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Chapter 31
Posted on 2012-06-03
Having taken considerable time for their consultation, the Master and Mistress of Pemberley did not rush to resume the interview with George Wickham; rather they sent word that a substantial luncheon should be served upstairs, and a portion of the same taken to Mr. Wickham in the billiards room where he was being watched. The interview would be resumed only afterwards.
In fact Darcy was taking his time to allow their decision to settle into his mind, to let his consciousness deal with it in its various aspects and probable ramifications, to argue over it, to reconsider it and, should it prove appropriate, conceivably to change it. He was also trying to anticipate what the interview would likely consist of, and how he should respond to different things Wickham might be likely to say. It was his way: his motto might well have been "be sure you are right, then go ahead."
Under the circumstances he had the luxury of more openly and literally debating with himself than ever before: he and Andrew talked for some time after the ladies had, severally and with caution to avoid both Mistresses being seen by the same servants, left the library and gone upstairs. They concurred in the acute need for more information, and as a result Fitzwilliam George summoned several of his trusted servants to his office. Peter Sellon, an excellent tracker, he sent to check for tracks to and from the hunting-shelter to the east of Pemberley, and he asked Joseph Padgett to examine the grounds, checking especially for tracks leading to and from the maze and the large oak tree that grew near the nursery window. He asked Wilkins to note, carefully but unobtrusively, the state of Wickham's footgear, and to report to him anything that seemed unusual about it. Wilkins immediately responded that he had already noted that Mr. Wickham's boots did not match each other, but that he would look for any other unusual details, sartorial or otherwise, that might be worthy of comment.
Eyes alert, Joseph Padgett scanned the ground as he walked. There was a clearly discernible but confused-looking patch hard by the western edge of the great maze, where Mr. Darcy had asked him to look, but a careful search revealed nothing that seemed like tracks leading to it. Heading south from it Padgett had found clear footprints; mismatched footprints, which confirmed that they were likely Wickham's, for he had noticed, when they brought Wickham in, that his boots weren't mates. There was a recently scuffled bit of dirt by and partly under a small rosebush, in a fairly direct line from the first site towards the old oak tree, and then, visible from several yards' distance, dirt marks on the trunk of the tree itself, indicating that it had recently been climbed, probably by a person of adult height and no little weight, he judged. As he approached the tree, he noted a piece of paper lying on the ground beneath the tree.
Padgett's literacy skills were not the best among the Pemberley servants, but they were not to be despised, and he could soon tell that this was a missive that would interest the Master greatly. He headed towards the house with his find.
"Look 'ee here, will ye?! What has we got in our pockets, eh?" Giles Parker and Joseph Padgett were going through Wickham's garments. They had already laid out on the Parkers' rough table a quite astonishing sum of money in a small roll of bills and some loose coins, some 15 pounds in total. Padgett had suggested (quite accurately, in fact) that most if not all of it had climbed into those pockets at Pemberley. Now Parker held up a small brass object: a seal of the sort used to mark correspondence, with Darcy's insignia on it. This clearly must have been stolen from Darcy, doubtless from the desk in his office. It was good that Wickham was not in any condition to use it, as otherwise he might have so used it as to cause the Darcys great difficulties.
"Dangerous, that," Padgett commented, shaking his head.
"He'd have swung high for stealing it," agreed Turpin.
"Ye'll want to see this, sir!" said Padgett. He had extracted from an interior pocket in the dead man's coat a wallet, and next to it a piece of paper, a letter from its appearance. Padgett had looked briefly at the message and, although he was not the most skilled of readers, he could see the name "Darcy" written therein, along with some mention of a child. He passed the paper and the wallet to Mr. Bennet without reading more, but was intrigued to see him start with surprise as he perused the contents of the letter.
Thomas Bennet was indeed startled by what he saw. The letter bore the date of 17th May 1814, only two days agone, and was addressed to whom it might concern. It was the contents that were exceedingly strange. An hypothesis began to form in, and in fact abruptly seized, his mind, quickly convincing him of its truth. Although the idea was, in itself, quite bizarre, it would easily explain not just the contents of the letter but also Mr. Wickham's sudden and unexpected appearance at Pemberley itself. The most rational thing to do, he felt, was to consult with Georgiana Wickham regarding the matter. He could not, however, see any way that this would change the advisability of disposing of Wickham's body promptly, definitively and anonymously. At least, if his theory was correct … He pondered the situation for a minute or two, but came again to the conclusion: time was of the essence. He would follow through with the plans and arrangements he had begun, and once all was in motion he would return to Pemberley and speak with Mrs. Wickham.
He glanced into the wallet: besides two pound-notes there was what might well be a gaming vowel, acknowledging a debt in the considerable sum of eight pounds ten shillings, dated the week before and signed by one Ezekiel Buncombe, along with a tailor's bill from Newcastle, dated 4th May, in the amount (prominently displayed as overdue) of two pounds twelve shillings and sixpence, and bearing the name of Geo. Wickham. This last piece of paper was, it seemed to Mr. Bennet, the sort of thing that was wanted. It was unlikely that anyone investigating Wickham's death would travel to Newcastle to check it out, and in any case, what would it matter if they did? But it would help to identify the corpse. Mr. Bennet asked if there were any sort of a writing instrument available, and Giles Parker produced a stubby pencil. With it Mr. Bennet wrote the words "Pemberley, Derbyshire" lightly on the back of the tailor's bill, using his right hand. (He was lefthanded, but had learned in school to write reasonably well with his right hand.) He retained the wallet, but returned the gaming vowel and the tailor's bill to Padgett, indicating that they should be restored to the dead man's pocket.
"Parker," he asked, "what would be the best way to transport the body outside of town? I'm thinking of a cart or a wagon or something of the sort, perhaps with a load of hay or something else that will not draw attention."
Parker thought a moment. "Well, there's always Harry Merton. Maybe 'e'd lend me 's cart and horse. Or maybe not. After what Wickham done to 's horse, back at Yuletide … Hay, I've got. I'd think that'd do it."
"Padgett, are you willing to stay here and help with this situation?"
"Of course, sir. What would you have me do?"
"May I speak with you and Miss Ingram briefly?" Mr. Bennet turned to Giles Parker, his sister, and the apothecary. "Please understand that I intend no discourtesy, and my wish to discuss this in privacy springs not from mistrust but from the feeling that it might be better for you to know less rather than more of what is planned. If any inquiry might arise, you can with truthfulness plead complete ignorance after a certain point."
The three denizens of Lambton stepped out of doors in order to give privacy to the Pemberley residents.
Mr. Bennet briefly outlined his plan. "Mr. Padgett, assuming that Mr. Parker can help us get the body away from town, I am inclined to entrust most of the rest of this enterprise to you, and to my driver, in whose discretion I have great confidence. I believe I should return to Pemberley to consult with Mrs. Wickham. If Mr. Parker is able to borrow a cart and horse, can you send word to me, specifying when and where my coachman could encounter you? Perhaps it would be as well to fix on an appropriate meeting place even now, if you can think of one."
"There be an old barn t'west o' the north road some two mile from town, a half mile south of where the road from Kympton joins in. Parker can leave 'is hay there in the barn, easy enough. Your driver can go from Pemberley through Kympton and then double back to t'the place."
"Well, then, if you would accompany Parker and the body to that place, my driver can meet you there. Assuming you can get the cart and horse, how long would it take you."
"An hour, sir, mayhap two."
"So there will not be time to hear. I shall not await word from you but will send the coachman ahead. When he arrives, or if he is there when you arrive, transfer the body to my coach. My driver will then take you to where the body might be found."
"You be thinking Manchester, I suppose, sir? We could do that. I'ld leave it in an alley nigh a pub. Send us some whisky i' t'coach," he held up the remains of the bottle with which Nan had stricken Wickham, "and we'll pour some on un. Do we get off this afternoon, we'll go on into t'night till we get there, and leave un off in the dark. They won't find un till tomorrow."
"Try to arrange it so those papers will be found with the body and still be legible even if someone should steal the coat," suggested Mr. Bennet. "I appreciate very much your quick grasp of the situation, Mr. Padgett, and your willingness to run this risk. It shall not be forgotten."
"Ain't much I wouldn't do for the Family, sir," said Padgett, with a quick sideways glance at Ellen, who smiled at him with the corners of her mouth.
"Miss Ingram," said Mr. Bennet, "do you see any … problematic aspects to these arrangements that may be escaping me?"
"What of your driver and coach, sir? When will they and Joseph … Mr. Padgett … return?"
"It seems to me it will be best to instruct my driver to take the coach to our home in Hertfordshire, and not return to Derbyshire at all," said Mr. Bennet. "So it would be much more difficult for anyone to establish any direct connection from the body found in the city to a coach coming from this area and returning hither. The coach will simply pass through the city on its way elsewhere. I presume there would be some place along the road south at which you could be left off, Padgett, in order to make your way back here?"
"That's right," said Padgett. "That's safest."
"Then let us call the Parkers and Mr. Turpin back in," said Mr. Bennett.
"Mr. Parker, if you will try to procure a cart upon which you can place a load of hay, I would appreciate it if you would drive with Mr. Padgett to a place he has specified …"
"Thatcher's old barn," interpolated Padgett. "We c'n leave t'hay there, that road we'll not raise questions." Parker nodded.
"Padgett will take care of things from there on. You can return to Lambton and give the cart and horse back to its master, and that shall, we may hope, be the end of it for you."
"Munna be difficult, sir. Thank 'ee, it sounds a good plan."
"I do need to ask that you send me word at Pemberley when you are safely on your way to the barn. My coach, of course, will have left before the messenger arrives, either to meet you or to await you if it arrives first."
"Who should we send, sir?" asked Padgett. "You don't want nobody from town taking that message."
"Let me go," suggested Nan. "I know t'way, and it's no too far t'walk. I dinna want to be here alone while you're gone, Giles. Especially if Harry Merton knows you're going out."
"I'll look out for thee, Nan," said Ellen. "Tha'll be safe at Pemberley."
Mr. Bennet protested at the thought of a woman being obliged to travel the distance alone, but Nan and the others made it clear, though politely, that they saw nothing wrong with the idea (in fact they thought his objection risible, though they said nothing of that), and he reflected that his own Lizzy would have eagerly undertaken such a walk. So, in the end, he agreed to the plan.
He placed in his own pocket the Darcy signet and most of the money that had been on the dead man's person, leaving a pound and assorted shillings with Padgett (he would send more for him with his driver, from Pemberley, but saw no reason for the others to have such evidence of how far Padgett would be travelling before he returned), and having inquired with Parker regarding the probable cost of hiring the cart, left sufficient money to cover the expense.
"If you, or your sister, or indeed you, Mr. Turpin, are involved in any further troubles as a result of this situation, please get word to me, or to another of the Darcy family, and we will attempt to help you in the best way possible," he told Parker. A further thought tickled his mind, and he said, "Oh, yes, any bandages or anything with blood on it should be burned."
"Aye," said Parker, "In t'stove. We'll do't."
Mr. Bennet and Ellen Ingram then said farewell to the others, boarded the waiting coach, and instructed the driver to return to Pemberley.
Chapter 32
Posted on 2012-06-12
"Lydia, dear." It was Jane's sweet voice. Lydia rolled over to look at her. She had been lying on her bed with her face to the wall. She was tired. The interesting condition in which she found herself of course tended to have such an effect upon her; in addition to that she was not yet recovered from the experience of the last days in Northumberland nor from the journey thence, made in haste and apprehension. Her thoughts constantly whirled these matters together with what her sisters and her brother Darcy had said to her yesterday, and the result was not just a weariness of the body but a profound depression of the spirits. Then Mattie had kept her up much of the night, with her fright and her illness, and that had worn upon her. Mattie was, for now, in the nursery with Annie, both being attended by a new maid, one of the housemaids, named Grace, whom Mrs. Reynolds had trusted enough to engage to watch over them, and to whom Annie had gladly attached herself from the first. Now that Mrs. Nadderby was gone, Marjory was in full-time attendance upon young Andrew Darcy, and his parents and uncles and aunts most certainly did not want there to be any possibility of the newborn's taking harm by catching Mattie's ear infection.
"Lydia, we must speak with you." This time it was Lizzy's voice. "You need to know that your husband is here. He arrived a few hours ago. Mr. Darcy is even now speaking with him in the library, downstairs."
"Oh, no!" The cry came from deep within Lydia, and she turned again towards the wall. "You have not told him that I am here, have you?" She paused, swallowed a sob, and continued, "I had hoped that we could be gone to … to wherever Mr. Darcy was going to arrange for us …"
"He has certainly not heard from us that you are here, Lydia. But it would appear that last night he was up in the tree outside the window of the nursery when Mattie was suffering from her earache, and he saw you with her."
