Page 28 of The Magic of Pemberley (Fitzwilliam Darcy, Mage #2)

Chapter 28

P uzzled, Elizabeth looked down at the compass in her hand and then up again at the French stone manor house before her. In the last week, she had crossed the Channel and over a hundred miles of France, following Cerridwen’s directions. This was the location her dragon had pointed her to that morning. There was nothing else nearby, only fields and a few outbuildings.

It looked nothing like a prison. No one was guarding it, and the sole person in sight was an aged gardener bending over a flower bed. Elizabeth had prepared herself for so many possibilities of what she might find, most of them involving imprisonment, but it could be that Darcy was still free and lying low. He might be hiding in a cave or a shepherd’s hut, or even living in a hedgerow. Without identity papers, he could not stay at an inn or in a town. But what could he possibly be doing in someone’s country retreat, complete with turrets and topiary?

She sank back against a stone fence, exhausted and footsore. Her journey had been simple enough until the last two days. The diligence had not been comfortable, but it had taken her to the town closest to where Cerridwen had sensed Darcy’s presence. No one had questioned her story of going to stay with her uncle or even asked to see her forged papers. Apparently common pregnant women were above suspicion. But after that she had only the direction Cerridwen gave her, with no knowledge of local roads or lanes. She could hardly ask someone how best to reach a destination she could neither name nor describe.

She rubbed her aching back. Two days of following dead-end lanes and tromping across fields, circling around copses and impassable hedgerows had left her feet swollen and blistered. Only her eagerness to reach Darcy had kept her going. Now finally the end was in sight.

If impossible to believe.

A jab under her ribs told her the baby was awake. It was always quieter when she was walking and liveliest when she tried to sleep, but this time it felt like a reminder that her child needed its father. She had a job to do.

If Darcy was even here. What if Cerridwen was wrong? Elizabeth had come all this way based on her belief in the dragon’s ability to find her husband. What if it was only Darcy’s body buried in the garden here?

No. She would know if he was no longer alive. She had to believe that.

They must be holding him prisoner, here in this unassuming country house. Why else would he have remained here for weeks on end?

Her chest ached with the desire to reach out to him with her mind, to feel his presence. If only she dared to try a magical sending to him! But the dragons had warned her against using her Talent in any way, since they did not know what forms of magic Napoleon’s men could sense.

No, she would have to do this the hard way, the way she would have before she discovered her mage powers. She pushed herself off the wall, wincing at the stabbing pain in her feet, and smoothed the skirt of her humble dress.

She made her way to the kitchen door and knocked, a timid rap suitable for a servant or a beggar. She had left her lady’s manners behind in England.

The top half of the door opened to reveal a red-cheeked woman of middle years, her white apron tidy and clean.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” Elizabeth said humbly. “I am a poor traveler on my way to my family, and I wondered if you might be generous enough to allow me to sleep in your barn tonight. I will be happy to work for it; I can mend or clean. ”

“Oh, you poor creature! You must be exhausted, walking in your state. Come in and sit by the fire to warm yourself, and later you shall have a pallet to sleep on.” She opened the lower door and shooed Elizabeth in.

“The saints bless you, sweet lady! But will not the master of the house object? I would not wish to cause you any trouble.”

The woman chuckled. “No need to fret! My mistress is a kind lady, and she would not hear of leaving someone in your condition to sleep out of doors. Now sit down and put your feet up on the stool. They must be so swollen, no? When I was with child, I could barely put my shoes on!”

Elizabeth sank down gratefully. “I would not even recognize these feet as mine, if they were not attached to my legs.”

“Oh, ma pauvre petite ! Is this your first?”

Since coming to France, Elizabeth had learned that speaking about her condition was an easy way to forge a connection, so she settled into her prepared litany of difficulties. Her aching back, her husband who was taken to be a soldier and never heard from again. Not being able to pay her rent, and traveling to an uncle who needed her to keep house for him.

The cook, who introduced herself as Mme. Laurent, kneaded bread dough as she listened sympathetically and told her own tales of challenging pregnancies. She was pleasant and interesting, but Elizabeth struggled to hold her impatience in check. Darcy was nearby and likely suffering.

Finally she dared to ask a question. “You seem busy. Is it a large family you serve?”

“No, only my lady and her two children, imps that they are! And her poor cousin who was injured in the wars and now tutors the imps.”

But somewhere there must be a prisoner, too, but of course the cook would not mention that to a stranger. “You must be feeding many servants, then.” She gestured towards the bubbling pot on the hearth.

