Chapter 16 (and a preview of Chapter 17) ~Repost~

Chapter 16

The woman wore an elegant heather gray hat which drew the eye to her long neck and noble features. She was tall, willowy and very much suited to be on the arm of Mr. Darcy. They spoke informally while strolling along a handsome boulevard toward a fine carriage, the lady with a coy smile and he with a modest cordiality. Elizabeth felt paralyzed watching them; indeed, the tips of her fingers numbed at the sight of Mr. Darcy. How she longed to rush over to him, to feel the warmth of his strong hands and breathe in his masculine scent. Elizabeth wanted his arms around her, to pull her away from everything. 

As they came near to the carriage, the lady brought them to a stop and leaned in so to remark on something intimate. Mr. Darcy quietly grinned, a grin which did not meet his solemn eyes. The lady, contrarily, broke into titters. Tears pooled at the corners of Elizabeth’s eyes. After helping the lady into the carriage, Mr. Darcy turned back toward his home, his grin immediately sinking into a severe line. He walked slowly until abruptly spinning around and staring directly in Elizabeth’s direction. It was though he was searching for something or perhaps someone, but he could not possibly spot Elizabeth for she had dashed behind a hedge. After a few moments, he relinquished his search and returned to his home, shaking his head. 

Longing and memories once more overwhelmed Elizabeth that night as she lay beside Mrs. Grable. 

Elizabeth returned to Berkeley Square on the ensuing day, as well as the one following. Her hours largely consisted of watching the comings and goings of the grand home built to display splendor but not vulgarity. Mr. Darcy appeared on three occasions, each time stolid in his unknown chores, and stayed away until after Elizabeth returned to Whitechapel. Some few guests called, but not the same tall, elegant woman glimpsed on that first afternoon. Then to be expected, a young woman who Elizabeth suspected to be Miss Darcy came and went twice. She was sweet-faced, thickset and of a generous height–yet her expressions were ones of a girl. 

Each day which passed, Elizabeth grew wearier. She longed for a bath, a warm meal and a stroll through the hedgerow with Jane. Elizabeth dreamt of holding Jamie in her arms, rocking him until he succumbed to slumber. And yet still, her deepest desire lied with Mr. Darcy; if even for a few minutes she could be in his company she might know peace. A spirited argument with the gentleman would suit her nicely. One opportunity to make him smile could heal much of her pain. Elizabeth made due with reading the journal over and again.

During one early afternoon, she turned to a passage written the previous April. 

‘My dearest one, 

‘I have purchased a horse. More precisely, milady, I have purchased you a horse. She is the most beautiful, graceful creature of the finest breeding. The mare has a coat of shining midnight, and a gait worthy of a queen. The first time I laid eyes on her, I knew she must be yours. The cost was – excessive. I care not, the mare was meant for you and none other. 

‘My cousins are convinced I am quite mad. Perhaps I am. My poor sister believes she is a gift for her. I encourage her otherwise. Georgiana will understand when I give the mare to you, she is most generous. In the coming months I wish to commission a new pianoforte for her. She works so diligently on her music. I would do the same for you, if I could be certain of your tastes. Of the mare, however, I am most confident you will find her to be exquisite. Indeed, I do recall that you do not ride, but I shall teach you. I shall teach you.

Anything, milady, I shall procure for you. Anything, milady, I will give to you. First, nonetheless, I must have you home. Please, come home to me.’

***

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” Elizabeth began, arriving back at the boarding house.

“Peg, call me Peg, Sarah!” she begged, her speech oddly clear. It was earlier in the evening and she had yet to finish her first bottle of gin. “Yer can be a damn bleedin’ gilfurt, yer can.” 

“Peg,” Elizabeth tried anew, “might I beg use of your study? I need to write a letter.” Elizabeth knew there to be a small chamber off of the front room where a desk and chair could be found. Mrs. Fitzpatrick usually used the office to nod off at the end of the night when she could not quite make it to her room. 

“Course yer can, dearie. Come wif me, I’ll put yer up right.”

