Page 20 of London Holiday (Sweet Escapes Collection #2)

Chapter twenty

E lizabeth had not long to suffer in dismay over the dandelions or the drooping elms, for within a very few steps, their promenade had carried them to the heart of the Gardens. To her right was a square, planted all round with towering giants and dominated in the centre by an orchestra stand, which was, at present, still vacant. She marvelled for a moment at the detail and splendour in the construction, even if the paint was somewhat faded. She could easily close her eyes and imagine the classical frontage ablaze with the glow of coloured glass lanterns and candles, and made ethereal by the music it hosted. If only they could stay long enough for her to hear just one melody!

As if he had read her mind, William spoke at her elbow, “The orchestra tends to start a little earlier than the supper. Within an hour or so, the musicians will arrive.”

“Are you suggesting that we might stay so long?”

“At what time of the day does your uncle typically return from his warehouse?”

She frowned. “That is just the trouble. He is not usually there all day, nor even half of it. Today must have been a very bad one for him, so I cannot tell you what we ought to expect. I should not think him much later than six or seven in the evening, for he will wish to eat his supper with my aunt.”

“Then if we have no word sooner, we should time our arrival to coincide with his. Any earlier would seem nonsensical, for you would be entering the house again without protection from your….” He cleared his throat and stopped .

“He is not my betrothed, nor, I hope, shall he ever be,” she clarified firmly.

“I am relieved to hear it. He did seem an audacious sort of fellow to make such a proclamation when the lady’s intentions are not similarly engaged.”

Elizabeth dipped her face down and away from him, but some outspoken nerve tasked her not to keep silent as her good sense would have allowed. “He has reason to think that he has a chance of success.” Then she stopped herself, turned and tilted her head, so that shade of the parasol fell over her eyes. “Let us talk no more of Mr Collins, please.”

He inclined his head, and there was a stately serenity to his countenance when he suggested, “Perhaps you would like to view the supper boxes or the Temple of Comus?”

She looked in half-interest over his shoulder at the larger of the two dished colonnades, this one graced with a Rococo spired pavilion, then smilingly shook her head. “If our time is to be limited, I think I should like to see the arches I have heard of. Are they not there?”

“Indeed, the southerly walk parallels this one. Some parts of it are also called the Italian Walk, for the architecture. We may cross over here and walk the length of the Grove, then we should have an ideal prospect of the arches.”

Elizabeth’s eyes feasted on every facet as they slowly wandered the few steps in that direction. At the edge of the Grove, a few acrobats cavorted about, plying the late afternoon revellers for a few pence in appreciation for their efforts. She laughed outright as one flipped directly into her path and tumbled into what appeared to be a clumsy bow. He then snapped upright again, only to snatch the hat worn by her tall, sombre companion and cartwheel away with it in his teeth. William’s exclamations of dismay in the face of such effrontery were lost in the general approval of the sparse audience. The tomfool landed several paces away, twirling the plain chapeau about his finger and grinning daringly at Elizabeth .

“Allow me to redeem your lost item, my good fellow,” she chuckled, gesturing for her escort to remain at peace. She felt the rather fine lady, paying to recover the dignity of her “servant,” and laughed merrily when the acrobat accepted her penny with a flourish and a gallant kiss to the tip of her glove. The hat was returned in much the same manner that it had been pilfered, and the colourfully dressed fellow whirled away in search of more good-humoured guests.

“Are you quite recovered?” she asked of him.

“It seems the heavens have today determined that I possessed a bit more pride than was good for me,” he grumbled, but not without something of a twinkle in his eye as he took in her own amusement. “It is doubtful that I will ever be recovered, but I believe I shall survive the ordeal.”

Elizabeth laughed and drew a little closer, the better to share in the benefit of her own parasol. “I expect that few take such liberties with your person under normal circumstances.”

He was silent for a moment, and when she turned up to look at him, his face appeared deeply thoughtful. “That is true…” he hesitated. “At least somewhat. Those liberties which are presumed on occasion are never so innocent.”

He said no more, and Elizabeth was left to ponder yet again what singular occurrence had sent such a man into hiding from his own household. In an apparent attempt to change the subject, he gestured to a particularly handsome rose hedge lining the rows of supper boxes. She gave it due appreciation as they passed, and out of respect for his privacy, she left the question alone.

Together they turned left and proceeded a little way up the gravel path. From this angle, they could look down the arrayed arches for what seemed a greater distance than the thousand feet she had been told it was. The illusion was so convincing, the placement and antiquated style so evocative, that even during the prosaic light of day she could fancy that she had been transported to an ancient world .

“The ruins at Palmyra,” William indicated the far extremity of the Walk, and indeed a decidedly realistic painting formed the background of the final arch.

“It is astonishing!”

“Perhaps from this distance,” she could hear the faint smile in his voice. “A nearer view might render it less remarkable.”

“Ah! There you are, the pragmatic one again. It shall not work, for I am determined to be pleased and, therefore, most certain of being found so. However,” she squinted and tilted her head, “it would look far more convincing at dusk.”