"Oh no!" Lydia cried again. "So it was not just a bad dream, when she was talking about seeing him?"
"Apparently it was not. But, Lydia, I think you would do well to speak with him, at some point, not necessarily today. He seems somehow … changed from the Wickham we knew before. A little less … smoothly sure of himself. He came to speak to us of his own accord. He spoke as if he is sorry for how he has treated you --he actually took responsibility without trying to blame you or anyone else. He spoke of a desire for a new beginning with us, at least, and, I would presume, with you."
"He did indeed sound as if he wanted to change," said Jane.
"It's all just an act. It always is." Lydia discounted Jane's words: everybody knew Jane would always make everyone sound good if she could. But she felt a need to fight against Lizzy's perceptions.
"Perhaps," Elizabeth agreed. "But I would still recommend that you speak with him. It truly did seem that he might be sincere this time. Lydia, you are married to the man. That is a fact of your life that you cannot really escape, even were you to go live elsewhere and try to forget him. He knows that you are here, and will want to see and speak with you. He evinces remorse over what he has done, and does not show anger towards you or anyone else. I --indeed all of us-- know that those protestations may be purely deceitful, but it is possible that they are not. You need not be afraid of him: Mr. Darcy is ready to step in at any moment to protect you; your husband cannot in any reasonable way harm you corporally while you are both here. We would not leave you alone with him unless you desire it."
"But I do not want to see him!" Lydia wailed, and Jane sat on the bed beside her and laid a comforting hand on her arm.
"Very well, you need not see him right away," said Elizabeth. "We shall speak further with him, and shall let you know if more important information should come out from our doing so. And we shall not promise him that he can see you. But consider well what you will do. I must go now, my husband desires my presence downstairs. Know that we shall keep your needs prominently in mind as we speak with your husband."
Before heading downstairs, Elizabeth could not resist looking in briefly on young Andrew. He was sleeping peacefully. She looked on his face without speaking during several minutes, then leaned down to deposit a soft kiss on his head, and turned to head downstairs, smiling and nodding very slightly at Marjory, who sat in a rocking chair on the other side of the room from his crib.
"I need to see t'Master. It's by way of being urgent. I mun show him aught."
Wilkins looked on Padgett with a slightly jaundiced eye. "What have you got that you can't just ask me to show him? He's busy now."
"Dinna come the high and mighty over me, man!" Padgett replied. "Tha knows 'e sent me on a errant, and told me, did I find aught, to bring it to un … to him, rightaway."
"Right, then," Wilkins capitulated. "Come with me."
As they neared the door to the Master's study, they saw Mrs. Darcy coming down the hall from the opposite direction. Wilkins halted and held out a hand to indicate that Padgett also should wait for her to arrive, which he did.
"Mrs. Darcy," said Wilkins, "Padgett here has something he has found, which he insists on giving to the Master in person."
"I am even now going in to see Mr. Darcy," said Elizabeth. "Would it suffice for me to take what you have found to my husband?"
"No doubt it would, my lady," answered Padgett, touching his forehead in respect, "but Mr. Darcy done asked me, did I find aught, to bring it to him alone."
Wilkins looked almost horrified at Padgett thus refusing the Mistress, but she responded as if this were perfectly reasonable. "Very well, if you will but wait here a few seconds, I will see if he is free to attend to you."
She entered the Master's study. The hallway door was, as might be expected for the doors of Pemberley, well-designed and well-maintained; it closed silently on its hinges and made only the slightest click as Mrs. Darcy let the latch engage. Less than a minute later, the Master emerged and invited Padgett to join him in the study, again closing the door carefully after them, with a finger to his lips. The door leading from the library to the study had been left ajar by a finger's width, however, and Padgett could hear, albeit muffled, the voice of Wickham coming through from the other room. Who was the man talking to, he wondered, if the Master were not there to hear him? Though of course the Mistress must have just gone in; perhaps he was speaking to her or to the Bingleys.
The Master held out his hand and Padgett put into it the paper that he had found. The Master's eyes quickly scanned it, but it was impossible to tell how it affected him, for his face remained impassive and imperturbable and he maintained perfect silence. Then he turned to his desk and wrote a few words on a scrap of paper, passing it to Padgett, who deciphered it as asking where he had found this.
He held out his hand and the Master passed the pen to him, whereupon he somewhat laboriously wrote the words "Under old oke tree."
The Master then asked "Had tree been climbed?" and Padgett answered, "Yes, traks from mays," and in answer to the query "Tracks to maze?" answered, "Dint see non".
Mr. Darcy then wrote, "Thank you, very helpful," showed the words to Padgett, and then silently let him out of the study. Returning, he wrote the initials FAD next to the first words he had written and the name Padgett next to the response to that query, and carried the two papers, the written dialogue between him and Padgett and the document that Padgett had brought, carefully and silently through the door to the library, to show them to his wife.
Padgett, meanwhile, stood still for a few seconds before turning to Wilkins, who had awaited him in the hallway, and allowing him to escort him from the house. He was certain that he had heard what he would have sworn was the Master's voice, coming from inside the library, at least twice while he and the Master were in the study. But he was subject to no temptation of commenting about it to Wilkins, and was in general quite skilled at keeping his own counsel. He returned to the oak tree, and began searching for further signs of what route Mr. Wickham might have taken when leaving that place.
"Your husband, madam …" Mr. Bennet swallowed on a dry throat, thinking how to phrase what he needed to say. He was seated in Mrs. Wickham's sitting room at Pemberley. Mrs. Wickham and the two Ellen Ingrams were present. "The man we were pursuing … is no longer among the living. He apparently sought refuge at the house of a friend …"
"It was Giles Parker's house, ma'am," said Ellen-from-here, with a glance at Ellen-from-there as well.
"Well, he was so weak from what had happened here at Pemberley and from his trip to Lambton, that he swooned almost immediately upon arrival. Mr. Parker went to bring the apothecary, Mr. Turpin, and while he was gone, Mr. Wickham revived. There was an altercation …" He hesitated a moment before continuing.
"Will you believe it, Ellen," asked Ellen-from-here, taking advantage of the pause, then adding a trifle belatedly "and you, ma'am … that he attacked Nan Parker?"
"Like he did us?"
"Well, more like … he was insisting she sleep with him. He tried to force her. She told me about it, while you, sir, were puzzling out what to do. The filthy scum! … I beg your pardon, ma'am."
"It is all right, Ellen. I am aware that my husband well deserves the epithet," said Georgiana Wickham. She was nearly overcome by these revelations, but she was steadfastly determined to maintain her calm.
"Only it may well not be your husband, if I am understanding things aright," said Mr. Bennet, causing consternation in the minds of at least two of the three women. "In any case, Miss Parker defended herself ably, and he received another blow to the head, this time from a whisky bottle."
"Good for her!" Ellen-from-there contributed in a low voice.
"Mr. Wickham then fell again in a swoon. Some time later, when Mr. Parker and Mr. Turpin had arrived, and Mr. Turpin was tending wounds that Miss Parker had sustained in the altercation …"
"He tried to stab her with her own scissors, what they had used in bandaging him," Ellen explained indignantly. "Luckily he did not manage to hurt her badly."
Mr. Bennet was not in the least perturbed at this or any of the previous interruptions; being interrupted at random moments was far from a novel occurrence in his experience. He continued: "While Mr. Turpin was attending to Miss Parker's needs, Mr. Wickham suddenly expired. Mr. Turpin is of the opinion that it is not possible to determine which of the many wounds and blows he sustained caused his death, and in fact it is probably best attributed to the combination of them all. Be that as it may, when we arrived at the Parkers' house, we coincided there with the men and dogs who had tracked Wickham through the woods. Parker let me, and Padgett, and Sellon, whom I believe we can trust, into the house, and I invited Miss Ingram," he nodded his head towards Ellen-from-here, "to join us shortly thereafter. We learned of … of Mr. Wickham's demise at that time. I judged it best that as few as possible knew what had happened and what would yet be done; therefore I asked Sellon to take the other men and the dogs to pursue our quarry down the road to Derby, claiming that we had had a report of his heading in that direction. We fixed on a plan to have the body transported out of town in a haycart that Mr. Parker will procure, and I shall ask my coachman to meet the cart north of Lambton and take the body and Mr. Padgett to Manchester, where it will be left in the street near a public house. We have left with the body a paper (a tailor's bill) which identifies him as George Wickham. I also wrote, in pencil, the words "Pemberley" and "Derbyshire" on the back of the same bill. The authorities in Manchester or Liverpool, we may hope, will think to contact this house in order to hear if anything is known of Mr. Wickham, and we may say that we indeed know him, but do not know his current whereabouts, and had not heard from him in some weeks." He paused in his narrative.
"Oh, my!" Georgiana Wickham was overwhelmed.
"We found several items on the man, besides the tailor's bill," said Mr. Bennet. "I have here quite a sum of money," he laid it on a small table near Mrs. Wickham's chair, "and this signet, which I presume will have come from your brother's study. Here also is his wallet, which did not seem necessary to leave with him; you will know what is best done with it. The most surprising thing, however, was this."
He held out the document that Padgett had found, and Georgiana took it. She recognized the writing: it was one of her erstwhile husband's hands, and she said as much. (Ah, thought Mr. Bennet, it is much like Lady Catherine DeBourgh and her carriages and chimney pieces: he has several of them.)
On the outside of the paper, as it lay folded in thirds, were written the words To whom it may concern: Within, it read: The accompanying document is a copy of another, written by one capable of testifying to the truth of the allegations contained therein, regarding the status of the child born at Pemberley, Derbyshire, on the evening of the 16th day of May 1814, known as Andrew Thomas Darcy. The original of the said document is in a place of safety, and should anything untoward happen to the bearer of this document, copies of it will be released in London, to the Morning Post, the Times, and the Courier.
"My word," said Georgiana, upon reading this. "What on earth? … So, it would seem … "
"Yes," said Mr. Bennet. "We did not find any other document, but this would appear to be part of a scheme for blackmail, given the threat to release the other document, and …" He paused, then said, "Miss Ellen … both of you Miss Ellens … you do not need to know the details of this, but I think you will be glad to hear that, if this document is to be trusted in the matter, Andrew Thomas Darcy was born at Pemberley on the evening of the 16th of May. That would be the very day you arrived here, would it not, Miss Ellen?" He nodded his head toward Ellen-from-there. "Three days ago, now?"
"A boy!" Ellen crowed. "Oh, my mistress will be so happy! Or rather, she must already be so happy! But," her happiness dimmed abruptly, "I was not there to help her! How did she manage?"
"Well, my sister was there to assist her, it would seem," said Georgiana, "and Mrs. Reynolds, I doubt not. And perhaps my … my other self? … would have been of help as well. Although … she is not yet married, is that not so?" She turned to Ellen and was reassured that it was indeed so.
"Andrew for my brother," she continued, and Ellen again corroborated her supposition, saying, "Yes, my mistress told me that if it was a boy they should name him Andrew."
"And Thomas for you, sir!" she said, with a smile for Mr. Bennet, to which he replied, "Or at least for the other Thomas Bennet, who, I doubt not, deserves it more than I."
"Oh, no, sir," she responded. "You have been … I cannot imagine … what ever would have happened had you not been here? You have well earned the right to have a grandson, even a grandson in another world, named after you."
"In any case," said Mr. Bennet, "it seems clear that the Mr. Wickham whom we encountered this morning was not your husband, but the Wickham from the other world."
"Yes," said Georgiana. "I
had already come
to that conclusion: it was clear that he did not recognize me as his
wife."
"On the other side, he is … remind me of how he is connected to the family in that world?"
"He is your son-in-law, Mr. Bennet, married to your youngest daughter," said Ellen-from-there.
More than anything else had done so far, this somehow seemed to pierce through Mr. Bennet's armour of unwonted energy mingled with dissociated amusement, both at the situation and at himself in the situation. It was his own son-in-law whose demise he had helped bring about, Lydia's husband! What his daughter must have suffered, being married to such a villain, and what that must have meant to the rest of the family as well! He sat in silence for some time, while the women returned for a few minutes to clucking over the news of the new baby, then shook his head.
Of a sudden, he was extremely weary. A part of him wished nothing more than to return to the Pemberley library, to sit alone, sip a glass of port, and let his mind rest from the current situation. Another part would not mind a meal; truth to tell, he had not eaten all day. Yet his body did not really want for food, and his nerves were in such a state that he was not sure that he could even eat if food were brought before him. Perhaps the greater part was ready for bed, despite the fact that there were hours of daylight yet to run. He had, after all, gotten no sleep at all the previous night. But something was niggling at the back of his mind, keeping him from so easily slipping back into inactivity and lethargy. Oh, yes, he thought, then said, "I must find and instruct my coachman. Miss Parker is to come and tell us, before very long, we may hope, that her brother and Mr. Padgett have got away safely from Lambton. Let us all pray that the business goes well for Mr. Parker, and for Mr. Padgett. We shall all be grateful when it is done, I am sure."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Wickham.
