Page 86 of The Shades of Pemberley

A laugh escaped Elizabeth’s lips before she could suppress it. “Yes, that is a faithful portrait of my mother, indeed. Now, do not avoid the question, William, for I am interested to know your sentiments.”

“Then I shall tell you. While there are names I would prefer not to use, I do not know that I favor any of them in particular.” William paused, regarding her.

“Though the Darcys did not do so in the most recent few generations, I understand there was a time when it was tradition to name firstborn sons with their mother’s maiden name. ”

“Bennet Darcy,” said Elizabeth, testing the name as if tasting a cup of tea to determine its sweetness. “I am uncertain if a son of ours so named would appreciate such a moniker.”

“It is better than if your maiden name were Birdwhistle.”

Elizabeth’s mirth erupted from her breast again. “Do you know anyone by that name?”

“An acquaintance from Cambridge.” William shrugged. “It is not a common name in England and is now even less common, for the man in question emigrated to the Americas not long after graduating.”

“Then I suppose it is fortunate that my last name is more common,” agreed Elizabeth. Curious, she regarded him, wondering if this conversation struck a bit of a nerve. “As I recall, did your father not use that custom to justify your name?”

A grimace was William’s response. “Perhaps, though it was still pretentious. Old Mr. Darcy, Jameson’s father, was not pleased by all accounts, though the earl and his father thought it a hilarious attempt to claim a connection.”

“As I might have thought,” agreed Elizabeth.

“I am not opposed to it, for we would honor your family. If you do not wish it, then I am pleased to choose some other name.”

For the rest of their time walking, they discussed the possibilities, their likes and dislikes, and agreed on several options. While they did not decide at that time, Elizabeth thought they would settle on a name with tolerable ease when the time came.

Upon their return to the house, several matters awaited them, the most taxing that of Mrs. Bennet and her displeasure at their activities.

“Lizzy!” exclaimed she when she caught sight of her second daughter. “You must not exert yourself so much in your condition.”

The younger girls did not know of Elizabeth’s pregnancy, so it was fortunate they were not present.

Mr. Bingley, she noted, looked on them with curiosity, far enough away that he did not catch the words so much as the sentiment.

Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Darcy were united in their amusement at Mrs. Bennet’s disapproval.

“Not at all, Mama,” said Elizabeth. “I feel as well as I ever have. You know me well enough to understand that I will not remain indoors and confined to a chaise at all hours of the day.”

“As I recall,” said Mrs. Darcy, “Mr. Jones advised me to remain active until my confinement.”

Mrs. Bennet regarded them all with pursed lips. “Well, I suppose an occasional walk is not prohibited. Sometimes you walk further than advisable; you should eschew such exertions for the good of your child.”

“Given the current situation, I cannot walk so far as I might wish, so there is no need to discuss it.”

“Very well,” agreed Mrs. Bennet, capitulating in defeat. “It is well that you have not experienced the sickness that many women endure. As I recall, my confinement with you was a most disagreeable time, for I was nauseous without cessation.”

“I do remember something of that,” mused her father, though with a sly wink at Elizabeth. “I nearly moved to a tenant cottage to escape for a time—no one in the house was unaware of your suffering.”

Mrs. Bennet directed a glare at her jesting husband, but Mr. Bennet took no notice of it. “There is a matter of some interest that has arisen, one that concerns a subject we have discussed at length.”

William regarded Mr. Bennet, his interest plain. Before they spoke, he guided Elizabeth to a nearby sofa and ensured she was seated before turning his attention back to his father-in-law.

“Might I assume this concerns the disposition of your estate?”

“Perhaps peripherally,” agreed Mr. Bennet, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “The letter was from Lord Matlock, and in it, he details the recent developments regarding a certain reprehensible cousin of mine.”

“Mr. Collins is a most odious man,” sniffed Mrs. Bennet with disdain.

“With that, I cannot but agree, my dear. If Mr. Collins were not quite so odious, I might almost consider him a comical sort of fellow. Any such feelings dissolved when he tried to accost your daughter.”

“Then his bishop has taken action against him.”

Mr. Bennet’s satisfaction answered William’s question.

For Elizabeth’s part, she harbored no resentment against the parson, though she did not wish to be in his company again.

A man must have some means of supporting himself, and their actions—brought on by his, of course—may render him unable to do so.

That such a man had no business serving as the spiritual guide to a parish was not beyond Elizabeth’s ability to understand, though to a certain extent, she pitied him.

After all, her experience informed her that William Collins was nothing more than a weak man who had done his patroness’s bidding with no consideration for the potential consequences.

“He did,” said Mr. Bennet. “Though he has been removed from the living at Lady Catherine’s estate, the church did not take away his ordination altogether, and Lord Matlock writes it was because they deemed him to be nothing more than a dupe for her ladyship, too willing by half, but a man beholden to a woman without scruple.

Instead, they have reassigned Mr. Collins to Merton College, where he will receive additional training and guidance.

There is, perhaps, some hope that he will gain much-needed perception, though I must suppose his chances of getting another parish are nigh nonexistent. ”

Mr. Bennet shrugged. “If he learns something of the error of his ways, I have nothing more to say, though if he ever approaches my family again, it will go ill for him.”

A distracted nod was William’s response. “Given his troubles in the church, I must suppose the suit to end the entail is no longer in question.”

“According to your solicitor, it never was. The matter should be settled before the end of summer.”

“Long before then, unless I am mistaken.”

“It is long overdue,” said Mrs. Bennet, a sense of smugness hovering about her. “I always said it was a hard thing that your daughters should be denied inheriting Longbourn after you are gone. Now it will not happen, I feel nothing but vindication.”

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, fixing his wife with a fond smile. “You are correct.”

