The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (8 page)

“Pandora's box?” Darcy murmured.

“Exactly, Mr. Darcy. Besnik, like most Roma, believe in predestination. My brother had asked Tshilaba to read his fortune prior to his departure. Nothing in the cards foretold of this tragedy.” Gry stood slowly, and Darcy followed him to his feet. “I know my brother, Mr. Darcy. For money, he might dig a grave, but for no amount would he despoil a man's body.”

Darcy accepted the man's assurance with a nod of his head. “May I call upon you if I have additional questions?”

Gry turned toward the door. “Perhaps it is best if you send word, and I will join you as I did today. Most of my family remains more suspicious than ever.”

“Why not leave the area?” Darcy asked curiously.

“It is what is expected of a man who feels guilt. As I do not, I choose to remain; at least, until the May Day celebration.”

Darcy motioned a footman forward. To Gry, he said, “If I learn of anything of importance, I will make it known to you.” To the servant, he said, “Please see the gentleman out.” With a nod, the Rom strolled away, but Darcy remained by the door where he might observe the man's retreat. Theirs had been a most convoluted conversation, and Darcy knew not what to make of it.

Once the Rom had had time to leave the property, Darcy sought his wife's counsel. From the time of their joining, Elizabeth had become his closest confidante. He found her staring out the window which overlooked the gardens, in his cousin's library. “Something of note?” he asked with amusement as he stepped up behind her.

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at him, but her concentration remained on the couple discreetly speaking under a rose arbor in the lower gardens. “I was ruminating on what a blond god with excessively broad shoulders might have in common with a woman of Mrs. Ridgeway's advanced years.” She shifted to the right so Darcy might view the scene below. “Are you familiar with the gentleman, Fitzwilliam?”

Darcy watched the pair with more than a little curiosity. “The man is Mr. Gry. He is the leader of our gypsy band.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said with disappointment. “I had hoped to have stumbled upon a compromising situation.”

“Always the romantic,” he said with true affection.

Elizabeth protested, “Obviously, Mrs. Ridgeway will require a new position once this investigation is complete. If the gentleman is too young for a flirtation, I could have wished for an offer of comparable employment for the lady.”

Darcy slid his right arm about her waist. “As neither appears likely for Mrs. Ridgeway's near future, what do you suppose a genteel lady and a member of a gypsy band have in common to generate a conversation of such long duration?” He frowned dramatically as the couple moved closer to one another.

Elizabeth's mouth twisted in a tight line. “Perhaps the lady offers her sympathy for Mr. Gry's recent loss.”

“Perhaps,” Darcy said with undeniable curiosity. “Yet, in my conversation with the gentleman, I suspected Gry withheld information.”

Elizabeth moved closer to the window. Leaning her forehead against the pane, she asked cautiously, “Have we taken Mrs. Ridgeway's amiability too liberally? Are we too gullible in this matter?”

Darcy automatically tightened his hold on her. Elizabeth's tone spoke of vulnerability and brought out his protective nature. In the past, even when he thought he might never claim Elizabeth Bennet as his own, Darcy had moved Heaven and Earth to allay her fears that her sister Jane would never know Mr. Bingley's regard and to save Elizabeth's, and all the Bennet sisters', reputations when Mr. Wickham had seduced the flighty, immature Lydia away from her family. “I suspect we should practice discretion in our interactions with those in the neighborhood. In reality, from Uncle Samuel's staff, I only recognize three who served him when I last visited,” he cautioned.

“The conversation has ended,” Elizabeth noted, “and Mrs. Ridgeway does not appear happy with the result.”

Darcy suggested, “Move away from the window before the lady observes our interest.”

Elizabeth stepped around him and returned to a stack of ledgers on his cousin's desk. “Mr. Gry's appearance is not one I would associate with those of Roman ancestry.”

Darcy said teasingly, “Yes, I do not imagine many Roma are described as ‘a blond god with excessively broad shoulders.'”

Elizabeth's eyes lit with delight. “A woman enjoys taking note of a man who fills out his jacket. Without the padding, of course. Mr. Gry's more casual attire fits him impeccably.”

Darcy's eyes narrowed. “Was that your reaction to me? Did you take note of my shoulders, Mrs. Darcy?” he asked inquiringly. This was a conversation he and Elizabeth had never had.

Elizabeth's mouth formed a pretend kiss. “Your form was one of your finer qualities, Mr. Darcy,” she confessed. “What quality would you consider your best?” she teased.

His mouth took on a sardonic slant. “I would have thought that my biting wit was your initial interest.”

Elizabeth knowingly walked into Darcy's waiting embrace. Lacing her arms about his waist, she laid her cheek upon his chest. “When you walked into the Meryton assembly,” she confessed, “I could not remove my eyes from you. I belatedly admit I envied your attentions to Mr. Bingley's sisters.”

She paused, and Darcy apologized again for his abhorrent conceit at snubbing her during the dance. “I felt the attraction also, but my pride had convinced me that I would never find a woman of merit at a country assembly.”

“We both acted foolishly,” Elizabeth allowed. “My next attraction was your wit, and although it is shallow of me, I adored the sometimes less-than-delicate manner in which you addressed Miss Bingley's criticisms.”