Another niggling thought broke through to the surface of Mr. Bennet's mind as well. "Another thing, we need to check the maze. If it is of a mind to let us through, I make no doubt that those on the other side would be grateful to know of what has occurred here, and to know of the threatened blackmail."
Chapter 33
Posted on 2012-06-23
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Corinna looked in consternation at the paper her husband held for her to read. Her attention was removed entirely from what was being said by Wickham, George and Clorinda for the next few seconds.
The message was written in a hand unfamiliar to her (as it was to her husband). It bore the date of 17th May 1814, and read as follows:
Sirs,
Recently I was at the Pemberley estate in Derbyshire in connection with the birth of a child there. A male child, known as Andrew Thomas Darcy, was safely delivered by Mrs. Darcy, on the night of 16th May. However, based on statements by several of those present, including those in the family, as well as other evidence available to me, I know for a fact that this child is not the son of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, but of another man. Thus the child is not the heir of that estate. I can, and will if necessary, vouch for these facts in court.
(Signature and name withheld)
It was clear enough what this was: a document intended for use in an extortion scheme. She rapidly scanned the second sheet of paper, realizing the import of Padgett's having found this under the oak tree. No doubt it had been brought to the oak tree by Wickham himself.
Andrew looked inquiringly at her; she made a small gesture with her head and reached for the document, then, changing her mind, leaned her head alongside his, and whispered in his ear. He smiled, stood and noiselessly (thanks to the well-oiled hinges of the door) re-entered the study, dipped his pen in the ink bottle and once more wrote a few more words on the paper on which he and Padgett had written their dialogue. He returned to the library, and showed his wife her own words: Chatmore never wrote that! followed by the initials ED.
Corinna, a mischievous grin on her face, folded the two papers together, stood to her feet and, slipping her right foot from its shoe, grasped with her toes the letter and its accompanying note. She then cautiously reached her foot under the curtain to where she knew Clorinda to be seated. She was fairly sure she had managed to touch Clorinda's skirts with the folded papers, and a few seconds later she saw the curtain before her shake in confirmation, so she withdrew her foot, shod it once more, and returned to her chair. On the other side of the curtain, Clorinda also slipped off her shoe and unobtrusively and silently but deftly reached back to where she could pick the letter up with her toes, then brought it to where she could with minimal motion bring it to her hand and thereby to her lap.
Schooling her face to show nothing, Clorinda allowed her eyes to take in what was written on the two pages. Knowing that her husband needed to see this immediately, she passed it to him under cover of the library table.
Wickham was in the midst of an explanation of his comings and goings into Derbyshire. His seeming confusion appeared to be exacerbated by a desire to avoid saying anything incriminating of himself, mixed, it might be, with a desire to avoid incriminating others, and perhaps, even, a desire to tell the truth. "I know Giles Parker from years ago," he said, "and because of our long history together, I sought him out when I came into the area. He had been helpful to me in the past. He was the one who got a horse for my use, for instance. His sister, Nan I think her name is, and he live on the east side of town, very near to the woods."
Wishing to give her husband another few moments to think, Elizabeth said, "But you were here at Pemberley. You did see … us, my husband and me, on the west lawn, did you not? What day was that, do you remember?"
"I think it was … I truly do not remember, but from something Parker told me, I think it must have been yesterday, early in the morning. In my mind it is as if it were months ago, however. I remember withdrawing into the woods, but do not remember anything else thereafter with any certainty."
"What had you told Mr. Parker about your coming here?" Darcy had surreptitiously but thoroughly perused the papers his wife had passed him, and now returned to the conversation. Under cover of the table he passed the paper containing the dialogue back to Elizabeth, and, a moment later, the blackmailing letter as well.
"I told him … that is, I think I told him, that my wife was at Pemberley, and … well, I had to … that is … I told him that I did not think I would be welcomed here. He knows … he was not surprised."
"I see," said Darcy. "Did you speak with anyone else in Lambton about Pemberley, about who was here and what might have happened here?"
"Not that I remember." Wickham's face looked quite innocent, but of course with Wickham you could never tell. "I believe Parker was the only one. I avoided the others who knew me."
"Do you recognize this?" Darcy held out an somewhat over-ornate pewter snuff-box, with the initial "R" in a florid script upon its cover.
Wickham picked it up and looked at it with curiosity in his mien. He honestly did not remember it; it seemed an ordinary enough trinket, though no doubt more than a little expensive. Yet Darcy seemed to give it some importance. "I don't know," he said. "Should I recognize it?"
"Yes, I believe you should," said Darcy. "After all, it was in your coat pocket when you arrived here."
A memory came back to Wickham, of himself deftly relieving a man of a few choice items; a drunken man, it was, resting his head on the table in an alcoholic stupor. In London? No, of course not, but not Newcastle … why, it was in Lambton, was it not? He was not aware that he had given a very slight start and that the faint beginnings of a blush were touching his face. He quickly controlled himself, however, and said, "Yes, I do remember it now. It is mine. I have had it for some time."
"Wickham, you are lying to me, are you not?" asked Darcy. "Do not begin again to attempt to deceive me. Why would your own snuff-box have any initial other than "W" engraved upon it? And when did you start affecting the taking of snuff? Where did you get this box, and how long have you had it?"
Bloody omniscient Darcy! Wickham quickly reviewed his options, and decided that further dissembling could easily get him in worse trouble than telling the truth.
"I am not lying!" his voice had already protested, but his mind, with its odd deliberations (for they still caught him by surprise) caught up with what he had said. He paused and swallowed. "No, you are right, Darcy," he continued. "What I said was true in detail but not in essence: indeed I was trying to mislead you. I have not had the snuffbox for long; I obtained it from a gentleman in Lambton, I believe, a few days ago. I truly am still confused about the times, and all, though."
"You obtained it, or you took it, from the gentleman."
"I took it," Wickham said in a low voice, hanging his head. The humiliation of this confession almost undid him completely.
"I thought I recognized it," said Mr. Darcy, and Mrs. Darcy, to Wickham's surprise, spoke quietly, saying "Yes, it is his." At first he thought she was agreeing with his own claim, but immediately realized that she was concurring with her husband regarding its former owner.
Darcy then leaned fiercely across the table and said, "Tell me about this document, Wickham." He took from his wife's hand the letter Padgett had found, and held it up where Wickham could see, but not reach it.
Wickham looked at it curiously for a very brief instant, then turned bright red. "Oh, my God!" he said. "I had forgotten completely about that. Oh, my God!" He yet tried volubly to throw up some kind of defence for himself. By the end it was clear to him that he had failed utterly; the evidence was just too damning for his excuses to make any difference. "I, well, I went to the Black Bull the other night, night before last I suppose it was, and I ran into … well … that is not entirely true: I knew he was there; Nan had sent word … she didn't know why I was interested, but I had asked … anyway …I met a man there who said he had just been here at Pemberley, and …" He stopped and swallowed. "It was the same man whose snuffbox you have there."
"Whose hand is this, Wickham? Did the man you speak of write this statement?"
Wickham reddened again. "There is no point in denying it," he said quietly. "It is my hand. And I wrote the letter; he did not."
"That is not your normal hand, is it? How did you come to write it?" asked Darcy.
"I … the man I met at the Black Bull was in his cups, and said something to the effect of what is in the letter. I thought … I am ashamed … I thought I might perhaps be able to use it to extract money from you, Darcy. I wrote two letters, this one as if it were a copy of one that Dr. … -- I do not remember his name-- Rush … Chat … Rushmore, was it not-- that he might have written. I swear, Darcy, there is no such letter; he was angry and thought himself ill-used, but he did not write this letter. I wrote another letter as a sort of … of cover document for this one. Do you have it as well? It is in a different hand, but … well, that is also my hand. I am ashamed to say it, but … I have several."
Clorinda eyed her husband, quite certain that his mind had not, as had hers, entertained the sudden vision of Lady Catherine DeBourgh's carriages and chimneypieces. Corinna, on the other side of the curtain, was thinking much the same thing, and sent a slight, impish smile in Andrew's direction, although, she realized, he had had too little contact with Mary's husband to catch the joke even should she attempt it with him. Her father would understand, she knew.
"Where is the other letter to which you refer?"
"I do not know. Was it not in my pocket, along with this one?"
"This one was not in your pocket."
"I am sorry. I supposed it had been. I do not know where else you would have found it."
"It was found under the tree you say you climbed last night."
"Oh, then it must have fallen out when I took my coat off. I am sorry, I did not remember that I had written these letters. … Oh, I know it looks bad, Darcy … it … it is bad. It was a despicable thing to do, and I did it. I cannot undo it, but I am sorry, very sorry, for having done it. I can only give you my word that I will not use, or attempt to recreate, either document, or use any of the information they contained, to your detriment."
Darcy eyed him sharply, and pondered for a moment. Then, glancing at his wife but still speaking to Wickham, he asked, "What exactly did Dr. Rushmore tell you?"
"Well," Wickham paused, and looked askance at Mrs. Darcy and then at Bingley. "He … he was angry with you, Darcy, and felt that you had treated him ill. He spoke with great bitterness of a misplaced milestone, and of some woman, apparently a midwife? whose services perhaps you had preferred to his? It was not always easy to tell what he was upset about; as I have said, he was deep in his cups. But he said plainly that you, Darcy, and your sister, repeatedly referred to the baby as Mrs. Darcy's but not as yours, and he claimed that Mr. Bingley," here he glanced again at the one he had just named, "said plainly that the child was not yours. He also …"
"Oh, no!" Bingley interrupted him. "Darcy, it is true! I …" he began to explain, but Darcy, with a significative look, interrupted him in turn, "Leave it for now, Charles. We may discuss it later."
"Very well, you are right, as usual," said Bingley.
"You were about to say something additional about Dr. Rushmore, Wickham?"
"Yes," said Wickham, his eyes going between Darcy and Bingley and his brain spinning. "But I don't quite remember what … oh, yes, he said Mrs. Bingley reprimanded her husband for what he had said. That detail stuck in my mind, as I could hardly imagine her doing so, and yet …"
"Very well," said Darcy. "You have told me enough. I believe I know what happened, and what you have said confirms the pattern of events in my mind. Dr. Rushmore was indeed confused. In any case, know this for a certainty: there is no question whatsoever as to the paternity of my son. He is my and Mrs. Darcy's son and no one else's. You would never have extracted a groat from me with that sort of tactic, Wickham, and I warn you most straitly not to attempt it. Ever."
He had stood to his feet and towered over his brother-in-law; Wickham cowered from the rightly perceived threat. After several seconds, Elizabeth reached up to touch her husband's arm. They looked at each other briefly, then he leaned down so she could whisper in his ear. He looked pensive for a second, then nodded and smiled at her. He then spoke to their companion, "Bingley, a favour --would you go through into my office, and retrieve thence several sheets of paper, and pen and ink? I am going to require of you, Wickham, that you write two short documents, which we shall retain against the possibility of your attempting further duplicities against us."
Wickham bowed his head in exquisitely painful submission. His precious self was being trampled, mercilessly battered and broken, if not ground into powder, by all that was happening, by the admissions of shameful behaviour which he was being forced (though also, in some small degree, choosing) to make. Yet in the midst of the humiliation he could almost feel like it didn't matter at all. For the choice to lay his faults bare, coerced though it be, blew through his consciousness like an invigorating wind, almost mischievous or capricious in the feeling of freedom it promised, sweeping into a stale and dusty room. A small and long-neglected part of him was stirring and creaking, stretching its joints, rejoicing to stand upright after years of being cramped and contorted. And this, he somehow knew, was his real self, or at least a more real self than the one he had been dealing with for almost all his life. Since late childhood he had almost never laid down the burden of convincing everyone around him, and more darkly and overwhelmingly, himself, that his façade was he. The relief of dropping the load, even for a few moments was, at least for this part of his soul, exhilarating.
He straightened his shoulders, raised his head, looked Darcy in the eye, and held his gaze, then nodded slowly at him.
Chapter 34
Repeated knocks sounded on the bedroom door, and Thomas Bennet forced his eyes open. Late afternoon sunshine was pouring in the westward-facing window, and he was groggy both from the unaccustomed diurnal sleep and from the nocturnal sleeplessness that had preceded it.