“You are too generous, Peg.”

“It’s nofin’!”

Together they went around the corner where Mrs. Fitzpatrick placed Elizabeth at the small table with a candle and a broken quill. “Fancy a tipple?” The lady of the house held out a flask to Elizabeth, which she graciously refused. Mrs. Fitzpatrick, on the other hand, partook in a generous swig. “Take yer time, dearie. God! I need a piddle.” She set off for her own room, leaving Elizabeth be. 

Before returning to Whitechapel that evening, Elizabeth dipped into her purse to purchase a few sheets of parchment and a small pot of ink. She knew to be judicious in her writing for her supplies were limited. Consequently, each word came with careful and deliberate thought. After burning through two candles, costing her two pennies with Mrs. Fitzpatrick, Elizabeth sealed the letter. Though the hour was late, Mrs. Grable was not in their room nor did she return at all that night. The solitude allowed Elizabeth’s thoughts to run in continuous circles, making her doubt every sentence written and count each chore to be completed. 

The morning woke with a soft, gentle mist in the air. Malaise hung in the clouds, demanding dullness in all which must be done. By the afternoon, the mist shifted into a heavy, cold rain. Reaching the fashionable Mayfair house, Elizabeth took a deep breath before descending on the shrub-lined boulevard to Darcy House. Wet through, sniffling and in utter disarray, the footman did not hide his reluctance at letting Elizabeth into his shining, orderly and dry reception hall. He summoned the butler. 

“How might I be of service, miss?” the butler demanded curtly. 

Forcing her teeth to keep from chattering, she said, “I have a letter to deliver to Mr. Darcy… from my father, Mr. Thomas Day,” she hastily added at watching the servant’s brow crease in dismay. “It is in regards to a business matter, one of great import. My father is of Longbourn, in Hertfordshire.” Elizabeth hoped the mention of Longbourn might be enough to elicit Mr. Darcy’s interest. 

The butler spun on the heel of his highly-polished shoe, leaving her quite alone in the well-dressed space. Elizabeth’s heart thundered restlessly within her chest, leaving her unable to catch her breath. As though not trusting her around the candlesticks, the butler returned moments later with a cloth to dry her face and a silver platter for her to place the letter atop. 

“I shall deliver the note to Mr. Darcy.” 

Keeping the parchment tight in her clutch, she asked, “Might I not convey the letter myself? My father was quite insistent Ihand it to him myself.” 

“Miss Day,” he presumed rather haughtily, “Mr. Darcy has not before mentioned a Mr. Day, nor has he spoke of an important business matter necessitating immediate attention which demands all polite practice be dismissed.” 

“Please, will you not merely inquire whether Mr. Darcy might not be agreeable to receiving me, even should it be here in this hall. I care not where–it is for my father’s sake I wish to speak with him. My father is not well, you see, and I come in his stead.” Elizabeth went feverish, staring past the servant in anticipation of Mr. Darcy’s arrival. 

The Butler’s eyes rolled toward his forehead in a most condescending fashion. “I will inquire whether the master is in.” Before the butler could depart, three ladies entered the hall. They paused to make their farewells. The butler, aghast at the thought of Elizabeth being seen, swiftly ushered her into an adjoining parlor which overlooked the park. A small fire provided the well-dressed, yellow room a soft and welcoming glow. Mr. Darcy’s manservant stepped into the doorway, blocking the ladies from glimpsing Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth believed them to be Mr. Darcy’s sister Georgiana, perhaps the young lady’s companion, and the elegant woman she sighted when first discovering the London home. 

“Miss Georgiana, it has been most pleasant visiting with you this afternoon,” said the elegant woman, her voice dripping and drawling like honey. Elizabeth instinctively did not quite care for the woman. There seemed something disingenuous about her. Moreover, there existed a certain aquiline quality to her visage, one which gave her the air of undeserved authority, an authority to make the Romans proud. 

