Page 6 of Losing Lizzy

Although Mr. Farrin had made the journey from Hertfordshire to London with all good speed, Darcy was not able to locate the directions for where Mr. Sheffield’s pension was delivered and be on his way again, for his household was at sixes and sevens when he arrived.

He let himself into the house with his key when no one answered his knock. He would be glad when Michaelmas arrived and Mr. Thacker could return to his position at Darcy House. Thacker’s present employer refused to release the man until the quarter day.

Darcy caught a maid by the arm to ask, “What is amiss?”

“It be Mrs. Fitzwilliam, sir. Her time for lying-in has come.”

Immediately, Darcy was storming the steps, attempting to reach Georgiana. He would have entered her quarters if Lady Matlock had not exited the room just as he reached for the latch.

Her ladyship shoved him backwards. “You cannot go in. This is woman’s work.”

He glared at the offending door keeping him from his sister’s side. “I just want Georgiana to know I am here.”

“Such is Fitzwilliam’s right, not yours,” she declared.

“Georgiana is still my sister,” he insisted. “I will still protect her.”

“And she is my son’s wife. The mother of my first grandchild.”

All Darcy’s frustrations of late could not be set aside any longer. “I do not appreciate how the Fitzwilliam family seems to think this house is theirs and my word means nothing,” he accused.

His aunt pulled herself up stiffly. “Georgiana is now a Fitzwilliam.”

“She would not have been so if not for the interference of your husband and his sister. Moreover, you know, as well as I, I do not speak of my sister when I speak of the ills the Fitzwilliams have brought to my door. My sister is equal Fitzwilliam and Darcy, as was her mother.”

“And the colonel?”

“Another exception,” he growled. “At least, your younger son did not set himself against me and mine. He did all he could to keep Georgiana safe, and for that, I will always be in his debt.”

His aunt did not respond to his declarations. Instead, she charged, “I understand you banished Matlock from this house and your life; yet, you still call foul when it comes to my family.”

“I pray you are ignorant of your husband’s maneuverings of late. I pray you were not part of those who set themselves as judge and jury for my life. If so, please know, after this day, you, too, will no longer be welcomed in my homes.”

“What has Matlock executed to set himself against you?” Her ladyship’s frown lines deepened.

“You should know, if you do not already have knowledge of the act, over the last four years I have attempted to determine who had me kidnapped. I know someone did, for I often heard those of the crew of The Lost Sparro w speak of my abduction and the money paid to remove me from London. Since my return to England, I have begun to wonder how my uncle, your husband, was so quick to London to take over the running of my household and my business interests when he was supposedly in Derbyshire, such was the reason I was asked to look in upon the shipment from India only two days before my wedding. According to the note I received in Hertfordshire, you and he had been called home for some sort of emergency and could not attend the wedding. His lordship begged me to oversee the shipment. Explain to me how the day I went missing, Lord Matlock was sitting behind my desk at Darcy House and ruling my household. How did word reach him so quickly?”

“None of what you say makes sense. I took ill with a heavy cough and fever before your wedding. Such was to be the note Matlock sent to you at Netherfield—a note to offer our excuses,” she said in what appeared to be true disbelief, but, Darcy’s frustrations would not abate long enough to allow her any innocence in this matter.

“Even now, after four years, the earl and his sister mean to keep me from reuniting with Miss Elizabeth, and I will not tolerate their interference,” he stated in no-nonsense tones.

“I do not understand,” Lady Matlock declared. “Although Matlock thought you could have made a more advantageous choice of brides, he was willing to accept Miss Elizabeth into the family.”

