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Chapter Eighteen – Part Two

Posted on Wednesday, 21 May 2003

The following morning, just as The Colonel and Darcy are all set to go and pay Mrs. Younge a visit, they realize that it is Sunday, and we had all better attend church first. The Colonel arrives in full uniform and, sitting alongside him on the pew, I cannot help but think that he is some kind of mad crusader, perhaps a lost knight of Arthur’s company, pursuing an impractical, centuries-long quest. Surprisingly enough, he is quite calm throughout the service and afterwards as well, greeting fellow churchgoers with great charm and ease. I suppose this is a facet of his personality that comes out when he is not engaging – as Darcy put it – in "military-style operations". But as soon as we depart from the holy place, he begins to simmer and concoct and foam at the mouth all over again, as if his dashing social persona has been discarded at the altar.

As the cousins go off to interrogate the wily, grandmotherly woman, I make off on my own impractical (hopefully not centuries-long) search for Denny. I say impractical because, unlike Darcy and Funny Fitz, I don’t have any clues, any links yet to the greedy, debt-ridden absconder. Yesterday evening Rupert mentioned that he might have picked up faintly on Denny’s trail, but that he needs to further investigate before he can be absolutely certain.

As it turns out, Mrs. Younge is not in her home the whole of Sunday. Is she visiting Wickham and Miss Lydia? Who really knows? Suffice it to say that it is only on Monday that the impatient duo get through to her and, although I am not present at the interrogation, I hear about it when they arrive back home Monday afternoon. Piecing together fragmented mutterings from Darcy and exuberant boasts from The Colonel, I find out that the questioning took a very interesting turn. After surprising the old lady, who had no choice but to allow them entry, Darcy initiated the first round of queries as his cousin stood guard by the door. When it became evident that Mrs. Younge was far more devoted to Wickham than either could have possibly imagined, and stalwartly refused to accept Darcy’s monetary offers, The Colonel took matters into his own hands and brought the inquiry to a more physical level.

Now, because her age and gender precluded any serious bodily intimidation, what The Colonel did was tie her loosely to a chair and tickle her feet with a feather he had Darcy’s cook pluck from Caroline the hen ("My lucky feather," he sighs, tickling his nose with it even now and stopping only when I remind him that it did touch the soles of Mrs. Younge’s feet). When she remained tight-lipped throughout every kind of tickling The Colonel could conjure – from lazy strokes to fluttery, sneeze-inducing bursts – Darcy again renewed his monetary offer, to which she replied, "I’ll take it only if you give my dear Wickham five times as much," which, of course, Darcy could not promise. Thankfully, his cousin stepped in yet again and brought out one of his secret weapons – the Military Babble. Basically he sat next to the tied-up woman and began to regale her with minutely detailed, intensely tedious renderings of all military campaigns he had ever participated in or read about. For fear of losing his wits, Darcy had to leave the room at regular intervals and after returning from the seventh short sanity break, he found Mrs. Younge more than willing to divulge Wickham’s address. For her troubles, she received twenty pounds and a promise from Darcy that he would look into Wickham’s debts with him when they meet.

"Why do you not go to Wickham now?" I inquire at the conclusion of their tale.

"We must first go meet with Miss Bennet’s relatives… the Gardiners, I believe? The aunt and uncle who live on Gracechurch Street," Darcy replies.

"I shall not go," The Colonel insists. "I have no patience for parlor talk now. What I wish to do is stake out Wickham’s house. Make certain he doesn’t flee overnight, on a warning from Mrs. Younge."

"Why would he wish to flee?" Darcy retorts. "I promised her today that I would discuss his debts with him, meaning that I am open to negotiation."

"Even so…" The Colonel replies, but does not complete his thought.

"Cousin," Darcy sighs, "you merely wish to keep soldiering, even into the night. Is it not enough that you drove a woman into both hysterics and dull despair today? Is that not enough of an achievement?"

"I am going to his home, Darcy. I shall weather the cold, the rain, the sleet, the snow, the monsoons, the sandstorms… let the elements hurl themselves at me as they will! I – like the great tower in Pisa – shall remain perfectly upright in the face of nature’s hostility!"

Before I can make an inquiry into the purported perfect verticality of Pisa’s tower, Darcy warns, "You shall catch a cold, Cousin. It is the harshness of winter out there."

"I haven’t caught an illness in years," he sniffs and, excusing himself, goes off to make preparations for his nightly watch.

When he leaves I offer to accompany Darcy to the Gardiner residence. "If I discover Miss Lucas, she shall also need a temporary shelter. I don’t believe she has any relatives in London."

Darcy agrees with my suggestion though he looks quite unwilling to move as yet from the wing chair by the fire. I muse over whether this inertia stems from his general tiredness or his reluctance to set his haughty foot in Cheapside, and then stop short and chastise myself for these ungenerous and utterly stupid thoughts. Has he not been searching through the worst parts of London these past few days? Has he not set aside his high principles to rub elbows with the lowest rabble? I take a moment to truly consider his actions, and I marvel at how seemingly uncharacteristic they are, how surprising from such a highborn, proud man. To scour through the docks like a city rat, to go and deal with a woman who had almost ruined his sister’s reputation… Good Lord, I wonder if even Darcy realizes the ways in which he is changing. And again, though I truly believe that part of his motives stem from a restless conscience, I have evidence and intellect enough to know that another part arises from feelings that he can hardly admit to… at least when he’s awake.

"Come, Darcy," I say, suddenly feeling even more companionable towards him, "let us go to the Gardiners. It shouldn’t be so bad, you know… and I’m certain that they’ll request that we stay for supper."

He offers me a wan smile. "Supper, Hurst? Is that all you can think of? I am amazed."

I laugh. "Would you have me believe that you never meditate on the lower appetites, Darcy?"

His sudden vivid blush speaks for itself.

"More so than I would have imagined," I whisper, smirking at him as, with a vague splutter, he makes off to have the coach readied.

It is not a very long trip to the Gardiner residence, and Darcy and I pass it in silence. He still looks exceedingly weary and even closes his eyes a few times, nearly allowing his head to fall against the window’s glass. But even in exhaustion he is still dignified. Whereas I am slumped in my seat, belly thrust into the air, his torso remains upright, his attire impeccable, and his beaver hat in perfect fit over his head.

When the coach pulls up to the residence on Gracechurch Street, I am nearly reduced to a melting puddle by the single window on the first floor. Reduced to a puddle by a window, you ask? No, I’ve not gone mad. It’s merely… I step out of the equipage and find myself facing it – this cozy, yellow-orange square set against the dark façade of the wall – and it promises such warmth, such respite from weariness, that my knees nearly buckle on the spot. Darcy seems to be thinking the same thoughts, for he remains standing by my side for a few quiet moments, gazing at the glowing aperture as well.

Then, out of nowhere it seems, a fair-haired little sprite scrambles onto the window seat and, pressing her palms and her nose against the pane, squints out at the two of us, her expression immediately changing to one of surprise. As I smile pleasantly at the girl, who cannot be more than three or four, Darcy utterly surprises me by doffing his hat and bestowing upon her a bow worthy of a queen.

Her hands flutter to her mouth in shock, and she shyly turns her head to the side. When, moments later, she summons up enough courage to face her dashing caller again, he bows once more in her direction and tops his gallantry off with a grin. The girl instantly grins back and, unwilling to let such heart-melting charm pass unacknowledged, scrambles to her feet and drops a near-perfect curtsy. It is then that a large, soft hand comes round her shoulder, and the face of the Gardiners’ housekeeper finds its way into the scene as well. Upon spotting us, the servant shoos the pretty imp away and heads for the direction of the front door. As Darcy and I make our way to the entrance, I open my mouth to ask him about his surprising easiness with children but, anticipating my query, he stiffens and whispers, in a somewhat embarrassed manner, "I do have a younger sister, you know."

The door opens, the housekeeper greets us, she bows her head before Darcy’s great height and general splendor, she hardly notices me, and then – upon introducing ourselves and requesting to see the master and mistress – we are led into the home.

I surmised correctly about how inviting this house would be. Though we only pass through the parlor, I can’t help but take in the glow of an enchanting fireplace, and sewing baskets and books on the table, and gold-framed portraits and exotic trinkets on walls and shelves, and a brown and red carpet pressing into my tired feet. I glimpse a dining room out of the corner of my eye, with a servant laying out settings at the table, and then we are announced at the door of Mr. Gardiner’s study, where both husband and wife sit poring over papers at the desk.

Mr. Gardiner I immediately like. His physique closely resembles my own, his hair seems to be thinning at a slightly faster rate, but his face is far more open and warm than mine could ever be. He comes forward immediately and shakes both our hands, a look of friendly inquiry upon his face. Mrs. Gardiner is more reserved in her greeting; she remains standing behind her husband, offering us a pleasant, questioning smile.

"Well, gentlemen?" Mr. Gardiner beings, "what brings you to our door?"

