Hope everyone's doing well. Writing has slowed down, for obvious reasons. God bless! - Jodi Covey
To Elizabeth's relief, Miss Baxter did not give notice that day, and to her surprise came a swift decision on the next course of action with regards to her hot-blooded houseguest.
Her plan was formulated with complete comprehension that she had little to her advantage but Thornhaugh's respect and an unequivocal understanding of his character, both of which were crucial to any negotiation with a man whose cleverness could not be outdone, only matched, and only if he allowed it.
It was to be a far more necessary than noble act, and knowing that she was capable of it shocked and repelled her as much as her handling of the Sam Cullen situation. But she would proceed, nonetheless; and though the plan was not infallible, in its success she was fairly confident, knowing with certainty that mere argument in this case would be fruitless, that even the most sensible line of reasoning was sure to prove an insufficient method of bending him to her will. She must have leverage, if only a shred of it, which must then be delicately and judiciously applied. Essential, too, was courage, a trait of which she had felt an abundance since that night, and with Thornhaugh to thank for it. It was almost a shame, that this swell of tenacity was to be used against him; almost—for if John's note were any indication, a person's life hung in the balance.
The chilling words—"Do not kill him"—were deemed best to remain between her and Miss Baxter for the time being, a matter far less of trust in her husband than of the simple fact that Elizabeth knew him to his very core, and to that respect knew that informing him of the note could only incite the sort of confrontation sure to coarsen further two hopelessly stubborn men. On that head, rather than have this enduring (at times infantile) conflict between them persist to an even more galling degree, Elizabeth was set on handling this particular matter herself and in her own fashion.
Shortly after her lengthy disclosure to Miss Baxter was her scheme set into motion. The two women were walking the hall together, Elizabeth mulling it over in silence, privately gathering every ounce of strength, when Thornhaugh's belligerent calls from the stairs hastened Baxter to his service and Elizabeth to his suite, reckoning she had but five or six minutes to locate the item before their arrival. Surely, she thought anxiously, surely he still had it in his possession after all these years; for it was virtually all he'd retained in the aftermath of Sir Alvin's vicious act of arson. The Prosperity itself had been the dearest and costliest thing destroyed in the blaze; but, oddly enough, Thornhaugh's personal appraisal of its cargo—which included vast amounts of coin—had been wholly contingent upon each item's sentimental value as opposed to the material. Hence, distinctive ornaments perceived by most as worthless occasioned to him the most pain upon witness to their destruction.
Elizabeth made a swift inspection of his sitting room, endeavoring to think as he would. Just where would he have stored it away? In plain sight or on his person were impractical options, the latter inconsistent with his warrior-like nature of confining within immediate reach the sort of objects that could be of use to him at any given moment. And this piece, neither of jewelry, gadgetry nor weaponry, hardly qualified. Its location must therefore be obscure, in some way intimate, and still easily accessible.
She moved on to the bedchamber, searching every compartment and drawer, rather disheartened by their desolation but glad that his new clothes should soon arrive to fill the barren bureaus. With flagging confidence and a critical shortness of time was she just about to give up, when her eyes were drawn to the massive four-poster neatly turned down with the usual foresight of her excellent maid staff. Apparently good Mrs. Maguire had already familiarized herself with Thornhaugh's erratic sleep regimen, and had seen to it that his bed was always ready to be entered.
Careful not to disturb the linens, Elizabeth checked between each pillow, and when that effort failed reached blindly, deeply beneath the mattress—and gasped.
With gentle care the object was then removed—robbed—from its secreted spot. She exhaled in triumph, clenching firmly in her hand a string of coarsely textured, brownish-colored husks, in substance a rather unattractive, corded collection of dried seeds used commonly in non-Christian prayer all over India. Not that its religious context meant one jot to a cynic like Thornhaugh, who wore his agnosticism like a badge of honor and regarded no Faith without mockery. And yet, of all his meager possessions, Elizabeth knew this perceptibly pointless article was valued above almost anything else; for it had once belonged to her, the one person on earth he knew, with absolute certainty, had truly cared for him.
She stared keenly at the Hindu (perchance Buddhist?) rosary, the sound of his labored breathing growing louder as his presence drew closer.
No turning back now, Elizabeth thought over the disquieting tingle of her nerves. Willfully holding them in check, she pocketed her one bargaining chip and made a quiet escape through a panel door and down a long, narrow, winding stairwell that led ostensibly to a dead end, which in fact was a secret entrance to one of the smaller libraries.
