The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery (28 page)

“I find the mixture truly inviting,” she confessed.

“That be very kind of you, my Lady.” As they strolled leisurely through the passages, he noted several of the differences between the original house and the current manor.

Her's mind raced with the knowledge he imparted. She made a mental note of the iron grilles still displayed on many of the windows and the number of niches possibly leading to secret passageways. However, her wariness had left her unprepared for the elaborately decorated chapel he showed her next. A consecrated cross hung over each arched opening, which led to the central altar. “This is magnificent,” she murmured.

“This chapel was fitted up as you see it in James the Second's time. Before that period, as I understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but my grandfather left it off.”

“It is a pity,” she cried, “that the custom should have been discontinued. It served a valuable part in former times. There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house, with one's ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!”

“Very fine indeed,” said Lord Wotherspoon, laughing. “It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say
their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away.”

She declared, “
That
is hardly my idea of a family assembling. If the master and mistress do
not
attend themselves, there must be more harm than good in the custom.”

Wotherspoon endeavored to show himself the lord of the manor when he responded, “At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go his own way—to choose his own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time—altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in this gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of MacBethan did many a time repair to this chapel? The young and pretty virginal ladies—starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different—especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at—and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now.”

Having permitted his anger toward the chaos surrounding him to invade his words, Domhnall needed a little recollection before he could say, “Sometimes I think my mother could reside here,” he said nonchalantly.

“Then Lady Wotherspoon is very religious?” she asked. The idea set in sharp contrast to what she suspected of the woman.

Wotherspoon's frown lines met. “My mother practices her beliefs, but I would not necessarily call her religious.”

She blushed. “I did not mean to pry. I am having some difficulty in remembering the details of my relationship with your brother. It is as if I am learning everything for the first time.”

“Who says you have a history with Aulay?” he asked with a bit of irritation.

She reacted immediately. “Are you saying that my acquaintance with your brother is a new one?” Indignation flared in her chest. She did not necessarily want to be engaged to Aulay, but if she had no prior understanding, when had it been decided that she should conjoin with him? And who had made that decision? Did she have family in the area? Had they turned their backs on her? Simply left her under the MacBethans' care? She thought of the child. If she carried another man's issue, she must be an independent woman. That only made sense. Did she possess a widow's pension? If she had accepted Aulay's plight, was it out of desperation? She had hoped this tour would answer some of her questions. Instead, the number of unknowns had increased.

“I be saying, Lady Esme, that few marriages are based on love. You require a husband for your protection and a father for your child. My mother has long wished to see Aulay with a woman who possesses a kind heart.” He turned his back on her, symbolically closing the conversation.

As he directed her steps toward her chamber, the girl's mind raced with the new knowledge: as she had earlier suspected, the person who had been her savior, Lady Wotherspoon, was a force with whom she would have to deal. The MacBethan family matriarch ruled her house with a granite fist.

Domhnall had not anticipated his reaction to the woman his mother had chosen for his youngest brother. His years in England had
taught him to appreciate Lady Esme's classic beauty. Even through her current disheveled appearance, she was ethereally elegant. Her golden tresses called to have someone run his fingers through them, and her creamy white neck and shoulders begged to be caressed. The lady was not tall, especially when compared to his stature; in fact, her head did not quite reach his shoulder. Yet, she stood tall, with an air of authority that both amused and intrigued him.
The lady deserves better than a life with a feebleminded man
, he told himself. Unfortunate as it was, his youngest brother had never achieved the maturity expected of a man of two and twenty.

Aulay's birth had been a difficult one for their mother, and the family had, at first, rejoiced with the boy's survival. However, that joy was tempered by Aulay's inability to make his own choices. In many ways, his brother was brilliant—smarter than the lot of them. In games of strategy and of topics with a scientific slant, Aulay was very clever, but when it came to the simplest social interactions, his brother struggled. Only with their mother's assistance could Aulay make the most basic of social conversation.

At first, he had laughed at the hours of practice from which Aulay had suffered at their mother's direction, but now Domhnall envied that time if it brought the lovely Lady Esme into closer contact. He should not be having such thoughts. After all, his beloved Maighread and his child were but eight months in the grave, but, like it or not, he had reacted in a very male manner to their guest.

The girl was very aware of the man whose muscle flexed under her fingertips. This walk through the house was quite different from the earlier one with Aulay. Instead of being exhausted by the experience, she was completely exhilarated. This was an attractive, yet dangerous, man by her side. She possessed no doubt that he could
dispose of another with his bare hands. If she was to survive this situation, she would need to make Lord Wotherspoon her ally.

