Page 82 of The Shades of Pemberley

“Now, let us speak of the practicalities,” said Mrs. Bennet. “I shall be nearby to assist, and together with Victoria, we will guide you in what to expect. It is customary to wait to inform your husband of the news, though you may do as you see fit, of course.”

Curious, Elizabeth could not help but ask why.

“Because,” explained her mother, “though the lack of your courses is a sign, nothing is certain until the babe quickens within you, and that will not happen for another three months. Before that happens, you may even lose the child to a miscarriage.”

“You did not miscarry,” observed Elizabeth.

“No, I did not, but every woman is different. It is your choice, but at the very least, I would not announce it to the company or society at large. If you must tell your husband,” Mrs. Bennet grinned, “and I cannot but suppose William would be pleased to hear it, then let it be your secret until you feel the quickening. With your permission, I shall inform Victoria, but shall say nothing to anyone else.”

“Of course, Mama,” agreed Elizabeth. “I should be happy for William’s mother to know.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Bennet drew her in for another embrace. “My first grandchild! How pleased I shall be to gaze on your child’s little face!”

True to her promise, Mrs. Bennet told no one other than Mrs. Darcy, who hastened to offer Elizabeth her congratulations. Soon, Elizabeth’s mood was high enough that she thought she was floating on clouds, the anticipation building even though the child would not arrive for several months yet.

It was this feeling of elation that resulted in William knowing her condition soon after her conversation with her mother. Elizabeth had resolved to wait at least a short time before informing him, but her unrestrained good spirits betrayed her.

“Well, this is amusing,” said William as he watched Elizabeth twirl in the sunlight as they walked in the gardens. “There is something different about you, Elizabeth, for I have never seen you this carefree.”

“Do I not have a reason to be happy?” asked Elizabeth. “I am at my beautiful home with all my family and a doting husband. Who could not be delighted with such circumstances?”

William regarded her for several long moments. “You have always been a joyful sort of woman, but this is beyond anything I have ever seen.”

“Yes, I must suppose it is,” said Elizabeth.

She skipped to her husband and playfully reached up on tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek. “The reason for my bright spirits is that I have cause to believe that I am with child.”

Frozen at her confession, William gazed at her with wonder. Then he found his voice and breathed: “With child?”

“It is not yet certain—”

Then Elizabeth found herself lifted in the air as her husband took hold of her and whirled her around, laughing like a madman, Elizabeth’s mirth mingling with his. When he placed her on the ground again, he inspected her, much as her mother had.

“You said it is uncertain?”

“Mama said we can only be sure when the quickening comes, and that will not happen for some time yet. Even so, we believe it is true; we may welcome a child around Christmastide.”

“That is wonderful!” exulted William.

He grasped her more tenderly this time, taking exquisite care of her as he enfolded her in his arms and kissed her hair. “I suppose I should take greater care with you in your condition. We would not wish to cause harm to the babe.”

“No, we would not,” said Elizabeth, drawing back from him again. “Please remember that I am not made of fine china. It will be some time before the presence of the babe will be detectable to our family; I am still capable of everything I could do before.”

“Trust me, Elizabeth,” replied her wry husband, “I know enough of your spirit to understand you would not appreciate me trying to protect you in layers of fine cotton.”

“So long as you remember, I shall be content.”

NOTHING COULD BE SO great a blessing as to learn that he would become a father.

Unlike Elizabeth, Darcy was bursting with the desire to inform everyone of his good fortune.

Elizabeth’s admonition about speaking of the matter when it was yet uncertain stayed his hand, so Darcy kept silent, though not with any grace.

Soon, however, he discovered that both their mothers knew, and each, seeing his sudden joy, congratulated him with understated words of pleasure.

In time, Darcy considered it a secret shared with only his wife and their mothers, and his desire to trumpet it from the housetops diminished.

Somehow, the notion that it was a secret others would learn in due time made it all that much more precious.

It is the desire of every man with a wife, and especially when he learns he is to become a father, to wish to protect his family with every ounce of his strength, and Darcy was no different.

The physical needs of his family were assured with his inheritance of Pemberley and were not in doubt even before.

The one blemish on Darcy’s ability to protect his family was the situation with their London intruder.

Though perhaps that situation was not directed at Darcy and Elizabeth, and was instead focused on Georgiana, the notion brought no comfort, for Darcy was determined to protect her the same as he would his wife and children.

The knowledge of his impending fatherhood drove his thoughts to further consideration about what had forced them from London, and soon Darcy thought there was something they were all missing.

Nothing was clear in his mind, the mists of uncertainty clouding his vision, but soon he reflected on other options than a criminal wishing to steal Georgiana’s dowry or hold her for ransom.

In time, another idea made itself known, such that he brought the subject to Fitzwilliam’s attention.

“Tell me, Fitzwilliam,” said Darcy that day after he invited his friend into his study for a serious conversation, “what do you think of this business in London now that we have left it behind?”

“I am not certain we have left it behind,” confessed Fitzwilliam. “If those responsible are determined enough, they may even dare to follow us here, though intrusion into Pemberley will be far more difficult than in London.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Darcy. “There is one thing of which I am yet uncertain—the entail on Pemberley.”

Fitzwilliam leaned forward, regarding him with open curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“I was aware of the entail, of course, as I was the heir. According to your father, however, it was not at all known in society.”

“That is because the Darcy family desires privacy.” Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Not even most of the nobility guard their privacy with such jealousy as the Darcys.”

“Exactly. That means that anyone who meant the family harm would not know that the property was to pass to me should something happen to my cousin.”

Fitzwilliam frowned. “You are suggesting something darker, Darcy.”