A young maid startled at her sudden appearance through a sliding bookcase. Paused in her dusting, the girl made a customary curtsey as the mistress sneezed once, bade her a good afternoon, praised her work, and then casually strode out of the room. All that remained was the opportune moment, which, to Elizabeth's vexation, was slow in presenting itself; for he had fallen fast asleep on the sofa soon after a cup of the doctor's tea and a uniquely pleasant game of cribbage with Miss Baxter.
"Which I won!" the woman was proud to report. "His sincere congratulations took me by surprise, ma'am, as did his subsequent proposal to teach me chess. In truth, I have always wished to learn the game, but my father had thought it improper. Would you mind terribly?"
"Not at all, Miss Baxter. I should call the offer itself a mark of respect rarely bestowed, and if Thornhaugh's time or health forbids should be glad to teach you the game myself." The woman's stunned reaction prompted her to explain, "Impropriety was generally overlooked in the Bennet
household, and in my own case more often encouraged. Not that I mean to assert my father's method superior to any other; for while it served me well enough, the results between my sisters were decidedly mixed."
"There is no perfect method, it would seem, though I daresay a father ought to be as encouraging of a daughter's intellect as any son's, be him the first born, middle, last, or adopted. You have taught me this, ma'am, and I am grateful for the lesson."
"As I am grateful for life's lesson that sex, station and sequence of birth are of far lesser consequence than our laws and society would have us believe. Would that the shallowest of characteristics were not so deeply considered in what is expected of daughters and sons."
"In an ideal world I suppose, ma'am," replied Miss Baxter, who was finally excused for the evening on her affirmation that she had taken care to blanket Thornhaugh's figure and pillow his head before making a quiet exit, her prior misgivings diluted in her new and clearer understanding of him.
Dinner was a quiet affair, William's mood having taken a sullen turn in the hours after their happy outing, the reason purported to be nothing more than a dull headache, which later worsened to the point that he opted rather to retire early than hear music. George, too, had become despondent, and after eating very little stated a wish to retire, as well, and without explanation.
Elizabeth looked into it; but her children, when asked, could not say what brought on their cousin's attack of melancholy, and knew only that he had not napped at the designated hour before dinner, therefore assuming that he must be tired. Their innocence of George's fragile state was perhaps a blessing; but Elizabeth, able to sense that the boy was more troubled than tired, was not blessed with the knowledge of how to help him. Heavily she pondered the matter (both of George and of William) in a quieter corner of the music room while the children played for her guests, Malcolm's beatific singing voice serving as usual to raise everyone's spirits, and Bingley as usual expressing the highest degree of praise.
Ere long came Kitty to sit with her, and the two of them chatted for some time, her sister ultimately disclosing a secret long retained between her and Matthew about Thornhaugh, and what really occurred in the time he was said to have disappeared into the river Thames.
Elizabeth took the revelation in stride, in fact laughed heartily at herself for having believed so preposterous a tale for so long. "God save that man; for he is one in a billion!" cried she.
"Then you don't fault us, Lizzy, for withholding the truth from you all these years?"
"Indeed not, Sister," she assured her. "Has William been told?"
"Aye, but not in the manner Matty would have preferred." And Kitty then explained just when and how this knowledge was suddenly acquired, musing afterwards, "Do you suppose the shock of it made him unwell?"
Elizabeth sighed wearily. "If so, he should be the last to admit it."
It was now past midnight and Elizabeth lay wide awake, in as much anticipation for her confrontation with one man in his room as concern for the other tossing and turning right next to her.
"Dearest…" she whispered.
"Just a headache, Lizzy," William murmured, adjusting his pillow for the umpteenth time.
And so she remained quiet while he continued to brood, well knowing that any further attempts at discourse would elicit another vexing rebuff. Countless endeavors at drawing out her reticent and reserved Mr. Darcy had yielded far more frustration than success, and therefore she had learned over these last many years to employ methods less cerebral and more…wifely. Thus, with soft kisses and caresses she applied her usual technique of relaxing him enough to fall asleep while holding her, his embrace on this night as firm as it had ever been.
His arms loosened as his breathing transitioned into a low, steady snore, and when at last he rolled away she slipped out of bed, watching him sleep while donning her least flattering wrapper, the tannish one of many layers for especially cold nights. Though it is improper, thought she, at least it is unalluring.
"Mrs. Darcy."
Elizabeth had nodded off while waiting for Thornhaugh to awaken, his deep, drowsy utterance of her name jolting her like a shake to her shoulders.
Curled in a large chair across from the sofa, she glanced about the shadowy dimness of the room, then at him, reading confusion in his faintly visible expression. The one candle at her side flickered weakly, wax hinting at how long she had been out: at least an hour, she estimated.
Regarding him sleepily she asked, over a yawn, "How are you feeling?"
"Exceedingly baffled," he answered, brow furrowed as he stared at her, his still reclined figure raised but slightly.