There was the softest hint of laughter in her ear. “Come, Miss Elizabeth,” he touched her arm with his free hand, “let us turn from the main path just before the last of the three archways. There is a smaller path there, and you will be spared the shattering of your pleasant illusion by too close an appraisal. Perhaps we could admire the golden statue of Aurora or simply take in the trees.”

He was walking more beside her now, the better to point out all the items she might find of interest, and she almost felt it would have been more comfortable for her to take his arm as they walked. Her last vestiges of decorum checked her, but she did not object to the fact that she did not have to turn so far to ask her questions of him. It was amusing, too, to find from the corner of her eye that their gazes seemed to be united, seeking the same objects wherever they turned.

“Is that another walkway there, through the trees?” she wondered aloud. She did not need to point, for he had been looking that way with interest as well. The path was some distance through the thicket and far narrower than the one on which they walked. Any less daylight than they presently enjoyed would have rendered it almost invisible from their position.

A low noise sounded in his throat. “We will not be viewing that path. It is one of the Dark Walks that border the Gardens, venues where certain illicit doings are known to take place. It would be… inadvisable for us to venture there.”

“Ah.” She could not help a faint blush, for indeed, she had already seen two or three women of uncertain age who appeared to have been wearing a deal too much rouge. Their purpose painfully clear, she tried her best to put them from her mind. These last weeks, that subject had become a touch too real for her, and a woman’s security, far more fragile than she had formerly wished to believe. Her own virtue, if her little pleasure tour were ever discovered, troubled her far less than it should have, had not other matters already sunken lower than she might have imagined they could ever do.

“There is the hermitage,” her companion announced, distracting her from her guilty musings. “Would you like to have your fortune told?”

She looked back with a quizzical frown. “You do not believe in that superstition, do you?”

“You must not mock the hands of Fate,” he informed her seriously. “But you can learn its will, for the modest sum of a sixpence.”

“Then, by all means, let us learn what destiny lies ahead.”

He guided her, most chivalrously, to a small, dank-looking hovel which had been arranged to look as if some forest-dwelling hermit had made it for his home. The humble door stood ajar, and within the false abode, a very convincingly costumed individual puttered about. Just outside the door were positioned some roughly carved seats, and into one of these, he helped her settle to wait.

The hermit took no notice of them for at least two minutes, keeping up the act of poring studiously over what appeared to be a crumbling old tome, and mumbling something unintelligible. She almost began to grow annoyed with his intentional delay, for it was clear he had seen them, but just before she would have spoken aloud, she saw William’s hand moving at his knee in a calming gesture. “Patience,” he whispered. “It is all a part of the amusement. ”

At last, the old man stretched, rose, shuffled out of his door, and took in their presence with a convincing degree of surprise. “Ahhh,” he sighed, his eyes seeming to mist over when he looked at Elizabeth, “what elusive fortune has brought thee hither?”

Elizabeth drew out her coin and dropped it into the bowl he had so nonchalantly carried out of the house. He pretended not to notice, his eyes rolling back into his head as he stumbled to a ragged chair himself and deposited the bowl on the ground. He held out his hand, and when she hesitated, he became agitated and grunted his displeasure. She glanced at William, who nodded, and gave her gloved hand into the crusty fingers of the hermit.

“Mmm,” he mumbled. “Ah. Ohhhh.” He groaned as if he were in pain, and his brow furrowed. Then his eyes flew open, and he stared hard at her. “Thou art more than thou appearest!” he gasped. He closed his eyes and sought her other hand, and a grimace crossed his features.

Elizabeth rolled uncertain eyes toward William, but he was leaning intently forward, apparently enjoying the performance.

“Eeee,” the old eccentric continued, “a treasure too well guarded is never found. That which thou seekest is before thee even now. Lift up thine head; never lookest thee down. Faint not, nor touch’d by shame art thou; thine dearest wish shall come round.”

His hand dropped hers, and he drew back in a stretch as if waking from a long nap. Elizabeth turned a bewildered expression upon her companion, feeling as if she had just paid good coin to hear the made-up ramblings of a crazy old man. William’s own brows were quirking in similar confusion, and he lifted one shoulder as if to say that he, too, was baffled. He began to rise to assist her to her feet when a withered finger shot straight into his face.

Elizabeth jerked back in amazement, wondering precisely how her stately companion would perceive this bit of theatrics. It seemed that he was as astonished as she, for he tumbled back into his seat, his dark eyes wide .

“The fall!” the hermit almost shrieked. “Hard it is when cast down thou art from artifice and pride! Seekest thou not pleasing lips and hands that lie. Woe upon thee, if thou learnest not, for verily the price is thine love and life!”

Elizabeth felt her hand snatched in unequivocal demand for removal, and the next second, he was pulling her to her feet and down the path, away from the wheedling howls of the backwoods prophet.

Wilson stared once more at the note his master had hastily scrawled on a bit of… bakery parchment? Wherever had Mr Darcy found that? Matters must have turned badly for him indeed if he was draughting such disgracefully penned missives and secreting them into boot boxes. And Vauxhall? The man must have lost his senses!