“I suggest nothing. Yet it strikes me that there may be more to this than someone attempting to profit by spiriting Georgiana away. Was there anything strange about Jameson’s death?”

“Not that I can recall,” said Fitzwilliam after a moment’s thought. “Darcy had mounted his horse to ride out to a tenant farm, from what I understand. Gentlemen do not ride their estates so much in the winter, yet at times it is necessary.”

“That it is,” agreed Darcy.

“Darcy rode a short distance from the house,” continued Fitzwilliam. “A little later, the horse bolted back to the stables. The hands searched for their master and found him soon after. There was little snow on the ground, but they suspected a fox or some other wildlife had startled the horse.”

Darcy frowned. “From what I understand, my cousin was an excellent horseman. Would such a man be so easily thrown?”

Fitzwilliam spread his arms out wide. “I cannot say, Darcy. Even the best among us might be caught off guard by an unexpected fright.”

“Did you inspect the horse, the saddle, or anything else?”

“I did not,” said Fitzwilliam. “By the time I arrived, Georgiana was inconsolable with grief, and I had other matters to concern myself.” Fitzwilliam eyed him. “This is troubling, Darcy. What you are suggesting is beyond a plot to gain ransom—you are suggesting nothing less than murder.”

“I know I am,” said Darcy.

“What has led you to it?”

“I scarcely know,” confessed Darcy. “The matter of the entail has been growing on my mind. If no one knew the estate would devolve to me, might my cousin’s death have resulted from an attempt to gain control over it?”

“Through Georgiana,” said Fitzwilliam, his eyes widening.

“Darcy has no other close family remaining. You were his closest cousin, though there are several others more distant—most of those he did not even know. Had Darcy the choice, he would have left the estate to Georgiana. She would have needed to choose a man willing to assume the Darcy name, but it would have kept the estate in the family.”

“Which would give a man looking to gain an estate by clandestine means a motive.”

Darcy peered at the other man, who was deep in thought. “The question is who? Is there anyone you suppose might attempt such a thing?”

“There is one man who may be audacious enough to suppose he might succeed at such a scheme.” Fitzwilliam’s face was stony. “Before we discuss this any further, we must investigate. Have you considered the possibility that you might be a target should your conjecture be true?”

It was something that Darcy had considered, though he had not thought of it in any detail.

The situation had now changed, because in a few months, there would be another heir of the property, not that an assailant would know of it.

Darcy hesitated to speak of it, as it was a private matter between Elizabeth and himself, but Fitzwilliam was a trusted ally, one he knew would act in their best interests. Thus, Darcy determined to inform him.

“There is a development on that front, for Elizabeth told me just the other day that she suspects she is with child.”

Fitzwilliam’s mien softened for just an instant. “That is excellent news, Darcy, and I congratulate you. All the more reason to unravel this, for in time she will become a target too.”

“What do you propose?”

“That we question the stable hands. They may lead us to some piece of evidence we have not considered.”

With a nod, Darcy rose, and they exited the room together. That this was likely futile, he did not consider for a moment, even though the event was almost half a year in the past.

They reached the stables, and a man there led them to the lead hand, a rugged man of about fifty, short-cropped gray hair, a scruffy beard, and a scar running up the side of his face from the edge of his jawline to his ear from a horse’s hoof or shoe.

The man greeted them with respect, though his voice contained a natural gruffness that was not at all intended as an insult.

Upon questioning, the man considered the events of that day and answered, but he revealed nothing they did not already know. “Mr. Darcy was already dead by the time we reached him. Neck broken from the fall.”

“Was there any sign of what might have caused it?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“No, there was not, and that was the troubling part.”

The hand turned and led them to a stall not far away where a tall white stallion was stabled. The animal whickered at the sight of them, nosing Darcy’s outstretched hand for a treat he did not possess. Darcy made a mental note to bring a carrot or apple when next he visited.

“Zeus here is spirited, but he does not spook easily. Mr. Darcy rode him since he was a young man, for perhaps ten years. He knew the master, and the master knew him. It made no sense for him to throw the master, for once I even saw him do nothing more than sidestep an adder when I was riding him for exercise.”

Fitzwilliam considered this for a moment. “Was there anything amiss with the saddle? No cut straps or the like?”

The man shot him a look of surprise, but recovered at once.

“There was nothing amiss, Colonel Fitzwilliam. The saddle is one Mr. Darcy’s father gave him, not long before he passed away.

You can inspect it if you wish; it has not been used since the accident.

Stowed away in a hurry, as I recall, given the events of the day. ”

At Fitzwilliam’s nod, the man showed them to where the riding equipment was stored, bridles and saddles mixed with spurs, blinders, and other such articles an equestrian would find useful.

The saddle in question was a fine piece made of supple leather, stitched with sturdy thread, not ornate, but the work of a man who knew his business.

The buckles showed nothing of wear, the straps all appearing in good order with no wear that might show a pending problem.

“There is nothing at all,” muttered Fitzwilliam to himself, as he inspected the piece.

Then he grasped it and turned it over, the blood draining from his face as his eyes alighted on something.

“Darcy, look here,” said Fitzwilliam, his voice a little shaky.

Stepping closer, Darcy looked where Fitzwilliam was pointing.

On the underside of the saddle near where the rider’s right leg would rest were the prickly remains of some hard vegetation, brittle and crumbling, but there all the same.

Understanding flooded Darcy at once, and he gaped at Fitzwilliam, as the enormity of what they had discovered became apparent to him.

Someone had put burrs under the saddle, the remains of which were still distinct even six months after the event.

The evidence now suggested that someone had murdered Jameson Darcy, the previous master of Pemberley.