"Well, as you seem prepared to hear it, I'll get right to business," said she. "Those letters from Summerhill. Of what use are they to you?"
He sat up fully now, blanket draped over his lower half, his collar wide open to reveal the outline of bone beneath a scarred, pale chest. She tried not to be saddened by the sight as his black eyes studied hers keenly. "Of what use is that knowledge to you, madam?"
"I am giving you a chance to be honest, Malcolm," replied she in a firm, motherly tone. "I've not looked through the letters, although I could have; for this is my home after all."
"And thus you have every right to them," he easily submitted. "What a singular woman you are, Mrs. Darcy. Upon my word, this decree could have been made just as well in the light of day as the dead of night, and in more appropriate attire. But if you are sleepless with curiosity, then by all means, help yourself."
She thanked him curtly, bringing the candle with her to the table on which the letters were neatly arranged in several small stacks. "Are they all from Bedford?" she asked after sifting through four or five.
"As you see, madam," he said flatly, treating her just as she foresaw, like an interrogator.
She glanced at all of them just to be sure, saying afterwards, "That is not all I see. Further study had deduced you mean this man harm, and that your coming to Pemberley is to that purpose alone. Do you deny this?"
He stood at that moment, eyes narrowed, blanket falling, shirt billowing loosely from his oversized breeches. So thin he was, so haggard, and yet he carried himself as if nothing and no one could knock him down. "With all due respect, Mrs. Darcy, your right to the letters extends not to my plans with them."
"Very well," she said airily. "Suppose you answer the question as a courtesy then. Have you any ill intentions toward your father the duke?"
At length he shrugged. "It is doubtful I shall find him."
"That is not what I asked."
"And yet that is my answer. Anything else?"
"Yes, sir. Your word that you will do no harm to either him or anyone for the remainder of your life."
"Ah, I see." He grinned sneeringly at her. "Here you stand at the pulpit now that your nephew is back home safe and sound, but do recall the circumstances of just days prior, and consider the following: To what end, madam, do you reckon a vow of pacifism would have served then?"
She raised her chin, steeling every bit of resolve. "My entreaty was made not out of piety, sir. I suffer no hypocrisy, nor a lack of understanding that my hands, too, are unclean."
"Which is my fault, of course."
"I own my actions entirely."
"Discomfiting, is it not?"
"Indeed it is."
"You will get used to it."
"I've no intention of doing so."
"We never do. In any case, your attempts at salvation needn't include me. Make whatever amends you feel is necessary. Pray to your God; live by your conscience, and I shall live by mine."
"That is not good enough."
His eyebrows raised in half surprise, half amusement. "I'm afraid it must be, Mrs. Darcy."
"And why is that, sir? This pledge ought to be easy, and I daresay is owed. Think not that it shall go unrewarded. Peevishness aside, you are getting on well here. The children like you; we like you. It would seem the doctor's treatment is agreeable, that you are responding well, that you are comfortable, sleeping well, eating well. We value your presence and your company; for you are clever, amiable, diverting, humorous. Even your constant bickering with my husband has its charm."
As she spoke, Elizabeth could sense her compliments were yielding a reverse effect to what was hoped for. He had gone cold, his features hardening like rock; and yet, despite her own growing discomfort, she affably went on:
"You remind me of our dear Richard in some ways; for he, too, was a fighter, highly attuned to danger, fierce and fearless in battle, and just as able to receive a blow as deliver one. And to you I readily extend the same honor, gratitude, devotion and loyalty owed to any brave soldier fresh out of theatre. But there is no further need to fight, you see, for there are no more enemies. As Colonel Fitzwilliam retired, so must you. I am proposing that you spend your retirement right here at Pemberley, that you stay with us, live with us, be one of our family, friend to our friends; that you be a brother to John, an uncle to his children and to ours, a mentor to Geor—"
"Stop!" he cried sharply, then checking himself, "Pardon my tone, Mrs. Darcy, but I've really nothing further to say or agree to. I understand I've caused distress and roused suspicion in your household. For that I apologize, and shall take my leave as a just consequence. Please allow me time enough to gather my things; I shan't be long, and I thank you, sincerely, for your generosity, your hospitality, and the amenities therein."
Elizabeth slumped forward in weary defeat. "You will not even entertain my proposal?"
"How am I to entertain an absurdity? You might as well have offered a Pegasus to fly me into London."
"And how shall you get to London, pray?"
"As I have gotten anywhere and anything, madam: by my wits."
"Then I wonder why you insist on being so witless. You've no money, no clothes, no belongings, no horse, no doctor, no lungs, no strength, and no life but right here. I implore you reconsider."