"Mr. Bennet!" The knock sounded again. It must be Enderby, he realized, who had brought him to his room some time, doubtless an hour or more, agone. He swung his body to a seated position on the bed. "Come in," he said mildly.
"Mr. Bennet, I am most loath to disturb you, but I believe you are needed downstairs. May I assist you so that you may soon make your appearance? I should also tell you of certain developments that have taken place while you were resting."
"Yes, I would appreciate that," Mr. Bennet replied. "What has happened?"
"Some time after you had retired, sir, a young woman, Nancy Parker by name, arrived at the house and asked to see you or Mrs. Wickham. Miss Ingram appeared almost immediately and took her to Mrs. Wickham. Soon thereafter I was asked to let you know, should you waken, that she had come, that the news was good and that all was well. I doubt not that you know what that was about.
"But now there is another visitor. Squire Milburn, who is the magistrate for Lambton, has come, asking to see the Master. Mr. Wilkins was obliged to tell him that the Master was from home, and the Mistress as well. He then asked to see whoever else of the family is here. I spoke to Miss Ingram, and she, after consulting with Mrs. Wickham, asked that you be notified. Mrs. Wickham should descend soon to speak with the Squire, but she asks that you accompany her, or rather that she be allowed to accompany you, to that interview."
"Very well," said Mr. Bennet. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. Enderby had already dressed him in a fresh shirt and waistcoat, and had tied a fine neckcloth (one of Mr. Darcy's, he supposed) in a more elaborate style than Mr. Bennet had ever worn before, had brushed his hair and applied a lotion with a subtle but very masculine scent, and smoothed the wrinkles from his coat. Even his boots, he noted, were polished far beyond their accustomed lustre (or, one might say, accustomed lack thereof.)
Thus nattily attired, he allowed himself to be guided towards the staircase, where he was almost immediately joined by Mrs. Wickham and her attendant Miss Ingram. He noted a bruise on her wrist and concluded with some surprise that this was Ellen-from-there. He would have expected the other one. But there was little time to ponder the matter. He quickly ascertained that the Squire had as yet told no one the reason for his call, and that Mrs. Wickham desired that he take the lead in the conversation to come. She (as did he) supposed that the call had to do with a rumour of the robbery at Pemberley and the pursuit of the miscreant. She only reiterated the petition that, if possible, it not be revealed that the man's identity was known to them, and Mr. Bennet indeed was already well convinced of the importance of keeping that information private.
A few minutes later, they were let into the main drawing room on the first floor, which was the apartment usually used for receiving local visitors. Squire Milburn rose to his feet and bowed to Mrs. Wickham, whom he knew slightly, and then was presented to Mr. Bennet.
"Mr. Bennet is my sister Mrs. Darcy's father," Georgiana explained.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," said the Squire, with a bow. "I understand your brother is from home, Madam?"
"Yes, unfortunately he and Mrs. Darcy are away at present. But perhaps we may help you in their absence, Squire Milburn?"
"Well, I …" the Squire was clearly ill-at-ease, probably from having to deal with a reclusive young woman well above him in station and a totally unknown gentleman from elsewhere in the country, regarding a sensitive matter. "Yes, very well, then," he laughed in a self-deprecating way. "I suppose what I need is certain information, which you may be in a way to provide. I understand that there was a break-in, here at Pemberley, last night. Is this correct?"
Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Wickham looked at each other, and she answered, "Yes, sir, an intruder did manage to get into the house. I shall let Mr. Bennet speak on the matter, as he was the first to discover the man and he helped to chase him away."
"Very well," said the Squire. "What can you tell me about this incident, sir?"
"There is not much I can say," said Mr. Bennet. "The thief seems to have entered through the library, early this morning, well before dawn. I am wont to visit a library at odd hours, and I encountered the man there. There was an altercation; he actually penetrated further into the house, and I, with the butler and Mr. Darcy's valet, followed him. Ultimately we were able to drive him from the place. I understand he stole a horse from an express rider who had, fortuitously and, from our point of view, unfortunately, just arrived with a message for Mr. Darcy, and thus he was able to escape."
"Did you recognize the man?"
"I had never seen him in my life," said Mr. Bennet, with full conviction.
"What did you then do?"
"I consulted briefly with Mrs. Wickham," he nodded towards Georgiana, "who had been awakened by the commotion. We agreed that an attempt should be made to follow the man's trail, and I despatched several of the Pemberley staff, along with some dogs, to search out where he might have gone. I and some of the other servants then took one of the Pemberley carriages to Lambton, since that was the nearest populated place in the direction the intruder was seen to flee. There we met with the men who had tracked the thief through the woods."
"Where did you meet up with them, Mr. Bennet?"
"It was at the home of one of the local residents, a man I did not know then, but of course met this morning. Mr. Parker, I believe his name is."
"That coincides with the information others have given me. What did Mr. Parker tell you, Mr. Bennet?"
"He told me that a man had emerged from the woods and sought help with him. It seems the man had already left Lambton, heading towards Derby."
"He had not been riding a horse?"
"No. I distinctly remember asking Mr. Parker about that. He came on foot. I was later told by those who had tracked the man that the express rider's horse was found abandoned on this side of Lambton. I can only suppose that the thief was trying to confuse the chase and so avoid capture."
The Squire sighed and nodded. Mr. Bennet continued. "I asked the trackers to continue to search down the road in the direction of Derby, but have not heard back whether they were able to find any trace of the man or not. Meanwhile, I returned here, and have been recovering my strength. I am an old man, Squire Milburn, and such excitement reminds me of my age." The twinkle in his eye invited the Squire to join him in laughing at himself, and the Squire did smile.
"Very well, sir. I do not know that there is much more to be gained from your recollections. Oh, one more question. Did you spend much time at Mr. Parker's house?"
"Not very much time, no. I did take some time to interrogate him regarding the man who had asked his help, but was convinced that he was sincere in what he had said. I thanked him for his help."
"Was his sister there in the house?"
"I believe she was. I did not speak with her, beyond a few words."
"Well, then. I suppose that will be all. But I have to tell you that Giles Parker has been taken into custody and will be spending the night in the Lambton gaol. His story is in accordance with yours, but there are aspects of the matter that are disturbing. And his sister seems to have disappeared. We shall continue our investigations, and will let you know if there are further developments. I should hope it would not be necessary for us to come onto Pemberley land, but if need should arise we shall of course endeavour to advise you beforehand if possible, and avoid causing any damage or undue disturbance. Please give my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy when they return, and ask Mr. Darcy to contact me as soon as might be convenient for him. I should appreciate it greatly."
He made his obeisances and was let out of the house.
Giles Parker had been driving the hay wagon back to Lambton. The rendezvous at Thatcher's barn had passed off without a hitch. He and Padgett had barely unloaded the hay and the corpse when they saw a carriage coming south from Kympton. Padgett confirmed that it was Mr. Bennet's conveyance, and suggested that there was no need for Parker or the driver of the other carriage to see or speak to each other. Parker drove down the lane and around the corner, and left the horse there contentedly munching grass on the verge while he crept back long enough to see Padgett and another man closing the lid on the luggage compartment of the carriage, and Padgett then climbing into the carriage, which the other man drove off northwards. Breathing a sigh of relief, he returned to his own cart and made his way back to Lambton.
He had passed the first houses of the town, and was nearing the gate of Harry Merton's house when disaster struck. Sellon and the others who had sought the Pemberley intruder on the Derby road had found nothing, and were returning to town when the dogs picked up a fresh scent, and baying lustily, launched themselves at the haycart. It was, of course, empty, but they kept barking and straining at their leashes. Harry Merton was in his yard, and asked one of the Pemberley groundsmen what was toward.
It was sheer bad luck that immediately afterwards, while a somewhat incoherent tale was still being poured into Harry's ears, Squire Milburn had happened by, and Harry decided he needed to be brought into the matter. The Squire already knew that a party of men and hounds from Pemberley had visited Giles Parker that morning, and soon found out that there had been an incident at Pemberley and the men had set out to track the one responsible. They had tracked the man to Parker's house, but had there been told that he had departed for Derby. Now as they returned from a fruitless foray in that direction, the hounds were pawing and baying at the cart Parker had just been driving.
The Squire's suspicions were awakened. He asked the entire party to come with him to Parker's house. Harry Merton decided that he was one of the invited party and came along. He had a couple of strong grudges against Parker, and perhaps this was the time to indulge them.
The Squire was sitting with Parker and asking him about the man who had come to see him in the morning. Harry was looking for Nan Parker. He rather fancied the chit, but had been rebuffed by her on several occasions in the past, and he had not forgotten it. He now wondered if perhaps he could prevail upon her to convince him to help her brother rather than make life even more difficult for him. But she was nowhere to be seen, and he was left in a somewhat ambivalent mood.
Suddenly the door, which had been left ajar, was pushed open and a large brindled hound dog came bounding in. He immediately ran to the bed and thrust his nose under it, pulling out a wrinkled blanket and beginning to worry it before his handler, broken leash in hand and abject apologies in mouth, bowed his way into the house and retrieved him. "I'n sorry, sir," he said to the Squire, "But he do be that eager, he broke the leash. I'll tie un right an' tight now."
The Squire looked meditatively at the dog, then put his head out the door to note that several of the dogs seemed to be straining forward. Sellon, however, was telling all the men to restrain them. "Let them come," said the Squire, "and let us see where they go." Two of the dogs immediately headed for the haycart, but the rest, some after sniffing around, converged on the house, and when allowed to enter, immediately either latched onto the blanket or snuffled under the bed.
One thing led to another, and in the end the Squire became very frustrated with Parker, who was proving most uncooperative. He did admit, but only after questioning, that he had briefly put the blanket on his visitor's shoulders, as the man was cold. Parker said he had no reason to deny the man help, but that he mostly wanted directions, and left soon after. The Squire began to interrogate him regarding where he had been with his cart. He had to drag from him the information that he had borrowed Merton's horse to take a load of hay out of town, and it took further effort to extract the information that he had taken the hay to Thatcher's barn. That in itself was a queer start: Thatcher had plenty of his own hay, and when applied to said as much, and denied having asked Parker to bring take any hay or anything else to the barn. And why should Parker care one way or the other whether the magistrate knew he had taken a load of hay anywhere? His very reticence was enough to make one suspicious of him.
The Squire got the idea that Parker had in fact hidden the fugitive under the bed, covered with the blanket, and then transported him out of town, hidden under the load of hay. Parker continued to prove most sullen and unhelpful, and in the end the Squire told him he could cool his heels in gaol overnight, and they should see in the morning what could be made of the situation.
The Squire then turned to his man Thomson, in whom he had a good deal of confidence, and who functioned to him as a secretary, valet and general factotum, and instructed him to go to Thatcher's barn along with Sellon and another of the dog handlers and a couple of the dogs. Meanwhile he himself rode to Pemberley, to learn what he could there but mostly to seek counsel of Mr. Darcy. Darcy, unfortunately, was not at home, and nothing that the Squire learned was of any particular help to him. Upon his return to Lambton he met with Thomson, who reported that they had indeed found a fresh load of hay in the barn, and the hounds immediately headed to it, sniffing and baying. But they found nothing else, in particular no scent-trail leading away from the barn. It was puzzling, but consistent, the Squire judged, with the theory he was becoming more convinced of. Something was exciting those dogs, and if Parker had hidden the Pemberley thief and then taken him out of town, the whole matter of their behaviour was explained. But he was certain there was more to the business than that.
Chapter 35
Posted on 2012-07-03
"Mrs. Darcy! Were you not here but five minutes ago, to lay him down after his feeding? Is something wrong?"
"No, Marjory, there is nothing wrong. I simply wish to hold him again. I do not believe I shall ever get enough of him."
Elizabeth Darcy took young Andrew Thomas into her arms, and turned to look at the doorway, where her husband stood. She moved over to him, and she and the child stood within his embrace.
Marjory looked away from them. It was embarrassing to witness such open displays of affection, though she supposed her position would mean that she would need to get used to them. She highly approved, to be sure, though she was surprised. She had thought that the Quality, even more than other people, often had less affection than they should for their spouses and offspring--it was why they gave the care of their children to servants like herself, after all. But in the case of the Darcys there was no lack of warmth. Her eyes had drifted back to them, and she looked away again. The afternoon sun, coming through the window, illuminated them in such a way that they seemed, almost literally, to glow with contentment.
She caught a few spoken words: Mrs. Darcy's sweet voice saying, with enormous contentment but then a degree of sadness, "We have been blessed beyond measure. Yet I fear it may soon end." Her husband's voice replied softly, "Perhaps. Yet the blessedness remains. And hope." Marjory's eyes had begun to drift back to them, but when she saw his hand lift to caress his wife's abdomen, she pulled her eyes away even more fiercely, and this time they stayed away. It was perhaps ten minutes later that the two of them laid the child once more in his cradle. They both reached down to touch his face before, with a whispered word of parting to Marjory, they left the room.
