The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (61 page)

Darcy permitted the conversation to dwindle. What was there to say: Soon the Stowbridges would either kill him, or he would be the victor. He stared off over the lawn marking the entrance to the village cemetery. It was serene in its own way, composed and inviting. Darcy would enjoy the opportunity to explore the gravesites in the daylight—not because he feared being alone with the dead, but because he found reading gravestones an amusing pastime. Some stones simply announced the person's name and the dates marking the deceased's lifespan. Others were more prophetic epitaphs: A Good Life Is Rather to Be Chosen Than Great Riches; Be Kind to the Old, They Are Not Long with Us; and Sunshine Fades and Shadows Fall But Love and Memories Outlast All.

When he had read these words on the stones in a Lincolnshire cemetery shortly after calling upon the family of yet another of his father's boyhood friends to pay the Darcys' respects, Darcy had considered his short life and what he had
wanted his own marker to say of him. Naturally, his first thoughts were to choose an appropriate verse that would reflect his life, but Darcy quickly rejected such superficial sentiment. Instead, he had chosen something simpler: Fitzwilliam Darcy ~ Son ~ Brother ~ Husband ~ Father ~ Master of Pemberley.

Only one of those appellations remained unfulfilled, and Darcy sadly realized he might never look upon the angelic countenances of his children. The thought brought a deep sadness, so he closed his eyes to summon forth Elizabeth's image. He prayed that someone had discovered her or that his wife had managed to make her way to safety on her own. If so, anything he suffered would be worthwhile.

“You are early,” the woman's voice broke the silence.

Expecting to see Stowbridge, Darcy opened his eyes to find another familiar face.

“You said nine of the clock,” Merrick Gaylord said without emotion. “Did all go as you planned?”

Mrs. Stowbridge stood on the highest level of the stump. “Everything except the fact that Loiza discovered me at the cottage before I could finish with Mrs. Darcy. My husband expects me to meet him at the assembly hall.”

“The man has never truly understood you, Areej.” It had not slipped Darcy's notice that Gaylord held an unusual-looking gun pointed at Darcy's chest. He automatically thought of the gun his cousin had described when the gelding had died. Had he accused the gypsy band in error?

Darcy was careful to make no rash moves. He knew little of Gaylord's personality, other than to know from the beginning that he did not trust the man. Obviously, his instincts had been accurate.

“Is there enough in the box for us to leave?” Gaylord asked as he watched Darcy carefully.

The woman descended slowly. “The money is no longer relevant,” she announced. “Within hours, all lanes of escape will be closed to us.” She stopped beside where Darcy remained seated upon one of the lower steps. “Drink the water, Mr. Darcy,” she instructed.

“What happens if I refuse?” Darcy asked suspiciously.

The woman snorted her contempt. “You will die. Your only chance to survive this ordeal is to drink the water and hope your friends discover you in time to save you.”

He shook his head in denial. “I think I would prefer to have Mr. Gaylord shoot me. A substantial portion of arsenic would bring me a long, agonizing death. I choose the quicker method.”

An ironic laugh filled the air. “Who says the water contains arsenic?” Mrs. Stowbridge picked up the jar, removed the cork, and thrust it under Darcy's nose. “Do you smell arsenic, Mr. Darcy?”

Despite his best efforts to remain unaffected by the woman's taunt, Darcy sniffed at the jar's opening. He had expected no odor and found none, but his action had proved his fear to the satisfaction of Mrs. Stowbridge. “I refuse the offer just the same,” he said without emotion.

Mrs. Stowbridge knelt beside him. She touched the jar's lip to his. The woman whispered bitterly. “We could bind you and pour the liquid down your throat, Mr. Darcy.”

“You could,” he responded matter-of-factly. A brittle silence descended.

The woman smiled wickedly. “Permit me to explain the situation so you might comprehend the extent of your choice. If you choose not to comply, I will send Gaylord to the cottage. He will kill Mrs. Darcy before your wife can recover from the opiate you administered to her. Of course, he will enjoy himself with Mrs. Darcy prior to seeing your wife to her grave.” Darcy's gut twisted with the woman's direct threat.

His mind raced. What was the possibility that Elizabeth had found her escape? Could his wife remain unconscious upon the undressed mattress? Could they both lose their lives on the same day? Could he knowingly permit his wife to be exposed to danger? Yet, if he drank the arsenic, Darcy would hold no hope of escaping this quandary.

“As you wish, Mr. Darcy.” The woman had taken his indecision as a refusal. She stood to address her accomplice. “Mrs. Darcy is not to leave the cottage,” she ordered. “And Merrick,” she added, “when the lady protests, inform Mrs. Darcy that her torment is courtesy of her husband's cowardice.”

The steward nodded his understanding. He strode toward his waiting horse. Darcy's heart clenched with panic. “Wait!” he yelled. To Mrs. Stowbridge, he asked, “How do I know you will not execute your threat after I drink the poison?”