“Y-Yes, indeed, Miss Waverly. I-I-I am sorry my brother could not join us.” Georgiana glanced at the older woman for approval, which she received. 

Miss Waverly pouted, “Oh quite! We shall catch him the next time, shall we not?”

Georgiana demurely nodded. The elegant lady pulled on a pair of thick travel gloves. The footman reappeared, an umbrella at the ready to escort the lady to her waiting carriage. Elizabeth gaped at how quickly and seamlessly this was all done. Peeking out the window, there, in fact, was a carriage at the ready for Miss Day. To herself, Elizabeth had to smile. Mr. Darcy, of course, made certain his household staff were no less than efficient perfection.

Before retreating up the stairs with her companion, Miss Georgiana turned to the Butler. He remained by the parlor entrance, blocking Elizabeth from view. “Wood, has my brother returned?” 

“No, madam.” Elizabeth’s heart dropped, the master was not in. She would not be seeing him on this day. The letter would be her last chance. 

The young lady of the house sighed. “Thank you, Wood. I s-suppose he will be out late once more. P-Please bid him eat dinner this evening. He has been most negligent on the matter.”

“Yes, madam.” The butler bowed. Despite his formality, Elizabeth could hear the gentleness in his voice and demeaner. Georgiana did not act at all as Mr. Wickham portrayed her. The journal previously told Elizabeth as much. The moment they were alone, the butler spun to greet the unwelcome caller. “As you have heard, miss, Mr. Darcy is not in. You may leave the letter with me.” 

With little alternative otherwise, Elizabeth agreed. “I thank you.” 

 “Will you be needing anything otherwise, miss?” asked the butler, softening slightly once looking more closely at Elizabeth. “Might I summon a carriage for you?”

 “No, thank you.” She dropped into a curtsy. Elizabeth knew her dismissal was at hand and turned to depart. The butler led the way to the door, where a footman held it open until she stepped back into the deluge of rain. A door bolt clicked into place behind her. 

From Darcy House, she went into Berkeley Square. During her many hours in the small park, she discovered a few favored benches. Beside one of these benches grew a tall hedge. Elizabeth reached deep within the branches, pulling out her satchel. 

Tugging her cloak tight about her shoulders, allowing the hood to shield much of her face from the rain, she again made her way east. Elizabeth had few expectations, if perhaps none. Yet, as she sluggishly journeyed beyond Mayfair, a dark heaviness descended upon her being. Should he have rejected her outright, the finality might have been enough to set her free. But what could freedom mean for her, she wondered. 

After hours of senselessly walking through London, Elizabeth found herself standing at the edge of the London Bridge with the tips of her boots pushing against the fortification. She leaned forward. A forceful breeze could send her over the edge. The black waters would take her away. Elizabeth heard the sigh of silence calling to her, calm and empty. It was a wicked thing. Unfriendly, unwelcoming, she did not want to hear such a thing. 

“What am I doing?” she questioned to herself. Shaking her head, Elizabeth attempted to clear the malignant trance from her mind. But still, she felt dull and heavy. It was only when sensing a strange presence behind her did she come to. Spinning about, she found no one, though several cloaked figures passed in either direction, guarding their faces from the rain. 

Shivering and unsettled, Elizabeth carried on, retracing several blocks on her way toward Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s. In an attempt to distract from the disquiet, her letter came to mind. She had read it over so many times the words were now a part of her:

‘Dear Mr. Darcy, 

‘Do forgive me, indeed I dare to write these words knowing how famously I have acted, yet I do so in all humble audacity. On this, the least of my offensive deeds, do forgive me for so impudently and unexpectedly appearing upon your doorstep to deliver this letter. My greatest hope is to place this parchment in your hands myself, however, if you are out or unable to receive me, please grant me these few minutes to read this briefest of notes.  

