Page 44 of An Offer of Marriage (Engaged to Mr Darcy #7)

VENTURING ON THE TRUTH

I t was another beautiful morning, and after so much time spent indoors or in a carriage—travelling to, preparing for, or celebrating the wedding—Elizabeth needed to relish it.

She set off for a walk in Hyde Park, finding that, surprisingly, she had missed it.

It would never be the country, but it was charming in its own right.

She found herself with a great longing to go to her aunt.

Despite having both been at Jane’s wedding, there had scarce been a minute to sit together.

To talk of the event would be almost as enjoyable as being at the event; moreover, she wished to speak to Aunt Gardiner of the changes in her husband and see what good counsel she might have for her niece.

Perhaps I ought to return to the house? The only thing which spoke against that idea was that she might then see her husband and be drawn into a conversation for which she was not yet sure she was prepared.

He had said he still loved her, yes, but there was more to marriage than just love which after all might have been merely the impulse of the occasion.

She had just begun to wonder whether walking to Gracechurch Street was a sound notion when her name was called.

“Mrs Darcy, how do you do!”

Elizabeth turned to see Miss Sarah Bentley driving a curricle nearby.

Even though they had only spoken on a few occasions, the manner in which Miss Bentley enjoyed her life and her interests with little regard for the strictures of others was admirable.

Of course, a vast fortune does help in such things.

No one disapproves of a woman with fifty thousand.

She approached the curricle. “How do you do, Miss Bentley?”

Miss Bentley was as sweet as ever, exclaiming with delight over Elizabeth’s report of her sister’s nuptials.

In the course of the conversation, it was revealed that Miss Bentley was on her way to attend a lecture at St Dunstan’s.

A few sentences after that, Elizabeth found herself ensconced in the pretty little curricle and on her way to the Gardiners, having been assured that it was no trouble at all for her friend.

Let them think I am shopping , she decided. It was likely no one would much care where she had gone anyhow. She generally never saw her husband until dinnertime, and she would return long before that.

She was set down at the Gracechurch Street home just as the family were finished at breakfast. “Ah, Lizzy,” said Mr Gardiner when he saw her.

“I am glad to see you. My wife tells me that even though we were all at the same wedding, that nevertheless the ladies must chew over every detail of it today. I am only sorry that my warehouses need me, for I would surely love to be a party to any discussion of the lace on Jane’s gown. ”

Mrs Gardiner laughed and shooed him away. “I will be very glad to summarise our findings for you later, my dear. Lizzy, I will join you in the drawing room just as soon as I settle the children with Nurse Betsy.”

When Saye’s dog Florizel had erupted into yet another volley of barking, this time warning them as to the extreme danger posed by a small bird, Fitzwilliam lost his patience.

What had been meant as a pleasant morning in Hyde Park on Saye’s ridiculously high-sprung curricle had rapidly lost its charm due to the dog.

“Pray control him,” he said through clenched teeth.

“What about him?” Saye asked nonchalantly. “He is doing what dogs do.”

“It is not dignified to be travelling down Rotten Row with a maniacal dog barking at everything he sees!” Fitzwilliam threw up his hand. “Every bird, every squirrel…even the occasional ribbon fluttering in the breeze. Those ladies were terrified of him, I hope you saw that.”

“Perhaps they deserved to be barked at,” Saye replied with a grin, then took a corner so sharply that they nearly capsized.

“Have a care!” Fitzwilliam shouted at his brother.

“A dog barking is his way of speaking,” Saye informed him. “Did you ever consider that perhaps he wishes you would shut your gob? I know I do. Such ill-humour! I am vastly tempted to just drive you home.”

“Pray do,” said Fitzwilliam. “I am not of a mind to risk my life and my sanity any longer. ”

Saye did as asked. Fitzwilliam scowled through several more episodes of wild barking, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting for the moment he could again return to the sanctuary of a quiet house.

Everyone in residence had departed early for various activities and obligations, and he would be blessedly alone.

Or so he believed. Saye drove them into the mews and climbed out, nodding to the boy who came to help.

“What are you doing?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Going in the house,” Saye replied. “What about billiards? We could summon Darcy and play three-man screw.”

“Darcy is not a man inclined to heed a summons for any cause,” said Fitzwilliam, and they both laughed.

The brothers entered through a back servants’ door, climbing the servants’ stair. Florizel scampered off; wearied of his exertions in the park, he would likely be snoring on his cushion in Saye’s bedchamber before long.

As they arrived on the level which would have permitted the servants entry in the drawing room, Fitzwilliam paused, hearing his cousin, who seemed agitated, within. He touched his brother’s back to make him stop as well.

“What?” Saye looked back, but Fitzwilliam hushed him. The sound of their cousin Anne’s voice, reedy and petulant, came from the room.

“I am running out of time. Someone needs to do something! She even sent the headache remedy back to me!”

The anxious murmurings of Mrs Jenkinson answered her.

“Two hundred pounds each is a great deal more than either of those numbsculls deserve,” Anne retorted. “Five thousand? Absolutely absurd. I do not care if they risk their necks.”