"Come with me." It was Ellen-from-here speaking. "There's a spare room in the servants' quarters, right next to my own. You can rest there a bit before you head back home."
Nan Parker nodded but said nothing, and followed her friend down the access stairway and into the empty room.
"How are you doing, my dear?" Ellen spoke again. "It has been a hard day for you, has it not?"
"Aye, it has. And I'm scairt … I'm scairt it ain't over."
"Did that villain truly not hurt you, other than the cut in your side? (Not but what that's enough, in faith.)"
"Nay, he dinna. But e's daid, Ellen, daid! An' … an' Giles gone to get rid of un. I mun hope he be back, now, safe an' soun'."
Padgett too, thought Ellen, and he has a lot further to go before he's done with it. "Yes, we all hope this will pass over, and we can get on with our lives."
"Aye." But Nan suddenly caught up a pillow to cover her face, and Ellen, perceiving that she was so overcome as to make her weep, sat beside her and took her in her arms. "Hush, hush, dearie," she crooned. "It'll be aw' right, aw' right."
Nan wept for five minutes or more, and Ellen let her do so. The gusts of her sobbing were slowing, and she was starting to wipe her eyes and sniffle in between them, so that Ellen figured she would soon be ready to talk, when a knock came on the door. Ellen went to answer it, and upon seeing that it was the other Ellen, started to invite her into the room, but then thought better of it. Seeing her counterpart signalling for silence with her finger upon her lips, she then began to leave the room, but again thought better of it. What if the two of them should be seen together in the hall? In the end she pulled the door nearly to, and applied her ear to the crack.
"You have Nan here?"
"Yes."
"Good. Stay here until you hear from one of us. Squire Milburn has come, and Miss Georgiana is thinking he might be checking on what happened at Parkers'. There ain't no need for him to know she's here."
"We'll stay, then."
Ellen-from-there nodded, and said "We'll let you know when he's gone. Miss Georgiana is waiting for Mr. Bennet before going to talk with him."
Ellen-from-here closed the door, turning back to Nancy. "Squire Milburn is here," she said. "He probably heard something about the commotion this morning. You had better stay here quietly until he be gone."
"Oh, aye!" said Nan. "Does tha think he be askin' about Giles and me? Half Lambton mun know the Pemberley folk, with dogs, was t' our house this day."
"I wouldn't know," said Ellen. "But if your brother and … and Mr. Padgett got away safely, I don't imagine there's much to worry about."
"But, if 'e gets to poking about the place, 'e might find …"
"What is there to find?"
"Oh, Miss Ellen. I can't say. We burnt the bandages and all. … But, I am ascairt."
Ellen squeezed her hand reassuringly, but her mind was working rapidly. "Nan," she said, "What family do you and Giles have? I don't believe he ever told me."
"There's none, really. All of them done passed on, except Great-Uncle Cunningham over Matlock way, and he been at outs with Giles years agone. Anygates, he be dotty now. Can't, or won't help us."
"Didn't you have a sweetheart, a year or so ago? I remember Giles saying something …"
"Aye. Matt Toliver, remember?"
"Yes. Giles' friend, wasn't he? Where did he go?"
"He done crossed the water, nigh on a year agone. He be in America, some place called Tenesy."
"So you can't go to him, either. I'm not trying to be rid of you, Nan, but I'm thinking that if the magistrate is poking around, and there's aught he didn't ought to find, it might be a good time to be out of the way. We can't keep you here long without people finding out."
"Aye. I don't want to be a burden, Miss Ellen."
"You're not a burden. If I understand things right, we owe you a great deal. He was not a good man, you know, and had hurt the Family badly." She gave Nancy a suitably expurgated version of Wickham's past history, and of his actions that very day, previous to his encounter with the Parkers. Nan, in turn, spoke of what she had known of Wickham before, and of his visit at Christmastime.
There was a lull in the conversation, and then Nan suddenly asked, "Miss Ellen, tha be not … no longer … with my brother?"
"Nay," said Ellen. "I had not known of his … friendship, if that be the right word, with Wickham. That was one of several matters that have come between us. I … nay, I be not … We have no understanding between us, not no more."
"He be a good man, my brother, Miss Ellen."
"Aye, I believe it. But … it be not enough, I doubt. In this case."
"Aye. I see that it be so. I be sorry for it."
They had both relapsed into another pensive silence when there came a hurried rap on the door, and Ellen-from-there quickly let herself in. Nancy gaped at the sight. Ellen-from-here grimaced, and quickly said, "What is it, Emily?" Then she turned to Nan. "This is Emily," she said. "She is a relative of mine. As you can see, we look very much alike. What has happened, Emily?"
Ellen-from-there said, I'm sorry, Ellen. I … I wanted to see you, and tell you that it is important that no one does not already know should find out that N … that Miss Parker is here. … Miss Parker, I have bad news for you. Squire Milburn was just here, and he spoke with Mrs. Wickham and with Mr. Bennet, who I understand was at your house this morning. He said that he has put your brother, Mr. Parker, in gaol for the night. He did not say what he suspects him of, although it seems the … that Joseph Padgett and the other are well and truly gone, so it is not that. But the dogs met Mr. Parker, coming back, and started a-sniffing the haycart. Anyway, he particularly mentioned that you were not found, Miss Nancy, and Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Wickham feel it is best if you continue so."
Nancy Parker was still somewhat distracted by the sight of another woman identical to her friend, but she had heard what was being said. "Oh, no!" she said. "Sure and t'Squire be asking questions, and that Harry Merton … Aye, it be best I lie low here, or where you put me. I munna go back. But … Giles, he be needing help. That man this morning, he done said he'll help. But what can he do?"
"We don't know, Nancy," said Ellen-from-here, but we'll be looking for ways. Who in town can you trust? What about Dick Turpin? He was there this morning; he has as much to lose as your brother, hasn't he?"
"He's a good man, you could trust him anyway. He's our landlord, what's more; won't want t'Squire pokin' around t'house. And, aye, he won't say nothin' about what happened this mornin'."
"Nancy, Emily and I need to go," said Ellen. "We'll lock this door behind us. Just stay quiet-like, and one of us'll check in on you later this evening."
They checked the hallway, but there was none to see them. They were very close to the servants' entrance, and Ellen-from-there said, "Ellen, let's go check the maze. Mr. Bennet asked me to do so. If the way is cleared, I am ready to go home. If it will let me. I keep feeling like the mistress needs me."
"Aye," said Ellen-from-here. "But should we not let Mrs. Wickham know?"
"She heard Mr. Bennet ask me, so she knows I am going. They forgot that I do not know the turnings, and I need your help for that."
"Well, then!" Ellen-from-here was feeling a certain pleasure in holding the advantage the other woman, but was also sympathetic to her plight. "Here!" They ducked into her room, and she retrieved from a pile of her belongings a simple portfolio whence she extracted a piece of paper and a pencil. She wrote on it, from top to bottom along the left edge, L R LL R RRR LL long R L R. "The long right is curved: you are near the center by then," she said. "Of course, this is for going in, not out. Out it's the same, only backwards, of course. I mean, the rights and lefts." She paused a moment. "But you're like me," she said. "I had to draw it, like a map, and then I knew I had it. Here!"
She proffered the pencil, then thought again and drew a gate at the bottom of the page, then a line going through the gate, before handing the pencil back to her companion. With more than a bit of difficulty and some help from her counterpart, Ellen-from-there drew a diagram of the correct route through the maze. Ellen-from-here added to the diagram indications of which ways the false passages branched off from the main route, and an indication of where the way was blocked, the last she knew. After a minute or two of studying it and once again matching up its turns with those indicated on the margin, Ellen-from-there nodded, folded her map and placed it in her pocket. "I still don't want to try it alone. Come with me!"
"Let me go first, and stop in the bushes under this window. Wait till I whistle for you."
Very soon after that, Ellen-from-there heard the whistle, and made her way down the hall, through the servants' entrance, and to the bushes by the side of the house. She was the first to cross the lawn to the gate of the maze, and only then did the thought occur to her that the gate was probably closed. However, when she arrived it was open. She turned and waved her hand to the other Ellen, who quickly crossed to join her.
As she pulled her map from her pocket, she noted how quickly the light was diminishing. They had best hurry.
Chapter 36
Annie lay in her bed, across the hall from the room where her friend Mattie lay. The late spring twilight was darkening towards the true night, and normally she would have been asleep several hours earlier, yet she was wide awake. She had taken a longer nap than usual that afternoon, and thus was still alert when Mattie's mother came to the door and spoke to Grace. "An earache, again, is it?" asked Grace. "Of course I'll come see to her. Poor wee thing."
Mattie's ear. It hurt her again, thought Anne. It ache. Mattie has 'ear-ache'. Ear-ache. Earache. She repeated the word silently to herself till it was well-lodged in her little brain. She heard the clock in the hallway chime, but she did not know enough to understand that it was marking half-past nine o'clock.
Her attention was distracted by a little moving thing flitting between her bed and the ceiling of the nursery. It was very like the pretty thing she had followed into the bushes so long ago. (It was not yet a week, but a week was a very long time to Annie.) It flew down near her, passing a few inches from her face, then moving away as she reached her hand out towards it, heading towards the centre of the room. Pretty, pretty! Her mind and her mouth formed the words, but she did not pronounce them; rather she slipped out of her bed and headed towards the little fluttering flying thing, and when it moved further away from her she followed it, towards the door of the room. Suddenly it disappeared from Anne's sight, although in truth it had merely alit on the wooden door frame, where the mottled brown colour of its wings and body caused its outline to fade into the background. Anne thought it had flown through the door, however, so she lost no time in fetching her little chair, climbing upon it, and working the latch. Although Grace had been careful to secure it when she left, she had not locked it, and Anne soon was out in the hallway, looking for her pretty. Disturbed by the opening door, it had flown out with her into the hall, and now Annie followed it down the hall and over to the head of the large staircase.
"Pretty!" This time she said it aloud, but no one heard her. It headed down the stairs before disappearing from sight, and Annie obediently, though somewhat laboriously given the height of the stairs relative to her little legs, climbed down after it to where she crouched under a small table in a large hallway. There was a large and imposing man standing in the hallway, watching a door. He was not looking her way, but he frightened Annie a little bit, so she stayed under the table, quite forgetting her original pursuit. Twice she heard a clacking sound come from the door he was watching. She was certain that she knew that sound, but could not remember when she had heard it before, or what it meant.
There arose a commotion back up the stairs. She heard a voice which sounded like her Uncle Darcy's, not quite shouting but certainly not sounding calm: "Where is she?", and what sounded like Grace's voice, almost crying, saying words that Annie could not make out. More voices and a confusion of noise ensued. The big man walked past Annie's hiding place and stood at the base of the stairs, speaking to someone on the first floor, and Annie moved away from him, down the hall towards the door he had been watching.
Just as she reached it, the door opened, and another man put his head out. He had a long straight stick in his hand. Annie did not know who he was, though she sort of thought she ought to, or maybe that she really did. He looked both ways, up and down the hall, and Annie crouched down, making herself as small as possible to try to escape detection. But he saw her, startled, and then said, not ungently, "Hello, little girl, who are you?"
Annie was still feeling a little bit frightened, and so said nothing. He persisted, setting the stick against the wall just by the doorway, and crouching down to her level. "Who are you, little girl? Are you Annie?" She nodded, mutely. "Here, come in here!" He took her by the hand and led her into the room, then shut the door.
Wickham's mind was in a whirl. So there was a little girl who looked like the one he had dreamed about, and her name was Annie. "Who is your mother, Annie?" he asked.
"Mamma!" Annie answered. Her face lit up at the thought of her.
"And you are Annie, right? Anne Elizabeth?"
"Annie Dizbet," she confirmed the name.
How could it be, Wickham wondered. In his dream, this was his own daughter, his and Georgiana's. But he was married to Lydia, not to Georgiana. He shook his head, trying to make sense out of the situation.
"Annie," he asked, "whose house is this?" He waved his arms around.
"Pemley."
"Yes, whose house is Pemberley? Who lives at Pemberley?"
"Aunt Dizzy-Unca Dahcy house."
Aha! thought Wickham. She calls them Aunt and Uncle. So she is Georgiana's daughter. But then he thought again, She would call them so if she were the daughter of one of the other Bennet girls, would she not? But if she is, how do I know her? Surely she is not Lydia's and my daughter?
He became aware of voices in the hallway. "Annie … Annie!" The words came through clearly, in Darcy's voice, he thought, though there was a woman's voice also. An urgency, almost a fear, came through in their tones.