She sniffed. “Hardly any. My lady had to let most of the indoor staff go after her husband was killed, apart from the nurse and the lazy girl who works upstairs. But some of the nearby folk do not have enough to eat, and they know the pot here is full every evening. That is what I expected when you knocked. ”

This made no sense. If they were keeping prisoners here, they would try to keep visitors away, not encourage them.

Unless the cook was a very skilled liar, Darcy was not here. Elizabeth would have to keep looking. Perhaps he might be hiding in a disused outbuilding or one of those vast hedgerows. Yes, that must be it.

But it was growing dark, and she could not hunt for him without a light. She would accept the hospitality of the cook for the night, gain all the information she could about the environs, and set out fresh tomorrow morning. With any luck, Cerridwen would come to her and give her more precise directions.

Having a plan helped to ease the well of disappointment in her. She refused to think of what it might mean if she could not find Darcy. Cerridwen had never let her down before.

Still, after two days of walking, she would be grateful for a night of rest. Or at least as much rest as the child within her would allow her.

The cook stood in front of the rain-streaked window. “Surely you will not leave in this downpour! You will be soaked to the skin in no time and lucky if you do not find yourself ill. You can stay here until it stops.”

Disheartened, Elizabeth picked up another dirty plate and began to scrub it. “You are very kind.” She tried to sound grateful, but how could she forget how quickly the days were passing, every hour bringing her that much closer to childbirth and having to return home empty-handed.

But making herself sick by hunting in the rain would cost her even more time. The memory came to her of her sister Jane, sick at Netherfield for days after a soaking. How long ago and far away that seemed, when she still disliked Darcy, knew little of mages or dragons, and thought to spend her entire life at Longbourn! And now she was in France in disguise as a common woman, her hands stinging from the caustic kitchen soap. She would never again take scullery maids for granted. How long did it take them to scrub all the dozens of dishes from an everyday dinner at Pemberley?

She had met the lady of the house this morning, an attractive young woman only a few years older than her, who inquired kindly about her pregnancy and offered her a pair of old slippers for her swollen feet. It seemed impossible that this was a prison. Still, it would not hurt to turn every stone.

So when she finally dried the last dish, she asked, “Is there anything else I can do to help? Perhaps an empty room that needs airing?” Something that would get her out of the kitchen and into the main part of the house where she could search for any hints. At least it would feel like she was accomplishing something, even if she doubted she would find anything. “I can clean fireplaces.” At least she had seen maids do so.

The cook snorted. “With that big belly of yours? I think not. Here, you may take the tray up to the children, since that lazy girl is late again. The imps are even more terrible when they have not eaten, and poor Kapitan Kupillas will not be pleased.”

Elizabeth pictured a stern older Prussian gentleman. She would have to take care not to draw his attention; he was unlikely to be as trusting as the cook. “Where are they?”

“Upstairs to the second floor and then along the corridor to the end. You will hear the imps before you see them.”

Perfect. The vague instructions would give her an excuse to wander about and see what she could discover.

She collected the tray and headed up the narrow dark servant stairs and then out through the door. The suddenly brighter light made her blink.

This was clearly not the finest part of the house, with stone walls and minimal decoration. Most likely rooms for guests and perhaps even servants. All the doors were closed.

Balancing the tray on her hip, she quietly lifted the latch on the first door and eased it open. Empty and clearly disused. The next was the same, and the third had furnishings under Holland covers. No sign that prisoners had been kept here.

She was reaching for the fourth door when a deep voice with a harsh German accent snapped, “What are you doing?”

She ducked her head, her heart racing. “Forgive me, sir. Which is the room with the children?” She held out the tray in evidence of her errand and raised her eyes pleadingly.

To a tall man with an icy expression, in a dark blue military uniform, not a French one, with gaunt cheeks and a mustache.

And Darcy’s deep, dark eyes.

The tray slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers and smashed to the floor.

Little Alexandrine was reading aloud haltingly when Darcy heard doors opening and closing over her piping voice. He tensed. No one came to this floor except on errands to the schoolroom and nursery.

His heart began to pound. Someone was searching the house. How had they tracked him here? He had not used even the smallest bit of Talent in the months since he was shot, but somehow they had found him.

There was no escape, not with only one working arm. He would have to brazen it out. He stood, reminding himself to use the Prussian accent Mme. Hartung had so painstakingly taught him, and stalked out into the corridor.

A woman, a poor one by her dress and heavy with child, was sticking her head in one of the unused rooms. Looking for something to steal? It was a relief. He should be annoyed, but for him, a mere thief rather than Napoleon’s soldiers was the best news in the world. But with his fear suddenly gone, anger entered into its place, so he barked, “What are you doing here?”

