Page 82 of Midnight at Pemberley

Weaving his way among the headstones, an eddy of soft mist dampened Darcy’s boots. The moonlight, shredded by the bare-leafed boughs, flickered off the granite, permitting him to read bits and pieces of epitaphs: Loving Father, Angel, Dearest Child, Peace. He crept now, on all fours, to the center of the graveyard. Resting his back against the cool stone, he caught his breath. “Elizabeth,” he groaned. It was for her he had come—for her more than anything. Closing his eyes, her tear-stained face rose in his memory. Darcy hated the fact his last image of Elizabeth was one of her in tears—tears he had caused.

Storing the image of his wife deep in his heart, he shoved away from the stone while allowing his fingers to trace the engraving. A cloud moved aside, and the words glowed: Lady Ellender D’Arcy Benning. The irony of finding the stone that signaled the beginning of this madness rang wildly with mimicry. “Let us end this,” he whispered.

At length, he made his way through the hedge shrubs, moving cautiously through the shadows. He would sacrifice himself for Georgiana, for his family name, but most of all, for Elizabeth. Up until this moment, a feeling of doom had followed him, but now tranquility came. If it was his fate to die on this day, then die he gladly would.

A window glowed faintly with light, and Darcy crawled unevenly along the ground until he crouched beneath its sill. Unsurprisingly, the house itself smelled of old blood and bones. Peering inside, Darcy thought it all looked eerily like an ordinary manor house, except for the fact a phantom circle moved about the room’s middle. Trancelike, they maintained their distance from one another and from a center ornate chair occupied by Wickham. Mumbled chanting, rhythmic and haunting, filled the air.

Darcy could see the throne chair was an uncommon furnishing. It was made of earth, rich with decaying matter and coated with the same grey ashes he and Elizabeth had discovered at Amelia Younge’s house. Wickham, intent on the display, simply smiled and looked all-knowing. Then his gaze fell on the window where Darcy watched, and Darcy knew his enemy saw him as clearly as if daylight shone. The moment they had both anticipated was upon them.

In a blink of an eye, the shades, which had moments earlier looped around Wickham, now formed a semicircle, enclosing Darcy in a ghostly prison as he kept his back to the house. Pathetic monsters, they waited for him to react. They anticipated the sad compulsion to attack. Darcy recognized Lydia Bennet among them and murmured a prayer for her salvation. Among all these, she would be his target. He would use what skills he had to free Elizabeth’s sister from a macabre immortality.

Sounds and sensations came from the distant graveyard behind them—a graveyard full of souls dancing to an eerie tune. Wickham appeared on the periphery of his vision as Darcy surveyed the scene. “Ah, Darcy, you came.”

“You knew I would.”

Wickham nodded, a vacuous smile clinging to his lips. “It all comes down to this. I must admit you were a worthy opponent. I almost hate to see it end.”

A loud rushing in his ears told Darcy the chanting had increased. Riveting his attention on those closest to him, he extended his arms, letting the energy flow outward, but it made no difference. His power did not affect the dead, and Wickham’s followers pushed forward, crowding him against the wall.

“Farewell, Darcy.” Wickham offered a brief salute as he turned towards the cemetery.

Darcy pulled the iron crucifix from his pocket, holding it in his left hand, and he raised the silver sword in the other. A few of these apparitions would know heaven tonight, starting with Lydia Bennet. He angled his body to meet her assault first. The others did not matter.

From the right, he felt the skin along his arm tear as the claws of one of the coven slashed him, but Darcy did not lower the sword. His attention rested purely on Lydia’s approach. He held the crucifix higher and began his prayer: “Our Father, who art in heaven.” His voice rang out clearly, resonating in the night air. Lydia Bennet’s specter moved closer, near enough for Darcy’s reach, and in a moment of triumph, he touched the relic to her forehead and continued the prayer. The others tore at him, but Darcy concentrated all his efforts on Elizabeth’s sister. “Hallowed be thy name.” Claws crisscrossed his cheek, tearing at his eye socket, but he steadfastly pressed the holy symbol against Lydia’s head, demanding the demons be exorcised forever. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.” Still he held Lydia to him. “Deliver us from evil,” he shouted. As her scream exploded, a bloody swirl of vapor poured forth from her mouth before crystallizing and falling to the ground. The shell of her body turned leathery and shriveled as Darcy pressed her downward.