"Forgive us for intruding upon your privacy," Darcy says, skillfully hiding his slight unease behind the remoteness of his countenance.

"Think nothing of it at all. You gentlemen look to be serious. I am certain it is something important."

"Let us move to the parlor," Mrs. Gardiner suggests, herding us out the door with a gentle gesture of her arm. As we walk I observe her out of the corner of my eye – a delicate, almost bird-like woman, with calm, watchful eyes. Eyes that are even now appraising both the dark lad and me.

In the parlor, she indicates for Darcy and I to sit in the chairs closest to the hearth and then settles into the sofa alongside her husband. Rarely one to hedge or mince words, Darcy immediately launches into his narrative, explaining his association with Wickham, my association with Denny, our recent stay at Hertfordshire, our failure to adequately expose the duo to the community, and so forth and so on. The Gardiners can only sit in stunned silence as he proceeds, his tone even but earnest, restrained yet emphatic. When he concludes, there is more general quiet, and I struggle hard to remain awake, ensconced as I am within an extraordinarily comfortable chair near an exceedingly delicious blaze.

"Mr. Darcy," Mr. Gardiner murmurs. "I can scarce believe that you may have found her. Do you… do you not take too much upon yourself, sir?"

Darcy’s reply is what revives me entirely from drowsiness. "If it were not for my pride, I would have given sufficient warning to the people of Hertfordshire and exposed the scoundrel for what he is."

Yes, you read right – he apologized for his pride. My mouth has fallen open and I realize I must say something or else look like a complete fish. "And if I had not been so lazy," I confess, "I would have gone to their military superiors and insured that they be, at the very least, transferred to another regiment."

Again the Gardiners stare at the two of us mutely before Mrs. Gardiner quietly murmurs, "Miss Lucas is certainly welcome to stay here as well. I pray that she shall be found soon."

I smile at her, suddenly liking her very much as well, and the way she carries herself and speaks, and the gentle force that seems to radiate from her every word and movement. When she rises to her feet and invites us to stay for supper, I am more vocal than Darcy in my acceptance, my inclination stemming not only from the prospect of hearty food but also from the promise of good company.

"But are you certain, sirs," Mr. Gardiner begins anew as his wife goes off to speak with a servant, "that you shall take all this upon your shoulders? Is there nothing my wife and I can do, as well?"

"You shall be providing shelter," Darcy replies in a level tone that leaves no room for opposition. "That quite suffices. You were not to blame for what occurred, and so you must not take the burden upon yourself. Do we have an understanding?"

Mr. Gardiner does not immediately reply. I glance over at Darcy and find him gazing at the Bennets’ uncle with what appears to be compassion; his eyes have lost some of their hard glint, and most of the firmness has melted from his jaw. Mr. Gardiner studies him carefully before reluctantly nodding and extending his hand. Smiling softly, Darcy shakes it and thanks him for his cooperation.

Mrs. Gardiner returns and, after informing us that supper shall be served within the quarter hour, strikes up a conversation with Darcy, something about having heard of his family while growing up in the village of Lambton, not far from his home. As I drift out of my seat to a small portrait on the wall that very much resembles Mr. Gardiner (only with an orange beard) I overhear some of Darcy’s responses and find myself mildly amazed at how easily he is carrying on the conversation. I can’t remember a time when he was this agreeable to near strangers; he has trouble enough behaving amiably around friends. But now I hear him reply to Mrs. Gardiner’s inquiries with complete civility, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as he listens intently to her comments, punctuating his own speech with nods and small smiles. He is no Bingley, I grant you, but he isn’t exactly the Darcy I know either.

"A persistent and determined young man, is he not?" Mr. Gardiner remarks upon appearing at my side. We stand at perpendicular angles, our bellies nearly touching as we observe the gentleman and the tradesman’s wife converse. The smile on Darcy’s face suddenly grows wider, and I hear him mention something about climbing a chestnut tree.

"And surprising, to be sure," I add, slowly shaking my head.

"I am pleased that my wife is able to engage him so well," says Mr. Gardiner. "He seems like a man of exceedingly good breeding, a man unused to anything but the conversation of society’s highest circles."

"Oh, I assure you, most of those refined discourses make him quite bored."

Mr. Gardiner laughs. "Is that so?"

"Aye. It is the superficiality that he cannot endure."

"I see. Well then… he shall feel right at home here."

After expressing my whole-hearted agreement, I decide – rather shrewdly – to give Mr. Gardiner something else to chew upon. "Sir," I say, "do you wish to know of one method that shall, without fail, command his undivided attention?"

"I am all ears," Mr. Gardiner replies. "It would be good to know, if he is to stay for supper."

"Mention your second eldest niece. That should do the trick."

His reaction is one of undisguised shock – shock that gives way to an amused sort of disbelieve. When he sees that I am making no admittance of a jest, he blinks, clears his throat, and murmurs, "So… is that how the land lies?"

"Perhaps," I reply. "Although, methinks the gentleman doth protest too much."

"Ah. And the lady?"

"She does not even know what to protest to."

"I see."

He rubs his chin, a merry, mischievous smile stealing over his face. "If that be the case," he says at last, "I can safely assure you that Mr. Darcy shall not have a dull moment during his stay."

I worry for a moment that he shall be all too obvious in his choice of conversation, but in actuality I have nothing to fear. Mr. Gardiner is far more clever – and far more subtle – than his sister, the Bennet matron. Before Mrs. Gardiner goes off again to check on the progress of the meal’s preparations, I watch him intercept her and whisper a few quiet words into her ear. When her eyes widen in response, I can make a confident guess as to the particulars of his message, more so when both Gardiners briefly but meaningfully turn their eyes to one very oblivious Darcy. The dark lad seems to be enjoying his surroundings all too well to pay attention to the sudden change of demeanor in his host and hostess. He is reclining in his chair, eyes half-closed, relishing warmth and rest and having not a clue that he has taken on yet another dimension as an object of interest.

Mr. Gardiner invites us briefly into his study for some pre-supper spirits, and we rouse ourselves to follow his lead. As he pours us our drinks and points to the many books on the wall, which Darcy takes to quietly admiring, I unwittingly hand the tradesman his first opening.

"That chair over there," I say, pointing to an enormous, overstuffed specimen in the corner, "looks to be about the most comfortable seat I’ve ever seen."

Mr. Gardiner winks at me. "You’re of the same mind as my niece, Elizabeth."

Darcy, who has been reaching for a book, is suddenly seized by the inclination to let his arm drop back to his side. Ever so slowly, he turns his head towards his beloved’s uncle, who pretends not to see a thing.

"She can sit there for hours and read," Mr. Gardiner continues, handing us our drinks, "especially if the weather is inclement and her cousins are napping. Her absorption gives me a much needed rest, for I find that when she visits I am often towed about London, accompanying her to all manner of places."

Speaking of absorption, Darcy has not yet lifted his drink to his lips.

"And your other nieces?" I inquire, drowning my grin in a sip of liquor.

"Jane could never jostle me about as dear Lizzy does," he replies, smiling fondly. "She has not the energy or the inclination. And Mary…"

As he begins to speak of Mary’s tendency to ask too many questions about his business dealings and their honesty, and then moves on to comment on her recent engagement, Darcy one again turns to the shelves, though I imagine his attention is still half on our discussion, his ear itching for the briefest mention of one particular Bennet girl.

He does not get the second bone tossed to him until supper commences, and Mrs. Gardiner happens to innocently remark that the whipped confection to be served later on for dessert is one of Miss Elizabeth’s favorites. And then, maybe twenty minutes later, after some talk of weather and politics, another off-handed comment, this one by Mr. Gardiner, on Miss Elizabeth’s argument with an MP who once swung by for midday meal on Sunday, indulged in a tad too much liquor, and proclaimed to Miss Lizzy that the crown of any woman’s life is when a man is courting her. Suffice it to say that much Wollstonecraft was fired back and forth – quotes and misquotes alike – and the debate ended with the young MP landing face-first in his plate and asking, in a rather muffled manner, if he could begin to court her on the morrow and thus prove his point about womankind’s nature.

"A sillier proposal I hope that she shall never receive," Mr. Gardiner puts in, shaking his head with a good-natured chuckle.

While Darcy nods in sharp, emphatic agreement, I merely pat my mouth with a napkin and neglect to mention Mr. Collins.

Now, the Gardiners talk of many things – not only of their nieces, but all manner of topics from the mundane to the truly fantastic. I’ve rarely met with more well-informed and interesting people. The only drawback to the meal, I find, is the absence of the children, who are as yet too young to dine with guests – at least, with guests who are as yet unfamiliar to the family. I am certain Darcy pines for their presence as well, as they could be invaluable sources of information pertaining to Miss Elizabeth but alas, he must live off of the meager morsels thrown here and there by the loving uncle and aunt. Not that he withdraws from the general conversation. Quite the contrary, I’ve rarely seen him so absorbed and so willing to set forth his opinions and partake in small jokes. But there is a subtle, yet tangible difference in his manners when Miss Lizzy is spoken of – his spine gets somewhat straighter (yes, this is still possible with him, though it does stretch the limits of human anatomy), his fork slows down on the way to his mouth, and his eyes grow ever brighter, as if someone set a torch to his lashes. Because to him, even the smallest preference – lace over ribbons, Bach over Handel, summer over winter – is a precious gem to be stowed away and held up to the light repeatedly later on.