“On the subject of advantageous marriages, did you truly approve of Fitzwilliam taking Anne to wife? How could Anne de Bourgh have advanced his career? Even if we had all agreed to an alliance of the families, how could my Cousin Anne have served any of us: Fitzwilliam, me, or Lindale? She has been kept tethered to her mother’s side to the point she is incapable of making the slightest decision for herself. Anne would never be able to serve as mistress of an estate, and, God only knows, whether she could bear her husband an heir and survive or whether she could tend the child afterwards. Yet, as best as I can determine, you made no move to prevent the manipulations Matlock and Lady Catherine practiced in that matter. Fitzwilliam married Georgiana to prevent your husband from forcing my sister to marry Lindale. You know, perfectly well, if I had been here, I would not have entertained the slightest possibility of such an arrangement. Moreover, I would have executed all within my power to prevent Fitzwilliam from being coerced into marrying Anne. Your younger son deserved a better life than to be bullied by Lady Catherine for another twenty years.”

Her ladyship appeared quite shaken by Darcy’s accusations; however, he had not finished his tirade. “I just returned from Hertfordshire where I learned both your husband and his elder sister have called upon Mr. Bennet and offered the man a great deal of money if the gentleman would share with them the location of where they might discover Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I ask myself why they have chosen to assist the Bennets, when neither, as you say, thought my proposal to the lady would provide an ‘advantageous match.’” He shook his head to clear his thinking. “Nor do I comprehend what they hope to achieve when they discovered her whereabouts. Do they plan to gloat at her reduced circumstances? Be certain she continues to suffer for the mistakes I made in trusting your family? However, there is one thing I do know for certain, if either of them places himself again between me and the lady, I will march over, not around them, to reach her.”

His aunt blanched white in obvious distress. “I shall speak to Matlock.”

“Warn him, not just speak to him,” he said in sad tones. “His lordship’s supposed ‘guidance’ has cost me a large portion of the Darcy fortune, but I will not permit him also to steal away my greatest treasure. Warn him I am George Darcy’s son, and I will come for his blood, if necessary, to protect those I love.”

* * *

It was another two days before his coach arrived in Brighton. “Ironic,” he whispered as anticipation rolled through him. It had been Lydia Bennet’s stay in Brighton that had precipitated his winning Elizabeth’s agreement to marry him. “Silly chit,” he murmured as he thought how he had tracked Elizabeth’s youngest sister and his former school chum, George Wickham, down in a seedy inn in London and forced Wickham to marry the girl, thus, earning Elizabeth’s undying affection.

“I pray her love is undying” he whispered.

When he had departed Darcy House, he had kissed his sister and his new nephew. As Fitzwilliam had predicted, Pemberley was safe. Georgiana’s son could inherit Pemberley and the Darcy fortune if Darcy chose not to marry; yet, he wanted his own son—a child whose surname was Darcy, not Fitzwilliam to inherit what his grandfather and his father had spent their lifetimes crafting so he might present it to his own son one day.

His coach eased to the curb, and Jasper opened the door to set down the steps so Darcy could exit the coach. It was late in the afternoon and the streets were thin of people. He turned in the direction to which Jasper gestured to read the bookseller’s sign hanging above the establishment’s door. In the bottom corner were the words: “Albert Sheffield, Proprietor.”

“Excellent,” he murmured as he set his steps to cross the street. “Wait for me,” he instructed his driver and footman. He still was not certain whether there was a true connection between his former valet and Elizabeth Bennet, but he would soon know the answer.

* * *

Elizabeth swallowed the words rushing to her lips. For the third time in as many minutes, Mr. Townsend had asked her to join him for supper. “I am sorry, sir,” she enunciated each word clearly, “as I have said previously, I could not consider leaving my uncle alone. Mr. Sheffield has been ill for several days now, and the brunt of his care, as well as the operation of the store has fallen to me, as is only appropriate considering how my uncle’s generosity has always been directed at me.” She glanced to the clock on the shelf beyond Townsend’s shoulder. “In fact, I must close the shop and retrieve my daughter from Mrs. Harris’s house so I might return before my uncle wakes and requires my assistance.”

She started around the man to open the door to usher him out. Unfortunately, he caught her arm to pull her into his body. Instinctively, she stiffened. She had not been near a man since she had lain with Fitzwilliam Darcy, and Elizabeth had no desire to think upon allowing another man such privileges.