“You have been kind to show me what is to be my new home,” she said softly.

“Then you will accept my brother's proposal?” He brought their stroll to a casual pause in the grand hall's middle.

Bewilderment graced her face. “It was my understanding that I had previously agreed to Aulay's plight.”

He said seriously, “A woman can change her mind. Until the vows are spoken, you are not bound to Aulay or to any man. As we are both aware, only death can end the marriage bonds.”

She looked at him sharply. “Although I am certain of my husband's demise, I admit with my recent injury that I am experiencing difficulties in recalling our marriage's details.”

“Perhaps the locket you clutch holds a clue,” he suggested.

“It contains a picture of my husband, but no other identification,” she confided.

“Then perhaps it be best if you postpone your nuptials until all uncertainties are resolved.”

She said candidly, “I do not expect that Lady Wotherspoon would appreciate the delay.”

He looked off as if seeing something she did not. “I will tend to my mother's dudgeon if it occurs.” Turning his gaze on her, he said confidently, “I will protect you, Lady Esme. Even from my mother. I am still the laird of this keep.”

Before she could respond, a servant rushed forward. “Me Laird. I be sent to find ye. Murdoh needs ye, Sir. Trouble below.”

Domhnall caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “I must leave you. Ronald will return you to your room. Take care, Lady Esme.” He turned immediately and strode away.

She watched his retreating form. Tension bunched his shoulders, but he still moved with catlike sleekness. A lion in control of his territory.

“Lady Esme,” the servant said from behind her. “If'n ye would follow me.”

She nodded her understanding, but her gaze remained on the man with whom she had spent the last hour. A sense of loss prevailed.

“Lady Esme,” Ronald said more urgently.

She reluctantly followed the servant. “What type of trouble?” she said from curiosity.

Ronald stopped suddenly. “Ma'am?”

“Below,” she insisted. “What type of trouble persists below?”

The servant shrugged. “One of the prisoners, Ma'am. He attacked Murdoh.”

WICKHAM SETTLED IN THE LUXURY of the four-poster bed. He had visited his hiding place three times during the day. From the manor house, he had removed pieces of silver, some jewelry, and several interesting-looking ornaments that he thought might bring him ready cash. When he departed Alpin Hall, he would travel to Edinburgh where a man might sell such items without question.

As he had ridden across the estate, he had pleasantly remembered his younger days when he had explored Pemberley and Derbyshire with his father. “Possibly, I can find a similar position to my father's on a Scottish estate or in Normandy,” he had told himself. “It is not probable that Darcy will rest before seeing me punished.” Even with Lydia's connections to Mrs. Darcy, Wickham held only minimal hope of Darcy's forgiveness. His foolish temper would require him to leave England behind and seek a new life elsewhere. “It is not as if I have never lived by my wits,” he said to his room's darkness. Those years of dissipation, after he had departed Cambridge in disgrace, quickly flooded his mind. A deep sigh of anticipation lifted his chest. “It would be good to start over. A pecuniary advantage,” he reasoned aloud. “Even with the disgrace, Lydia's family will welcome her return. I will not have to concern myself with my wife's future. As if I ever did,” he sarcastically chastised himself. In the past, he had allowed himself great latitude on such points.

Thoughts of his childlike wife brought both pleasant memories and sour ones. Her loyalty and her adventurous spirit he had previously determined were to Mrs. Wickham's credit. She also
possessed a sweet temperament, and she readily made friends among his colleagues. His wife could exert all her powers of pleasing without suspicion. Yet, Lydia's having been forced upon him had forever doomed the success of their relationship. He resented how Darcy had bested him.

He had convinced her to accompany him to London. Her mother had provided Lydia with a bit of spending money, and he had needed the stake to escape his creditors. And Lydia was a ready participant. Of course, she had not known what it was he had sought from her. He had gloried in the girl's attentions, but she had not been the one he wanted. If Lydia's sister had had a proper dowry, he might have taken on Elizabeth Bennet. Maybe even have chosen to settle down, but his pursuit of Miss King's settlement had cooled Miss Elizabeth's interest. He had thought to engage her attentions again when the lady had returned from her visit with Charlotte Collins, but Miss Elizabeth had returned home from Kent with a new respect for Darcy. In fact, her opinion of Darcy had altered dramatically. Wickham could readily recall the conversation in which he recognized that he had squandered any chance of regaining the lady's regard.