If the Gardiners notice these facial inflections and torso-related transformations, they do not let on. And as the meal progresses, it strikes me more and more, watching them interact with one another and with their guests, that they each resemble one of their two eldest nieces. Mrs. Gardiner is most closely similar to Miss Jane. She is a woman who not only assists her husband with his business, but also oversees the household and the children’s upbringing, and bears all this industry with a bewildering amount of calm and patience. Looking at her one would think that she is foreign to work, that she has never known the burden of responsibility, so serene is her countenance. Though not beautiful like Miss Jane, she is just as neat and appealing, what with her fair hair, clear complexion, and pleasant, well-modulated voice. But for all her quiet and amicability, there is an unmistakable force to all her soft-spoken words and gentle gestures, a knowing watchfulness in her eyes, an unpretentious substance in her speech that one cannot miss. Certainly not her husband, who is as deep in her pocket as a husband can be, and often looks upon her with a smile that borders on Bingley-esque angel-worship.

But forgive the man his silly, smitten little smiles for – on the vast whole – he is far from being a silly creature. Quite far. About as far from it as his niece Miss Elizabeth. For it is she whom he resembles, in his mind and manners. A talkative, sociable man, spinning out any number of conversational threads, drawing in the most taciturn, the most aloof, the most Darcy-like of all of G-d’s creations. You can’t help but feel comfortable with him, even if you tried your hardest to resist. And couple his tongue with that quick, intelligent brain of his and behold! – you have scintillating conversation. He is knowledgeable without being pedantic, current without being immersed in the follies of fashions and trends. Sometimes, I grant you, it is difficult to follow him, so nimbly does he skip from subject to subject, but listening to him you must learn to give up the reins and just go along for the ride, trusting that he won’t hurl you headfirst into any ditches. Oh, and the humor, I cannot forget that – he is at heart a man who loves laughter – and whereas this inclination to levity manifests itself in wit and playfulness in his second eldest niece, it manifests itself in wit and ribaldry in him. A few of his jokes just skirt the edges of politeness and decency, but so boyish is he while delivering all his blush-inducing quips, that even as she is gently chiding him for his lapse in manners, his wife cannot help but smile as well.

At times, watching them I border on wistfulness, wishing ever so much that I could have this sort of thing with Louisa. After the way we parted last week I rather doubt that I shall know such marital felicity, but that remains to be seen, I suppose. It is rather hard to remain pessimistic at the Gardiner table, and if sadness does chance to occasionally steal over me, good cheer often follows in its wake and expunges it from my heart.

Supper lasts a very long while, so long in fact that we do not receive introductions to the children, for they have already gone off to bed. But as Darcy and I are reluctantly donning our coats and hats, we do run in to the household cat, who suddenly bounds down the stairs and leaps right on to Darcy’s shoulder.

As Mrs. Gardiner lets loose a soft cry of "Macavity!" and Mr. Gardiner reaches for the offending feline, I find myself in cringing anticipation of Darcy’s reactions for, evening-long amiability notwithstanding, no animal ruffles Darcy’s coat and lives to mewl about it. Imagine my surprise then when he swings it up by the scruff of its neck, secures it firmly in his arms, and inquires – with not a hint of coldness or discomfort in his voice – "Macavity, is it? Quite an unusual name."

"Ah, yes," Mrs. Gardiner replies, apparently relieved that the household pet did not succeed in frightening away the well-bred gentleman, "there’s no one like Macavity."

"He’s a gift to our children from a theatre-owner that we know," Mr. Gardiner adds, eyes widening slightly at the sight of claw marks on Darcy’s expensive coat. "The Jardin D’Hiver – the French theatre that often puts on Moliere – and this ruffian was always lurking around behind the stage, leaping on props, living only off the scraps that actors would toss him."

"He is an enormous bother," Mrs. Gardiner says, belying her words with a peaceful, tolerant smile. "But the children are mad over him."

Darcy hands the cat to Mr. Gardiner, glimpses the damage done to his coat, momentarily stiffens his lip, but then relaxes once again, unwilling to allow a prancing, four-pawed beast to ruin a perfectly good evening. We part with the Gardiners on the best of terms, refusing their final offers for further assistance in the Wickham-Denny affair, and find ourselves back in Darcy’s coach, satisfied by supper but somewhat saddened that it all had to end.

There’s something more to Darcy’s countenance, though, than wistful satiation. There’s also a mix of ease and determination, a soft smile upon his lips and a kind of sure brightness in his eyes.

"A most enjoyable evening, was it not?" I venture.

He nods, that enigmatic smile widening somewhat. "A well-bred, well-informed, well-matched, and utterly surprising pair," he pronounces.

"I am glad Cheapside was to your liking then," I reply, shamelessly baiting him.

To my surprise, he remains unruffled by my remark, though his voice is somewhat softer when he answers, "It is a charming place." A sigh ripples through him, one of content. He removes his hat, runs a hand through his hair, and settles back into his seat, posture not quite so straight. "I should like to return," he murmurs, so quietly that I can scarcely hear him.

"So would I, Darcy; your sentiments hardly surprise me. The way you behaved around them today, it was as if they were your family."

He blinks, eyes taking on a peculiar twinkle. "Yes, indeed. I felt myself at home with them."

I watch him as he lapses into silence again, and it is only then that I even begin to put my finger on the change in him. Free – he seems free. Free of what, I am not quite certain, but it is as if he’s decided upon something, liberated himself from indecision. Yes, that’s exactly it, he is infused with the liberty of one who has committed with certainty to some path, has untangled some vast confusion or clawed his way out of some blind maze of tunnels. Staring out the window into the night, his features remarkably relaxed, his hair ruffled beyond immediate repair, those clawmarks lashed to the shoulder of his coat, he is a man who is free at last. And I am a man who is utterly curious about it.

When we arrive at the Darcy residence it is quite late. Colonel Fitz is still out on his watch, no doubt challenging the biting cold of the night air, and it is with heavy, sated steps that I make my way up to my dressing chamber. Rupert is nowhere to be found, and after a half-hour of waiting, I finally ring for another servant to ask if he’s been seen, only to have a pale Haverford appear at my door and inform me that "Andrews, sir, has just been carried into the servants’ quarters, and he is gravely injured."

Chapter Nineteen – Part One

Posted on Wednesday, 28 May 2003

When I arrive at Rupert’s room in the servants’ quarter I nearly faint. He is stretched out on the bed, bleeding everywhere it seems, one of his eyes purpling and his limbs tossed askew over his coverlet. Faintly I hear myself cry out, "Rupert!" before I’m at his bedside, attempting to will away the low roar in my ears. My terror further increases when he reaches out with a bloody hand and whispers, "Avenge me, Gil. Avenge my death…" and I begin to believe that all is lost. Only when he adds, "And have Cook send me some cinnamon buns on the morrow," do I allow myself a glimmer of hope, particularly when he goes on to add that he would like them steeped in butter, slathered in cream, and served with hot tea. "To soothe my battered spirits," he murmurs.

Directed by Haverford, a doctor arrives shortly afterwards, and I withdraw to a stiff-backed chair and watch as he, Haverford, and another servant set about cleaning up and inspecting the patient, who is now not only demanding buns, but two serving-girls as well: one to feed him and another to fan his face with her apron. Thankfully, it turns out that none of his wounds are gravely deep, though he is still in need of much rest and recovery, particularly from a troublesome combination of gash and bruise on his left shoulder. Much of the night he sleeps – often groaning with pain or breaking into dreadful sweats – and I remain in my seat by his side, little caring what the other servants might think of a gentleman who displays such devotion to his valet. All that matters is the relieved smile on Rupert’s face when he stirs awake sometime after dawn and finds my stout reassuring figure still perched on that torturesome chair.

"Comfortable?" he inquires, wincing in pain as he attempts to stretch.

"More so than you," I say, fussing over him like a mother hen. "And seeing as your mouth is the only part of you that can move without discomfort, please tell me how you arrived at this deplorable state."

As I swipe at his forehead with a damp cloth, he closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, mustering up the energy he will need to speak.

"I found Denny," he mutters at last, "and no, he didn’t do this to me. He and Miss Lucas are living in a filthy, wretched old boardinghouse, a grimy hovel right next door to a brothel. On Bucks Row, ever hear of it?" He sighs. "They live in back of the house, in a little room. Didn’t see them myself, but I made the inquiries… and got tangled with another lodger, as you can see." He sighs. "I hardly know how I made it back last night… took every ounce of strength I had."