“I would thank you to remove your hands from my person, Mr. Townsend. These actions are highly reprehensible to me,” she hissed, “and not likely ever to win my favor.”

“You require a man, Mrs. Dartmore, and I require a woman of merit in my bed.” He bent his head as if he meant to kiss her.

Elizabeth turned her head to the side to prevent his lips from claiming hers and prepared to strike him; however, such was not necessary. Townsend was sent flying backward to land sprawled upon the floor. In her struggles, she had not heard the bell over the door signal someone had entered the shop. Quickly adjusting the cut of the dress she wore, she turned to express her gratitude only to feel the air rush from her lungs and her knees go weak. Her vision blurred as her rescuer turned to reach for her. “William!” she called as everything went black.

* * *

Darcy had seen her through the window coming toward him, and his heart had leapt with joy. Yet, things changed quickly. She had been brought up short. For a few brief seconds, a man in a gig had blocked Darcy’s view as he jumped out of the way of the careless driver. Finally reaching the door, he opened it to discover the horror of another man holding Elizabeth in his embrace.

Unable to control the instant anger coursing through him, he rushed forward to grab the man by the nape of his neck to spin him around, landing a solid punch to the tip of the scoundrel’s chin. The dastard went flying backwards. Sharp breaths rushed in and out of Darcy’s lungs as his stance dared the man to rise from the floor.

Sensing her behind him, he swiveled around just as the light in her eyes turned dark, and she swooned. His name was upon her lips.

Darcy moved without thinking, catching her under the arms to drag her up against him. “Come, love,” he coaxed as she sagged, a dead weight, nearly knocking him over until he locked his knees in place and dragged her deeper into his embrace. He tapped her cheeks lightly. “Wake, Elizabeth.”

The man he knocked to the floor demanded, “Who in blazes do you think you are? ”

“The lady’s husband.” Darcy raised his eyes to view a blanket-draped man, a man who had served him for more than sixteen years.

“Good day, Sheffield,” he said with more calm than he felt. Darcy bent to lift Elizabeth into his arms to carry her to a nearby chair, where he sat first and cradled her on his lap.

“You are Lieutenant Dartmore?” the stranger questioned.

Darcy glanced to Sheffield who held himself perfectly still. Obviously, Darcy’s former valet had provided approval for the charade Elizabeth practiced. With a lift of his eyebrow, indicating his disdain, Sheffield said, “Did I not just say the gentleman is my niece’s husband?

“I thought you dead,” the man accused.

“Hardly,” Darcy responded pointedly, evoking his best Master of Pemberley voice. “Now, I mean to tend my wife.” He liked the sound of the word “wife” on his lips. “And as she and I are long overdue for a reunion and do not require an audience, if I were you, I would make myself scarce, before I recall how poorly you treated her and challenge you to a duel.”

The man frowned deeply, but presented Darcy a nod of agreement, turning crisply on his heels to exit the store.

“Thank you, Sheffield,” Darcy said in dismissal. “Thank you for seeing to Elizabeth when others turned their backs on her. I am forever in your debt.”

The man he had known since Darcy was twelve years of age bowed as would any good servant in addressing his master, but Darcy and this man had always held a relationship that had gone beyond the hierarchy of those positions. Likely, it was because Darcy had required someone’s advice—an older brother of sorts—after his mother’s passing and during his father’s deep grief. Perhaps it was because Sheffield had been born a gentleman’s son, as was Darcy. The only difference was George Darcy was worth more than five times that of Sheffield’s father, and the late Artemis Sheffield had had four sons to provide for. The eldest would receive the small estate the family owned. The second entered the military, as was expected of second sons, such as his Cousin Fitzwilliam. The third took up law. Albert Sheffield was to join the clergy. Yet, the young Albert knew himself not the type to deliver sermons, and so he sought to become a teacher at one of the universities. He had come to George Darcy’s employment as a tutor for the elder Darcy’s son while he waited his turn to claim a professorship. After being with the Darcy family for several years, Sheffield transitioned into the role of a gentleman’s gentleman.

