Quite suddenly, the words tumbled out of him. It was to be hoped that he would comprehend once the horrible truth had been voiced aloud. “I found it in a boat, on the Serpentine’s riverbank. Elizabeth’s uncle is fond of fishing and keeps a rowboat by Mr Culvert’s brewery. He taught her how to angle.”
“I do not care a straw for where Mr Gardiner keeps his boat. The material point is where is Mrs Darcy?”
“I do not know,” he admitted, deprived of feeling. “Her soul has left me for a better, more forgiving place, whilst her body is most likely lying at the bottom of the Serpentine, or it may have washed up on the riverbank by now.”
“Bloody hell, Darcy! You cannot be in earnest.”
“I never lie,” he asserted.
“She must have fallen or jumped overboard. Besides the shoe, I found a piece of fabric lodged in a splinter that matches one of her gowns.”
“Until Mrs Darcy is found, you cannot be certain. Mayhap she has taken a longer stroll than she intended?”
The lump in his throat made it almost impossible to speak. “Elizabeth is dead or she has left me intentionally. Why else would she not wait for her maid to return with her shawl?”
Richard’s shocked expression was comical. If Darcy’s life were not in ruins, he would have laughed. At least the colonel sensed his despair and asked in mellow notes, “Have you searched her room?”
“For what? She is not there—that much I have established,” he replied sarcastically.
“Whether she left of her own volition is easy to ascertain by rummaging through her wardrobe. Have you looked to confirm whether the green shoes are missing? Her writing desk might also hide a clue or a message.”
Darcy was on his feet within the blink of an eye, and he ran up the flight of stairs to her chamber, whilst cursing himself for his stupidity. Halting abruptly before her writing desk his courage failed. What if she had written a letter of farewell? What if he was the source of her despondency?
“I found a pair of green slippers,” the colonel said, interrupting his thoughts.
Darcy glanced at the shoe Richard was holding aloft. It was not the same shade as the one in the boat.
“It proves nothing. She has a pair in every shade,” he grumbled, turning back to his task.
There was no letter in the escritoire, but there was a journal. Darcy stared at it for an eternity. Perhaps there was a clue within? Resolutely he opened the book and rejoiced in reading small pieces from their honeymoon. It was joyful and…Damn it!He leafed past the description of their many amorous encounters lest the colonel be looking over his shoulder. Delirious happiness emanated from the pages—a small reassurance in this quagmire of lost hope. Then he read about Lady Matlock’s shopping excursion and ball. The self-doubt that Elizabeth felt, questioning her own worth between the lines. A doubt that grew through ridicule and difficult relations. She showed compassion for Georgiana, despite being apprised of her folly. What a wretched husband he had been of late. Why had he spent their last weeks hunting for the rumour-maker and rectifying another of Wickham’s disasters when he could have spent every second with Elizabeth. He should have…
He read about the appointment at Mrs Bean’s Magazin des Modes and the financial troubles Elizabeth had discovered. The expensive Dhaka muslin his aunt had ordered but never paid for. The truth about Miss Molesworth’s visit was harder to swallow. It was clear that Elizabeth had been worked upon by more than the thieving lady; even his aunt must bear culpability for that transaction—instilling in his wife the importance of revering and obeying the corrupt peerage. Then she wrote the most damning words he had ever read.
Oh God! Why did we not go to Pemberley?Elizabeth had even suggested it in a rare moment of despair. She who could not be broken by the vilest accusations or derision had begged him to leave for his country estate. But he must be the man and resolve every problem, even those which could not be remedied.
Chaucer’s ‘The Wife of Bath’ sprung to mind. Women desired sovereignty over their husbands. Ending her tale in a prayer that all women with meek, young, vigorous husbands should outlive them, whilst ungovernable husbands and skinflints should be cursed with short lives and pestilence. Yet Elizabeth was dead. What did that make him?
“Darcy!”
Darcy looked up from Elizabeth’s diary. Richard was poking his head through the door, waving an envelope in his hand.
“I found a letter on your bed. It is addressed to you in a female hand.”
Darcy grabbed the piece of paper.Mr Darcy,he read. It was a very formal way of addressing him. Richard lay a comforting palm on his shoulder as he took the letter and weighed it in his hands. It was light, only one folded sheet.
“I had a feeling she would not leave you in the lurch,” Richard spoke softly.
“Yet, she has!” Darcy spat. “How could she do this to me?”
“Because she loves you,” Richard suggested.
Darcy laughed mirthlessly, sounding insane even to himself. “If Elizabeth loved me, she would not have set foot in a boat without me present,” he countered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Read your letter,” Richard implored, clapped him on the shoulder, and left.
Darcy could not stand being in her room and hastened to his own quarters. He lit the lamp on his desk and neatly unfolded the paper. He fought the impulse to flee, throwing the dreaded missive unread into the flames like a coward. The lamp flickered, as if to compel him to do exactly that.
Dearest Darcy!