‘As I have promised brevity, I shall not linger long in the language of hearts and flowers. To begin, for a great many months, nay years, I have endured within a quicksand suffused of my secrets. When you arrived in Hertfordshire, my secrets redoubled. What I foolishly trusted to be forever hidden, as must be necessary for that of my family’s security, threatened to be revealed. I allowed my righteous anger and wounded pride to obscure my very reason. There were moments when passing by my own reflection that I did not recognize myself. The quicksand not only shifted under my feet, it now began to swallow me. My days rose with deception and set in lies. 

‘Do not consider these subsequent words to be written in order to elicit pity, they are merely the truth; and Mr. Darcy, the truth is why I have composed this letter, the truth is the least of what you deserve. At our reunion, I knew not how to respond. In my naiveté, or perhaps more honest still, in my arrogance, I thought I might continue to hide all of my deceptions without consequences. Rather, I withdrew from those I most loved, I evolved into someone I hated. In my self-loathing, I acted stupidly, carelessly and unkindly. My regrets are numerous, the punishment for my choices are severe and some retribution must justly rest upon my shoulders. 

‘Since your departure from Hertfordshire, my father has expelled me from his home and his protection. I do not tell you this as a means to solicit help of any sort, but as I feel it essential to leave the country so my fallen state does not involve that of my family. Neither do I ask for forgiveness, nor do I expect it. Nevertheless, before I depart, my conscience bids me to confess to you, Mr. Darcy, the man who saved my life and with whom I have shared more of myself than any other, the words I spoke at the close of the ball, they were without regard to your feelings. I did so in cowardice and in haste; I did so in defiance of my true inclinations.

‘As stated previously, I flee the country to shelter my family, just as I will never return to your home so as to protect your esteemed reputation. Likewise, I have kept the sentiments within this letter vague in order to further guard you should another happen to read my words. If you feel I have expressed myself poorly or desire more of my story, I will be in Finsbury Square, near Wilson and Crown Streets at twelve noon for the next three days. I choose such a destination in the hopes that none of your acquaintance frequent the park. 

‘If, however, you are unable, unwilling or simply at peace with our parting, then I shall understand and bid you health, happiness and winters free of storms and sirens. If this be our final farewell, do remember me not for the words I spoke at the last but for the truth in my touch, the honesty in my embrace and the sincerity of my smiles. I will say no more, for I fear I have already said too much. 

‘Yours Sincerely,

‘Milady.’

Elizabeth could picture the many tear stains spread across the parchment, yet she could not afford another wasted piece of parchment and handed over the letter as it appeared, whether there be blemishes or ink blotches. To predict what Mr. Darcy might choose, there her mind could not settle. And with an unsettled mind, the dangerous abyss of memories from Hertfordshire and beyond spiraled into her consciousness. 

Upon returning to the boarding house, a vision returned to Elizabeth of a gentleman whose handsome smile and natural affability recommended him to everyone. Mrs. Fitzpatrick laughing so easily with another boarder summoned up the recollection of Mr. Wickham. Though contradictory in appearance, Mr. Wickham and Mrs. Fitzpatrick shared many other attributes. For a moment, Elizabeth paused, attempting to see something she was certainly missing. Mrs. Fitzpatrick broke her musing. 

“Oh dearie, that fine cloak o’ yers is a leavin’ a puddle on my floors. Have yer been runnin’ harum scarum through that damned scotch mist?” Elizabeth glanced down, thinking the gray, splintered slats at her sodden feet could only improve with a good soaking. “And yer been cryin’ too! Come wit’ me. Come, come.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick stumbled past the counter, grasped at Elizabeth’s shoulder to steady herself and laughed. “I been guttin’ a quart pot all day, now I’m back ter where I started.” 

Rather than climb the customary four floors to the room shared with Mrs. Grable, Mrs. Fitzpatrick took her up but one set of stairs. There were two doors, one to the left and one to the right. Mrs. Fitzpatrick reached for her key ring, easily locating the correct key amongst many. 

“S’pose yer be needin’ a fireplace ter dry yerself. Will this do yer fer the night?” 

Indeed, on the south wall, a small, ashy grate stood. Beside the fireplace sat a stool and an upturned crate for a table. A pallet fit for two took up much of the remainder of the room. 