As he speaks, various thoughts and sentiments swirl through my head. One – profound sympathy and gratefulness for this hardy scamp, this true friend of mine. Two – he deserves a substantial raise. Three – a brothel? Near a brothel? Four – Denny must really be in debt, worst than Wickham even. Five – ergo, he needs money. Six – I don’t have as much money as Darcy. Seven – that presents a problem. Eight – I could rob Darcy. Nine – he’d forgive me. Ten – eventually. Eleven – assuming I’m still alive. Twelve – which I won’t be, given that The Colonel would come after me…

"Gil?" Rupert ventures. "I’d like to know what you’re thinking."

As I struggle to make some kind of coherent reply, a horrible thought bolts through my brain and shivers down my spine. "Rupert," I whisper, "the two of them being so near a brothel… tell me, is Denny… is he so in need of money that he’s… further compromised Miss Lucas?"

Rupert shakes his head. "No, no. I looked into that as well. Nothing of the sort. All I know is that the two of them hardly leave their room, and that Miss Lucas certainly hasn’t been seen–"

"Excellent, marvelous," I sigh, my face sinking into my hands. "But tell me, do you think, if he absolutely ran out of money, that he wouldn’t scruple to–"

"I don’t know. But don’t go there on your own, Master Gil," Rupert warns, and when he calls me ‘Master Gil’ it usually means that he’s being deadly serious. "There are men there who wouldn’t think twice about bearing down on a gentleman, even in broad daylight. Take Colonel Madman with you and make sure he’s got his guns."

I’m already sweating with fear. "That bad, Rupert?"

"How else do you think I wound up this way?" he sighs. "Now, if you want to remain discreet, there’s a back way I spotted when I was making off. An alley, which I think may lead to a little lot behind the house. A real dirty, cluttered little corridor… I wouldn’t use it unless I had to."

He closes his eyes then and expels his breath in one long, shaky groan. I stagger to my feet to go and call for fresh water and cloths, and find Haverford standing at the threshold, watching my valet with what appears to be puzzled admiration. As Rupert begins to snore – a comforting sign, indicating that he can still make noises unrelated to pain – I exit the room and bid Haverford to keep an eye on him for the day.

"Certainly," the bewildered servant utters, closing the door behind him quietly. He pauses. "Did he…?"

"Did he what?" I prod, rubbing my lower back.

"Did he actually perform all those feats?"

"Feats? My, my, Haverford, you make it sound as if he’s part of a circus."

If he detects the sarcasm, he doesn’t let on – being Darcy’s valet, he cannot allow himself the liberty of displaying any untoward, aggressive emotions. He stands there tall, stiff, and – once again – unreadable, before murmuring, in his usual polished tones, "I shall see personally to his recovery, sir."

It is this that I wish to hear, and thus do not chide the impeccable man for eavesdropping on my entire conversation with Rupert. Fortunately though, listening in has given him an idea of who I am about to see next, and he spares me the unnecessary trek up two flights of stairs by informing me that Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived back an hour ago with a dreadful cold, and is now lying abed. His nightlong watch over Wickham’s house apparently was too much for his mortal flesh, what with the extreme chill and the fact that he neglected to wear any wrappings over his uniform.

"Hubris felled him," I mutter. "How he boasted, yesterday afternoon, that he could indeed pass the night without catching an illness!" Fighting down a fresh surge of anger, I ask, "He is not in any real danger though, is he?"

"I do not believe so, sir." Haverford pauses, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Assuming, of course, that he keeps himself well-rested."

Oh, dear. They had to tie him down, I bet. Lash his arms and legs to the bedposts, force smelly liquids down his throat, and he brawling and belting throughout, insisting that they unhand him before he runs them through with a sabre.

Well, so much for assistance. It appears that I shall be paying Denny a visit on my own.

Now, you might think I’m being foolish. And I am. I’m being very foolish. But the way I see it, Mariah Lucas is in dire peril – a young gentlewoman living with a near-desperate debtor alongside a brothel. Worst news than expected, or soon-to-be worst news. I must go there at once. However, I cannot allow myself to think out my actions too much, because cowardly thoughts will invariably creep in, thoughts of knives and clubs and big, brutish fists and – and you see, here they are, already creeping in.

"Sir?" Haverford’s voice cuts an incision straight through my skull. "Shall you be requiring assistance with anything?"

"Is Mr. Darcy still here?" I ask.

"No, sir, he departed from the house a half hour ago."

Marvelous. I truly am alone. Very well… don’t think, Hurst, act! Upon receiving renewed assurances that Rupert’s well-being shall be attended to, I make arrangements for a coach to bear me to Bucks Row, and then realize that, although contemplation is not desirable at this point, I must at least think of a means of defending myself. I don’t have much experience in these sorts of things, you know; my tassel with Wickham last summer was a result of poor subterfuge on my part, not any sort of daring, courageous assault. Standing in the middle of Darcy’s front hall, still clad in yesterday’s clothes, I begin to grow rather panicked, before it strikes me that perhaps I should think of how another would behave in my place. If I were Bingley, for instance, I’d smile as the bullets tore through my torso. If I were The Colonel, I’d whip out two loaded pistols and start talking really really quickly. And, if I were to take Darcy’s example, all I’d have to do is stare my assailant in the eye until he spontaneously combusted.

Confound it! I suppose I’ll just have to be myself then. Which means that Miss Lucas and I are in very deep trouble.

Oh think, Hurst, think! Dare I arm myself with a gun or two? Nay! I shall wind up shooting anything and everything but my intended target – one near-execution of a Regent and years of empty-handed quail hunts have taught me that Hurst and firearms do not go together. Dare I use a knife? And do what, Hurst? Carve a ham for Denny? Indeed, there is only one option left for me, and I shudder to use it. But use it I must.

So it is that a stiff, sweaty, tired Hurst boards a coach a quarter of an hour later, accompanied only by one close-mouthed coachman and a nondescript, discreetly covered cage. As this motley company rounds the corner leading off of Darcy’s street, another coach rolls into Darcy’s front drive but disappears from view before the haggard Hurst can venture a guess as to whom it could belong to. ‘Tis no matter – Hurst should now be thinking of his own affairs, and of the alarming fact that he has begun to refer to himself in the third person… surely a symptom of insanity.

I have the coachman stop two streets away from Bucks Row – it wouldn’t do to have the Darcy coach standing too close to any brothels or barbaric boardinghouses. Refusing the assistance of the taciturn coachman, I depart with the cage weighing me down on one side, and it is not long before I am within sight of the address, as decrepit as Rupert said it would be. A surly specimen stands at the front doorway, and I can make out the ball of his muscles and swell of his back even from the other side of the thronged and noisy street. Picking my way through the crowds – as several, no doubt, fruitlessly pick their way through my empty pockets – I make my way across the road and begin a search for the back alley that Rupert so half-heartedly recommended. I find it within a short span of time, my spirit sinking at how dark and messy it looks, winding off into the dimness between buildings. After pausing to take one last breath of relatively clean air, I hurl myself into the breach, picking through refuse, garbage, every sort of waste you can possibly imagine. Twice I fall face-first into piles of horse dung, no doubt heaped as a source of fuel, leading me to wonder if this long alleyway contains any human denizens.

My question is answered by the sudden appearance of three men, about as dirty as I now am and even less happy with my presence on their… I shall call it property for lack of a better term. I at first make a gesture of peace, indicating that all I wish to do is pass through, but they will have nothing to do with any proffered olive branch, and instead begin to bear down on me. Mumbling an incoherent prayer that I hope G-d will be able to unscramble, I rip off the blanket from the cage, yank open the small door, and release Abaddon, while keeping Caroline confined. Then I proceed to watch with satisfaction as the mad rooster chases the men around, knowing not which to sink his beak in, as they squeal and bleat like the Matlock sheep. What finally rouses me is the sobering thought that I do not know how to call the attack off, and that – if the men escape – the rooster shall turn on me. Throwing the blanket over the cage again, I stumble down the rest of the alleyway, casting one glance back in time to witness the beast chase the trio out onto the street.

Oh Abaddon, I think – sending my love out to the rabid rooster who just saved my life – I shall ne’er see thee again, though thou shalt live in mine heart evermore.

Now, where was I? Right, composing an ode to a rooster. Sentiments professed, I emerge from the winding alleyway and find myself in yet another alley, straight as Darcy's spine, lining the back of the boardinghouse. Four windows, all with a board or two nailed across them, present themselves to view, and I immediately know which belongs to the absconders, for their voices now waft out to greet me.

"What was that dreadful noise?" queries Miss Mariah. "It sounded like a rooster."

Silence.

"Ben?"

Silence.

"Benjamin!"

"Yes?"

"When shall we leave this noisy, awful place and wed?"

"Not before I finish sorting out my business."