She froze, the picture of guilt. Then she held out her tray of food. “Forgive me, which is the room with the children? ”

Her voice resonated in him. It must be her accent, one from the south of France like Elizabeth’s, and she was much of Elizabeth’s height. Devil take it, why did he see Elizabeth in every woman? It only made him ache for her more.

Then she raised her eyes to his. Fine, dark eyes, so utterly familiar, but dulled by fatigue instead of sparkling with laughter.

And suddenly, filled with shocked recognition. The tray of food crashed to the floor.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

He wanted to believe it, wanted it more than anything in the world, but it was insanity. His mind had finally gone, from all his hopeless dread and loneliness. The impossible effort of pretending to be a Prussian nobleman, of not speaking a word of his native language in months. But every instinct shouted out to him that this was Elizabeth.

Her voice cracked as she said in English, “William? Dear God, is that you?”

His body realized the truth before his mind, striding forward to grasp her with his good arm and hold her to him, as if he could pull her essence into himself. Elizabeth was here!

It was so very, very right – and even more wrong. The coarseness of her dress, the smell of mud and harsh soap instead of lavender, but underneath that the ineffably feminine scent of Elizabeth. Above all, the strange shape of her, the bulge that was down between them.

His child.

It was beyond belief; it was heaven on earth.

His lips sought hers out, desperate for even more intimacy, and then he knew it was no mistake. He knew the taste of Elizabeth’s kiss, how their mouths fitted together, how her body shifted in his embrace. It truly was her.

The sharp pain in his shoulder brought him back to reality. That they were in Napoleon’s France, that Elizabeth was in danger, and he was making it worse by exposing her .

He stiffened, ending the kiss abruptly. But he could not bring himself to let her go, not so soon. “What are you doing here?” The English words felt strange in his mouth.

“Looking for you, of course.” She laughed softly, tears spilling from her eyes. Her fingers brushed his upper lip. “A mustache, my love? It tickles.”

That hit him with a true jolt. He had to protect them both. He forced his hand back to his side. “All Prussian officers wear them,” he said in his Germanic accented French. Then, in a low voice, he added, “There is a spy in the house. A maid who reports to the government.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “The lazy girl, the cook calls her.” But she must have realized the danger, for she stepped back.

Just in time, as footsteps pounded up the stairs. The maid burst into sight. “What happened? I heard a crash.”

He had to protect Elizabeth, no matter what. In his most haughty manner, he said, “Nothing of import. This clumsy woman dropped the tray.” From the corner of his eye he saw Elizabeth kneeling down to pick up the spilled food, her head lowered.

“Stupid girl!” cried the maid, kicking at a roll that had bounced across the floor. “Clean that up immediately.”

Darcy had to fight to keep silent as the maid chastised his Elizabeth. But he could only keep her safe from the spy by playing his role, so he turned his back and marched into the schoolroom.

“Look, Kapitan!” cried Alexandrine. “I have finished the entire page!”

His life had been turned upside down, Elizabeth was in danger, and yet the children had noticed nothing.

Why in God’s name had she risked everything to come here? He ought to be furious with her, but all he wanted was to hold her in his arms again and never let her go.

Elizabeth returned to the kitchen in a daze, mumbling a confession about dropping the tray. The upstairs maid, the lazy girl, came to take a new one upstairs, once again scolding Elizabeth for her clumsiness. Elizabeth barely registered it.

Her mind was spinning. Darcy was here, he was free – or so it seemed? – and he had held her and kissed her. Oh, how she wanted to go racing up there simply to be with him. She had so many questions for him, so much to tell him, and no way to do it without risking their safety.

She spent the afternoon devising schemes to contact him, but it was pointless. She had to wait for Darcy to take the first step. He knew the house and its inhabitants, what was possible and what was not. He would find a way somehow.

Several hours later, Mme. Hartung came down to the kitchen to discuss the menu with the cook. Elizabeth listened with half an ear as she worked on the mending the cook had given her. At least that was a servant’s task she was competent at, after all her years sewing her land Talent into handkerchiefs for Jane.

Mme. Hartung approached her, and under the guise of inspecting her work, whispered, “Go to the carriage shed when all the house is abed. He will be there.”

Elizabeth caught her breath. The lady of the house knew Darcy’s secret? Of course she must; she had claimed he was her cousin. But she must not show her surprise. “Merci, madame,” she murmured.

Tonight. She would be alone with him tonight.