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I did not know you kept such a… lovely room; still, I cannot pay more.” 

“I keep it fer the King when he visits.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick cackled with great fervor. The landlady was in quite the jolly mood this evening. She also smelled oddly not unpleasant. “But he ain’t comin’ by ternight, so it’s all yers. Nofin’ extra.” 

“No, but I mustn’t,” she contested weakly. Elizabeth tarried in the corridor, though she yearned to step inside and allow herself a night of privacy.

“I’ll need ter charge yer fer the wood, mind you. Then we’ll call it stop.” 

No more enticement needed, Elizabeth reached into her purse and paid the lady. 

“Yer a good girl, Sarah.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick smiled that toothless grin. “A good girl.”

A short spell later, Mrs. Fitzpatrick returned with a bottle and a brush. She sat Elizabeth on the stool and poured two generous cups of gin. 

“Go on, dearie, bung yer eye,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, pushing the cup in Elizabeth’s hands up to her lips. She took a sip, setting her throat aflame. The gin could numb a person’s cheeks by odor alone. Elizabeth put the cup aside. 

“Do yer mind if I comb yer hair, Sarah?” asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick, laughing at Elizabeth’s delicacy. 

“I suppose that would be fine, Peg.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick disentangled the long raven locks from the tight, wet plaits, running her fingers through as Elizabeth closed her eyes. She had not let her hair full loose since leaving home, the sensation was wonderful. 

“Yer hair is like silk, Sarah. Ter think of the mint we could git for it.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick reached for the brush. “I had this scarf as a wee chil’, softer than anythin’. It were green wit’ blue pansies. Mum gave it to me fer… well, I don’t remember. She must been a feelin’ the guilt fer this or that or pissed.” 

During their hour together, the lady babbled continuously, story after story, many of which likely of her own imagination. Elizabeth did not mind, in truth she rather relished the distraction. After Mrs. Fitzpatrick departed to care for the rest of the boarders, Elizabeth reached into her bag for the last piece of parchment. She set to composing a letter to Mary but quickly grew too weary to complete more than a few sentences. Elizabeth shook out her cloak, deciding it dry enough to rest atop. 

Before she succumbed to sleep, Elizabeth reached for the journal, flipping to one of the last entries. It was written in July. 

‘Milady, 

‘I am to pay a surprise visit to my sister in Ramsgate. I still worry over taking her from school, but Fitzwilliam assures me we have made the correct decision. I do concede that she has made progress. I have found her to be more confident and assured-spoken. Fitzwilliam, I fear, was correct on this one occasion. 

‘My trip should take no more than a few days. When I return, I will be meeting with Mr. Bohns, the investigator. He has been a failure so far. I know not how much longer I will keep him employed. We have been parted from each other for near two years now. To wait one month more, one week more, one night more, feels utterly insupportable. I will find you. 

‘For the now, I bid you adieu. Until I return from Ramsgate, my dearest one.’

Mr. Darcy did not write again for more than a month. Even then the passages were short, shaking and regretful. Elizabeth could glean but little from what he wrote. Only the last entry made her pause, written but weeks before he arrived in Hertfordshire.

‘Jane,

‘I have released all of the investigators. I must move on. My cousins have convinced me I must relinquish the dream of you. But how? How do I ever give you up? An impossible task! I will not, I cannot give you up.’ 

The ink for several of the following lines were blotted out by tears. Elizabeth could make out nothing of the original words. Nothing but the last lines could be read. 

‘I will forever carry you in my heart, milady. Goodbye.’ 

Elizabeth set the journal aside and closed her eyes. Mr. Darcy had to give her up to find her again. Perhaps she must do the same. 

***

Sometime later, the faint sound of ringing church bells announced the hour to be midnight. Elizabeth hardly stirred from her slumber. When, however, there came voices outside her door and someone began to twist the handle, she jumped up instantly. Throwing her cloak over her shoulders and grasping her satchel, she turned about to find two unknown, finely dressed men and the flame-haired landlady standing in the doorway. Behind the three of them entered the short man Elizabeth saw with Mrs. Fitzpatrick four days previously. He grinned something sinister.