Creeping up to their window, I can barely contain a snort. Business, indeed. Business in the form of creditors who most likely wish to see him at the bottom of the Thames. However Miss Mariah seems to accept his explanation, for she does not respond.

I take a moment to slump against the wall for a bit of rest. Sore limbs, little sleep, and a life-threatening encounter have all left me rather breathless. While savoring the little respite I have, I become privy to more conversation between the pursued pair, from which I make out that Mariah Lucas is bored, Benny Denny doesn’t care that she’s bored, Mariah Lucas begins to hum a tune quite off-key, Benny Denny makes the alarming suggestion that she go to the house next door and teach her tunes to the ladies there, whereupon Miss Mariah remarks that they do not look like ladies. "In the dark they do," Denny insists, and proceeds to drop a few more disconcerting hints that such an establishment is "not all that bad" and that one should remain "broad-minded about it". Miss Mariah – raised in genteel ignorance – cannot guess at what he refers to, though I have more than an inkling. I know that I must act now and reveal myself.

With a cry befitting the most fearsome of banshees, I hoist my bottom onto the outer sill and – clutching Caroline's confinement to my body – swing my legs through the window, busting through the board with the sheer brunt of belly and cage. As Miss Mariah shrieks, I stagger to a standstill and quickly take in the scene before me. She is wearing an old dressing-gown and shawl, and sitting in front of a shabby boudoir with a cracked mirror; by the comb that’s lying at her feet, I assume that she had been brushing her hair. Denny, on the other hand, is sitting up in bed, an array of papers strewn about him on the coverlet. When he spots me, he begins to reach for a gun at the foot of the bed but I warn him to stay still, chiefly because, well, he wants to shoot me, but, just as important, he also appears to be entirely unclothed.

"Stay right where you are!" I bark, shuddering at the thought of his nude and freckled form. "Right under the covers, or else you shall gravely regret your haste."

After a momentary pause, he chooses neither to move forwards nor backwards. The covers have already slipped to slightly below his navel. We’re in dangerous waters.

"Who are you?" he seethes.

I blink, astonished at his question, but then realize that I must still have horse dung caked to my face. "Your worst nightmare," I reply, trying hard to sound brutal.

"No actually," Miss Mariah pipes up, her voice trembling, "his worst nightmare is this woman called Lady Catherine coming after him with a–"

"Mariah!" Denny warns. Then, turning to me he repeats, "Who are you? Tell me at once!"

"That is not of importance. What is important is that I’ve come here to negotiate with you on a matter of matrimony."

Recognition lights up in his eyes. "Hurst, it’s you, isn’t it? Gilroy Hurst!" he cries, leveling me with one long, accusing finger.

Well, so much for dung-induced anonymity. "Yes, it is I, and if you do not pipe down and sit still, I’ll set yet another creature loose in all your darkest dreams!"

"And what creature would that be?" he hisses.

In answer, I rip the blanket off the cage. Only, something goes terribly amiss. For instead of leaping at the bars as she is usually wont to do, Caroline sits perfectly still. When I nudge the cage with my foot, all she does is fix a sinister eye on me, but otherwise makes no motion. Some further nudging, and she ruffles her feathers a bit, providing me with a glimpse of what’s lying between the straw and her bottom.

"Eggs?" I cry, falling to the floor on my knees. "You’ve laid eggs? I thought you were infertile! Oh, Abaddon, you sly bird…"

"A hen, Hurst? Is that the best you can do?"

I look up to find myself at the receiving end of Denny’s pistol, which he retrieved while I was exclaiming my distress. Thankfully, his lower half is back under the covers. I wouldn’t want my last sight upon this Earth to be a full front view of his pale, ugly –

"I’ve wanted to murder you some for time now," he breathes.

"What’s stopping you?" I whisper, rising shakily to my feet.

"You sound quite bold. Are you really as brave as you now seem?"

No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no! "Yes," I reply, as sweat spills from every pore on my scalp.

"Excellent. Then you’ll be able to wait quietly as I decide whether to shoot you… or keep you tied up ‘til one of your wealthier friends comes round with some money to collect you."

Suddenly, a gunshot is heard somewhere within the house, followed by fearsome cries and slamming doors. Tugging the coverlet about his waist, Denny shuffles out of bed to investigate, only to have the door fly open and smash into his face. The impact sends him staggering back, his gun falling to the floor as blood gushes from his nose. He drops the coverlet. I drop to the floor and avert my eyes. My gaze lands on the shoes of the intruder. Expensive shoes. Topped by high quality stockings. Hmmm… and some pretty expensive-looking breeches, as well. Nice waistcoat, too, sitting snugly over a waistline that is in the process of expanding from trim to prosperously plump. And afterwards the cravat, frothy as cream, followed by the beginnings of a second chin, and then… a most agreeable smile.

My jaw sinks to the floor. "Henry?" I breathe, scarcely believing my eyes.

"How good to see you, Hurst," he replies, not appearing surprised at all by my presence. Then, turning to Denny he adds, "For Heaven’s sake, put some clothes on, young man. Can you not see how you’re frightening my friend?"

Denny quickly snatches up the blanket and swaddles himself in it like an infant. "Wh-who are you?" he gasps, gazing up at Henry’s imposing form.

I am the one who informs him. "It’s Lady Catherine De Bourgh’s nephew."

Denny is drained of all color. "I didn’t take anything from her," he insists. "I swear to you I didn’t! Please, please," he cries, "don’t kill me, don’t shoot me, don’t… don’t send her after me! I swear I didn’t–"

"Oh, shut up," Henry sighs. "Now, where’s the girl?"

Miss Mariah dutifully crawls out from under the bed.

"Splendid," Henry continues, keeping his pistol trained on Denny’s pleading, bleeding countenance. "Hurst, escort the young lady to a safe place, scrub your face, and I’ll remain here and hold this infant’s hand."

"But what… how do you know… I don’t understand…" I whisper.

"All shall be duly explained," is his calm reply. "Oh," he adds, glancing at Caroline, "don’t tell me you’re investing in poultry. An utterly senseless idea, Hurst. Why just when my coach pulled up, I spotted a rooster chasing six men into a tavern. There must be some madness spreading through the chicken houses this year." Before I can reply, he turns to Miss Mariah, who has not made any move to collect her belongings. "Gather what you need, madam, and follow my friend."

"But," she whispers, "shall I ever see my Denny again?"

"Oh, yes," Henry replies, aiming a malevolently pleasant smile at the pale captain. "I’ll make certain of it."

Pleased with his response, she quickly snatches up her belongings, which do not amount to much, and draws up to my side. "That’s all you have?" I inquire, pointing at the small pile in her hands.

"Why, yes… Denny told me not to take any more from home. He promised to buy me all sorts of things when we reached London."

I briefly close my eyes, the sight of her earnestly naïve expression almost too painful for me to bear. They fly open though when I feel Henry ease another gun into my hand. "You can go through the front way now," he says.

"But I can’t use one of these!" I cry.

"You don’t have to. If any brute gives you trouble, just wave it around a bit and I’m certain he’ll run. They’re all cowards, Hurst, know this. The bigger the bully, the smaller the soul," he concludes, his eyes still locked on Denny.

Seeing not a small amount of wisdom in his words, I gather up Caroline, tuck Miss Mariah’s hand into the crook of my arm, draw a deep breath and – after taking one step into the hall – opt instead to retreat and go out the back window. The reason being not cowardice or fear but – but, um… er… my disinclination to diminish the size of my soul by bullying anyone with a gun. Yes… that’s exactly it.

When Darcy’s coachman spots us – dingy man, frightened girl, not-so-infertile hen – he does not say a word (being Darcy’s servant and all) but he does almost fall off his seat. Ignoring his shock, I order him to hie to the beloved house on Gracechurch Street, where I deposit Miss Mariah. Though I refrain from making an entrance myself (I wouldn’t wish for any Gardiner to see me in this state), I do wait until the young lady has disappeared inside, sending her off with the reassurance that she shall indeed be wed to her beloved Benny.

Then, off to Darcy’s residence. The moment I step through the door, his butler cries out, "We shall have no tramps and vagabonds here! Be off, before I have you thrown out bodily!"

"It’s only me, Jooves."

The butler blinks, his eyes growing wide like the two ‘o’s snuggled up at the center of his name. "Hurst? Er, sir?" He rushes forward. "Forgive me, sir, forgive my intemperate words–"

"You can make it up to me," I cut him off, "by drawing me a bath – and sending up a tray with anything and everything that contains cream and/or chocolate. Do I make myself clear?"

Ah, yes. When Hurst wants to binge, the whole house listens. After calling another servant to bear Caroline away to her proper quarters, Jooves personally escorts me upstairs, where I spend the next hour happily boiling in the bath and partaking of some absolutely scrumptious dessert food, though unfortunately – or fortunately, I suppose – my tiredness does prevent me from eating too much.