ANTHONY FITZWILLIAM was not a man to waste time once he had a plan of attack, and he proved that upon returning to his father’s house.

The earl was ready and waiting and joined him without comment as they moved to the carriage for the brief journey to the prison where Mrs. Younge was being held.

In the coach, Fitzwilliam explained what he had learned to his father, and they planned what they would do to induce Mrs. Younge to talk.

In both men, the indignation at what they now suspected was a deliberate murder of a member of their family burned within them.

Mrs. Younge would be the first to discover how perilous it was to cross a member of the quality.

The prison was bare of creature comforts as most such places were, though larger than a country lockup one might encounter in a market town.

It was little more than a holding location for prisoners awaiting trial and was not a more substantial penal location such as Marshalsea or Fleet Prison.

Most of those incarcerated within were petty criminals, or even the occasional man accused of a more serious crime.

Mrs. Younge was a swan in a sea of ducks, for she would be one of only a few women there, and Fitzwilliam suspected her circumstances were not pleasant because of it.

The woman should appreciate the bars separating her from other prisoners, for they were the only barrier between her and significant harm.

When the warden brought her into the room Lord Matlock had requested for their use, Fitzwilliam peered into her face, seeing the hints of strain in her features, though she continued to carry herself as haughty as a duchess.

Dismissed the moment he arrived, the warden left them alone with Mrs. Younge, knowing a woman could not overpower two large men and make her escape.

The earl instructed her to sit, and she did without comment, though the light of resentment shone in her eyes.

Fitzwilliam fixed a grim smile on her, knowing she would be singing a different tune before long.

The woman could not hold his gaze, looking away, though her erect posture did not change.

“Mrs. Younge,” said Fitzwilliam, “it seems we are destined to meet in this manner, though I would not choose it.”

The woman did not comment, clinging to her claims of innocence.

“Let us revisit this business of your forged letters of recommendation and the plot in which you took part against my cousin.”

“There was no plot,” said the woman, though the rehearsed nature of her response was dulled by constant repetition. “I told you what I know. You are mistaken about me.”

“I have had just about as much of this as I can endure,” snapped Fitzwilliam’s father, at the end of his patience. “You had best listen to my son, Mrs. Younge, for your future—if you have one—will depend on your answers.”

The earl nodded to Fitzwilliam, and he proceeded with their plan. “Tell me, Mrs. Younge, does the name George Wickham mean anything to you?”

Mrs. Younge was cool—Fitzwilliam could confess that, though he thought he caught a hint of understanding in her mien. Even more impressive, in a roundabout sort of way, was her effort to cover her reaction by misleading them.

“Was he not that man associated with Mr. Darcy? As I recall, he visited Pemberley after the master’s passing.”

“He did,” agreed Fitzwilliam pleasantly. “Tell me what you know of him?”

“Just what I observed on that occasion and a few comments that Mr. Darcy made.”

“Then why do I have in my possession certain letters from him addressed to you?”

This time, there was a hint of shock in her eyes when Fitzwilliam produced the papers from his pocket. Whether she was so convinced of her cleverness or had thought they would not discover them after so long, he could not say, but the force of her confidence waned at the sight of them.

“Will you not ask where I found these?” Fitzwilliam sneered at the woman, assured she understood his contempt. “Shall you not exclaim at the sight of them, protest that you know nothing of the contents?”

The woman did not respond, remaining tight-lipped. Fitzwilliam smiled and set the papers down on the table before her.

“These contain everything we need to condemn you for conspiracy against the granddaughter of an earl, attempted kidnapping, extortion, and everything else I can think of. Then again, I suppose you already know that.”

Fitzwilliam sat across from her, staring into her eyes, though she again looked away, far more expeditiously than she had before.

“So there is no misunderstanding, we now know of the plot you hatched with George Wickham, how you intended to get Georgiana alone in Ramsgate so that he could compromise her and force her to marry him, how you planned to leave the country together when you laid hands on Georgiana’s dowry.

What these letters do not tell us is whether you were complicit in the plot to murder my cousin. ”

Mrs. Younge regarded him, searching for what Fitzwilliam did not know. If the woman did not now understand the untenable nature of her situation, she was much less intelligent than he thought. At that moment, his father lost patience with the farce.

“Against the possibility you do not understand the situation,” said he, drawing her eyes to him, “I will explain it to you. With these letters, I have all the legal evidence to accuse you of murder, a trial which can only end with you swinging from the end of a noose. My nephew was murdered by his childhood friend, and these letters prove you plotted with him to gain Georgiana’s dowry.

While there are no letters old enough to betray what role you had in Darcy’s murder, the connection is there. ”

“I suspect,” interjected Fitzwilliam, “that if we conducted a similar search of your quarters at Pemberley, we would find those letters.” Fitzwilliam offered her a thin smile. “You should have burned them, Mrs. Younge.”

The earl gave him a curt nod before turning back to the woman.

“Your only hope now is to tell us the truth. If you mean to declaim all notion of Wickham’s intention to kill my nephew, you had best tell us, and you had best be convincing, for I am losing patience.

I can condemn you to the gallows at any moment I choose, especially as we do not need you any longer to unmask your confederate.

If you convince me, I may commute your sentence to life in the penal colony. ”

Mrs. Younge’s gaze darted between them, a furious attempt to find a way out of the predicament in which she now found herself.

For a moment, Fitzwilliam thought she would remain obstinate, though all such resolve must now be in vain.

A moment later, her shoulders slumped in defeat, and for the first time in their acquaintance, Fitzwilliam regarded her without the conceit or the towering sense of self-assurance.

For the first time, she was a woman, one who knew she was caught and had no hope of escape, other than to tell the truth.

The ensuing conversation was illuminating in some respects, and much as he had expected in others. But they now had the truth.