“Well, milord?” 

The older of the two returned, “She is beguiling.” An odd, foreign accent accompanied his words. 

“Did I not tell you!” squawked the short man, “Did I not tell you she would be worth the price? We’ve been saving her for days, holding watch over the girl. Keeping her clean. See why Mr. Sharp sends you to Whitechapel? See? She’s meant for a nobleman, she is. Brilliant find!” 

The younger gentleman whispered to the older, to which the older nodded. “We pay you now, then you leave,” said the older one. A heavy purse was handed to the short man, who looked ready to dance a jig. Mrs. Fitzpatrick held no less glee on her painted visage. 

“Peg?” Elizabeth whispered, the world spinning out beneath her feet. Mrs. Fitzpatrick turned around without meeting Elizabeth’s pleading gaze and departed. In quick order, she was alone with the two foreign gentlemen, the younger one removing his overcoat. 

“What do you want from me?” Elizabeth demanded. 

“Be quiet, do as your told,” returned the younger gentleman.

“No,” she hissed. He smirked and his tanned complexion kindled. In any other circumstance, he might have been considered interestingly attractive. 

“Fuera,” said he to his companion, keeping his icy cat-like eyes closely on Elizabeth. The older man dutifully removed himself with a subservient bow. 

Trembling of hands, tears threatening to fall and with a mind begging to tumble into an unconscious void, Elizabeth told herself, “do not give in.” 

“Silencio!” The man’s sharp cheeks lifted into a cruel grin. “If I enjoy you, I keep you.”  

Clutching at her bag, Elizabeth jumped over the pallet, running straight for the door. Regrettably, the man was just as swift and agile, and a great deal stronger. Jerking at her loose hair, he tugged Elizabeth back, making her stumble and knocking the air from her lungs. He grasped her arm hard, keeping her upright. 

“Be polite now?” 

She did her best to nod, for which he slowly released her arm. Once freed, Elizabeth could not stop herself from gasping heavily in order to force air back into her burning lungs. He waited until she finished, then placed a single finger beneath her chin directing her to stand straight. Once she was situated as he desired, he set his hand under his own chin in order to fully study Elizabeth. And for some minutes, he took in every aspect of her person. Elizabeth felt exposed and her breathing sped and stuttered as she searched for a way to escape. 

“Bellísima,” he whispered at last. In a leisurely manner, his hand took hers, running his thumb across her knuckles. Before Elizabeth could stop herself, she cringed away. The foreigner snatched her jaw, stilling her entire body. “Do not defy me,” he spat. Elizabeth gave him no response, unable to move. Angered anew by her lack of reply, he stepped directly before her, his clutch tight.

Elizabeth opened her mouth, muttering, “I will not defy you.” He let he go, she stepped back. Her feet slipped on the soot by the grate. 

“Good,” he said, his voice silky. “Tell me, what languages do you speak?”

By now, Elizabeth learned to pleasingly respond, so she lifted her lips in what might be considered submission. “French and Italian.”

“Pity,” he crooned. The cruel grin he wore softened into that of satisfaction. He held out his hand in a most civilized manner to which she took in a ladylike fashion. He proceeded to ask her several more questions in the same vein. To which Elizabeth answered honestly, and at once.

“You are an educated lady, not some common woman of the streets,” concluded he, charmingly. Elizabeth nodded her head, still smiling. He was pleased and gestured for Elizabeth to come closer. As she stepped into his arms, she kicked up her heel, spreading ash over the meager fire. 

The cloak fell from her shoulders, allowing his hands to wander more freely. Chills fell across her flesh as his lips slipped by her ear. Obediently, she lifted her chin when his nose descended down her neck.

“Serás mía, solo mía,” the man murmured.