Upon leaving the tub, I attempt to remain awake in case Henry arrives, and struggle valiantly to find some occupation that will keep me conscious. However, whiling away time at Rupert’s side is out of the question, for I learn from another servant that he is fast asleep. Thusly deprived of his company, I send for a book, but find myself nodding off after every few pages. As another hour passes I give up and, changing into nightclothes, crawl into bed and succumb to delicious slumber.

I do not know how long I remain abed, only that I am subject to recurring dreams of Louisa throwing garlands about my neck and bestowing upon me other gifts that are far less proper though far more well-received. I awaken only when a pair of hands clamp upon my shoulders – not Louisa’s hands unfortunately – and, in the gathering gloom, find myself blinking up at Henry Fitzwilliam.

"Shall I tell you everything now," he says, "or would you rather continue sleeping?"

Chapter Nineteen – Part Two

Posted on Monday, 9 June 2003

As I look up at Henry’s face, my vision muzzy and my body protesting even the slightest movement, I am tempted to tell him to wait another hour or two before relating the tale of his timely arrival and indispensable intervention. By his expression though, I see that his question as to whether I want to listen to him or continue sleeping is purely rhetorical, and that I should be hauling my slumberous self out of bed and bestowing upon him all the attention befitting a hero and rescuer. With a sigh I struggle up and throw my legs over the side, only to find my upper body swaying dangerously towards the floor. Saving me for the second time that day, Henry catches hold of my shoulder, steadies me, and hands me my robe, which I throw over my nightclothes. I glance at the table by the hearth and find that he ordered food brought up, along with some spirits to revive me. We both settle down in seats next to the low flames and – after a few minutes of nibbling, pecking, and partaking – he clears his throat and lays aside his fork.

"What poor encouragement I’m receiving," he teases. "I come here, expecting to find you in a state of utter suspense, willing to hang onto my every word and follow each turn in my tale like a goat trailing a carrot, but instead I discover you in a stupendous doze, snoring loudly enough to summon all of Hell’s minions…"

"I don’t mean to discourage, Henry. I’m not myself right now, that’s all. I’m still in a bit of shock." I shake my head and slump back in my seat. "Today was unreal."

He crosses one leg over the other, rests his hands upon his knees, and eyes me with fond amusement. When I fail to speak, he prompts me. "Now should be the moment when you begin to exclaim in wonder about my sudden appearance, and petition me eagerly for an explanation."

I pause, digesting his words. "Oh, of course," I concur, "that would be the expected thing for me to do. But you see, I don’t even know where to begin or what to ask."

"You don’t?" he inquires, surprised.

"No, not really. Certainly I’d like to know how you discovered my whereabouts, and how you learned of Denny and Miss Mariah, and why you were in London to begin with, and how your dealings with Denny proceeded, and whether or not you successfully wrapped up the sheep business in Matlock. But, other than those points, I’m really at a loss for what to ask."

"I see," he murmurs, tenting his fingers and peering at me over their tips. "Hurst… I’d like you to do something for me."

I nod slowly, awaiting his next words.

"I’d like you to unfold your hand and press your palm against your cheek. Can you do that?" Upon my performing the task with little difficulty, he praises me and resumes. "Then I would like you to draw your palm back about six inches from your face. Good, a little more… there. Now," he continues, "after shutting your eyes tight, I want you to thrust your palm – hard as you can – against your cheek. Understood?"

Reader, I almost do it. I almost slap myself in the face. I reach the point where my eyes are closed and my hand further stiffens, ready to singe my flesh. Then I catch myself and, with an ugly snort, shake my head and stare straight on at Henry, who is muffling a laugh behind his fist.

"That’s not funny," I grumble.

"Oh, but it is," he sighs, smoothing down his waistcoat. "I never thought I’d see you so addle-brained, my friend."

His amusement and the sting of indignity penetrate further into the general fog of my mind, and I pull myself up in my chair, my fingers drumming the armrest. "Proceed, Viscount, with your story," I seethe.

"Now that my audience has returned to Earth, I shall," he says. "To start off, I concluded the sheep affair rather rapidly and all to my satisfaction, mollifying my neighbors and patching up the whole affair with little money spent and no ill-will remaining."

I little doubt his assertions. Henry Fitzwilliam is known to be an excellent landlord, largely overseeing the Matlock estate for his father and conducting his affairs with sense and skill.

"That taken care of," he proceeds, "I bade my parents farewell and, on Thursday last, began to make my way to London. I had decided upon traveling at a brisk pace – I did miss the city and my home here – and, to my satisfaction, the journey unfolded without event. That is, until Saturday night."

"What happened on Saturday?" I inquire.

"I happened to intercept a rider who was heading, with an express, to Matlock. He stopped by the inn I had taken up residence at for the night and by chance I overheard him tell another fellow where he was headed. I took the letter from him then, and found that its contents greatly interested me." He pauses, a faint smile playing at his lips. "It informed me that my dear friend, Gilroy Hurst, had taken upon himself the unenviable task of hieing off to London in order to restore the reputation of an errant young lady by the name of Miss Mariah Lucas. The letter-writer also communicated the suspicion that the said Mr. Hurst was doing so chiefly because he is interested in pairing me off with the girl’s older sister."

"‘Tis true, ‘tis true," I murmur, wide-eyed.

"The letter then went on to reveal the identity of the scoundrel – Benjamin Denny of phrenological fame – and expressed to me the hope that I would hurry off to London and assist you in your endeavors. The letter-writer conveyed a genuine fear for your life, and enumerated your failings in all matters related to firearms, combat, and unpleasant physical exertion." He chuckles. "Hurst, the matchmaker, wading through fire in the service of mating and matrimony."

"Oh, shut it," I mutter, though not without a smile. "I also came here because I felt that I had not done enough to prevent the–"

"Certainly, certainly," he cuts in smoothly. "You obeyed every higher principle, Hurst – the cry of a disturbed conscience, in addition to the interests and happiness of a good friend."

We look at each other then, in a kind of unspoken communication that can be exchanged only by true friends, before his gaze flickers to the fire. "In any case," he resumes, "I knew that my assistance was needed, and – after getting a few hours of sleep – I immediately set off for London. Horrible weather impeded me though, slowing me down so that I arrived at my house a full two days later, quite late yesterday night. And, as the servants went about drawing me a bath and preparing my bed, I happened to look through some correspondence that had piled up in my absence, and spotted a letter you had sent about two weeks ago."

"Yes," I say, "that’s right. I wrote to you of Miss Lucas, the elder Miss Lucas, did I not? Before you had informed me of the trouble at Matlock."

"Indeed. And I knew, upon reading it, that my efforts could be doubly rewarded. Not only would I be aiding jolly good Gilroy, but – if all went well – I would be thrown into the path of a lady who reads Fielding in church." He bites his lower lip. "Does she really?"

"I saw it with my own two eyes."

"Remarkable," he sighs, his fingers tapping against his knee.

"Henry," I say, "she has many other fine qualities to recommend her, as well."

"To be sure, to be sure," he agrees. "Your letter piqued my interest, Gil, it really did. It relieved me to read that she is nothing like her sister."

"Nothing at all," I stress.

"Marvelous! So I shall meet her then?"

"Of course!" I exclaim. "And by asking such a question, you suggest that all went satisfactorily with Denny today, after I left."

"Ah, yes, let me get to that. I needn’t tell you that your letter improved my spirits last night and that when I woke up this morning, I did so at an early hour and with renewed strength. As soon as I had dressed and breakfasted I hurried over here, to Darcy’s residence, only to discover that you were nowhere on the premises. In fact the highest-ranking figure in the home, as I learned, was my brother, a circumstance which made me rather nervous. I asked to be shown to your valet and, after discovering him in such a state, I was truly alarmed, especially when he told me where you had gone. He seemed to think that the Colonel had accompanied you, but I knew better of course. Immediately I set off after you, taking my brother’s pistols with me… which reminds me, I should return them soon. If he finds out they’re missing…"

"And so you came upon me, on the floor, my face practically at the feet of a hen, a dazed girl and unclothed fiend as my only company."

"Well-put, old friend, well-put," he remarks. "And after you left, I found it no trouble at all to persuade him to marry Miss Mariah. I promised to patch up his debts and restore him to his post in the army. In addition," he adds, a satisfied grin stealing over him, "I warned him that if ever he should mistreat his future wife…" He leaves the sentence unfinished, but I can imagine some of the threats that might have sprung from his imaginative brain. I can also imagine their effect on Benny Denny.

He smiles. "After that business was resolved, I came here immediately and though I wished to awaken you within moments of my arrival, I took pity upon your weary self and schooled myself to patience. I also spoke with Fairfax and Jooves, to see if they had any recommendations as to where a couple can be discreetly married. They spoke of a clergyman, a Father Mackenzie, and his church on Penny Lane that might be worth investigating." A look of puzzlement crosses his features. "I wished to ask Darcy for his advice as well, and to pass a few hours with him, but he has not yet returned. Do you know where he might have gone?"

