Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Read online

  “Bongaerts, yes.... The perfect rat. But I don’t see how that exonerates Miss Bennet.”

  “It doesn’t, necessarily. But before Dubois became ill, he visited his neighbour Bongaerts twice a week. Yet I can’t recall a single instance that Miss Bennet joined the monsieur. Bongaerts’ speaks only French and Dutch—neither of which are familiar to Miss Bennet.”

  Richard nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the new intelligence.

  “Next I went to the canal.” Darcy laid down another photo. “The rain would have erased any pole marks and footprints, but it didn’t disguise the empty tin of Bully Beef and the worn pair of German boots you see there.” Darcy pointed to the objects. “It appears to confirm our earlier suspicion that the prisoners escaped via the canal.”

  “Good scouting.”

  “My final stop was at the cottage of the woman who did washing for the hospital.” He flopped down the last two photos showing soggy sheets half hanging off a clothesline and a rotund woman lying on the ground with a hole in her head.

  “Hmm. I suppose we can conclude the agents were finished with her and ensured her silence. Anything else?”

  “Only this.” He reached into his pocket and tossed Elizabeth’s Croix de Guerre medal onto the table. “I found it behind the monsieur’s bed the morning Elizabeth and I left the chateau.”

  “Did Miss Bennet see it?” Richard looked up at him.

  “She did. I got the feeling she’d have left it at the chateau had I not asked for it. It was clear she wanted no reminders of that arrogant philanderer Cowart who sent it to her.”

  Richard sat back in his chair. “But nothing to connect Wickham?”

  “I have a lead, but it makes no sense.” Darcy perched on the edge of the table. “I encountered him at the hotel’s bar in Boulogne—drunk. He was aware Elizabeth and I had...sorted out our differences. He also said, ‘I’m sorry to hear of her misfortune. I couldn’t have orchestrated your demise any better had I planned it myself.’ But I can’t figure out what he meant. What misfortune of Elizabeth’s was he referring to? The death of her mother or her French employer? Or perhaps Lydia’s disappearance?” Darcy shook his head. “And I don’t see how Elizabeth’s misfortune could have anything to do with my demise. It doesn’t add up. Wickham also said, ‘Never know what can happen at the Front.’ I can only assume that was a threat. But he was drunk, so he could’ve been babbling rubbish.”

  Richard pressed his lips together. “Clearly he was keeping tabs on you and Miss Bennet.” He took a drag on his Gold Flake, contemplating the information, then blew out a cloud of smoke and looked up. “What does Robert make of this new information?”

  “I’ve hardly seen him since I returned. The operating theatre’s been a revolving door day and night.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” The corporal peered around the cracked door at Richard. “Your meeting at headquarters starts in an hour.”

  Richard grunted. “Tell my driver I’ll be along straightaway.” He turned back to Darcy. “Brief Robert tonight. We’ll formulate our next course of action in the morning.”

  

  A gentle rain began falling outside, and tears brimmed in Elizabeth’s eyes as she closed the newspaper after reading it for the fourth time. Clearing Station Nurse Suspected of Espionage. ...may have gone by the names Florence or Chérie. ...spotted in the company of an unidentified officer.

  How could this be happening to her? She wasn’t involved in any sort of treasonous activity, but apparently Dr. Cowart and someone else seemed to think otherwise. They’d even identified her by the nicknames given to her at The Ritz! It would only be a matter of days before the authorities discovered her true identity—sooner if Caroline, or whomever else Cowart might have told, tipped them off. Traitors were shot—or hung!

  Her gaze darted around the room with an eerie sensation that eyes were leering in at her from every window.

  Elizabeth flinched as a clap of thunder boomed outside. Dashing to each window, she jerked the curtains across the windowpanes, then pressed her back against the wall and closed her eyes. She needed a plan, not paranoia and hysteria. A plan.... A real plan. First she would be wise to review her behaviour and every association at The Ritz. Then she could formulate a reasonable response to prove her innocence.

  Squaring her shoulders, she crossed to the writing desk, then took out a sheet of paper and began writing.

  An hour later Elizabeth laid down the pen and sat back, stunned. This was a horrible nightmare. Had she been framed, or was she just an unfortunate victim of circumstance? The evidence was certainly stacked against her. No one would believe that the things she did, people she saw, and places she went while at The Ritz were merely coincidental—certainly not her countrymen whose insatiable appetite for witch hunts against German sympathisers showed no mercy and left reputations in tatters. If her identity was revealed, her good name would be ruined!

  Worst of all, when questioned, she’d be obliged to confess that Fitzwilliam was the unidentified officer seen with her the day after the air raid. That would surely lead to a new series of questions, forcing her to reveal her close association with Fitzwilliam and what she’d observed of him. Undoubtedly his actions would be misconstrued, implicating him as well. Even if they were to prove their innocence, he would be shunned by society. These days, in the court of public opinion, mere suspicion was equated with guilt.

  She shook her head in disbelief. There seemed to be only one option. It would break her heart, but it would protect the man she loved. And wasn’t that the very definition of love? Doing what’s best for the other person, in spite of your own desires? A lump formed in her throat as she picked up her pen and drew out a clean sheet of paper.

  An hour passed. And then another. Rain pounded the windowpanes when at last she was satisfied with her detailed plan. It would be a difficult undertaking, but what else could she do to protect herself and Fitzwilliam?

  She forced herself from the chair and moved towards the wardrobe. Reaching for an aubergine wool suit, her hand froze in mid-air and she grimaced. She’d have to wait until after luncheon to set her plan into motion. A travelling suit was hardly appropriate dining room attire. She swallowed hard and redirected her hand towards a pale green day dress.

