The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery (26 page)

“The family employs some villagers as day workers.” The man took Wickham's hat and gloves. “There be a small staff of grooms to tend the cattle and carriages.”

“I see.” Wickham took note of the shadowy passages. “For tonight, I could use a good night's rest, and tomorrow, I will speak to all involved with the search for Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Might I impose on Mrs. Jacks for a tray in my room, and possibly someone could see to a bath?”

Jacks nodded his agreement. “I will see to it, Mr. Hurlbert. Allow me to show ye to a room, Sir.”

“Mr. Joseph is awake, Fitzwilliam.” Elizabeth said softly in his ear. Darcy had joined Mr. Simpson and Jasper in the common room. He often entertained his employees when he was on the road. He considered it a matter of good taste to honor those who offered an honest day's work.

“Please excuse me.” He motioned to the bar mistress to bring his men another round of drinks. Then he followed Elizabeth up the inn's narrow stairs. He caught his wife to him in the darkened hallway. “What should I expect?” he asked tentatively.

“You should expect a family thankful for your friendship. For your honor.”

Darcy swallowed his trepidation. It was one thing to encounter an opponent, but it was quite another to seek forgiveness from a man he respected. Trailing his wife, he entered the small room and waited for his cue. Finally, Mrs. Joseph motioned him forward, and Darcy pulled a chair close to the bed. “I am thankful to find you awake,” he said as he leaned forward to where Joseph could see him.

With the laudanum's lingering effects, Joseph struggled with coherent thoughts, but his voice sounded strong, a fact of which
Darcy took quick notice. “Finding…Mary and…William and… Ruth…made me think…I had found Heaven.”

Darcy glanced at the room's furnishings. Although cleaner than many rooms he had encountered over the years, no one would call this particular inn heavenly. “If this is Heaven, it would explain so many seeking hell,” he said wryly.

The corners of Joseph's lips turned upward. “A man…knows contentment…in the simplest acts.” He closed his eyes as if seeking strength. “How can I tell you…of my gratitude?”

Darcy replied grimly. “I have brought this devastation to your doorstep. I do not deserve your gratitude. I have earned your disdain.”

Joseph's gaze cleared. “You shall never know…my censure. Without you and Mrs. Darcy…I would not have Mary and William.”

“But it was I that the shooter sought,” Darcy protested. “If not for me, you would know no pain.”

“If not for you…I could have lain on a dusty road…and bled to death,” Joseph countered. “Yet, if it is forgiveness…you require… you have mine.” He paused. “And…as a clergyman, I must remind you…that God asks us to forgive…those who…trespass against us. As Jesus did…on the cross…so must we.”

Darcy's mouth thinned. His tension was palpable as he directed his wife. “Elizabeth, I am certain Mrs. Joseph and her sister could use a few minutes to freshen their things and perhaps to have a solid meal. I will sit with Mr. Joseph. Young William is asleep at the moment. If he wakes, I will summon you.”

Elizabeth did not release his gaze, but she said, “That is an excellent suggestion. Come along, Mary. You must tend to your own needs if you are to properly care for Mr. Joseph.”

“But Matthew might…” she began, but her husband's weak smile stopped the woman.

“Mr. Darcy managed…to see me through the worst…of my pain. He is quite capable.” He sucked in a shallow breath. “Please see to Ruth, Sweetheart. Both of you…are too pale, and…that worries me. I would rest more comfortably…if I knew you were well.”

Mary leaned across him to straighten the blanket draped over her husband's body. She gently kissed his forehead. “You are very fortunate, Sir, that I respond quickly to a guilty conscience.”

“I will keep that…in mind…once I am well,” he said softly.

Mary caressed his cheek. “I shall count the moments.” Then she stood tall before catching Ruth's hand. “May my sister and I use your room, Mrs. Darcy?”

“This way.” Elizabeth gestured toward the door. As she exited, she gave Darcy's shoulder a squeeze of encouragement.

With the ladies' departures, the two men remained in companionable silence for several minutes. “We have an acquaintance… of mere days,” Joseph observed, at last. “But I feel an affinity…of a much longer duration.”

“As do I,” Darcy agreed.

Silence continued between them. Finally, Joseph said, “It would be a sin…if you sought revenge…Mr. Darcy.”

“How can I not? An eye for an eye. The man who shot you has repeatedly wronged my family. My most excellent father. My innocent sister. Mrs. Darcy's sister. And now you. The man's accounts have been measured. I have spent a small fortune righting the wrongs that my former acquaintance has wrought on the world.”

“I would ask you…for my peace of mind…that you abandon…thoughts of revenge. I would not seek it…for myself.”

Darcy reasoned, “You are a man of God.”

“I am a man…and as such…my first thought is to retaliate.” Pause. “Yet, God teaches me…that I should extend…my mercy… to this man you describe.”

Darcy rubbed his forehead absentmindedly. “Lieutenant Wickham sees such mercy as a weakness, one of which he gladly takes advantage. I have repeatedly extended compassion, but have been rewarded with new perfidy time and time again.”

“Peter once asked Jesus…how many times a person…should forgive those who sin…against him.” He paused. “Peter suggested… seven times…but the Lord responded, ‘I say…not unto thee…until seven times; but …until seventy times seven,'” Joseph declared.

