Elizabeth murmured, “I doubt that, my Husband.”
“Then I will prove it to you, Mrs. Darcy.” He took her lips again, his tongue invading her mouth. Instinctively, Elizabeth moaned and moved closer to him. Darcy stifled the groan in the back of his throat. He let his touch speak for him. Lost to sensation, neither Darcy nor Elizabeth heard the faint click of the lock along the inside wall.
Mr. Baldwin reported his lack of success: “I searched every room, Mr. Darcy.”
“And nothing?”
“Nothing, sir—nothing except a very angry Lady Catherine.”
Darcy snorted.“My aunt is generally dissatisfied with one thing or another.”
The butler smiled faintly.
“We have a problem—missing bed linens, missing candelabra….” Darcy purposely omitted the mystery in Georgiana’s room the preceding evening.
“Missing food,” Baldwin added.
“What do you mean?”
Baldwin nervously shifted his weight.“A round of hard cheese, sir, and two loaves of dark bread and one of Mrs. Jennings’s rhubarb pies.”
“You jest?”
“No, sir—the lady swears she made six, and there are but five.”
“This becomes more bizarre by the moment. Do you have any inkling—even a glimmer of an idea who might be to blame, Mr. Baldwin?”
The man looked around sheepishly to observe if anyone could overhear. “The staff, sir, some…they think it is one of the Shadow Ghosts…while others say it is the work of Black Shuck.”
“Tell me, Mr. Baldwin, you really do not believe such poppycock. Black Shuck?”
“The snow, Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny this is an unusual storm—just like the unusual storm back in Suffolk all those years ago. People swear that Black Shuck appeared at the Bungay and Blythburgh churches in 1577, and only this past week, Mr. Stalling says he saw a black shaggy dog near the Darcy family cemetery.”
Darcy closed the door to ensure privacy. “Mr. Baldwin, you must stop this nonsense. We are not living in the times of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors. The Vikings left England long ago, and they took the legends of Thor’s Shukir and Odin’s huge dog of war with them. We live in a time of industrial advancement. I cannot have you and the rest of the staff repeating such stories. I am well aware of Reverend Abraham Fleming’s version of what happened in the sixteenth century in Suffolk. I, too, once thought it a great tale of mystery, but I left those stories behind when I left childhood.”
“I understand, Mr. Darcy. Such tales are for those of a lower house. I will convey your message to everyone.” Baldwin started to bow out of the room.
Darcy put a hand on the man’s arm to stay him.“I realize it is important for people to explain the unexplainable. People have a need to be in charge of their lives. I am sure that Blythburgh and Bungay suffered greatly, but the appearance of a stray black dog had nothing
to do with lightning striking a church tower.What is happening in this house has no connection to a dog or to ghostly apparitions. No malevolent shadow person is haunting this house. I guarantee it.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy.”
“I need your agreement on this, Mr. Baldwin.”
“Mrs. Reynolds and I will speak to the staff, sir.”
The butler was nearly out the door before Darcy remembered his letter. He called to the man’s retreating form, “Mr. Baldwin!”
His man reappeared immediately. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you place my letter from yesterday evening on the salver to be posted?”
“I have not seen the letter, sir.”
Darcy came around the desk. “I was writing it when you came in yesterday evening.”
“I remember your being behind the desk, sir, but you left everything after we spoke.You gave me no letter to post.”
Darcy looked around in dismay. “I did not finish the letter,” he muttered. “It was on the desk—a letter to Mr. Laurie. Are you sure you did not see it?”
“No, sir.”
“It is no longer there.” He gestured toward the papers piled neatly in three stacks along the edge of the desk.
Baldwin did not know how to respond. “Was it of a personal nature, sir?”
Darcy thought of his request for information on George Wickham and on Lieutenant Harwood. He could have no one else know about either matter. “It is of a nature I would prefer not to share with everyone.” He looked about confused. “Maybe I misplaced it; I will look again.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy.”
“That will be all, Mr. Baldwin.”
Lydia Bennet Wickham dressed for the day. This Pemberley trip had been a mistake. She had hoped Elizabeth might introduce her to people of fine society. But with the snowstorm the likelihood of
meeting anyone other than those sequestered with her was nearly nonexistent, at least for the next week. True, there was Lord Stafford, but he had an affinity for his cousin Miss Donnel, no matter his many protests to the contrary.