Elizabeth carefully resisted in every way she could while drawing him back toward the fire. Her mind became singly focused on escape. The gentleman’s strange words began to flow in a lament of unmistakable longing. “Tell me you want me,” he muttered, pausing to speak in English and look into her eyes.

So as not to answer, she lightly brushed her fingers through his thick, dark hair. The man needed no greater encouragement; moreover, his distraction surged, just as Elizabeth hoped. But then, and much too quickly, his desire dashed toward a point where all could be lost. Elizabeth was pushed into the wall. The man steadied himself against her, his breaths coming deep and heavy. Knowing any opportunity would be gone in mere moments, she again kicked soot at the hearth, this time with deliberate purpose and less subtly. The room went suddenly dark. 

Blinded, furious and cursing, the man grasped at Elizabeth to keep her within his clutches. She dropped to her knees. Before he could reclaim her, she started crawling toward the door. The foreign gentleman fell atop her seconds later, once more expelling the air from Elizabeth’s lungs. Rolling her over, they struggled for some minutes until a one hand fastened furiously around her throat. Elizabeth reached behind herself, trying to pull herself free before losing consciousness, and found the small stool. Taking a leg in each hand, she cracked the stool over his head. The man wailed out in fury and his hand dropped away. The door burst open and Elizabeth shoved him away. In the confusion, Elizabeth scrabbled in the direction of the vague light from the stairwell. The older man reached her before she could make it to the first step.

Seizing her by the hair, he made to return her to the room. Forfeiting a few strands of hair, Elizabeth spun around. Using a broken stool leg still clutched in her fist, she swung at his face. He grunted and let her go. It was too dark for her to know how she injured him, nor did she take the time to find out. Darting for her freedom, a hand reached out and grabbed hold of her arm. A horrible popping sound reverberated through her ears. Elizabeth tumbled head over heels down the rickety steps, landing hard on her injured shoulder. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of wild red hair. Behind Mrs. Fitzpatrick came the short man. Before they could reach her, Elizabeth shoved to her feet and ran into the night. 

***

Distant shouts and orders came drifting down the alley. Elizabeth cowered in a covered doorway, tugging at her tattered underclothes in an effort to cover her shoulder. During their tussle, the horrible man had ripped her day gown away. She left it behind, she left everything behind in order to escape. In the dreary darkness of the Whitechapel streets, she could not decide how many men were after her. For the moment, however, she felt herself to be hidden. 

Abandoning the linen, Elizabeth gingerly brushed her fingers along her throat. The skin beneath of her fingertips was aflame, swollen and likely going to be a dreadful shade of blue. Attempting to swallow forced an unheard wail from her chest. Fortunately, she could make no sound for the searching men to hear. 

Not many minutes passed before the men’s voices arrived at the end of the alley. Elizabeth had rested her head against the wall, eyes closing much against her own wishes. Clutching at the grimy bricks supporting her back, she painfully inched her way up using one arm, as the other could not be lifted without blinding pain. Her head spinning, her stomach churning, her breath short, Elizabeth clawed through the chaos in her body. She needed help, or at the least somewhere better to hide. 

“Look, Buggy, some-fing white jus’ there,” a man hollered. “I tink it a dress.”

The time for decision making elapsed in the matter of a second. Elizabeth stumbled out of the doorway only to slog through a gully of cold, soiled water rolling down the middle of the street. 

“There, Buggy, there!” The squealing voices pounded closer.

Elizabeth looked over her shoulder, finding two shadowed figures rushing in her direction. She started to run. No destination other than flight could be her objective any more. 

Stumbling from door to gate, the men were gaining on her with every passing second. Turning a corner, she found herself facing the short man from Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s. Elizabeth doubled back, hobbling down another street with as much swiftness as her spent legs would allow. Up ahead stood a church with two towering spires, a thick rock wall and a gate meant to keep out an army. Elizabeth, in her last seconds of strength and freedom, sprinted to the gate. 

Rattling the chains keeping the postern locked shut, she screeched for help, but made little sound. 

“Sorry, dearie.” 