Darcy's expression showed his incredulity. “That would mean I should forgive Lieutenant Wickham four hundred and ninety times. It is not likely any man could tolerate so many offenses and each time turn his cheek to the violation of trust.”

“That is why…God is the superior creature…but we can strive…to copy his excellence.”

Darcy weighed the man's words. “I wish I had your mettle, Joseph, but when I consider the number of degradations…” His thoughts remained in turmoil.

“To not forgive…will cause you more pain…than your enemy will endure…at your hand.”

ESME EXAMINED HER LEG CAREFULLY. When she had awakened from her latest dream, her leg had throbbed with a most unusual pain. It did not tingle as one might suppose when he had slept at an awkward angle. Instead, the pains shot through her upper thigh and into the cavity holding her most private place. If the discomfort had begun in her abdomen and had moved down her leg, she might have thought that the pain signaled trouble with the child she carried. But the pain was most decidedly in her leg; yet, when she searched for the cause, nothing appeared amiss. Not even a bruise stained her skin.
Odd
, she thought as she lowered her skirt and ran her fingers over the wrinkles. She shook off the feeling of dread. “I wonder if I can appeal to Lady Wotherspoon for another gown,” she said aloud. “This one has become quite unpresentable.”

No more were the words spoken than a soft knock heralded Aulay MacBethan's return. “Mam has given her permission for yer tour of the rooms,” he announced.

Still uncertain what plagued her leg, the girl grimaced as she stood to greet him. “I should enjoy that very much.”

“Are ye in pain, Lady Esme?” he asked in concern.

The girl shook her head in denial. “I was just thinking how poorly I am dressed. I shall not make a very good impression. Do not misunderstand,” she rushed to add, fearing he might relay the wrong attitude to his mother. “I am grateful for the gift of the gown, but I admit to missing my own clothes.”

As if uncertain how he should respond, Aulay offered his arm. “I be speaking to Mam. She'll know what to do. For now, we'll see the rooms.”

Besides his penchant for games, especially chess, Esme had learned of Aulay's single-mindedness. When given a task, the man Lady Wotherspoon claimed “Esme” had chosen for her husband was singular in his approach. He would attend only to that task until its completion.

Aulay placed her on his arm, and the girl had the distinct feeling that this was not a natural gesture. “I have been practicing,” he confessed as they exited the room. She nodded her approval, but her real attention remained on the burly-looking man standing quietly by the portal. When she had previously attempted to exit her quarters on her own, it was this man who had prevented her exploration. She was thankful that today he only glared his disapproval, rather than physically placing himself in her path.

“I wondered about my guard.” Although pure inquisitiveness filled her mind, the girl managed to keep her tone nonchalant. The MacBethans may have proclaimed her a guest, but “Esme” knew otherwise. She was most undoubtedly a prisoner. What she could not quite comprehend was why they now treated her with such deference. And were there others hidden away in the house?

“Mam thought it best,” Aulay dutifully explained. “Rankin be givin' ye his protection.”

The girl teasingly said, “Am I in great danger in this house?”

Aulay looked about as if expecting an appropriate response to drop from the sky upon his head. “The…the house…the house is very large,” he stammered.

“Of course,” she added quickly to allay his obvious discomposure. “One would not wish to wander aimlessly without a destination.”

Aulay smiled in relief. “We live principally in the Laird's Tower, which contains our private chambers and the great hall,” he explained in that soft roll of the tongue characteristic of those of Scottish descent. In the past, she had apparently practiced the exclusive speech pattern of British society. The girl wondered how she had come to dwell with these people. “The hall be accessible from the courtyard below or by these stairs.”

“Then I am housed in the family quarters?”

“You are,” he said simply.

The girl observed her surroundings as they strolled leisurely through the halls. A pale sandstone rubble made up the outer walls. Each doorway arched, and the sign of a patron saint held its marking in stone. Unconsciously, she glanced backward to her door.
Saint Raymond
, she said to herself.
Because I am a prisoner here?
Her mind shouted. “Why Saint Raymond?” she asked her escort.

“The patron saint of ladies enceinte,” Aulay said with a blush. “Mam says it be only right as how ye be bringing life to the castle. Domhnall's wife passed shortly after givin' Normanna an heir. Me brother still grieves for Maighread and their lost son. Mam says even if it not be mine ye carry, the child will be a MacBethan. And knowing ye not be barren be a pleasure to the household. Mam says we need to rebuild the MacBethan clan.”

She marveled at the number of times the man at her side began a sentence with “Mam says.” “Mam says we should marry soon for the child's sake.” “Mam says I should see ye to dinner.” “Mam says we kin have the house to the north once we marry.” It seemed Dolina MacBethan had planned her intended daughter-in-law's future.

“Would you mind if we return to my room?” she said softly. “I am suddenly quite exhausted.” She fingered the locket about her neck and wondered if the man in the rendering framed inside would miss her and try to rescue her before it was too late.

“Of course, m'lady,” he said as he redirected her steps. “Ye shouldnae overextend yerself.”

“Might we try again later?” Despite her suddenly desperate desire to return to the safety of her chamber, the girl quickly realized she could not delay her escape. Otherwise, she would find herself married to this childlike man beside her. Something told her “Mam” would tolerate nothing less.