Page 22 of Midnight at Pemberley

“Nowhere in particular,” she assured her family. “I went for a walk. I slipped and fell on a sharp stone and cut my hand. It took me a few minutes to stop the bleeding.”

Mr. Bennet looked up in concern. “You staunched the wound, child?”

Elizabeth nodded to reassure him. “I cleaned it as best I could, but if you will excuse me, I will go to my room and wash it thoroughly.”

She started away, but her mother added, “You have a letter from your Aunt Gardiner on the table by the door.”

“Thank you, Mama. I will return shortly.” She grabbed the letter and bounded up the stairs.

Tossing both her cloak and the letter on the bed, Elizabeth poured water into a nearby bowl. Catching up the soap from the tray, she washed the wound completely. Although the blood had stopped long ago, the feel of Mr. Darcy’s mouth upon the cut remained. Her eyes inspected the opening, looking for evidence of his perversion, but she saw none. She took the handkerchief from her pocket and placed it in the soapy water to soak.

Returning to the bed, Elizabeth took up the letter to break the wax seal. A page of close handwriting greeted her. The beginning traditionally shared the latest on the antics of her cousins. Elizabeth adored the children. Although she told the world otherwise, she wished for a large brood of her own. However, the crux of the letter became immediately apparent.

Lizzy, exercise caution regarding Mr. Darcy. He is a powerful man and accustomed to having his way. There are things I have not shared of Vivian’s murder, but now that you have thrown yourself into Mr. Darcy’s path, I must share it all with you.

First, Vivian was not his only victim. Two others died before her. The estate employed all three. I begged Vivian to abandon her position, but her family required the funds, and the Darcys pay well. Vivian claimed she could make twice as much at Pemberley as she could in Lambton.

I was with her father when he and the others found Vivian’s body. It was a sight I will never forget. She rested in a ditch line on the estate. A gash the size of my hand opened her neck. The muscles and the tendons were ripped to shreds, and her head lolled to the side. The magistrate ruled that a wild dog or a mountain cat had torn away the neck, but those who found her knew otherwise. Her skin was dry and withered. Every ounce of blood in her body had been drained. No animal has this power.

Oh, Lizzy, the other girls were reportedly discovered in a like manner. I spoke to Margaret O’Donnell’s sister. She informed me that poor Maggie was so mutilated that they could not find enough of her to bury her properly. The news drove their poor mother to madness. Mrs. O’Donnell roams the countryside, searching for the missing pieces of her daughter.

Two years prior, I observed Mr. Darcy in the warehouse district. I was there to meet your uncle for supper. The next morning, the papers were filled with the report of a mysterious murder of a female worker from the area. Three days later, the report of another murder appeared. A third one came within the week. Do you not see, Elizabeth, this is no coincidence? Wherever Mr. Darcy goes, women turn up dead—their bodies torn and mangled and drained of blood. There is an evil in the Darcy family. I beg you, avoid the man. I could not bear to lose you.

MG

Hands shaking, she set the letter aside before returning to the task of cleaning the handkerchief. It was real, and it belonged to Mr. Darcy, the man with whom she had spent the past week. It did not belong to the Mr. Darcy her Aunt Madelyn described. They were two different men. Yet as she scrubbed the blood from the cloth, she could recall the feel of his mouth and the scrape of his teeth touching her neck. A shiver ran down her spine. What if Mr. Darcy did kill those women?

Even as she wondered upon the possibility, further examination of the facts said her aunt’s accusations made little sense. If Fitzwilliam Darcy were the type to murder a woman, she should feel fear. Other than this afternoon, she had never experienced fear in his presence. Desire. Need. Protection. They were the truths of the man.

She removed the cloth from the water and hung it close to the fire to dry. She traced the embroidered FD with her fingertip. “Fitzwilliam,” she whispered. His name brought her comfort. Even so, after her aunt’s warning, Elizabeth held no choice but to see him again. Whether Mr. Darcy wanted her as part of his life or not, she could not walk away from the mystery.

For two days, Elizabeth heard nothing of Mr. Darcy. She fretted and fussed and fumed about Longbourn, much to the annoyance of her family “I know just what you require,” Lydia asserted, barging into her bedroom. “Mr. Denny will call, and he is bringing a friend—a handsome friend.”

“Oh, Lydia, tell me you did not do this,” Elizabeth protested.

“Too late.” Lydia twirled around the room. “They just entered the garden. Arrange your hair, Lizzy, and come downstairs. Jane, Kitty, and Mary are already in the drawing room.”

“What makes you think a man can solve what ails me, Lydia?” Elizabeth chastised. However, as she observed her reflection in the mirror, she could think of one man who could remove her anxiety with just a sideways glance.

“Meeting new gentlemen always cheers me up,” her youngest sister declared, as if it were a given fact for everyone.

“You are our mother’s child,” Elizabeth remarked. “Go down, dear, with the others, and I will follow momentarily.”

Left alone, Elizabeth fished out Mr. Darcy’s handkerchief from a dresser drawer. She placed it in her pocket, where she might touch it. Only it provided her any comfort in the gentleman’s absence.

When Elizabeth entered the room, Mr. Denny addressed her directly and entreated permission to introduce his friend, a Mr. Wickham, who had returned to Meryton from Town with him. “I am pleased to say Mr. Wickham has accepted a commission in the corps,” Denny pronounced.

Even Elizabeth could admit the young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favor. He had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and a very pleasing address. His best characteristic, Elizabeth quickly noted, was his steel grey eyes. She knew only one other man whose eyes would match this newcomer’s in intensity.

“From where do you hail, Mr. Wickham?” she asked politely.

Wickham sat beside her on one of the drawing room settles. “Originally, I am from Scotland, Miss Elizabeth, but more recently I lived in Bakewell, as well as in London. I returned eight months prior from a short stay in Kent.”

“Bakewell? In Derbyshire?” she demanded, latching onto the words.

Wickham shifted his weight, as if he would prefer to change the topic or quit the room. “You know Derbyshire, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Our aunt, Sir, comes from Lambton.”