That left only Mr. Worth’s company as a possibility. Of course, Lydia never considered the company of other women to be “fine society”; she needed a man’s attention to feel important. Nigel Worth was pleasant company, and he did pay her compliments, but he was too old for her. However, he held a respectable position in the community. That would be a better situation than what she currently endured.
Lydia did not know where to turn; misery rode on her shoulder. She had made a terrible mistake the day she left Brighton with George Wickham. She had thought to best her sisters to the altar, and had foolishly believed his pretty words. Only afterward had she realized that he had ill-used her—only when Mr. Darcy came to find them did that become crystal clear.
Even then, her pride had kept her from betraying Wickham. And despite a small voice in her head, which said she should follow Mr. Darcy’s advice, she had stubbornly clung to the hope that George Wickham might learn to love her as much as she fancied herself to love him.
Yet, instead of their growing closer after their nuptials, they had begun a campaign to destroy each other. Mr.Wickham openly flirted with every attractive woman he met, and when she complained, he told Lydia if she objected that she could return to Longbourn’s warmth. In retaliation, she had set about attracting his fellow officers’ attentions. Of course, the difference came in the follow-through : She flirted and flattered, but remained true to her marriage vows where Mr.Wickham openly flaunted his conquests—from the lowliest barmaid to his former commanding officer’s wife.
A sigh escaped her as she took a closer look in the mirror’s reflection. She was still young enough to find another if her husband took her threat seriously. Lydia did not wish to declare to the world
that she had failed as a wife, but she knew deep in her soul that she could not spend the rest of her life pretending that Mr.Wickham’s indiscretions did not hurt. A separation would bring scandal, but she could face down the gossips if necessary. “I will survive this,” she whispered to the image staring back at her.
However, a breeze—a gush of cold air—in the room seemed to ask mockingly,
Can you?
Lydia jumped to her feet to see what had caused the chilly wind. But try as she might, she could find nothing unusual in her quarters, although she searched behind furniture and inside items.
She did, however, find a box of mementos hidden in the bottom of the wardrobe.When she took out the wooden box, the contents surprised her. The items were a diverse mix of some of her sister’s memories and some that obviously belonged to Mr. Darcy. What amazed her was how soon Elizabeth’s things and Darcy’s things had become
their
things. Sadly, Lydia doubted that she and George Wickham would ever be so joined. Elizabeth knew a perfect love despite Mr. Darcy’s stiffness—his overwhelming pride. Lydia began to lift items from the box. She had seen Elizabeth’s keepsakes many times: a smooth rock painted blue with white clouds, a gift from their eldest sister, Jane, on Elizabeth’s fifth birthday; a monogrammed handkerchief from Grandmother Bennet; a book of prayers inscribed “To My Lizzy,” from their father; and a pair of white lace gloves Elizabeth had worn to her first adult party.
Mr. Darcy’s spoke of his life: a drawing in crayon signed by Georgiana Darcy; a diamond stick pin with a bent tip, likely belonging to his father or another close relative; a newspaper notice of his mother’s passing; and, surprisingly, a miniature—a portrait of her own husband—of Mr. Wickham as a young man. Impulsively, Lydia retrieved it from the bottom of the box. Dusting it off against her dress, she stared at a man she did not know—a boy, really—with innocence and hope clearly evident in his eyes. She had never met this young gentleman, who had the whole world before him. The Wickham she knew was really two men. One was completely
charming to everyone he met. His appearance was greatly in his favor ; he had all the best part of beauty—a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address—a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness but at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming. The other George Wickham was a frightening force—one that hid the hostility he felt—masked his voice’s harshness—ruled with fear. He was a careful schemer, handsome and charming.
Lydia returned the other items to the box and replaced it in the wardrobe, but she kept the small portrait of her husband to set beside her bed.“I would have liked to have known this young man. We could love each other until death do us part.” She patted the frame, treating the miniature as a symbol of their renewed relationship. Feeling much more content, she turned for the door. They would take the afternoon meal soon, and Mr. Darcy preferred his guests to be prompt.