I tell him then about the other pair of absconders, and how he is also soothing the sting of his conscience by attempting to marry them off and salvage their reputations.

"I take it though," Henry says, in his highly perceptive way, "that my cousin is not being driven to his good deeds by a sense of responsibility alone."

"Certainly not, you quick fellow," I reply. "He happens to be madly in love with the girl’s older sister."

Henry uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his seat. "Darcy… in love?"

I nod and offer him a helpless shrug.

"My, my," he murmurs, sinking back. "How very… improbable. Or so I would have thought." A grin lights up his face. "And she’s from Hertfordshire too, you say?"

"Yes indeed. She is Miss Charlotte’s closest friend."

"Splendid!" he cries. "When I accompany you to Netherfield then, I shall have the privilege of seeing him stumble in his boots and stutter like a lamb! A good show, a good show!"

"I would echo those sentiments, Henry," I say, "but it seems that I owe him my life as well, and should speak of him – at least for the remainder of today – without teasing. If he had not sent that express to you… I mean, I had told him that my valet would be assisting me, but Darcy does not place much faith in the capacity of servants… he truly thought I would be in danger and he was right."

It takes me a moment to register Henry’s confusion. "What is it?" I ask.

"Hurst," he says, drawing out his words slowly. "It wasn’t Darcy who sent me that express. It wasn’t his letter that I read Saturday night."

I pause and then start. "Oh, of course not," I murmur. "It couldn’t have been. I’d never told him of my plan to pair you off with Miss Charlotte, and so he could not have known that, which means… the person who wrote the letter is…"

My sudden realization of who that worried letterwriter might be coincides with Henry’s next utterance. "It was your wife, Hurst," he whispers. "It was Louisa." And, dear reader, the doors fly open, the curtains part, the sunlight pours in, the windows shimmer… my mind is no longer shuttered up in stupidity, in obtuse darkness… and even as I nearly smack myself for my dearth of insight, my lack of penetration, inwardly I am beginning to spin round and round like some big, bright-colored top, a certain, sure hope gathering strength within me.

"Hurst?" Henry ventures, though I hardly hear him. I’m on my feet now, and I stumble over to a window, leaning heavily against the pane and looking out at the distant moon. Louisa, I think, it was Louisa. My memory takes me back to the morning of my departure, last Thursday, and her refusal to look at me, to acknowledge my impending journey. "You fool," I whisper, my breath fogging up the glass, "she didn’t despise you – she was dreadfully afraid for your life. And you! You… didn’t… see… it," I conclude, knocking my forehead against the window with each word. My fingers clench around the curtain sash and, unbidden, another tableau springs to mind, one conjured entirely by my imagination. It depicts my wife, still clad in her nightgown – her delightful, lace-lined, clean-smelling nightgown – sitting at her writing table, her brow clouded, her mouth fixed in an unhappy moue, her lovely, livening fingers pouring out a letter of appeal, of concern. This image fixes in my mind, and I hold it there, studying it with all the strength of my inward eye, until I feel something like crystal shatter within my chest. A most painful sweetness seizes me and, nearly sinking to my knees, I expel a long, shaky sigh.

"Hurst?" Henry’s voice is at my ear. Then his hand comes around my shoulder, and he is guiding me back to my seat. "Hurst, whatever is the matter?"

I look up at him with what I imagine to be one of the most glazed and goosy expressions I was ever known to wear. "I’m in love," I whisper.

"Ah," he murmurs, chuckling delightedly. He seats himself opposite me again and studies me for a short while, as the sweetness continues to clench my heart. "I’ve never heard you use that word before," he finally says. "At least, not in respect to Mrs. Hurst."

I frown, assaulted by remorse. "No," I whisper, "indeed I haven’t. Not even to her, Henry, not even to her… yet." I run my hands over my face. "And our relations, Henry, I must tell you, our relations were greatly improved of late. Greatly. I merely misunderstood her the morning I left."

"She does seem changed," Henry remarks. "I could tell, in the tone of her letter."

"Yes, yes… oh, Henry, the moment I get back there… the moment I arrive back at Netherfield I’ll – let the servants gape! – I’ll seal her mouth with a kiss, sweep her up in my arms, march up the stairs–"

"Falter on the sixth or seventh step," he cuts in, "struggle for breath, set her on her feet, lean on her like a crutch, stagger up the remaining stairs and then…"

I throw a cushion at him, which hits him squarely on the nose. We both begin to laugh, feeling very much like roommates at a university. At length, when our mirth runs its course, we settle down, dabbing at our eyes and sighing with contentment.

"I hope you find happiness as I have found," I say. "And, unlike myself, I hope you always learn to appreciate it for what it is."

He folds his hands over his stomach. "Miss Lucas does sound very promising," he admits.

"Oh, you will like her instantly, I believe. I only hope that your parents won’t mind too much that she does not hail from the highest social circle."

He shrugs. "As long as she has a sense of humor, my mother shall be pleased with her, I dare say. And as for my father… he might go a bit berserk at first, but he rarely fosters resentment for long. After the ranting and raving comes reconcilement, for he is not as implacable as my Aunt Catherine."

"That’s somewhat comforting," I say. "My concern was that, if he is adamantly opposed to the match, he might… I don’t know… cut off your allowance or do something else to that effect."

Henry smiles and shakes his head. "In the unlikely event of such a threat being carried out, Hurst," he informs me, "I should have nothing material to fear." He pauses and looks me squarely in the eye. "I’d like to tell you something, Gilroy. Something I’ve never spoken of. To anyone." He shifts in his seat. "I am a man of decidedly independent means. If I so wished, I could live off of a large personal fortune, unattached to my father’s wealth."

"How so?" I ask, genuinely befuddled.

"Every month since I came of age, my father has bestowed upon me an allowance of an amount befitting the noblest of viscounts," he wryly relates. "Perhaps he assumed that, like many other men of my station, I would acquire expensive habits or tastes." He chuckles, shaking his head. "Other older sons are placated in such a way, as they wait to inherit their family’s estates."

"You do not gamble then?" I tease. "Or ply a mistress with diamonds and silk, or throw extravagant fetes every week at your home? But continue, I’d like to know where this is leading."

"My expenses were never great, for I had no need of wasting my allowance on any sort of lavish vice or pastime. And so – unbeknownst to my family – I’ve set aside a portion of it every month. Invested much of it in various trades as well, and doubled and tripled what I have. And it belongs to myself alone, in my own accounts."

"Henry Fitzwilliam," I declare, brimming with admiration, "you are certainly full of surprises today."

He shrugs, clearly pleased with himself but not arrogant enough to crow about it. "I am immune then," he states, "from any monetary threat that my father should level at me. However, I do hope that relations shall not sour between us," he adds, growing more serious. "After all, I undertook the acquiring of a personal fortune so that I might never grow to despise him. Too many men in my position come to resent their fathers. After the first flush of youth, when the novelty wears off of idle pursuits, eldest sons often curse their dependence, embittered as they are that the family fortune is not yet theirs to handle as they wish. And such frustration breeds the wish, the horrible wish, that death will remove the paternal obstacle and grant them their longed-for status as men of independent means." He purses his lips. "I never wished to be in that position, Hurst, to be prey to such repulsive sentiments. My father is, at the heart of it, a fine, decent fellow, and from the earliest age I have felt towards him what a son should properly feel for his sire. By no means was I going to allow matters of money, of self-assertion, of manhood to come between us." He stretches his legs contentedly. "It does me well to know that my savings and investments have made me a man of stature, in my own right, and that I am not some grasping, overgrown infant, spitting up on the very hand that feeds it."

Silence ensues as I allow his words to sink in. Once again, dear reader, I have been reminded of what exists beneath the wry banter, the light humor, the pleasant, seemingly careless demeanor with which Henry Fitzwilliam confronts the world.

"But, Henry," I say at last, "would you allow a lady come between you?"

He gazes into the hearth. "If this Miss Charlotte does come to suit me," he replies, "then I shall stand by my choice, and place faith in my father’s good sense, that he shall eventually come to see her merits as well. As I said before, he is not one to bear a deep grudge and besides, we have always gotten on exceedingly well, and I do not believe that he would seriously consider breaking his bond with me. In short, Hurst, I trust that all shall take a turn for the best."

And that is indeed all that one can hope for. We sit for a while longer, Henry and I, in companionable silence, until he notices the lateness of the hour and rouses himself to depart for his residence. On the way to the staircase, he slips into his brother’s room but comes out almost immediately afterwards, informing me that The Colonel is fast asleep and bound by one arm and one leg to the bedstead. "He must have given the doctor much trouble," Henry remarks, failing to suppress a snort.

We part at the head of the staircase and, after I hear him exchange farewells with Jooves, I make my way back to my chamber, where I intend to mull over everything I have learned today and everything that has transpired. However, just as I am ensconcing myself by the hearth again, I hear a rap at my door and am informed by a servant that Darcy – who has just arrived – wishes me to appear immediately in his study.