Annie started to head to the door, and opened her mouth to answer. Almost reflexively, Wickham clapped his hand over her mouth. She looked at him fearfully, but he had the presence of mind to whisper "Quiet, Annie. Let's hide!" That was enough to convince her, and she, of her own accord went around to the back side of the big table in the middle of the room and crouched down behind it.
Wickham's mind was spinning. One thing was plain. Darcy, and the others, wanted Annie. If he could get away with Annie, he would be holding a powerful trump card and could make them jump to his tune. He ran down the possibilities in his thoughts. There was the principal door to the room, but that led out into the hallway, which was watched by a footman and where Darcy was, in any case. There was no hope of escape that way; they would certainly be discovered. There was the servants' entrance, a small door that led to the back passageways of the house which they used. He supposed that was watched as well; everything pointed to Darcy being very careful not to allow him to move about the house. He walked over to the large window. Presumably he could open that, and it was not above a five-foot drop to the ground level outside. Then he could …
Then he could what? Once again, a mere modicum of common sense was enough to counteract the rashness with which he was nearly ready to act. Where did he think he was going to run to, and carrying a child, to boot? Had he not decided to settle his differences with Darcy? And Darcy, and Mrs. Darcy, seemed disposed to believe that he really was sincere. He had, only a few hours ago, signed documents, including one on which he had written several paragraphs in his different hands, and another categorically repudiating the rumour regarding the Heir of Pemberley, and had renounced any intention of prevailing on them for more money. What was he thinking of, wanting to undo all of that, to convince them forevermore that he was never to be trusted? Was it not more to his advantage rather to prove that his intentions were good (even if a part of his mind would always be still thinking of ways that he could later betray their trust to his advantage)?
His thoughts wrestled with each other for the better part of a minute. He noticed that Annie was growing restive. He could still hear Darcy's voice, and Georgiana's, he thought it was, in the hall. Nothing for it, he thought. He strode to the door and opened it, calling out, "Darcy, she's in here! Come find her!"
Darcy came running to the door, with Mrs. Darcy and Georgiana close behind him. Wickham turned around and headed back towards the table when, to his surprise, he was violently seized from behind, with a hard forearm pressing on his throat. "Where is she, you blackguard!" Darcy said fiercely.
"Fitzwilliam!" Mrs. Darcy's voice held a very strong admonitory tone. "Do not threaten him. He is not threatening us, or Annie, it would seem. … Where is she, Mr. Wickham."
"Here Annie, here Annie!" It was Annie herself, who burst out from behind the table to announce with considerable pride, "I hiding!"
Georgiana rushed past her sister and her brother, with Mr. Wickham still in his grasp, almost his embrace, and picked the child up. "Oh Annie! Oh Annie! You frightened us so!" Her voice told of the strain to which her fear had subjected her. "Oh Annie!"
Annie's arms were around her neck. "I here, Mamma!" she said, and Georgiana continued whispering into her neck, "You're safe!" and "My little love!" and similar endearments.
At that moment the servants' entrance was opened from the passageway, and Darcy rushed precipitously into the room. It was too much for Wickham--not yet recovered from an attempted throttling, and overwhelmed by the sight of Georgiana embracing Annie and being called her "Mamma", he now suddenly realized that he was seeing two Darcys. "What … what … what?" he sputtered. Freed from the chokehold he had been subjected to, he sank, almost fell, into a sitting position on a bench next to the rack of billiard cues.
Georgiana and Mrs. Darcy were together talking to Anne, cooing and chattering with each other and the child. The two Darcy men were eyeing each other. One of them cast a glance towards Wickham, and a corner of his mouth twisted; the other raised an eyebrow in response.
Wickham rose and took a couple of tentative steps towards them. "Well, Darcy," he began, glancing from one man to the other, "What is all of this about? I suppose this is your twin, from whom you were separated at birth though none of us knew of his existence?" Standing now by the billiard table, he idly reached out a hand towards the table-top, where a couple of billiard balls rested side-by-side.
At that moment there arose a commotion at the doorway to the hall: a young woman whom he had never seen before, or at least did not remember, appeared there. At the sight of her both Mrs. and Miss Darcy said, with pleasure, "Ellen!" She cast her eyes around she room, and immediately, as Wickham came within her gaze, her eyes caught fire in a positively murderous glare. She burst out with a pair of most un-feminine oaths, and, catching up the cue stick he had left in the doorway when Annie had first come into the room, she spun it in her hand so the butt-end was outwards, and then swung it, bringing it down with all her strength on the arm he had stretched out towards the table-top. Wickham was caught entirely by surprise, and found the experience exquisitely painful. He clasped his injured arm with the hand of his other arm, but this left him defenseless as she swung again, and caught him a stinging blow upon the back, just below his neck.
But before she could hit him again, one of the Darcys stepped between the two and caught the cue stick in mid-swing. "Ellen, Ellen," he said. "What behaviour is this? He has done nothing to harm you."
"What is that murderous scum doing in this house?" she raged. "Hasn't he done enough damage already? Why do you not have him tied up and carted off to gaol? If you had any idea, sir, of what that bast…, what that villain has been doing! And we thought he was daid! Oh, my dear ladies!" She burst into tears, and fell to her knees before Mrs. Darcy and Georgiana, clutching at their skirts. "Are the two of you well? He has done nothing to you? And the child, I heard you had been delivered of your child, my lady. Is he well? Are you well after his birth?"
"Yes, Ellen, we are all well," said Mrs. Darcy. "Only calm yourself. Yes, Andrew Thomas is safe and healthy, and so is Mrs. Kenton. I and my child are also well, as you see."
It was at this point that Lydia Wickham burst into the room. She saw Mrs. Darcy and Georgiana, with Annie held between them, and first said, "Oh, good! You found her!" Her eyes passed to Ellen —wondering who the woman was and what she was doing, down on her knees— and then suddenly returned to her sister. "Lizzy! How is this! I just left you upstairs! How did you get down here before me?" Then she saw the two Darcy men and her mouth dropped open, and between them, her … "Wickie!" she said, "Oh, no!" She rolled her eyes and turned back to her sister. "Lizzy! What on earth is going on? You owe me an explanation, Sister, and it had better be a good one."
Chapter 37
Posted on 2012-07-12
"Yes," said Fitzwilliam George Darcy. "I agree that you are due an explanation. I am inclined to think that we might well give it to you immediately. Do you agree, Andrew? Elizabeth?" A slight smile graced his face as he rested his eyes on the two of them. "What do you think, Georgiana?"
"I agree that an explanation is in order. I suspect it should be a full explanation," said Corinna, glancing at her husband and sensing his agreement. "At this point I see little utility in holding back in the giving of it. Even were the crucial matters to be spoken of beyond this place, who would believe them?"
Georgiana, who had buried her face in Anne's neck, delighting in her ensuing chuckles, withdrew it to say, "Whatever you decide in the matter I am willing to accept, brother." She had come to terms with the earlier joint decision to allow Wickham the chance to prove himself, and through spending time with Annie and Matilda together had also achieved a greater trust towards Lydia than she had at first felt.
"Pardon me, as it is not entirely my place," said Corinna, "But I should like to know Ellen's opinion on the matter." She could tell that the direction of the conversation was grievously distressing her friend.
"Don't trust him, Master!" said Ellen. "Please! I beg it of you! You do not know what that man," she looked with loathing on Wickham, "has done!"
"Andrew, while the rest of us discuss this briefly, would you be willing to take Mr. and Mrs. Wickham to the library?"
Andrew nodded slowly. Ellen's face showed a certain degree of shock at hearing Mrs. Wickham being asked to go, but the shock diminished as she realized that it was the woman she did not fully know (though she felt a vague familiarity with her), rather than Georgiana, who was heading towards the door with Darcy and Wickham.
"Ellen, tell us, in a few words, what happened at the other Pemberley," said George, when the four of them, along with Annie, were alone in the room. "Why should we not trust Mr. Wickham?"
"Fitzwilliam," Corinna interrupted. "I am sorry. I am just remembering that those upstairs do not yet know that Annie has been found, and are probably still looking frantically for her. Should I not run up and tell them? You should not, for my husband has just been in the hallway. The footman cannot, because …"
"Let me go, Fitzwilliam," said Georgiana. "Look, Annie is already falling asleep." And it was true, the little girl's eyes were glazing and threatening to close, while Georgiana rocked her in her arms. "You need not wait for me to hear what Ellen has to say, though I shall return after I have settled Anne and spoken to the others."
"Better remain there until we send word," said Darcy. "We should not be long here, and if there is to be a more general discussion, we shall arrange it with all of you upstairs."
"Very well," Georgiana agreed. As she left the room, Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, then turned again towards Ellen. "Now, then, Ellen, what is it about Mr. Wickham? I presume, since you have been on the other side, that it was not the Mr. Wickham we were just speaking with, but another one?"
"Yes, it must be so. I should have known that immediately, but I did not. Well, sir, to answer your question, he broke into Pemberley, in the middle of the night." Ellen began to physically shake from the anger that the remembrance was bringing to her. "He tied up Mr. Bennet and Mr. Wilkins, then …"
"Mr. Bennet?" inquired Elizabeth. "Do you mean my father is there?"
"Yes, my lady, he arrived about midday the day after you left us. Thank God, too, for I do not know what we would have done without him." She paused and shook her head.
"Go on," said Darcy.
"Well, he assaulted Mr. Bennet and tied him up, and Mr. Wilkins and Mr. Enderby. He took Grace hostage, and accosted Mrs. Wick… --your pardon, perhaps I should speak of her as the other Miss Georgiana-- he accosted her in her bed."
Elizabeth was, naturally enough, overcome by this revelation, but recovered to ask, "Did he succeed in … in harming her?"
"No, my lady, he did not. Ellen and I were able to come to her aid in time."
"When did this occur, Ellen?" asked Darcy.
"It was before dawn this morning, sir. First Ellen alone, and then Grace and I came to help Miss Georgiana, and he struck at us, though of course we gave him as good as we got, or better. Mr. Bennet, and Wilkins and Enderby, had gotten loose by then; they had armed themselves with billiard balls and cue sticks, with which they came after him. That was why it scared me to see him reaching towards the billiard balls on the table, and what put me in mind to take the stick to him."
"It is indeed a fearsome weapon in your hands!" said Darcy, even as Elizabeth exclaimed, "My father did so? I can hardly believe it! I shall find it difficult to wait to discuss this with him!"
"Then what happened?"
"Well, they attacked him, and Joseph Padgett helped us; among them they freed Ellen from him --for he was trying to drag her off, and he did hurt her-- and made him flee Pemberley." Ellen was overcome with the remembrance, and succumbed to several seconds of sobbing before continuing. "He escaped. Joseph and I chased him, but he found a horse. He made it as far as Giles Parker's house in Lambton, and while Giles went to get the apothecary to help him, he tried to take advantage of Giles' sister Nancy. She was caring for him, and he tried to force himself on her! I saw and talked to her not an hour afterwards." She swallowed another sob, then straightened her neck and face. "In the end, she hit him over the head with a whisky bottle, and sometime later, while the apothecary was tending to her wounds, he suddenly died."
"He is dead?"
"Yes. I saw the body." There were several seconds of silence as they absorbed this news. Then Ellen continued, "The apothecary did not know which of many blows he received caused the death. Mr. Bennet arranged everything, and we think, or at least hope, that his body is being taken to another city to be left, tonight, in a street near several public houses. When I left we did not know for certain if the plan had worked. But, I doubt not you can understand what a turn it gave me to see the villain standing here, still at liberty. He is a thorough-going scoundrel, a violent man, an evil man!"
"Did you talk about who that man was? I mean, which world he came from?"
"Yes. Mr. Bennet thought, and Mrs. … Miss Georgiana concurred, that he must be the Wickham from this world. Our own Mr. Wickham, of course, we understood was gone since months ago. And this man thought he was married to Lydia Bennet. Was that her that was here a bit ago?"
"Yes, that was she. She is my youngest sister. That is, Mrs. Kenton's youngest sister," said Corinna. "If that was the Wickham from this world, then this might be the Wickham from that world. Yet that Wickham seems to have been worse than the Wickham from either world. Tell me, Ellen, did you notice anything odd about Mr. Wickham's dress?"
"No, nothing comes to my mind."
"Something about his boots?"
"Oh, yes, I did notice that. They were mismatched. How did you know? I remember it made him run awkwardly, though he ran very fast, even before Joseph caught him with the pitchfork."