Then again, perhaps not, for if Wilson were astonished at Mr Darcy’s present whereabouts, all others would think it an outright falsehood. And who was this in his company… Miss… Eliza ? No. He squinted, trying to smooth the paper, but some grease still clinging to the sweet-smelling parchment had smudged the writing as it was folded. He tilted his head and made out the rest of the name. Eliza Benwick . There were some more words blurred, but he could make out a few here and there. Cannot… home… Uncle… witness… 23 Gracechurch… inform… whereabouts… Edward Gardiner… send word… escort home… do not… until I send… Please advise… Lady Catherine.

Wilson blinked and scratched his head. He read the note at least twice more, only making out about two more words. Evening… compromise.

Whatever that meant. He sighed, turning the note sideways as if he hoped it would make it easier to read. Clearly, Mr Darcy was requesting him to contact this Edward Gardiner person on Gracechurch Street, and for a mercy, the address was intact. He also seemed to desire that a messenger be sent to him directly at the Gardens, but if he had listed a place where he might be found, Wilson could not read it. Surely, however, Mr Darcy would be watching out for such a man and would make himself easy to locate. Wilson secreted himself in the semi-seclusion of Mr Darcy’s dressing chambers, on a small little desk kept for his own purposes, and checked his pen.

Dear Mr Gardiner,

My master, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of 16 Grosvenor Square, desires me to send word on his behalf that he is presently in company with Miss Eliza Benwick at Vauxhall Gardens. I believe she is known to you and may perhaps be awaiting your arrival, or simply wishing to assure you of her safety while in the presence of other companions.

I do apologise for the shock such a note must give you, sir, and I wish I could be more concise as to the details of why the lady wishes for you to be informed. My master’s note to me was damaged and only partly legible, but he would not have made such a strange request were it not of some import. I obey to the best of my ability. If you are the guardian of such a young lady, as I believe his note must have implied, I can only assure you that my master is a man of honour and seeks to inform you out of goodwill and sound intentions.

Humbly,

Mr Henry Wilson,

Gentleman’s Valet

He cringed when reading his own note, but it could not be helped. It was a mercy that he would likely never have cause to see this Edward Gardiner face to face if the man lived in Cheapside. He dipped his pen again and started the second note.

Mr Darcy,

I shall keep this note brief so that it might be sent the sooner. I have indeed sent word to Miss Benwick’s family, as you requested. I hope I have been able to read the direction properly, as your note was only partially legible due to the sort of paper on which it had been sent.

Lady Catherine has sent at least half a dozen footmen out on various errands, but I do not know for what purpose. A solicitor has called again, and I heard some inquiry being made about Miss Darcy’s settlement. Additionally, there is a parson who called earlier in the day and held a private conference with Lady Catherine. I believe he is her own rector from Kent, for he paid her the most gracious homage.

I have learned that Miss de Bourgh is indisposed. This condition came upon her rapidly, following an unannounced caller. He had the appearance of a gentleman but was not well received by Lady Catherine or Miss de Bourgh. I was near the room where the short conference was held, and though the words seemed carefully chosen for the purposes of obscurity, I was able to discern that this man holds some knowledge of a private affair directly involving Miss de Bourgh. He was dismissed and, dare I say, roundly abused by his hostess. I know not what such a visit might portend, but I presume it was not insignificant.

Please advise, sir. I do hope you have been able to recover the information you required.

With respects,

Wilson

Wilson tucked the notes he had written, as well as the one from Mr Darcy, into his breast pocket and stole out of the house, toward the mews. It was short work to persuade the head groom to send two of his sharpest errand boys in opposite directions with the notes, although Wilson now had one less flask of his stash of spirits to look forward to as a consequence. No matter, for if he were successful, he was certain that Mr Darcy would amply make up for the deficiency.

He returned to the house, feeling rather accomplished, but three steps after he had left the servant’s entrance, he was arrested by the glowering face of the head butler. “Well, now,” he frowned down his long nose, “taking the air, Mr Wilson? ”

He straightened and dipped a short bow. “Only attending to my duties, sir.”

“When did a valet’s duties include a secret trip to the stables?”

“Lady Catherine had requested that I speak personally with the head groom about some new horses—”

But the butler was not listening. He extended two long fingers and withdrew the barely visible tip of paper from Wilson’s breast pocket. “Here, what is this?” He held it out in some distaste, rubbing his fingers against one another and finally withdrawing his handkerchief so that he might not be sullied in touching it.

“It is nothing, sir!” Wilson lied quickly. “Only a baker’s order; one of the kitchen maids had asked it to be carried.”

The butler unfolded the note, and his bushy eyebrows lowered. He looked over the edge of the paper at the cowering Wilson and shook his head. “I imagine Lady Catherine will find this most interesting. You, sir, shall confine yourself to your chambers.”

As if this disgrace were insufficient, the butler nodded to one of the footmen standing at the end of the hall. “See that Mr Wilson is kept in comforts in his room until he is called for.”