“You do not,” she said coldly. “You must pray that your friends will pursue us before Mr. Gaylord can act. Or you must trust my word when I say I hold no desire to see Mrs. Darcy suffer on your behalf.”

With a hand which trembled despite his best efforts, Darcy reached for the dark, irregularly shaped jar. He closed his eyes to murmur a simple prayer, asking God to protect Elizabeth and Georgiana and his tenants at Pemberley. He thanked his Maker for his many blessings. With a throat-clearing swallow, Darcy pressed the jar to his lips, tilted it to release the liquid, and drank deeply of the mixture.

The ride to the village church had taken longer than Edward Fitzwilliam would have liked, but it was more important to have Elizabeth Darcy arrive in one piece than to know speed. In the beginning, Edward held her loosely before him, but when Elizabeth had slipped for the third time, the colonel had placed her tightly in his embrace.

Despite the innocent way Darcy's wife trustingly wrapped her arms about Edward's waist, his thoughts drifted to the sweet smell of lavender in her hair and the warmth of Elizabeth Darcy's frame along his chest. He was uncomfortably aware of his treacherous thoughts. It had been months since he had known a woman intimately and a lifetime since he had felt this “clean.” At times, Edward could smell the stench of death emanating from his pores. He had experienced death and dying and fear for nearly a decade, and Edward was sorely tired of feeling Death's arm about his shoulder. This moment of normalcy had been his long-time dream: one where he embraced a woman he held in such high regard as he did Elizabeth Darcy.

He had never dreamed a dream of knowing his cousin's wife, and certainly not a dream of chasing after a badly wounded Darcy in order to save his cousin's life, but definitely he held a dream of a woman clinging to him for protection, a dream of a wife and family—all the things which were lacking in his life.

“Colonel?” Elizabeth said softly against his chest. The warmth of her breath filtered through the fine lawn of his shirt to warm him in a comforting way.

He had slowed the horse as they reached the village. “Yes?” Suddenly, Edward did not know what to call his cousin's wife. “Mrs. Darcy” appeared too formal for the situation, and “Elizabeth” was too intimate.

“Shall we find Mr. Darcy in time?” Her voice trembled with the possibility of their failure.

Edward instinctively lifted her closer to him. “I pray for our success, but we must recognize our fallibility.”

Her arms instinctively tightened about him, and Edward found it sorely hard to remember why he should not turn his horse for Woodvine and his chambers. To remove Elizabeth from danger and to protect her with his life. Mr. Holbrook's horse came abreast of his, and Edward was jarred into reality. “Do we call upon the curate?” the groom asked.

“We may require the man's assistance in searching the church,” Edward reasoned. “I will escort Mrs. Darcy about the grounds while you seek Mr. Williamson's support.”

“Aye, Sir.” Holbrook turned his horse aside.

Meanwhile, Edward slowed his horse to a walk. “When we reach the church, I expect you to remain with the horse, Elizabeth.”

“I understand,” Elizabeth said as she raised her head from where it had rested on his chest. “You will exercise care, Colonel.”

Edward swallowed his loneliness. The woman cared for him, but not in the manner he required. It was the story of his life. The dream remained beyond his reach. “I will heed your caution, my dear.”

Silently, he reined in the horse before they reached the open square upon which the church sat. Sliding from the saddle, Edward turned to lift Elizabeth to the ground. “Take Major to wait behind those trees,” he instructed.

“Major?” she asked teasingly.

He grinned. “It is really Major General,” Edward confessed. “A man can hope that the epaulets on his shoulders match the name of his horse.”

Elizabeth patted Edward's cheek. “I shall add your desire to my prayers, Colonel.”

He retrieved a pistol from an inside pocket. “If something happens which places me in danger, you are to take Major and ride for Mr. Holbrook. The groom and Mr. Williamson should arrive shortly.” When she did not respond, Edward demanded, “Agree with me, Elizabeth, or I will refuse to leave you here alone.”

Even through the dark shadows, Edward could see her indecision. Finally, she said, “Fitzwilliam requires your assistance. I shall do whatever is necessary to save my husband.”

Edward hesitated before giving her a curt nod. “I suppose that is as close to a concession as I will receive from you.” With that, he darted away into the night.

Behind him, the colonel did not hear her whisper, “And to save Fitzwilliam's favorite cousin.”

The bitter taste of the laudanum remained on his lips, and Darcy meant to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand; but his arms appeared locked to his side, wedged in beside his body. When the first taste of laudanum crossed his tongue, Darcy had spit the liquid into the smirking face of Mrs. Stowbridge. Immediately, the bitter taste of the opium derivative had signaled the perfidy practiced by the pair. He had expected the odorless and tasteless freedom of arsenic and had not found it, but had discovered another danger.

Before he could respond, the housekeeper and Gaylord had overwhelmed him. He had fought them with all the energy remaining in his frame only to succumb to an uppercut on the square of his chin from the butt of the rifle the steward carried. Darcy had hung on for a few seconds longer before the blackness had taken him.