"A pitchfork!" marvelled Darcy, but Elizabeth responded, "I did not know. I surmised that it might be so, however, because the Wickham in this world has mismatched boots; one with a very high top, and the other less so. It is one of several reasons we think he may be a combination of the two Wickhams. And perhaps your Wickham was too. But where yours seems to have been worse than either, this one may, perhaps, be better than either."
There was silence for a few seconds, then Elizabeth asked, "Fitzwilliam, what are you thinking?"
"I am thinking that it cannot hurt to ponder this until the morrow before speaking at any length to the Wickhams. There is no true need for hurry, although I have no doubt that they are eager for an explanation. I think we may tell them even now that there are two Pemberleys, and that we all, leaving aside the children, have our doubles there. This will explain much of what they are bound to be wondering about. Then we can speak to them again tomorrow, answering their questions after considering things carefully beforehand. This information that Ellen brings to us is indeed disturbing, and gives added emphasis to the need for caution."
"That is wise, my … Mr. Darcy. Why do not you and Ellen go upstairs, then. Tell your wife and Georgiana, and Jane and Charles, that we shall meet in the sitting room in about half an hour's time, to hear Ellen's story in more detail and consider what to do. I shall go to the library, and speak with my husband and the Wickhams. You have already made provision for Wickham to stay the night, have you not?"
"Yes. He is to occupy one of the small guest rooms on the east wing. Wilkins has arranged for that, and knows to lock the door. That room has no service entrance, and it is not possible to exit through the window. Two footmen have been detailed to stand watch in the hallway, as well."
"Very well. Andrew will doubtless wish to escort him to his room, but then he shall be free to join us. Do you wish to speak to them yourself, sir?"
"No, I am sure you will say only what is necessary and helpful. I know I can trust you, Elizabeth." He smiled fondly at her before turning to exit the room through the servants' entrance. Elizabeth and Ellen left by the main door, nodding to the footman who waited in the hall outside the library door. There Ellen left Elizabeth and went on up the stairs to the Mistress's suite.
Elizabeth knocked gently at the library door and entered. She nodded to the Wickhams, but addressed herself to her husband. "Fitzwilliam," she said, "the news that Ellen has brought is quite astonishing, and troubling as well. We are thinking that it will be best to postpone a full discussion of the situation," her eyes flicked towards the Wickhams, and Darcy understood, "until tomorrow, until we have had opportunity to ponder it. We are not aware of any reason for haste. Does that seem reasonable to you?"
"Yes, that seems wise," he responded.
Elizabeth then turned to the others. "Lydia, and Mr. Wickham," she said. "Although we truly do not know yet what to think about the news we have received, we can tell you a few basic facts that will answer a few of your questions, though they will doubtless raise many others.
"The most important and basic fact is that there are two Pemberleys, and that each of us adults has a double in the other Pemberley. You two, as well. Within the last few days a number of us have travelled, via the maze here on the grounds of Pemberley, from one world to the other. Ellen has just returned from the other Pemberley, bringing us news of what has been happening there. That explains why both of you saw two Fitzwilliam Darcys, and how you, Lydia, saw your sister Elizabeth upstairs just before you saw me downstairs. For I, and my husband here, are from the other Pemberley. It is your sister, Lydia, who has just given birth to little Andrew Thomas; I am, as you can perhaps see, still months away from my own lying-in."
"But how … ?" Lydia did not know what she wanted to ask.
Darcy responded to her question, though of course he did not answer all she wondered about. "We do not know how it operates, although we know that we cannot ourselves choose when to go from one Pemberley to the other. The maze itself seems to choose times when there is a need, and allows us to come to help. But we truly do not comprehend all that has happened and is happening. We have simply come to accept that it is happening.
"You will certainly understand that we are entrusting you with information that we do not plan to divulge widely. I say to you, Wickham, that this is even possible only because you have given us some slight reason to do so. You have earned some degree of trust by your coming voluntarily to meet with us, by your voluntary signing of self-incriminating documents in guarantee of good behaviour, and just now by your not making any attempt to hide or to abscond with Annie. I warn you solemnly; do not betray our trust. It will not go well with you if you do."
"I will say further," added Elizabeth, "that Ellen Ingram's tidings have to do with your counterpart and his deeds in the other Pemberley, Mr. Wickham. If we were to treat you according to his actions, you would fare ill indeed."
"I must have angered her very much," Wickham observed, "that she should attack me as she did."
"Yes," Elizabeth replied. "She did not realize that you were not the same man, and her response was, from what I can tell, not just understandable but even reasonable, in the circumstances."
Wickham pondered this for a minute or so, then spoke. "I have one further question," he said. "Annie. Did she come from that other world?"
"Yes," said Darcy. "She came from our world. We came here to bring her back."
"How then did I know her?" asked Wickham. "I knew her when I first saw her."
"That is a mystery that we believe we may be beginning to understand," said Darcy, "but we had best wait until tomorrow to speak of it with you."
Chapter 38
Posted on 2012-09-15
19-20 May, 1814
The night was clear, but it was the dark of the moon; almost no light filtered through the small and high window into the blackness of the cell in which Giles Parker lay. Since childhood he had been blessed with poacher's eyes, almost a cat's eyes for seeing in the dark, but here he could make nothing out. The meagre straw pallet contributed little comfort, and the sad excuse for a blanket that had been given him did little against the cold dampness, but his wakefulness was due much more to the thoughts that kept circling round in his mind. How had it come to this? So many things he had done in the past, from poaching and lesser peccadilloes committed as a boy, to misbehaviours he had indulged in together with Wickham, and a few minor crimes he had perpetrated in his position as assistant postmaster for Lambton, --any of them might have landed him in this place, but none of them had. And now he was in gaol, for what? For trying to help his old friend, a friend who had nevertheless turned on him and attacked his sister. For trying to help Mr. … what was his name? Benton … the father of the Mistress at Pemberley … Bennett, that was the name. Anyway, for playing along with his game. Still, Bennett had himself been trying to help them all, Giles and Nan as well as the Pemberley folk. And, Giles had to admit, he would likely have been in far deeper trouble if Wickham's body had actually been found in his house, or in his possession in that cart.
Wickham. The man was dead. He thought back over their friendship, if that was the right name for it. He had once thought it a fine thing that one with ties to Pemberley, the son of the steward, no less, had wanted his friendship. Wickham was good at convincing people to give him what he wanted; he had book-learning, and wore his clothes (which were more than a cut above everyone else's) with an air. He could make interesting talk, and even was good at listening to you so that it seemed like he cared what you thought and felt. So when he had invited Giles to a drink at the Black Bull, and then stayed to talk with him afterwards, Giles had been carried away with the thought that he, Giles Parker, had begun to be friends with such a man.
It was only later that it had become clear that the friendship would involve pilfering certain things to pass on to Wickham, carrying messages to specific servant girls or tradesmen's daughters, even persuading them to meet Wickham away from the protection of the townspeople, for purposes Giles had no trouble comprehending --and indeed, it had seemed to Giles that they minded not at all, for the most part. A few times he himself had passed an enjoyable interlude with one or other of Wickham's recruits, but he had been scared away from that when one of the girls had fallen with child and, failing to extract the required commitment from Wickham, had named Giles responsible instead. She had, fortunately, lost the baby soon thereafter, and been removed by her family to another county, but the fear of it happening again remained with him.
He had tried, once or twice, to back off from escapades Wickham wanted to involve him in. But Wickham had made it quite clear, in non-direct ways, that this was something he, Parker, did not really want to do. Wickham knew too many things that he had already done, and if the Squire were to have found out about some of them, it would not turn out well for Parker. Parker had submitted to the soft blackmail, but it had destroyed what remained of his true loyalty to the man. He considered --he should have gone ahead and done it-- saying something about one or two of their escapades to Squire Milburn, getting himself into mild trouble but getting Wickham off his back. He didn't delude himself into thinking that Wickham would get into worse trouble than he himself would: he was friends with the Pemberley family, and they took care of their own. Anyhow, what with one thing and another, he had been very glad when Wickham disappeared for long periods of time, as he had back before Christmas; but he always feared his return.
For he knew what Wickham was. He should have known better than to leave Nan alone with him. Not that Wickham had ever been violent like that before. And anybody would have supposed that a man damaged so badly wouldn't have even wanted a wench, much less been able to attack her like that. Still …
Poor Nan! She was a good girl. She had had plenty of occasions to misbehave, if that was her bent, working as she did at the inn. But she stayed away from things like that. She'd have gone with Matt Toliver last year, if she could have, but they didn't have enough to pay her passage, at the time. Now he'd saved up enough to send her, but it was looking like he might need to go, himself.
If he could get Squire Milburn to let him out. He pondered that situation again, and once more convinced himself that it was best to say nothing to the Squire. Anything he said was like to land him in worse trouble than he was in already. Only -- how long would he hold out? And what would happen at the end of it all? Could he make a break, hide out in the woods? It would mean leaving everything behind him. But there were worse things a man could do, and being in gaol was one of them.
His ear caught a soft sound, the sound of something, as if it were a broom, brushing against the sides of the window, well above his head, and then something fell with a clink onto the floor near him. He immediately got off of his bed and scrabbled around on the floor until he found what had fallen. It was a key, perhaps the key to the door of his cell. The lock, however, did not open to the inside, so he had to reach out through the small window in the door, through which his food and water were passed, and fumble around a bit to reach the lock from outside the cell. When he did so, the door opened without any trouble. He turned back to his bed and brought with him the blanket he had used to cover himself, then slipped through the door into the outer room of the gaol. He immediately relocked the cell, then in the slightly increased light from a window to his left, found his way to the main door leading outside and tried the key on it. As might be expected, however, it needed a different key. The window he had seen before was normal-sized, however, and Giles had little trouble in prising the shutter open far enough to snake his way out the window and into the open air. The blanket he had brought with him was of a dark color; he stood in the shadow of the gaol long enough to wrap his head and upper body with it before heading for the cover of some bushes in the lot across the street from the gaol.
As he entered them, a quiet voice spoke. "Good. But hold quiet: I need to tell you a few things." It was the voice of his friend, Dick Turpin. Parker's eyes could see in this light if he didn't look straight on: he could tell Turpin held a broom in his hand, matching what he guessed had happened.
"You're in deep trouble, son. That Harry's got it in for you, I'm thinking. What did you do to get him so burned up at you? He planted a couple of French wine bottles under the straw pile by your house --I saw him do it. He left some things that had been reported stolen, too, and then started a rumour that got the Squire to find them there. So now you're up for smuggling and thievery and possessing stolen goods as well as all the rest."
"Damn' Harry!" Giles Parker replied. "He be in a twist over my usin' his cart, and on account of Nan not being there for 'un to bully, belike. Howsomever, I ken where he got them bottles, and there be more there. Where be he, right now?"
"He drank one of the bottles before leaving them at your place, and half of another, to make it look like you had been drinking them. I'm thinking he'll be sleeping sound tonight."
"Know tha' where Nan be?"
"Pemberley, I think. Squire's been there. I hope, and doubt not, they at Pemberley thought to hide her. I know Squire was still seeking her tonight."
Parker thought quickly. "Turpin, I need help. First, where'd tha get the key? Will they miss it?"
"I've had that key many a year. Squire, nor anybody else, don't know I have it. Here, give it back--who knows, I may need it again sometime."
"Good." Parker handed the key over. He pondered a moment more, before continuing, with almost a laugh in his voice. "Right, then. I'll queer ol' Harry's game. Two things, friend. Can tha write summat on a paper and bring it me right away?" He paused, then changed his mind. "Nay. Just show me how to write one word: 'Thanks'."
"What ever? In the dark like this?"
"Nay, I can see. Hold my hand and mark in t'dirt with my finger. Tell me what I be writing -- what letters. I mind summat o' my letters."
Mr. Turpin did as he was asked, and after several minutes Parker said he calc'lated he would remember it well enough.
"Is there aught else you need, my friend?"
"Just one thing. The straw pile tha said, were that the one by t'north-east corner of t'house?"
"Yes, it was."
"Well, well. If ol' Harry woulda knowed! I'm tellin' you that Nan and I got money hid right there, about three feet under that straw. I be axin' thee, a coupla weeks from now, dig 'un up and take 'un to folk at Pemberley. I be tellin' them to expect you. Now get to bed, lay low for next few days."
"All right, Giles. You know what you're doing?"
"Aye. And it be best tha not know. Fare well, old friend."
"God go with you."
As Turpin left, as
quietly as he could
manage, he heard a soft brushing behind him; Parker, using a fallen
branch, was brushing away the writing and other marks of Turpin's
having being there, before striding off purposefully in the direction
of the stream that ran by the town. Turpin sent up a quiet prayer for
his friend. If he understood what was going on his mind, he figured he
was unlikely to ever see him again.