Lydia stepped into the hall, only to find Cathleen Donnel also exiting her assigned room. The sleeping quarters followed a T-shaped hallway.The main guest chambers were situated in the vertical line of the T.The Darcys took the left branch of the horizontal line of the T, and their aristocratic guests took the right. Lydia’s room lay where the lines intersected—the perpendicular point—and Miss Donnel’s, the farthest away from her room, at the far end of the vertical line of the T. Lydia idly wondered about the arrangement. Should not Miss Donnel be closer to her cousin?
Cathleen did not speak, but Lydia nodded her head in the direction of the approaching woman and stopped to wait for her. They could enter the dining room together.
At that moment, Anne de Bourgh turned the corner, entering the main hall from the right. Lydia paused long enough to offer the woman a curtsy. “Miss de Bourgh!” Lydia gushed. “Is it not uncanny that we meet at Pemberley? I have heard so much of you and of Lady Catherine from my cousin Mr. Collins.”
“Mr. Collins is a ninny,” Anne grumbled as she approached. If the girl wanted to offer her some civility, mentioning her mother’s
clergyman did not play well. In Anne’s opinion, Mr. Collins was nothing more than a walking mouthpiece. He spoke only of what he thought his patroness Lady Catherine might approve. It was not beneath the man to gossip and to fawn over Lady Catherine to stay in Her Ladyship’s good graces.
“Of . . . of course, Mr. . . . Mr. Collins, can be somewhat pretentious,” Lydia stammered.
“That would be an understatement,” Anne insisted.
Both women moved toward the main staircase. Miss Donnel reached it before they did.As the three women prepared to descend the stairs—catching up their skirts to steady their steps—Mrs.Williams opened her door to follow. Both Anne and Lydia paused—mere seconds to observe Mrs. Williams. But Cathleen did not do so; she began her descent.
The next twenty seconds seemed to both speed by in pure chaos and simultaneously pass as slowly as a snail through a peculiar mix of events. Cathleen boldly stepped forward, only to find herself tumbling through the air, banging against the railing and support wall, before coming to a stop on the landing eight steps below. Her scream of surprise and pain echoed off the walls.
As one, Lydia’s and Anne’s heads turned to behold a flurry of muslin and lace wrapped around Cathleen Donnel’s legs while she fought for control—arms flailing.They watched and squealed, both terrified and mesmerized.
Evelyn Williams saw the woman take the first step—observed the horror on Cathleen Donnel’s face, but she could not move quickly enough to make a difference. Pushing against Mrs. Wickham and Miss de Bourgh, Evelyn tried to prevent the accident, but this was impossible. Her scream joined Cathleen’s in a cacophony of sound.
Adam Lawrence strolled casually along the hallway. At least, Pemberley offered a refined sophistication. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor—neither gaudy nor uselessly fine—with less of splendor
and real elegance than the furniture found in many homes he visited. He and Cathleen could be stranded in a run-down inn right now. Lawrence decided that even with the inconvenience of Darcy’s terms for his stay, this was decidedly better.
However, just as he turned the corner to the main hallway, Adam heard her—heard Cathleen scream. Immediately, he reacted, shoving his way past a stunned Anne de Bourgh to catapult himself down the carpeted steps to reach a crumpled and twisted body on the landing.
“Cathleen,” he pleaded as he moved her hair away from her face. “Speak to me. Come on, Sweetheart.” When he cradled her head in his hands, a groan told him she was conscious.
Darcy replaced the pen in its holder. Unable to find the original, he had rewritten the letter to Mr. Laurie. He had retraced the events leading to Mr. Baldwin’s recent evening visit to his office, and Darcy knew that on that evening he had not folded the letter in preparation for posting. He left it lying on his desk. And so for an hour today, he had moved everything in this room, carefully looking under and behind furniture.The letter was nowhere to be found, another spoke in a wheel of mystery.
He was deep in thought, so when the initial scream came, followed closely by a choir of dismay, it took him by surprise. Instinctively, he ran toward the noise, afraid that it signaled a problem for Elizabeth or Georgiana. Taking the steps two at a time, Darcy quickly covered the distance, and discovered a very upset viscount comforting his mistress as she lay writhing in pain on the landing.