The old man looked up, his weathered face creasing in a smile. “As well as a man my age can expect, sir. What can I do for you?”
Darcy hesitated, uncertain how to broach such a delicate subject. Direct inquiry seemed most efficient. “I require information about events from some years past. You were head coachman during my uncle’s time, were you not?”
“Aye, sir. Served your uncle John with pride, I did. Terrible loss when he was taken.”
Darcy settled against a wooden post, adopting the casual manner that encouraged confidence from longtime servants. “I am attempting to piece together details from the night of the fire. Were any of the estate carriages used that evening or in the days immediately following?”
Hodge’s expression grew thoughtful as he set aside the leather he had been cleaning. “Now that you mention it, sir, there was something odd about that time. It’s hard for me to remember.”
“Take your time,” Darcy leaned against a post.
“Aye, I do remember the fire. The alarm was raised, and we rushed to the cottage with a brigade of buckets. Was a lot of confusion, but…” He paused, brow furrowed. “When we returned, one of the carriages was missing.”
Darcy’s pulse quickened. “Who traveled, do you recall?”
“Not at first,” Hodge said, scratching his beard. “We supposed someone had gone to fetch a physician. But the carriage didn’t return, and none of the coachmen knew who had taken it.”
“Were any of the staff missing in the days following?” Darcy pressed, maintaining an outward calm that belied his internal tension. “Any coachmen, drivers, or stable hands unaccounted for?”
Hodge considered this, his face creasing. “Well, now you mention it… that nursemaid, Mrs. Wickham—she wasn’t about for several days. No one thought much of it at the time, her being so distraught over little Miss Elizabeth Rose being lost in the fire.”
“Anyone else?” Darcy prompted, his voice carefully modulated despite his quickening heartbeat.
“Aye, that butler your uncle had dismissed just before. Rumsey, that was his name.” Hodge’s expression darkened. “Nasty piece of work, if you’ll forgive me saying so, sir. Always lording it over the rest of us, though he was no better.”
Darcy nodded, pieces falling into place with disturbing clarity. “And the carriage? Was it eventually returned?”
“It was, sir. A sennight later, with a hired driver at the reins.” Hodge shook his head at the memory. “Said he’d taken a family to London. A man, a woman, and a small child. Had several heavy trunks with them, he said.”
“This hired driver,” Darcy leaned forward slightly, “do you recall his name? Where might he be found now?”
“Can’t say as I do, sir. Some fellow from Matlock, I believe. Didn’t give it much thought at the time, what with the household in mourning and all.” Hodge hesitated, then added, “But Martha, she was in the carriage when it returned. Claimed she’d gone to her sister in her distress. No one questioned it, with everything else happening.”
Once again, Martha Wickham was in the center of things. She had been Elizabeth’s nursemaid. She had reported the fire and had been missing an entire sennight.
“You said the trunks were heavy. What did you suppose was inside them?”
“The footmen who unloaded them thought it was gold, but you know how stories get bigger with the telling. Course, there were always rumors about irregular cargo moving through the estate in those days. Things that came and went at odd hours.”
“What sort of things?”
“We didn’t question the master. Just prepared the coaches when requested.”
“Of course.” The implications settled over Darcy like a heavy mantle. Rumsey’s dismissal, the fire, and Martha’s mysterious journey with a “small child” who might well have been his infantcousin. A hired driver from Matlock. The connections formed a pattern too significant to dismiss.
“Thank you for your candor, Hodge,” Darcy said. “I appreciate your discretion in these matters.”
“Happy to help, sir. Always wondered what became of poor little Elizabeth Rose.”
An unwelcome stab pricked Darcy’s conscience. “Are you saying little Elizabeth Rose didn’t die in the fire?”
The elderly man wiped the sweat from his brow. “We cleaned up Rose Cottage. Me and the boys. Didn’t find her. Mr. John and Mrs. Rose, they was found at the tea table, wrapped together. Skin was blue with soot on their faces. No sign of the baby.”
“My father never told me,” Darcy gasped, wondering at the implications. “You searched the ruins?”
“Diligently, and men were hired to rebuild the cottage.” Hodge took off his hat and plucked a straw from the brim. “No, sir, there was talk. Of changelings, you see—spirited away by the fae, and a quiet stone or root left in its place. Nonsense, of course,” Hodge added with a sheepish grin, “but Molly swore she heard the child crying in the hedgerow days after the fire, though no one else did. You know how Molly is…”
Darcy rubbed his forehead, the weight of long-buried silence pressing inward. “You believe the child lived.”