Sheffield pulled the blanket tighter about his person. “I ... I am most gratified ... to view you ... safe, sir,” he said with emotion filling his voice. “And to be accurate ... about my care ... of Miss Elizabeth, it is I ... who has been blessed ... to be of service ... to her. Enjoy your reunion.”

Then, Sheffield disappeared toward the rear of the store, leaving Darcy alone with Elizabeth. He shook her gently and cooed, “Come, love. Wake for me.” Darcy studied her features as she made her return to consciousness. How often over the last four years had he imagined waking up beside her? More than he could properly recall.

Her eyes fluttered open and closed several times before she smiled at him. Shards of his broken heart fell into place once more. She whispered, “William.”

For several elongated seconds everything was perfection. Then, reality arrived. Elizabeth bolted upright, fighting to scramble from his hold on her. Literally, she fell backwards upon her rear, having tripped over her hem.

“Away!” she cautioned, holding out her hand to ward off his advance. “Who are you?” she demanded.

Darcy rose to extend his hand to assist her to her feet. “You know who I am,” he said with a small smile of understanding.

“You cannot be Fitzwilliam Darcy. They told me Fitzwilliam Darcy was dead.”

He extended his hand a second time. “Trust me. I am very much alive, although there were many attempts to end my life.”

“William?” Her mouth formed the word, but no sound escaped her lips. A thousand different emotions darted across her features: Confusion. Fear. Anger. Defeat. Denial. Hope.

Darcy knelt before her to gather her to him. “Yes, love. William. Your William.”

Her hands searched his face—his shoulders—and his hair. “How can it be you?” She leaned into him then, nearly knocking him over. She kissed his jaw—his throat—the corner of his mouth. Her tears wet his cravat. Wet his face. Her softness. Her scent. Filled him. Returning all the pieces of his heart to where they belonged.

At length, their mouths met. Urgency. Joining. Parting. Rejoining. A reacquaintance. He ran a string of kisses over her cheeks and nose before returning to her mouth. Their tongues intertwined. Testing. Offering proof of what existed between them, while comparing this moment to all those they had known previously. For the first time since that fateful day on the docks, Darcy felt whole again.

“You have no idea how frightened I was without you. The pain on my father’s face when we parted was unbearable.”

“I did not wish to frighten you,” he said softly. His fingers renewed the memory of her as he spoke. “In truth, I was not certain you were with Sheffield.” He kissed her cheeks and forehead. “Since my first day back in England, I set my mind to finding you. I constantly prayed you had not claimed another.” He lifted her chin with his fingertips. “Pray, say it is not too late for us.”

For the briefest of moments, she swayed as if she meant to fall deeper into his embrace, and then she was shoving against his chest, demanding her release. “Late!” She scrambled to her feet. “I am late!” She rushed to lock the shop door. “I must go!”

“Go where?” he asked as he trailed her through the shelving area toward the back of the store.

She turned to him, walking backward. “I must call upon Mrs. Harris, Mr. Sheffield’s particular friend.”

Darcy was thankful she was not hurrying off to meet another man, but he wondered how this Mrs. Harris superseded their need to speak of a future together. Was not their relationship more important than a social call? Could she not send her regrets?

She slid her hands into the sleeves of her pelisse before reaching for the door. She stopped quite suddenly, never turning around, but she said, “I would be pleased if you would accompany me. We have much to say to each other, but I am required at Mrs. Harris’s home immediately.”

For some reason her shoulders stiffened, but she smiled up at him when he joined her in the opened passageway behind the bookstore. “Would you prefer the use of my carriage?” he said when he fell in step with her. “The weather is quite cold for early September.” Darcy wished to reach for her hand to place it on his arm as a symbol of possession, but Elizabeth tightly clasped her reticule before her, evidently not wishing his touch at the moment. At least, she had not sent him away.

