Darcy beyond reason. “The scullery maid is distraught. She realizes she should have questioned the situation, but the girl did not think it her place.”

Darcy hissed, “What time was this? Did it appear that Mrs. Darcy accompanied the woman willingly?”

“The incident occurred when the girl first came to her duties. The maid speaks of filling the morning kettles at the well. Therefore, it must have been sometime after five of the clock.” Sheffield hesitated before adding, “I did ask the girl of Mrs. Darcy's disposition, asked her if the Mistress was upset or angry or acting oddly. From her position, the girl could not see Mrs. Darcy's countenance, but the maid reports that Mrs. Ridgeway was in the lead, and Mrs. Darcy scurried to keep apace of the woman.”