Something sharp plunged deep into her back. Blood bloomed across her gown. The knife remained there for a second, then it was drawn back out. Elizabeth fell to her knees as those behind her scattered down the alley.

Part II

Chapter 17

Mr. Darcy

The darkness carried on in an endless drift of fatigue. While he slept, he did not sleep well. When he woke, he woke in a cold, heavy sweat. Throwing off the counterpane, Darcy stalked toward to the large glass doors overlooking Berkeley Square. Opening both panels wide to the heavily clouded and damp night, he stared. Helplessness lined his forehead and pulled at his mouth. The hour was much too early to call for his valet. In substitute, he went to the nightstand to retrieve the letter.

Slowly, he once more unfolded the parchment. Every word pierced him to the marrow. He wanted to believe her to be true, yet he wondered whether he could trust a single word she wrote. Darcy crushed the letter in his fist before pitching it into the fireplace. The weak embers tickled at the edges; the fragile parchment surrendered to the gasping flames. Darcy stole the letter back before it wasted away from him forever. 

When Wood first handed him the note, explaining the curious circumstances of the delivery, Darcy was utterly beside himself. It took every ounce of constraint to stop himself from releasing the long-serving, loyal butler on the spot. The moment he ripped the letter open in the receiving hall and sped through the words, a battle raged within him. He called for the carriage to be brought around so he might go straight for the Gardiners; Darcy assumed she must be remaining with her aunt and uncle. He could not wait for the next day to confront Elizabeth. However, it was quite dark out. To call at this hour would be in every way improper. Then Wood told Darcy of Georgiana’s plea, and he canceled the carriage. His answers must wait.

At the first, Darcy had not quite grasped all of the underlying intimations in her letter. He now doubted she was with the Gardiners at all. Unable to sit still another minute, he summoned his valet to help him dress. Darcy wished to go for a walk. The cold night air might well ease his turmoil. Jeffers, his valet, grumbled through the task of lightly dressing his master. Darcy paid him no heed. Once presentable enough to step out of doors, he sent Jeffers back to bed. Darcy considered saddling Ludo, only to dismiss the idea straightaway. While Jeffers grumbled, Ludo bit when inconvenienced. Forgoing his overcoat, Darcy made his way down the front footpath, allowing the damp night to penetrate his shirt. Taking a deep breath, he desired nothing more than to breathe in the fresh country scents of Derbyshire. Instead, his nose inhaled a sour odor, stale and harsh. Turning onto the walkway, he stalked his way east. Finsbury Square just so happened to be in the same direction. 

To occupy his mind, he considered the preparations needed to be completed. Darcy decided to remove himself and Georgiana to Pemberley for Christmas. She exhibited little improvement from the summer previous when she put herself in a scandalous position. If anything, a timidity of growing concern overwhelmed the girl. As for himself, he simply needed to be home. Darcy desired the ease and comfort of Derbyshire. Pemberley would benefit them both. 

For more than an hour, he ambled about, at last deciding to return to the townhouse. Letters needed to be composed for Pemberley’s housekeeper, butler and steward in order to ready the manor for their arrival. Indeed, he should include Colonel Fitzwilliam in his planning, for his cousin was likely to accompany them. Two carriages would be required to carry them north. As Georgiana aged, her travel things multiplied and enlarged, often necessitating two or more carriages for their trips together. Rounding the corner, a light breeze ruffled his hair. Again, the scent of something rancid hit him. The smell made him feel ill at ease. Darcy also knew he would never remove to Pemberley, not without her–never again without her. 

Before turning back down the footpath, a glimpse of something white caught his eye. Darcy could make out nothing of what it may be, perhaps a lost handkerchief tangled in a bush. He continued on his way. Once more, a breeze rankled his nose, the scent of rotting earth filled his lungs. The breeze drifted across the square, the handkerchief fluttering. Only, it could not possibly be a handkerchief, it was much too large. Darcy turned around, needing to see what might be spoiling the Berkeley Square lawn. After a few steps, his pace hastened into a run.