Page 20 of Chasing Shadows

Elizabeth nearly choked upon a slice of apple she had been nibbling when, through the parlour window, she caught sight of Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy approaching on horseback, their mounts trotting smartly up the gravel drive.

Her heart gave a violent thump. Mr. Darcy? Here? What is he doing at Longbourn?

Ever since she and her father had gone to Netherfield with Lydia’s account of the murdered tradesman and his sudden mention of Ramsgate three days earlier, her thoughts had been in disarray.

She had supposed Mr. Darcy must have departed for Ramsgate at once.

Yet no word had reached her, and with no means of confirming his movements, uncertainty gnawed at her incessantly.

She told herself that her mind was occupied only with the danger, with the mystery, with the strange chain of murders that had unsettled all Meryton.

Yet Darcy’s image lingered nonetheless—his grave expression, his steady gaze, the solemn trust he had placed in her to guard his confidence.

She longed for resolution. Surely Ramsgate must hold some clue, if only for Meryton’s safety, for Mr. Darcy’s peace of mind and reputation—and perhaps for the quiet stirrings within her that she could not wholly put aside.

And now, here he stood, come to Longbourn without warning.

Mrs. Bennet’s delighted cry broke through Elizabeth’s reverie. “Mr. Bingley! Oh, my sweetest Jane, he is come again!” She clutched her daughter’s hand, scarcely able to contain her joy. “Quick, Hill, show the gentlemen in at once.”

Jane blushed, her eyes bright with quiet happiness.

Elizabeth could scarcely attend to her sister, for the tall figure who entered just behind Bingley drew her gaze with irresistible force.

Darcy’s countenance remained as composed as ever, yet when his eyes found hers, a warmth stirred in their depths that unsettled her breath.

And when he inclined his head with the faintest smile, hand brushing the brim of his hat, a flutter rose within her, light and unbidden.

After the initial courtesies, Mr. Bennet stepped forward. “Mr. Darcy, I had not thought to see you in Meryton still.”

Darcy inclined his head. “If it pleases you, sir, might I request a few minutes in private? It concerns the matter you and Miss Elizabeth spoke of at Netherfield. If you have no objection, perhaps Miss Elizabeth might be present as well.”

Mr. Bennet’s brows rose, surprise flickering across his features, before he gave a short nod. “Very well. Elizabeth, come with me. The rest of you may entertain Mr. Bingley until we return.”

Mrs. Bennet, though startled by Mr. Darcy’s solemnity, was far too elated to object. “Oh yes, indeed we shall,” she said quickly, pressing Jane nearer to her admirer.

Darcy followed Elizabeth and her father into the study.

Once the door was closed, Elizabeth, still flushed with surprise, spoke unrestrained. “Mr. Darcy, I confess I did not expect to see you here again so soon. I thought you and Colonel Fitzwilliam had determined upon Ramsgate.”

“At first, that was indeed our plan.” Darcy’s expression tightened, though his tone remained calm.

“Yet upon further reflection, the Colonel judged it best to go alone. He believes the killer is watching me. Were I to leave for Ramsgate, it might draw attention to the place or, worse, drive the man into hiding. If he suspects we are on his trail, he could go to ground, and we might never flush him out again. It seemed wiser that I remain here and conduct myself as though nothing had changed.”

Mr. Bennet gave a slow nod. “A sensible precaution. Better to keep him unguarded and overconfident than to rouse him to caution.”

Elizabeth drew a careful breath, relief stirring, though unease soon followed.

His presence at Longbourn brought comfort enough, yet she knew that Ramsgate might yield nothing.

The killer still lurked near and unseen.

She held fast to the hope that Colonel Fitzwilliam’s plan would bring them nearer some discovery—that soon, at last, this dreadful business might be brought to its close.

Darcy looked first at Mr. Bennet, then turned to Elizabeth.

“I must ask for your continued discretion. The colonel and I have given out that he was recalled to London on official business, occasioned by the greater number of people arriving for Christmastide. Even Bingley knows nothing further, and it is best kept so. Yet as Miss Elizabeth has already been drawn into danger by this affair through her own determination to pursue it, and as it was you who first brought me word of Ramsgate’s possible connection, I felt bound to place my confidence in you both. ”

Mr. Bennet inclined his head gravely. “You have my word, Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth and I shall keep your confidence.”

Elizabeth met his eyes then, her pulse quickening at the solemnity of his gaze. He trusted her, and in that trust lay both weight and warmth.

They rejoined the others in the drawing room, where Bingley’s attention was wholly fixed upon Jane.

Mrs. Bennet beamed with satisfaction, and even Kitty and Lydia whispered together in girlish delight.

No one spoke of the murdered tradesman, though Elizabeth half expected it, for her mother had remarked more than once, only two days before, that every misfortune in Meryton must, in some fashion, be connected to Mr. Darcy.

To Elizabeth’s surprise, Mrs. Bennet merely offered a hasty but proper nod in his direction when they re-entered the room, her thoughts so entirely absorbed by Jane and Bingley’s happy conversation that she scarcely appeared troubled by Darcy’s presence at all.

Elizabeth could not help but be grateful for it.

After an hour of polite conversation, punctuated by many tender glances exchanged between Jane and Bingley, the gentlemen at last prepared to depart.

Darcy offered Elizabeth a bow, and when his eyes met hers, a gentleness touched his expression.

She watched them go, her mind still troubled, yet steadier than before.

Ramsgate’s shadow lingered, but she knew she didn’t bear it alone.