Knowing that he must have news of Wickham, I clamber down the stairs, still clad in nightclothes. When Jooves spots me – robe trailing, shirt billowing as I plod through the sumptuous parlor – he can barely muster a bow, so dejected does he look when confronted by my attire. I am too excited to be embarrassed though, and rap eagerly on the study door, upon which I am bid to "enter".

I slip inside and close the door behind me, thinking that there was something curious in Darcy’s tone of voice when he said that simple word, "enter" – there was a certain barely suppressed emotion in it, but what emotion, I cannot discern. The man himself stands facing the window, his back turned to me, hands clasped at his tail bone. His pinky ring is not whirling about, so I can surmise at least that he is not in a state of agitation. Though there is something unsettled about him… for the moment the door clicks shut, he whirls about on his feet, and in his eyes I see a bright, shining expression of admiration. Directed at me.

He stands there some moments longer, looking at me in that confounding way without even breathing a word until – completely flustered and confused – I request a drink. Quickly he goes about carrying out my wish, and when he hands the glass to me, his jaw clenches with barely checked feeling.

"I take it all has gone well with Wickham," I venture, eyeing him over the rim of my glass.

He strides over to the window again. "As well as I expected," he replies, rubbing the sole of his boot against the carpet. "Miss Lydia Bennet is now residing with the Gardiners, and Wickham – knowing that his debts shall soon be paid – will marry her."

"Well done, Darcy," I say. "Though I hope the affair did not cost you too much."

"More than I would have wished to part with. But I shall not allow it to bother me much further." He turns to me, wearing an enigmatic smile. "I wish to tell you something, Hurst. Something entirely unexpected that transpired when I was there."

Noting the undercurrent of excitement in his voice, I slowly set aside my drink and cock my head in question. His smile widens, and he paws the floor again.

"The moment Wickham irrevocably committed himself to wedding Miss Bennet, the moment he knew that the game was up and that he was ensnared, he uttered something, a strange comment that demanded further clarification. He said that he had sensed – even a fortnight ago before his and Denny’s phrenological scam-in-the-making was wrecked – that he would fail. That he would see none of the promised money and reap none of the rewards."

"Well with that attitude, of course he’d fail," I remark, chuckling.

Darcy’s fingers tug repeatedly at the curtain, and his eyes do not leave my face. "Do you know what brought about such an attitude, though?"

I frown, truly baffled. "Maybe," I venture, "beneath the cocky façade is a frightened little boy, plagued with self-doubt and–"

"No, Hurst, no," Darcy interrupts, his hand dropping from the curtain. "What he said was that he knew he would fail the moment he encountered a certain gentleman on the streets of Meryton. A gentleman whom he has come to call ‘The Omen of Chaos.’"

I’m glad I’ve set my drink aside, or else it surely would have dropped to the floor.

Darcy takes a step closer to me, eyes still boring into my own. "Have you ever seen this gentleman, Hurst, walking about in Meryton?"

I feel heat begin to crawl up my cheeks. "No… not seen him. He must look a fright though, to be named an omen of chaos."

Darcy chuckles, moving one more careful foot closer. "Quite the contrary. Wickham described him to me and his appearance seems rather harmless."

"Oh, but you don’t know what lurks beneath the surface, Darcy," I whisper, bashfully scratching the back of my head.

He grows serious. "No… I have not known everything. Never known everything." Swallowing hard, he continues. "I pressed Wickham into telling me why this gentleman would serve as such a dire portent, and out came a very interesting tale about a foiled elopement last summer in Ramsgate. Apparently this Omen of Chaos, this wily albeit unassuming gentleman, drugged Wickham for a day."

"The powder used was purchased by the gentleman’s valet; it was the valet’s idea to use it. The gentleman himself merely performed the simple act of drugging, which – executed by his clumsy hands – wasn’t so simple at all. He nearly bungled it."

"Ah. But he still succeeded, did he not? Ultimately?"

"Aye," I whisper, feeling my ears burn as well.

Another step forward from Darcy. We’re about six feet apart now. "Listening to this remarkable tale of subterfuge, Hurst," he says, "I couldn’t help but assume that the said gentleman also sent an express to the older brother of the young lady in question."

"Ah, the valet’s quick thinking again. He even suggested that the gentleman write two and send it to the… to the, uh, brother’s London home as well as his country home."

"Hmmm… a clever servant in the employ of a clever master. But tell me, was it the valet’s idea to also write a note to the young lady, pretending it was from her brother, that she should wait for him in Ramsgate on pretext of a forthcoming gift?"

"No," I reply, unable to meet his eyes, "that was the gentleman’s idea. It was about time that he thought of something clever on his own."

"I see." Darcy’s jaw clenches again. He is fighting down a grin. "But tell me, are you certain you do not know this gentleman? Wickham told me that initially, he introduced himself as Lee Ratmen. That was at the tavern, when this… this Omen plied Wickham and his companion, Mrs. Younge, with questions pertaining to the young lady of fortune who was to be their victim." His arms move to his sides. "Is Lee Ratmen his real name?"

"No, no. Once again, an invention of his valet, his clever valet." I dare to look at his eyes again and what I see amazes me. His normally penetrating peepers are not only penetrating, but also appear a bit misty as well.

"Hurst," he whispers. "Hurst, thank you." And with that, he closes the distance between us and enfolds me in an enormous embrace.

Molded against him, my nose bent in two by his solid shoulder, I experience a swirl of overpowering sensations. His heady, masculine aroma floods my nostrils; his sleek, powerful arms crush my nape and right scapula, his passionate heart thunders against my collarbone. I am enveloped, enmeshed, encapsulated by his sheer strength, unable to draw air, to form words, to remember the day of the week. I am lost, dear reader, lost in the pressure, in the overwhelming confinement, so that there is only one word that can be used to describe the intense perturbations within me.

And that word is suffocated.

"Darcy… I can’t… breathe!" I choke.

He releases me almost immediately, and then stands by my side as I reacquire the ability to inhale. When he sees that I’m all right, he pats my shoulder stiffly, clears his throat gruffly (I do the same, incidentally, though my throat-clearing sounds more like wheezing), and for a few long moments the two of us merely stand there trying to appear as manful and unaffected as possible. Darcy comments, in a rather deeper voice than usual, about the results of a boxing match he happened to come across in the papers, and I – not knowing a thing about sports – limit myself to some vigorous nodding and grunting. Finally, when the charade fizzles out, I stick out my hand, which he forcefully accepts, and say to him, "You owe me nothing, Darcy. To be able to call you a friend is a big enough reward." As he half-bows (perhaps he’s attempting to conceal more emotion, who knows?), I add, "I didn’t always think we would be friends. Remember, a little over two weeks ago, in Bingley’s study, when I harangued you for wishing to interfere between Bingley and Miss Jane Bennet? I said some pretty awful things to you then, and I never made a very proper apology."

"But what did you say of me, that I did not deserve?" he exclaims. "For, though your accusations were ill-put and coarsely spoken, my behavior at the time had merited the severest reproof. I cannot think of it without abhorrence."

Well, at least it’s good to know that he’s as critical of himself as he is of others! I attempt to placate him. "The conduct of neither you nor I, if strictly examined, was irreproachable; but since then we have both, I hope, improved in civility."

Turning his back on me, he carries himself over to the window. "But the recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is still a bit painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget. Arrogant and presumptuous, you called me."

Oh, dear. The pinky ring is twirling. Emergency. Emergency. "Oh, do not repeat what I said!" I insist.

The pinky ring slows. Then stops. "Know this," he sighs, peering at me once more, "I have been a selfish being all my life. As a child I was given good principles, but was left to follow them in pride and conceit. Such I was from eight to eight and twenty, and such I might still have been but for you… dearest, bluntest Hurst."

I take out a handkerchief and loudly blow my nose, struggling hard not to pat at my eyes and thus reveal that they are moist. He resumes. "Ever since that day, certain convictions of mine, certain so-called principles, began to waver and weaken. They went through their final death throes at the Gardiner house, last evening." He smiles. "And today, I find out about you – you, Hurst, bumbler though you may be – and Ramsgate. What do I not owe you!"

"Your good looks, for one thing," I reply, seeking to lighten the mood.

My response works its magic. He rolls his eyes, stiffens his shoulders, and grows more Darcy-like again. We part with another handshake and no further words. What needed to be said was said and, quite frankly, I wanted to get out of there before I began to blubber all over his impeccable Oriental rug.

So I find myself in bed once more, staring up at the dark blue canopy, and thinking of how blessedly lucky I am. I have the respect of a man who once thought me a tipsy sloth, I have friends who would risk their life for me, and I have a wife who – despite my maddening obtuseness – cares for me after all.

My cup, dear reader, is full.

Continued In Next Section