"And I implore you waste not a minute more of your breath or my time. Save your mothering for your children, Mrs. Darcy, for I am not one of them." And on that riposte, he quit the table.
"Indeed not," she said coolly, "for children do not shrink from love when it is offered. They yearn for it, seek it out, and reciprocate. You are mistrustful, and in that respect are cowardly. But, despite your distorted vision, we are your friends, and do care about your fate. All of us."
He was walking the length and breadth of the room, pretending not to hear a word as he pieced his wardrobe back together, eventually standing before a very dim looking glass to tie his cravat. "I'll pay you back for the clothes, Mrs. Darcy. On that you do have my word."
Amazingly, he succeeded in tying a handsome knot despite the absence of light (for he must have had plenty of practice), and was now crossing into the bedroom.
"Mind you don't forget anything," she said, listening to his movements, whispering breaths, the donning of boots, the rustling of bedclothes. At length she remained at the table, waiting, clasping her hands tightly to keep them from trembling. Any moment now.
By and by the sounds ceased, his breathing all that was heard. Silent seconds ticked away, and then she heard him walk back into the sitting room, his booted feet thumping the floor with each step. Standing over her, he said in a calm but confounded manner, "I have never threatened a woman before."
"Not in earnest, perhaps." She motioned towards the chair across from her, inviting him to sit.
Surprisingly he accepted, gaunt visage overspread with the anger he was keeping under purposeful regulation. Pointedly she said, "But you have threatened, have frightened, have brought women, quite literally, to their knees."
"When it was necessary," he said thickly, refusing to look at her, "when I was entreated upon, and just the once."
As she searched his intensely dark expression, Elizabeth softened her tone considerably. "Thornhaugh, listen to me. I see you are upset, that you think I've wronged you terribly, that I am spiteful, vindictive, and mean to play dirty. This cannot be further from the truth; for I meant every word of what I said to you before, and, I—listen, please—I have no hard feelings about what you did to—for my sister. Lydia never talked of it. Never. She suffered nightmares for a while, but not for long. Never again did she go anywhere near another gambling den, or St. James's, or even London. She went back home, to Longbourn, where she fully atoned for her wild behavior, and do you know what else? Her judgement thenceforward improved significantly. She was a whole new person! No longer was she volatile and unmanageable, but passive and restrained. She was a better mother, a better daughter, sister, a better everything after—"
"Please stop talking," he begged her, but she pressed on.
"You rescued her from a villain, just as you rescued George. You saved her life that evening."
"I killed her," he uttered miserably. "Crushed her spirit and her will, killed everything that made her what she was. It was not my intent, I assure you. When I found her—laughing, dancing, frolicking like a little lamb as the wolves about her salivated—my intent was just as you said—to frighten her, to educate the girl as no one else could, certainly not Darcy, so full of chivalry, so gentlemanly. No wonder his desperation, for to cure, one must cut, and I had meant to work on her with a surgeon's precision, but…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "It was so soon after Anne's death and I was…angry. Angry at Anne, at Darcy, at your sister, at life, at the entire world. I was not precise, but sloppy. I went too far, cut too deep. She never remarried, did she?"
Elizabeth shook her head. "A man did offer for her, a tailor in Meryton, but she refused him."
"And all other prospective suitors, I imagine; for men ought to have repulsed her, every one of us, serving only as a bleak reminder of the cruelty we are capable of. In what little time left to her, she denied herself all the world's pleasures she so thoroughly enjoyed, that we've a right to, conventions be damned, society be hanged."
"I could not disagree more. With her proclivities, Lydia was bound for a hellish existence, and instead, thank God, lived out her remaining years in comfort and contentment. She was safe, secure—"
"And dead before thirty. And that, Mrs. Darcy, is unequivocal proof that we are never safe."
Elizabeth smiled. "Anne would have cheered such a statement."
He looked at her then, a fearsome glitter in his eyes. "What do you want from me?"
"I have told you."
"And you will give back what is mine?"
"This very moment, if you will give your word."
His eyes bore into hers as he said roughly, "I am calling your bluff."
"You…what?"
"You heard me. You shall return the item, and right back to where you found it. You will leave this room, and then we shall carry on as if this conversation never took place, each a little wiser, and proceed onward as we both see fit. My plans may change, or perhaps not. There shall be no guarantees, no vows, no reassurance. And you will play the odds, think critically, discard your fears and embrace the uncertain future. That is my challenge to you." He arose, taking up his cane. "I think I'll visit your art gallery" (checking his watch) "for an hour. Good evening, Mrs. Darcy. Or good morning, I should say."
And not a minute later, Elizabeth was left alone, fingering the beads in one hand, their course texture oddly soothing. There was little to think over. The gauntlet was thrown, and she knew he had won.