***

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know precisely what he was meant to uncover in Ramsgate, only that duty demanded he begin there.

Long habit had taught him the value of discretion, and so, when he quitted Netherfield the morning after the murdered tradesman’s body was discovered, he departed under the pretence of being summoned to London and gave the same instruction to his post-driver.

Only once they were well upon the road did he order the chaise turned southward toward Ramsgate, trusting that fewer would be aware of his true destination.

The diversion, together with the wearying pace of winter travel and the hindrance of snow upon the roads, slowed him despite every effort.

Horses were changed as swiftly as could be contrived, and he allowed himself but little sleep, for the urgency of his errand pressed heavily upon him.

He could not know whether there was time enough for such inquiries, nor whether the killer might strike again before he returned.

Yet to do nothing was the greater risk, and so he pressed on, reaching Ramsgate at last just as the sun began to set on the third day.

Finding Mrs. Younge was his only concern.

Darcy had given him the address of the house where she had last been seen.

It was the same house where Wickham had once attempted to elope with Georgiana.

Darcy was uncertain whether she still resided there, for after replying to the last enquiry concerning her, he had ceased to keep watch, trusting that others would soon perceive her duplicity and refuse her employment.

Ramsgate, however, remained the last place she was known to stay.

The house Darcy had named stood upon a rise above the harbour, its pale stone front set with high windows that looked out upon the sea.

Even by lamplight, its air of respectability and the higher rent it must command, confirmed Colonel Fitzwilliam’s suspicion that Mrs. Younge could not long have remained there once Darcy ceased to pay the bills.

Still, it was the last address known, and he had learned often enough in the militia to begin where the trail last ended.

He knocked and was soon shown to the landlord by a servant. The man was stout, with ruddy cheeks and a careful, calculating eye, the sort who weighed every caller by his purse as much as by his words.

“Good day to you, sir,” Fitzwilliam began, bowing with the polite ease of his rank. “I am in search of a lady who once lodged here about two summers ago, Mrs. Younge. I wonder if you recall her?”

The landlord rubbed his chin, his eyes turning toward the west as though the fading light might assist his recollection. “Aye, I remember her that summer. She came with a young miss and a very handsome establishment. But they did not stay long. You knew them, then?”

Fitzwilliam allowed a pause before replying with the quiet gravity of one imparting business.

“Indeed. Mrs. Younge was governess to my late uncle’s ward.

The family have since gone abroad, Italy first I believe, and now to the Americas, and I regret to say my uncle has lately passed.

There is a small remembrance left for Mrs. Younge in his will, owing to her service.

We have been much at a loss how to discover her, and I was told Ramsgate was the last place she was known to reside. ”

The landlord frowned, then nodded. “That is true enough. When I did not see the young miss with her, I asked, and she said they let her go. I always wondered why, but she did not venture to tell me. She stayed on here for a short while after, but this house was not for her purse. I believe the rent was overdue. She removed to a smaller lodging in town, cheaper by more than half.”

“She had no wish to follow my uncle and his child overseas, as I understood it,” Fitzwilliam added gravely.

He allowed himself no smile, but inwardly he thanked Providence that the man accepted his explanation.

In his experience, the plainest of lies opened more doors than the truth, for whenever he announced his militia connections, people grew guarded at once.

“Do you happen to know where she removed to?”

The landlord pursed his lips, then shrugged.

“I keep my books careful. I shall have a look. But if memory serves, she went to Mrs. Pritchard’s in the High Street.

The house takes only single ladies and widows of modest means.

However,”—he lowered his voice—“she did not remain long. It was the talk of the town, sir, though some called it mere rumour. She ended her life there, some four months after leaving me.”

Fitzwilliam drew back slightly, his features composed, though his mind raced.

“I am sorry to hear of it. I had no notion. Yet, if I might trouble you for Mrs. Pritchard’s direction, it may be that some family member could be reached through her, someone to whom I might deliver what remains of the remembrance. ”

The landlord gave a grunt of sympathy and rubbed his chin once more. “No need of my books for that, sir. I remember well enough—Mrs. Pritchard keeps a house on the High Street, just past the market square. I daresay she will remember your lady. Such things are not soon forgotten.”

Fitzwilliam inclined his head. “You have been of real service, sir. I thank you.”

The landlord gave a dry smile. “We see many pass through Ramsgate, but some leave deeper marks than others. May your business here be soon concluded.”

With another bow, Fitzwilliam took his leave.

The landlord’s words rang in his ears as he stepped into the bitter night air.

Mrs. Younge dead? The very object of his journey was gone.

She had been the one figure who might have explained it all.

The only link besides Wickham to Ramsgate who could plausibly be tied to these events.

How could a dead woman contrive murders from the grave?

The thought struck him with unexpected force.

The salt wind stung his face, yet it did nothing to quiet the tumult within.

If she were truly gone, then he and Darcy were wrong about her being the killer.

Also, how did Ramsgate stand in the pattern?

Was it coincidence only? And why did she kill herself?

Guilt, despair, or something more? He could not dismiss the suspicion that even in her death, some trace of the truth might linger, something known to those who had seen her last, some fragment of record, or a careless word that betrayed more than was meant.

Drawing his coat close, he turned away from the house with renewed purpose.

He would need to ask for directions to High street, and with the sun already set and the streets thinning of people, the task might prove troublesome.

Mrs. Pritchard’s house might yield nothing, or it might yet supply the thread that would bind these mysteries together.

In either case, he could not abandon the chase now.