“First, I shall go to Darcy’s townhouse to search Mrs. Younge’s room.”
The earl regarded him with open skepticism. “Did Darcy not already search the room?”
“His housekeeper,” clarified Fitzwilliam. “The search concentrated on her effects and the furniture in her room—I wonder if she had some other means of concealing her correspondence.”
Fitzwilliam offered a shrug and added: “Perhaps she burned any letters she received to prevent them from falling into our hands. If Wickham was smart enough, he instructed her to do just that. It may be a fool’s errand, but I hope to confront Mrs. Younge with more than speculation.”
“If you presented it as fact, she would not know the difference.”
“Especially if I mentioned Wickham’s name,” agreed Fitzwilliam. “I have considered that and will use it if I must.”
“Then go to it. When you have searched her room, return here and I shall accompany you. Perhaps she will be a little more inclined to speak if confronted by an angry earl.”
Fitzwilliam agreed and departed soon thereafter. An application to Mrs. Mayfield, and soon Fitzwilliam was standing in the room Mrs. Younge had used when living in the house. Itwas a utilitarian room, one far more than most servants could expect—then again, companions were more than mere servants. With a glance about the room, Fitzwilliam went to work.
The drawers in her vanity and dresser revealed nothing as he had expected, not even a false bottom or a concealed space behind a drawer. From there, Fitzwilliam moved to Mrs. Younge’s personal effects, her gowns, where he inspected the hems for any suspicious lumps sewn into the seams. These also revealed nothing; the woman’s dresses were of good quality, but unremarkable and bearing nothing out of place. When Fitzwilliam exhausted this possibility, he stood to survey the room. There were no floorboards loose, and nothing on the walls appeared out of order. The bed was not concealing any letters or the like, and he could find nothing in the mattress either, for the seams there were undisturbed.
Turning, Fitzwilliam caught sight of the large wardrobe against the wall away from the bed and studied it for a moment. A woman of Mrs. Younge’s diminutive size would not have the strength to move such a large piece of furniture out of the way, but one could fit a piece of paper behind it if the purpose was to hide it from prying eyes. Perhaps she might even inch it away from the wall if she needed to retrieve it.
It was no trouble for a large man such as Fitzwilliam to move it, though it was heavy, and when he did so, he heard the soft sound of a packet hitting the floor. With a grin, he moved the wardrobe a little further, until he could make out the outline of the paper in the dark space behind. When Fitzwilliam had it in hand, he opened it and perused its contents, comprising several letters, a vicious grin growing the longer he read.
We have her.
WITH THE INSPECTIONof Pemberley’s lands completed and no sign of Wickham, a certain measure of reassurance settled over those at the estate. The added notion that William could not be Mr. Wickham’s target further allowed them to breathe easier, though they still took an inordinate amount of care for their safety. No one ventured further from the house than the gardens, and the area was crawling with men guarding the house during the day, and several circling at night, watchful for any attempt to penetrate the estate’s defenses. William had even instructed that lamps be placed at regular intervals around the house to increase the amount of light when the sun went down. The estate was as protected as they could manage.
The day after Colonel Fitzwilliam’s departure for London, Elizabeth and William walked in the gardens, eager for a bit of fresh air and the beautiful surroundings after several days in which they had not dared go outside. It was a typical warm summer day that seemed common in Derbyshire during the season, birds chirping and bees buzzing complemented the sense of tranquility that pervaded the estate. So comfortable was Elizabeth in her surroundings that she could not help but sigh at the pleasure of it all.
“I hope that was not a sigh of regret or sadness,” jested William, attentive to her every movement.
“Not at all,” said Elizabeth. “Netherfield is a lovely estate, William, but Pemberley is something special. Now that I accept it as my home, I love it dearly.”
“Itisan excellent place,” agreed William. “This business of it being lovelier than Netherfield?ThatI find difficult to credit.”
“You do,” said Elizabeth playfully. “I cannot suppose that even a man who treasures his property as you do would suggest that Netherfield is the superior estate.”
“No, Elizabeth, you are correct. While I have always taken pride in Netherfield, I shall not venture to suggest it is a better estate than Pemberley.”
A movement caught Elizabeth’s attention, and she noted one of the grim-faced men who guarded the estate. Little though she appreciated such men observing her every move, Elizabeth knew it was necessary and ignored him. The moment this business with Mr. Wickham was resolved, she would endure it no longer, but she did not consider it to excess. A necessary evil was all it was.
“Tell me, William,” said Elizabeth after they continued walking for a few minutes, “do you have any preferences for names?”
William regarded her with no little pleasure and affection. “As I recall, it is one of the only subjects we have not yet discussed. If your mother knew how wide-ranging our conversations were before we married, it would shock her to the core.”
A laugh escaped Elizabeth’s lips before she could suppress it. “Yes, that is a faithful portrait of my mother, indeed. Now, do not avoid the question, William, for I am interested to know your sentiments.”
“Then I shall tell you. While there are names I would prefer not to use, I do not know that I favor any of them in particular.” William paused, regarding her. “Though the Darcys did not do so in the most recent few generations, I understand there was a time when it was tradition to name firstborn sons with their mother’s maiden name.”
“Bennet Darcy,” said Elizabeth, testing the name as if tasting a cup of tea to determine its sweetness. “I am uncertain if a son of ours so named would appreciate such a moniker.”
“It is better than if your maiden name were Birdwhistle.”
Elizabeth’s mirth erupted from her breast again. “Do you know anyone by that name?”
“An acquaintance from Cambridge.” William shrugged. “It is not a common name in England and is now even less common, for the man in question emigrated to the Americas not long after graduating.”
“Then I suppose it is fortunate that my last name is more common,” agreed Elizabeth. Curious, she regarded him, wondering if this conversation struck a bit of a nerve. “As I recall, did your father not use that custom to justify your name?”
A grimace was William’s response. “Perhaps, though it was still pretentious. Old Mr. Darcy, Jameson’s father, was not pleased by all accounts, though the earl and his father thought it a hilarious attempt to claim a connection.”
