Page 85 of The Shades of Pemberley
J ourneying to London was a bother and no mistake.
The comforts of Pemberley were such that anyone would prefer to remain there rather than endure three days of travel and one hundred and fifty miles of road, however well maintained.
Anthony Fitzwilliam was no stranger to discomfort, for he had spent years in the army, after all; there had been many times in many locations when he had bivouacked in uncomfortable circumstances, even sleeping under the open sky with only a tree between himself and the elements.
Fitzwilliam did not complain; he would do anything to protect his family, and even if Georgiana were not involved, Fitzwilliam now considered Darcy and his lovely wife to be part of the family.
There was something estimable about them both, consisting of intelligence, compassion, humility, and friendship that called to him.
Fitzwilliam was not unaware that his affinity for Fitzwilliam Darcy was even greater than that he held for Jameson Darcy, though they had been close, as Jameson had been a complex man, one difficult to understand or know with any intimacy.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was not a better man, but he was easier to jest with, easier to know than his cousin had been.
There was something praiseworthy about the whole Bennet family, for even if they were naught but country gentry, they were more real than many a baron or lady of society who considered herself fashionable and sophisticated.
Even the youngest girls, still too young to be in society to own the truth, were good girls and had become great friends with Georgiana.
Though his acquaintance with them had proceeded from a tragedy that now appeared to have more sinister causes, Fitzwilliam could not deny he felt improved by the circumstances that had led to his knowing them.
The business of Wickham was a shock, but now that he considered—three days’ travel with nothing to do but sit astride a horse did wonders for a man’s perspective—Wickham’s involvement should have been obvious.
The intruder in the house, for one, a man who appeared to know the layout, should have rung bells, leading to at least the suspicion of Wickham’s involvement.
How Mrs. Younge had become acquainted with George Wickham, he did not know, but he meant to squeeze every detail from her.
Before he confronted her, Fitzwilliam needed leverage, and the only place to acquire it was at Darcy’s house.
“Anthony,” greeted his father when he arrived at the house on the third day of his travels. “You made good time to London.”
Fitzwilliam shrugged. “With my trusty steed and no need to pace myself, I departed early in the mornings and stopped late into the night.” With a rueful shake of his head, he added: “My horse will require several days of rest before I can ride him again, but he is a good beast and did not complain about the pace we set.”
His father nodded. “What of this business that brought you here? Do you suppose that wastrel Wickham is involved?”
“It makes sense,” said Fitzwilliam. “Allow me to change, and I shall explain matters to you. I mean to visit her today, though not until after I have a go at her room in Darcy’s house.”
Appreciating his father’s willingness to allow him to refresh himself and not delay him with useless questions, Fitzwilliam returned to the study within fifteen minutes of leaving it.
Though it was only a few moments, Fitzwilliam felt almost human again after three days of the motion of a horse under him, the dust of the road, and the heat of the sun on his back.
With an economy of words and knowing his time was limited, Fitzwilliam spoke of their conjectures, explaining the steps that had led them to their conclusions.
His father, a seasoned politician who understood the value of listening, did not comment until he completed his account.
When he spoke, he did not waste time with useless protestations.
“There are more than a few assumptions and leaps of logic, but it is plausible. What do you mean to do about it?”
“First, I shall go to Darcy’s townhouse to search Mrs. Younge’s room.”
The earl regarded him with open skepticism. “Did Darcy not already search the room?”
“His housekeeper,” clarified Fitzwilliam. “The search concentrated on her effects and the furniture in her room—I wonder if she had some other means of concealing her correspondence.”
Fitzwilliam offered a shrug and added: “Perhaps she burned any letters she received to prevent them from falling into our hands. If Wickham was smart enough, he instructed her to do just that. It may be a fool’s errand, but I hope to confront Mrs. Younge with more than speculation.”
“If you presented it as fact, she would not know the difference.”
“Especially if I mentioned Wickham’s name,” agreed Fitzwilliam. “I have considered that and will use it if I must.”