“It is only a few streets over,” she explained. “And you know I am an excellent walker.” Her eyebrow lifted in a natural challenge, and he breathed a bit easier. They were still on common ground.

“I recall your walking to Netherfield through the mud,” he said with a return of the easiness between them. There was so much he wished to say to her, but she bit her bottom lip as she walked, indicating her nervousness. He understood. His heart was pounding out a fast tattoo. It had been so long since he had even looked upon her, the whole situation unreal. Therefore, he chose a subject not centered on their future, thinking she must be as overwhelmed as he. He did not wish to push her too quickly. Certainly, his reappearance had to be a shock to her. “Mr. Sheffield possesses a ‘particular friend’?” he asked.

“Mrs. Harris,” she explained, although she did not look at him, a fact which perplexed Darcy, “set her sights on Sheffield when we arrived in Brighton. He has been slow to respond: I fear he worries what is to become of me if he takes up with the lady.”

Darcy thought if she would again accept the offer of his hand in marriage, Mr. Sheffield could choose whether to pursue the lady or not. He wished to voice those thoughts, but there would be time to reconnect with her later. Darcy had no other plans for the time being, other than to win Elizabeth’s approval of their joining.

“The man in the shop,” he began, attempting to learn whether she wanted the gentleman’s attentions or not.

“Mr. Townsend,” she supplied the man’s name. “Mr. Sidney Townsend.”

“Mr. Townsend,” he repeated, all along thinking he would be soon learning all he could of the man, perhaps another job for Mr. Cowan. Seeing Townsend apparently forcing his attentions on Elizabeth reminded Darcy of the scene he had walked in on between Georgiana and George Wickham. “The man in the shop called me ‘Lieutenant Dartmore.’”

She blushed thoroughly. “Mr. Sheffield had told several in the area he had been previously in the employ of Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Before arriving in Brighton, he and I had decided I would be posing as his niece.”

She led the way along a narrow path on the outskirts of the thriving port city. When he came abreast of her again, he asked, “I appreciate Mr. Sheffield moving to protect you, but when you fainted, Sheffield told Mr. Townsend I was your husband, Lieutenant Dartmore.”

“Of His Majesty’s Royal Navy,” she confirmed. Another blush flooded her cheeks.

“I do not mind assuming the role of your husband,” he said, “but why was it necessary for you to be a married lady? Being Sheffield’s niece should have been sufficient for those about town who had a desire to know more of you.”

She ignored his question, crossing through the yard of a nicely situated cottage. “Mrs. Harris?” Elizabeth called as she rapped on the door. “It is Elizabeth.” She knocked louder. “I am grieved to be late.”

When no one answered, she moved to the window to peer inside. Tapping on the glass she called, “Mrs. Harris!” Her voice began to display her alarm. “Mrs. Harris!”

He tried the door, but it was latched. “I will go around to the back.”

“I shall go with you,” she said as he led the way.

They found the back door wide open. “Mrs. Harris?” she called again.

Darcy placed her behind him. “Allow me to go first.”

“She would never leave the door open,” Elizabeth said, her voice trembling. “The lady lives alone, and, of late, there has been an influx of men searching for food and goods to either sell or pawn for money.”

Darcy edged around the corner of a large china chest to note a middle-aged woman sprawled out on the floor, a trickle of blood marking her forehead. He knelt to examine the lady’s condition, but Elizabeth sprinted around him, calling out as she opened doors along the hall.

“Lizzy! Lizzy Anne!” She slammed another door and rushed the stairs. “Lizzy! Come out! Do not be frightened! Lizzy!” she screamed, turning in circles.

He caught her then, holding her in place. “Who is Lizzy?” he demanded. She sucked in a quick breath, but he knew her beyond recovery because of the wild look in her eyes. He presented her a good shake, his own anxiety rising quickly. “Who is Lizzy?” he repeated.

“Our daughter,” she murmured, collapsing against him.