Mrs Jenkinson must have moved closer to the door, for now they heard her clearly. “If you wish them to get rid of that pretentious upstart, you will need to pay for it.”

Anne huffed and puffed a few times before saying, “The life of Darcy’s lowborn wife is hardly worth half such a sum. Not even a tenth!”

Fitzwilliam’s and Saye’s jaws both dropped. Fitzwilliam whispered, “What is this?”

“Perhaps it is a play?” Saye reached out as if he meant to open the door.

Fitzwilliam stopped him. “We need to hear more.”

“Five hundred is more than enough to make a woman of absolutely no consequence disappear,” Anne said firmly. “Go to them and say they will not receive a farthing more.”

Mrs Jenkinson had moved away from the door and thus there was nothing more but murmurings in reply.

“Would it not be delightful,” Saye murmured into Fitzwilliam’s ear, “if we were wearing capes? We could burst in there, pointing hands outthrust and capes flourishing as we told them the game was up.”

“This is not Covent Garden,” Fitzwilliam hissed back. “It sounds as if our cousin is attempting to pay someone to kill Elizabeth.”

“No,” Saye disagreed. “I do not think that is what she means. Perhaps she wants Elizabeth to abandon Darcy?”

“Either way we need to hear more.”

Within the drawing room, Anne had moved from being haughty to taking ill and demanding attention. She informed her companion that George Wickham’s greed had made her head ache, and she feared she was developing chilblains. This set Mrs Jenkinson into a frenzy of incomprehensible mutterings .

On hearing the name ‘Wickham’, Fitzwilliam knew the scheme had evil at its root.

“Now,” said Saye, “would be an excellent time to burst in and let them know we have heard all.”

Fitzwilliam quietly opened the door a mere fraction, only enough to disengage the handle. Then he stepped back and rammed it with a thrust of his arm. It flew wide open, slamming against the wall, and probably leaving a mark that would displease his mother. No matter.

“Anne!” he thundered. “We have heard everything! What have you done to Mrs Darcy?”

Pandemonium ensued. Mrs Jenkinson fell into a dead faint. Anne began to cry and sob and seek pity.

“You had better tell us everything, Anne,” Saye said haughtily. “You would not like what they do to murderesses at Bedlam.”

When Mrs Hobbs first told him that George Wickham was outside and wished to speak to him, Darcy laughed.

When she told him a second time, he told her to send him on his way, with the aid of a footman’s boot if necessary.

When she returned a third time, worriedly chafing her hands, and telling him she really thought Mr Darcy ought to see Mr Wickham, he consented, more for her sake than Wickham’s.

“I will go out into the mews to meet him,” he informed her. “I will not have him in the house like an esteemed guest. Send the strongest footman out to watch.”

Some minutes later, he found Wickham standing by the mews and barked, “What do you want? ”

Wickham pursed his lips together before saying, “I have information you need concerning Mrs Darcy.”

Darcy crossed his arms over his chest. “I doubt that.”

“I will tell you all I know for one thousand pounds.”

With a laugh, Darcy turned round and began to walk back towards the house.

“Darcy! Very well, five hundred. It is a matter of life and death.”

Darcy turned round again. “I have already given you far too much of both my time and my substance, and short of you telling me you had learnt of a plot to murder my wife?—”

“I have not only learnt of it—I have been given a part in it!” Wickham stepped forwards, his arms outspread.

“Darcy, we have had many quarrels between us, and I have told you many lies, I know. But I beg you to believe me this time.” He took a deep breath.

“I like Mrs Darcy very well, she is a fine lady, and I do not wish to see harm befall her.”

“Oh?” Darcy taunted. “If you esteem her so much and ‘do not wish to see harm befall her’, then tell me without price rather than trying to extort more money from me.”

This produced an extraordinary response. Wickham seemed to ponder that, the fingers of one hand fretting against his leg. At length he said, “It is only that I really do need the money, and the person who wishes to see her harmed has offered me five hundred.”

“I am not paying you five hundred pounds for what will undoubtedly be a fanciful pack of lies.”

“Has she been ill?” Wickham asked. “Unexplained vomiting, dysentery…headaches? Pallor?”

Darcy drew back. “How do you know that? What have you done? ”

“Not me.” Wickham shook his head. “Miss de Bourgh has been poisoning her.”

In two quick paces, Darcy was on him, slamming his former friend’s back against the building while his forearm pressed against his throat. “Liar!”

“Darcy, let him go. He speaks the truth.” Fitzwilliam spoke from behind him, having evidently just come out of the house. Shocked, Darcy allowed his arm to drop, releasing his quarry, and turned towards his cousin.

“He never speaks the truth,” Darcy retorted. “He wishes me to pay him for his nonsense.”

Saye emerged then from behind his brother. In his hand was a bank note which he held aloft. “Fifty pounds,” he announced. “Tell us what you know, and if it coincides with what we know, you shall have two of them and not a farthing more.”