“Then go to it. When you have searched her room, return here and I shall accompany you. Perhaps she will be a little more inclined to speak if confronted by an angry earl.”
Fitzwilliam agreed and departed soon thereafter.
An application to Mrs. Mayfield, and soon Fitzwilliam was standing in the room Mrs. Younge had used when living in the house.
It was a utilitarian room, one far more than most servants could expect—then again, companions were more than mere servants.
With a glance about the room, Fitzwilliam went to work.
The drawers in her vanity and dresser revealed nothing as he had expected, not even a false bottom or a concealed space behind a drawer.
From there, Fitzwilliam moved to Mrs. Younge’s personal effects, her gowns, where he inspected the hems for any suspicious lumps sewn into the seams. These also revealed nothing; the woman’s dresses were of good quality, but unremarkable and bearing nothing out of place.
When Fitzwilliam exhausted this possibility, he stood to survey the room.
There were no floorboards loose, and nothing on the walls appeared out of order.
The bed was not concealing any letters or the like, and he could find nothing in the mattress either, for the seams there were undisturbed.
Turning, Fitzwilliam caught sight of the large wardrobe against the wall away from the bed and studied it for a moment.
A woman of Mrs. Younge’s diminutive size would not have the strength to move such a large piece of furniture out of the way, but one could fit a piece of paper behind it if the purpose was to hide it from prying eyes.
Perhaps she might even inch it away from the wall if she needed to retrieve it.
It was no trouble for a large man such as Fitzwilliam to move it, though it was heavy, and when he did so, he heard the soft sound of a packet hitting the floor.
With a grin, he moved the wardrobe a little further, until he could make out the outline of the paper in the dark space behind.
When Fitzwilliam had it in hand, he opened it and perused its contents, comprising several letters, a vicious grin growing the longer he read.
We have her .
WITH THE INSPECTION of Pemberley’s lands completed and no sign of Wickham, a certain measure of reassurance settled over those at the estate.
The added notion that William could not be Mr. Wickham’s target further allowed them to breathe easier, though they still took an inordinate amount of care for their safety.
No one ventured further from the house than the gardens, and the area was crawling with men guarding the house during the day, and several circling at night, watchful for any attempt to penetrate the estate’s defenses.
William had even instructed that lamps be placed at regular intervals around the house to increase the amount of light when the sun went down.
The estate was as protected as they could manage.
The day after Colonel Fitzwilliam’s departure for London, Elizabeth and William walked in the gardens, eager for a bit of fresh air and the beautiful surroundings after several days in which they had not dared go outside.
It was a typical warm summer day that seemed common in Derbyshire during the season, birds chirping and bees buzzing complemented the sense of tranquility that pervaded the estate.
So comfortable was Elizabeth in her surroundings that she could not help but sigh at the pleasure of it all.
“I hope that was not a sigh of regret or sadness,” jested William, attentive to her every movement.
“Not at all,” said Elizabeth. “Netherfield is a lovely estate, William, but Pemberley is something special. Now that I accept it as my home, I love it dearly.”
“It is an excellent place,” agreed William. “This business of it being lovelier than Netherfield? That I find difficult to credit.”
“You do,” said Elizabeth playfully. “I cannot suppose that even a man who treasures his property as you do would suggest that Netherfield is the superior estate.”
“No, Elizabeth, you are correct. While I have always taken pride in Netherfield, I shall not venture to suggest it is a better estate than Pemberley.”
A movement caught Elizabeth’s attention, and she noted one of the grim-faced men who guarded the estate.
Little though she appreciated such men observing her every move, Elizabeth knew it was necessary and ignored him.
The moment this business with Mr. Wickham was resolved, she would endure it no longer, but she did not consider it to excess. A necessary evil was all it was.
“Tell me, William,” said Elizabeth after they continued walking for a few minutes, “do you have any preferences for names?”
William regarded her with no little pleasure and affection. “As I recall, it is one of the only subjects we have not yet discussed. If your mother knew how wide-ranging our conversations were before we married, it would shock her to the core.”