"What are you two doing here?" whispered George. He was in the hallway just outside the nursery door, and was facing Andrew and Corinna. His wife was by his side, their son in her arms.
"We needed to see him," replied Corinna. "We may not have much longer here."
"Our motivation was exactly similar," said Clorinda, "although, in our case, we have the rest of our lives. Yet I made Fitzwilliam allow me to get up and come get him."
"We shall have to be more careful to coordinate things, shall we not? What if we had both come to the nursery at the same time, and Marjory had seen us both?" asked Andrew.
"I suppose we should have had to admit her to the ever-widening circle of those who know the true situation," said George, "but you are right, we must be more careful."
"Please?" said Corinna, and Clorinda, with a smiling nod,
passed
the child to her. He was still half-asleep, but coming awake, and his
eyes widened in concentration as he looked at his mother, or at least
who he probably thought was his mother. A smile-like grimace passed
over his face. Corinna gazed back into his eyes, then closed
her eyes in beatific delight and clasped him tightly to her bosom.
Her lips moved softly, and Andrew asked, "What words do you say, my love?"
"Oh," she responded. "I was but remembering the lines:
Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two
days old.
Sweet Joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while;
Sweet joy befall thee!"
"Blake, at two in the morning?" asked George.7
"Who better?" asked Clorinda.
The baby began fussing and rooting around for his early morning snack, and the two women looked at each other and nodded, then headed towards Clorinda's rooms. "Give us just a few minutes," said Corinna to her husband and George.
Five minutes later they were together in Clorinda's sitting-room. Her upper body was modestly covered with a warm shawl, but sounds that occasionally emerged from under it left little doubt that young Master Andrew was breaking his short fast in a quite satisfactory manner. The four of them rejoiced to hear the sound, though the two men did not make it obvious that they were aware of it, and began to speak of other things.
"Do you suppose the way will be open for you to return to your Pemberley tomorrow, Andrew?" asked George.
"It did allow Ellen Ingram to come through, did it not?" Andrew replied. "So perhaps it remains open. Yet I should expect it to keep us here until the matter of Wickham is somewhat more settled; thus it would not surprise me if the way were again blocked. Otherwise, the fountain still might not allow us to travel back. Matters at our Pemberley are apparently somewhat unsettled, though perhaps we may hope that the worst has been weathered. Thus, I should wish to return. Yet another part of me is very happy to remain a while longer here, to enjoy each other's company and especially to witness your joy in my young namesake, and to take our own."
"Shall we not go out early tomorrow morning and check the maze?" asked Corinna. "I am sorry, Lizzy, but I do believe you still have more need of rest than I, and we cannot both go out, or at least not both at the same time." She allowed herself a slight, self-satisfied smirk at Clorinda, and received a glowering look in return, but Clorinda nodded her head.
"By all means investigate the matter," George agreed, "but by my counsel you should not enter the inner section at all, much less look on the fountain, before returning to let us know and to allow us to say our farewells if such be your fortune. I too feel that your aid in dealing with the Wickhams here is crucial, and as you have said, matters at your Pemberley seem to be under control, relatively speaking."
"I am still amazed at Ellen's report regarding our father, Lizzy," said Clorinda. "Can he really have responded so decisively and energetically to such a trying situation? It makes one feel quite proud of him!"
"Yes," answered Corinna. "I am eager to speak with him and hear how matters appeared from his point of view. Indeed, it would appear those events have been quite exciting."
"Indeed. Dull as things have been here …" They smiled at each other, as their husbands smiled at them.
Note:
7"Infant Joy", from the Songs of Innocence.
Chapter 39
20 May 1814
"Have you ever seen a more glorious morning, my love?"
"If so, I cannot remember it, or even imagine it," was the answer.
It was early in the new day, and the grass and the foliage in the garden were bespangled with dewdrops that gleamed in the young light of the sun. Birds were singing. Andrew and his Elizabeth crossed the lawn to the gate of the maze. She laughed at him as he stifled a yawn.
George had given them the key, but there was no need for it; Ellen in her haste to come to the house last night had left the gate ajar. They half-expected the way to be open to the centre, but it was not: the last two turns before the centre were again blocked. With feelings of relief they returned towards the entrance.
"I am grateful," said Corinna. "The maze has taken from us the power, and thus the responsibility, of choice. We can but trust it --and indeed it feels only right to do so--, that it will not bar our return if in truth we are needed at our home."
"I feel so, as well." said Andrew. "Nonetheless Ellen's news is disturbing, and we should hold ourselves in readiness to return as soon as it becomes possible. It appears that only two events are lacking before the way is opened. Meanwhile, it does come to my attention that we have privacy for the next few minutes, my love. Shall we not redeem the opportunity, and once again disdain the impiety of neglecting so beautiful a May morning?"
It was nearly a half an hour later that they emerged from
the
maze-gate,
their attire and coiffures bearing very slight signs, evident only to
the
most discerning
eye, of the repairs to their
appearance that had proven necessary. Practice over the foregoing months had greatly increased
their skill in such matters.
"More trouble," Squire Milburn grumbled. He had been awakened at the unconscionably early hour of six o'clock, to the news that his prisoner, held in the town gaol, had escaped. It was most inexplicable, if the gaoler were to be believed. The prisoner had, somehow, flown from the cell while the door was still locked. "Balderdash," said the Squire to himself as much as to his man Thomson, who had spoken to the gaoler and brought the news to the Squire, and who was even now helping him pull on his boots and shrug into his waistcoat. A minute or so later, as he was being helped into his coat, he said,
"Thomson, I fear we will need a couple of pair of good tracking dogs. Could you get them for me? Not Harry Merton's mutts, whatever you do. Nor do I want to send to Pemberley for their dogs, not after their performance yesterday. Though in all probability it was not their fault."
"No, indeed, sir," said Thomson. "Very well. I believe I shall ask Mark Smathers for the loan of his dogs. Do you wish to hire him to handle the dogs, sir? I suppose you will want them brought to the gaol as soon as may be?"
"Yes, that will do well," said the Squire. "Thank you, Thomson." He then descended the stairs, to meet with the gaoler and accompany him to the gaol itself.
Upon arrival at the gaol he confirmed that the cell was locked, but also noted that the window-shutter in the outer room was damaged and had been forced. "Must've had a key, probably pushed in to him through the cell window," he muttered to himself. He had followed clear footprints from the spot outside the window to a patch of bushes across the street. Here, it was evident that the person who made the footprints had stood for some time, and had changed position several times. In fact the earth beneath the footprints was suspiciously clear of leaves and other debris. "Wonder what else happened here," the Squire murmured, but then turned back towards the gaol. Thomson had arrived with Mr. Smathers and the dogs. He entered the gaol and unlocked the cell, allowing the dogs to fill their noses with the scent that clung to the straw pallet and to a rag that had presumably done service as a sort of pillow there. He noted the absence of the blanket that had been given to the prisoner, and brought the rag with him, in order to be able to renew the scent should the dogs need it.
Directly after they were led outside the window of the main gaol room, the dogs picked up the scent they had been given, and, baying excitedly, led the men across to the bushes, and then, after only a little sniffing around, took up the trail to the north of town. Telling the gaoler to remain at his post and to note any who might come by to see the place, Squire Milburn, turned to follow Messrs. Thomson and Smathers with the dogs.
The fugitive had clearly looked for places where his footprints would be less likely to show well, but the dogs had no trouble following the trail until they came to the small stream that ran by the northern edge of town. Clearly Parker had anticipated that they would bring dogs to track him, and had entered the water precisely in order to confuse them. The Squire thought but a moment before asking Smathers to take two of the dogs, and setting one of them on each side of the stream, to head towards the west, while he and Thomson would, with the other two dogs, head eastward, again with one dog on each side of the stream. They were to whistle if they found any sign of the fugitive's passing (all three men, like most in Lambton and many other places in rural England, were capable of a piercing blast that could be heard over great distances). If nothing were found, they should meet up where they had parted in about an hour's time.
Some ten minutes into the search, Squire Milburn, who was responsible for the southern side of the stream, ducked under the leaves of a tree whose branches leaned out over the stream. One of the branches, as he examined it, looked somewhat bedraggled, and almost as if there were a bit of mud on the upper side of it, at one point. The dog wanted to head on down the stream sniffing to try to acquire the scent, but the Squire tugged on his leash, bringing him back to sniff around under the tree. Sure enough, on the far side of the tree, well back from the stream, he found a place where the grass had been trampled slightly, and the dog, smelling at it, grew excited and began to bay to his companions. The Squire added a piercing whistle, which was immediately answered by Thomson's from across the stream. But a few seconds later an answering whistle was also heard from Smathers; they had found the trail before they were too far apart to hear each other. The Squire let his dog sniff enough to establish which way the trail led, but then waited until Thomson, and then, some time later, Smathers, arrived with their dogs.
The trail led straight south, bending a little to the west to come near the town. Well before they arrived at the outskirts, however, the trail came to a stop in that direction beneath the branches of a large beech tree. The ground was clearly disturbed there, and showed signs of a hole some two feet square having been dug and refilled. The imprint of a man's hand was clearly to be seen where it had patted the soft soil down. Just to the side of it a patch of dirt had been smoothed out, and there were written, as if with a stick, the words "Thaks" and "Hary".
"Oho!" thought the Squire, exchanging a significative look with Thomson, though neither of them said anything at first. Then Thomson suggested, "Allow me, sir," and the Squire nodded, saying only, "Just be careful not to get it where the words are written."
Lacking any other tool or utensil, Thomson used his hands much as Parker must have done, and before he had dug very far he uncovered the corner of a wooden crate. Smathers, handing the leashes of his dogs to the Squire, joined him, and between the two of them, it was soon obvious that the crate contained bottles of French wine, exactly similar to the ones that had been found the day before at Giles Parker's house.
"Mr. Smathers, I do not think I need to do so, but nevertheless let me warn you not to speak to anyone at all about what you have seen here, until I give you leave. This discovery brings several kinds of complexity into the case, and we will need some time to investigate all the matters that now lie before us."
"Sir, should we not seek where the fugitive went from here, before the trail grows any colder," asked Thomson, and the Squire nodded to him.
The dogs, led in a circle around the tree, first picked up the scent heading back the way they had come, but, being dragged away from that trail, picked up another heading off to the north east. One of the dogs nosed out bit of dark cloth, from the gaol-issued blanket, the Squire was persuaded, several hundred yards further along, but there was nothing else to be found, and the trail seemed to go on strongly from there. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it led back to join the stream somewhat further to the east of where they had left it over an hour earlier. "Wily ol' fox," was Smathers' assessment, and, again the Squire could not but nod his agreement. They continued searching eastward for several hours, finding nothing, before giving the chase up at least for the nonce. The Squire was ready to believe that Parker had in fact bamboozled them, heading west rather than east once he returned to the stream. It was well after noon when the trackers arrived back in Lambton, footsore and weary.
"Smathers," said the Squire as they neared the town, "have you another dog or two, good at tracking, that you can bring by my place in an hour or so?"
"Nay, sir," was the response, "but my neighbour do. Jock Mickels, you know."
"Very well. Ask him to bring them, then. Bring these four back as well. We shall await you."
After he had left, the Squire turned to Thomson and asked, "Another favour, if you please, Mr. Thomson. Could you set an inquiry in motion as to where the rumour started of Mr. Parker having something hidden by his house? I shall be interested to know where it came from. I heard it from you, as I remember."
"Very well, sir," said the servant. "I was told it by the groom; I shall go to the stable to ask who he heard it from, and attempt to trace the tale back from there."
"Do get something to eat before you spend much effort on it, however," said the Squire. "After our exertions this morning, it would not do to have you fainting on me."
"Fainting!" said Thomson, in his disgust slipping into the vernacular. "Tha knows, sir …"
"Yes, I know. I was only jesting. Get along with you."
The Squire, succumbing to his own great desire for sustenance, entered the house where he partook of a substantial repast. Thomson, arriving but a few minutes later, was also given a hearty meal in the servants' quarters. After a quarter of an hour or so of meditation following his meal, the Squire invited Thomson to join him in a glass of ale. Thomson told him that the groom had heard the tale from the stable-boy, who had heard it from Harry Merton's stable-boy, who had been all agog over the arrest of Mr. Parker, who had been driving Mr. Merton's own wagon. About that time the Squire was told that Mr. Smathers had returned, accompanied by Jock Mickels and bringing six hounds between them. He summoned the men in, offering them a glass of ale to share with him and Thomson. Finally, heaving himself from his chair, he said, "Well, lads, let's go pay a visit to our friend Harry Merton. Bring your dogs along, Mr. Smathers and Mr. Mickels; we shall have work for them."