Darcy admitted, “The blame for Miss Bingley's attacks rested solely on my shoulders. It seemed only fair to defend you.”

Elizabeth placed a kiss upon his cheek. “You were quite gallant, Mr. Darcy.”

“Then what settled you upon accepting my hand?”

Elizabeth caressed his cheek. “Your fine form brought early girlish dreams, but such frippery cannot be the basis of a relationship. Some day your shoulders will slump and your waist will increase. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. After all, what are men to rocks and mountains?

“No, Mr. Darcy, a fine figure will not sustain a relationship.” Elizabeth laughed at her earlier folly. “I once told Aunt Gardiner that stupid men were the only ones worth knowing. But I spoke in haste, and I soon realized that the proposals, which I had proudly spurned only months prior, would readily have been most gladly and gratefully received.

“The respect created by the conviction of your valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to my feelings. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within me of goodwill, which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude, not merely for having once loved me, for loving me still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of my manner in rejecting you, and all the unjust accusation accompanying my rejection.” Darcy gazed at her in shock, but Elizabeth provided him no opportunity to object. She stepped from his arms, and, taking Darcy's hand, she gazed lovingly into his eyes. “You, who I had been persuaded would avoid me as your greatest enemy, seemed, on our accidental meeting at Pemberley, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where our two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of my friends, and bent on making me known to your sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride excited not only astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must have been attributed; and as such, its impression on me was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined.”

She shrugged her shoulders in self-chastisement for her former naïveté before continuing, “I respected, I esteemed, I was grateful to you; I felt a real interest in your welfare; and I only wanted to know how far I wished that welfare to depend on me, and how far it would be for our happiness that I should employ the power, which my fancy told me I still possessed, of bringing on the renewal of your addresses.”

Elizabeth tugged on his hand, and Darcy readily followed her to a nearby settee. Once they were settled, she continued, “No, my love, in essentials, you are very much what you ever were, and from knowing you better your disposition was better understood. By your dealings with Lydia and Mr. Wickham, I was humbled, and I was proud—proud that in a cause of compassion and honor, you were able to get the better of yourself.”

She kissed his palm. “So, my husband, I willingly admit to taking note of your figure, but such vanity has no staying stick. It is your honor, your compassion, and your empathy that makes me love you so dearly.” Darcy leaned closer as Elizabeth murmured, “And, of course, your lips. I love how your lips are intelligent enough to find mine at just the exact moment that I desire them.”

“And you can think of nothing that might provide an explanation for my cousin's unusual mood?” Darcy asked. He had entertained the young poet, and although he found the man quite amiable, the fact Mr. Drewe could shed no candle upon the mystery of Samuel Darcy's passing frustrated Darcy.

“Of late, Samuel has often been out of sorts.” A sudden smile curved the man's lips. “I have repeatedly said your cousin should have been a poet. I have often felt the total bewilderment of knowing Samuel Darcy's empathy for others. He had the soul of a storyteller,” Nicholas Drewe confided.

Darcy asked hopefully, “Do you recall what you said that triggered Cousin Samuel's maudlin mood?”

“I simply quoted a few lines from my latest
masterpiece
,” Drewe said confidently.

Darcy gave of snort of grim amusement. “Might I convince you to share your excerpt with me, Drewe?”

“I would be honored, Mr. Darcy. I understand you are a great patron of the arts.”

Darcy scowled. He had not anticipated that Drewe would dare to seek Darcy's patronage in the midst of what was likely a murder investigation. “Until we discover the disposition of my cousin's passing, I fear my attention rests elsewhere.”

Darcy hoped Drewe was a better writer than he was a liar, because prevaricating convincingly was not among the man's talents. “Of course, Mr. Darcy, I did not mean to imply...”

Darcy interrupted, “The poem, Drewe.”

“Certainly, Mr. Darcy,” he said awkwardly. “I may need a moment to recall the lines as they were then. I have made several changes to the draft since that evening.” When Darcy said nothing, Drewe continued,

Sharp be the stories

That strike with pain

Fairy-shot

Windswept hills of ole

In the bosom of isolated greens

Invasion—overcome with despair.

Peals of discordant laughter

Come follow Mab you nomadic tribe

Shabti and stolen child

A warning of deceit

Serenaded by the lark's sweetness

A foliate mask dancing with Bacchus

Freyr or Odin or Viridios

No Robin Nottingham

Delusion, nought but truth
.”

Darcy listened carefully. “You take your inspiration from Dorset's tales of witches and changelings.”

“A man must speak of what he knows,” Drewe said with a meaningful look.

Darcy asked suspiciously, “Then you believe in the black arts?”

Drewe said with a sigh, “I believe you will discover in Dorset everyone holds a healthy respect for goblins and sprites. It is as Chaucer said, ‘In the old days of King Arthur; Of which Britons speak great honour; All was this land filled with fairy; The elf-queen with her jolly company.'”

“Yet, this is not Arthur's time,” Darcy contested.

“No, ours is a darker one, Mr. Darcy.”