Now, the others attacked him with full force. He spun and turned and twisted, fighting one after another. The sword and the crucifix took their tolls, but the combined effort was too much for him. They tore at him, blood gushed everywhere, tongues lapped at his wounds, and still they pressed him harder against the grey stone wall. Unable to see any longer, he leaned his head back and slid down the wall in defeat. The ghoulish apparitions covered him, tearing away his skin and sinking in their teeth to drain away what was left of his soul. As they smothered him, his mouth formed one last word: Elizabeth.

She bolted upright in the bed, her gown soaked with sweat. Elizabeth brought her trembling hand to her face, shoving the hair away. The image of Darcy’s blood-spattered face still hung in the air. Her jagged breath was the only sound in the inn’s small bedchamber. Elizabeth fought to control her breathing, gulping air in large mouthfuls. A cold shiver shook her as tears erupted. It was all so real. Unable to stop herself, Elizabeth glanced at the foot of the bed, half expecting to find Darcy lying in a bloody pool at her feet. Shivering, she pulled the blanket around her before rocking herself back and forth, in the same rhythmic swaying of the souls in her dream. The beating of her heart slowed, but the image did not fade. For hours, she remained as such, seeking warmth that was not possible and attempting to wash away the dread suffusing her every thought.

Chapter Twenty-Three

JTREAKS OF SUNLIGHT CLEARED AWAY CLOUDS FROM THE LATE DECEMBER sky as Darcy slipped into his sister’s room. Only the dying embers of the fireplace provided warmth, and he was half tempted to stoke the fire so Georgiana might be more comfortable, but he would not wake her. Standing by her bed, he noted how she grew lovelier every day, looking very much like their father’s ancestors. There were portraits in the gallery of some of the earlier Darcy households, and he saw her features in many of them. When he was younger, he searched the faces, looking for someone who resembled him. He had to go back five generations to find his eyes and his chin line. These thoughts on such a day were silent ramblings, but, somehow, they gave Darcy a sense of completeness. He belonged to this family—to this girl—to this curse.

He gently pulled the bed linens over her shoulders and tucked them in about her before placing the letter on the nightstand. “I love you, Georgie,” he mouthed and then turned for the door.

However, her sleepy voice stopped his progress. “William?”

Darcy returned to her side. “I am sorry I woke you. Return to sleep.” He moved a strand of her hair away from her eyes. “I am to be away from Pemberley for a few days. I left you a note explaining everything.”

“Will you go after Elizabeth?”

Darcy shook his head in the negative. “I cannot. Elizabeth must be with her family now.”

Georgiana struggled to sit up in bed. “Will Elizabeth not return?”

He looked away and forced himself to swallow the regret. “It would be my wish that you and Elizabeth share a life together. You can learn a great deal from my wife.”

“But not without you?” she insisted.

“Unfortunately, Elizabeth possesses reasons to hate me. I am not under the persuasion that she will return to me.” How could he explain? “Georgiana, George Wickham took Elizabeth’s youngest sister, and Wickham did so as revenge against our family. Against me, because I foolishly challenged him. I cannot ask Elizabeth to forgive my arrogance.”

She clutched at his hand. “William, you cannot go off alone to find Wickham! How will I face this without your guidance?”

“It is the only thing—the only honorable thing—I can present to Elizabeth—the only thing I can do for this family.”

“Elizabeth loves you. She would argue against this.”

Darcy caressed her cheek. “Elizabeth’s loyalty remains true, which will strain her relationship with her parents and her sisters. She cannot tell them the reason for Miss Lydia’s demise or admit her share of the blame. I know Elizabeth. She will exile herself from her family. She will require someone to whom to turn. Be that someone, Georgiana. Elizabeth will respond in kind. The two of you will be a formidable pair. I have outlined what must be done for the estate and for your future. You and Elizabeth will want for nothing. I have seen to it.”