  Her mind reviewed her plan as she pulled the dress over her head, then wrestled her wavy hair into a chignon at the dressing table. Had she thought of everything? One overlooked detail could be the ruin of them both. Fitzwilliam. She owed him some sort of explanation, but what could she say that wouldn’t further implicate her—and him? Any letter she posted to him would only confirm their association. How could she assure him she was safe? Jane. Surely Fitzwilliam would contact Jane as soon as he learnt Elizabeth was missing. Yes. She could write to Jane. But after all poor Jane had endured with Lydia’s disappearance, she would be heartbroken with this. Another wave of panic flushed over Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s tainted reputation would spread like a disease to all her close associations, condemning them as well—including Charles and Jane. Would Caroline go to the authorities and spill her story in an effort to distance herself from it all?

  Elizabeth’s hands fell limp. She had no control over Caroline, the authorities, or anyone else. All she could do was assure Jane of her innocence and try to protect Fitzwilliam.

  She returned to the writing desk once again and picked up her pen.

  Dearest Jane...

  Sealing the envelope, she glanced at the mantel clock. She had just enough time to complete her final task before luncheon. She reached for her garnet necklace, then clasped it around her neck. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she stopped and fingered the rough stones of the garnet cross she wore every day. It had been a gift from her father for her twelfth birthday and her most precious reminder of him. But the matching bracelet she only wore on occasion. She dug in the drawer and pulled out the string of garnets. It wouldn’t bring a lot of money, but perhaps it would be a fair exchange for what she needed.

&
nbsp; With a sigh, she slid it into her pocket and rose to her feet, then paused. Perhaps she could do something else for Fitzwilliam. She sank back into the chair and picked up her pen again.

  Dearest Fitzwilliam...

  Minutes later Elizabeth cracked the door and peered into the hall. All was clear. Drawing a deep breath, she stole down the corridor and turned the corner into the portrait gallery. She slowed her pace to admire the large portrait of Fitzwilliam. At least she had her own photograph of him—a wonderful picture of them together, taken on their last day in Boulogne.

  The floor creaked, and she whipped her head, scanning the hallway behind her. Nothing. It was only her own weight on the floor. Elizabeth blew out a relieved breath, then hurried on to the door at the end of the hall. Though Fitzwilliam had given her permission to do this, she couldn’t risk anyone seeing her. Glancing both ways, she reached for the doorknob and slipped inside. With her heart pounding, she stepped into the hallowed chamber of her beloved.

  Her gaze circled the massive room. Cobalt blue-coloured walls provided a handsome contrast to the dark wood of the large four-poster bed, writing desk, and upholstered seating area before a marble fireplace. Her focus landed on a bronze statue of a leaping stag gracing a side table. It was a fitting symbol of Fitzwilliam. Powerful. Masculine. But tranquil and soothing. She closed her eyes, feeling his presence. Would she have joined him here one day? Yearning swelled inside her, but she forced the emotion aside.

  She rounded the bed to the table on the other side, then opened the drawer as Fitzwilliam had instructed her. Her breath caught when she came face to face with herself. There she sat, smiling in a red dress at the piano at Rosings. It was a perfect likeness of her. She reached for the sketchpad whose cover was folded back, and a dozen other pages fluttered over her hand—all drawings of her. She hugged the tablet, and tears filled her eyes. He’d truly loved her even back then—months before they were reunited in Belgium—but she’d held only disdain for him.

  Regret washed over her as she folded the cover over the drawings. She found the small key just where Fitzwilliam said it would be, then returned the sketchbook to the drawer. After crossing the Persian rug, she turned a doorknob and entered his dressing room. A large armoire covered one wall, and a full-length mirror stood beside a handsome table on the other.

  Inhaling his familiar scent, she moved to the mirror and gazed at herself. She was only a country girl from Hertfordshire. Could she have been a good wife, helpmeet, and partner to such an important, distinguished man? She imagined his tall form standing at her shoulder, his handsome face and dark hair reflected beside her, his brilliant smile, his dimples. Yes, she could have. And she would have showered him with affection, laughter, and joy. Her chest swelled with love and longing, but she’d come in here for a reason. It was best she complete her task and leave any reminders of him behind.

  She opened the large armoire doors. Jackets and trousers for every occasion hung on one side. The other held shelves of shoes and hats sorted by colour and size. It was fastidiously neat and spoke of his importance and wealth.

  Parting a row of evening jackets, she located the burl wood box and set it on the floor. She turned the key in the lock, then lifted the lid, revealing a mound of coins. Fitzwilliam had urged her to take whatever she might require until his return, but until today, she’d never expected to touch it. Now she was thankful for his offer, for she would surely need all of it.

  She gathered the coins and left the letter and garnet bracelet in their place. She swallowed back tears at the thought of him retrieving the items. This was so hard! She might as well have been stabbing him a thousand times.

  

  An hour later

  With luncheon finally over, Elizabeth forced relaxed steps up the stairs even as her pulse thrummed. It was time.

  Lightning flashed, and she glanced out of the window on the staircase landing. The driving rain would make her task uncomfortable, but no one would expect her to venture out on such a stormy afternoon.

  Back in her room, she traded the dress for the aubergine suit, then folded her VAD uniform and pressed it into the bottom of her red carpetbag. She turned back to the wardrobe and froze. If someone realised she’d taken her VAD uniforms, they’d come looking for her in hospitals. She closed her eyes. These were just the sorts of mistakes she couldn’t afford to make. She replaced the blue uniform with two serviceable dresses, then stared at the wardrobe filled with new clothes from Fitzwilliam. It was hard to leave them behind, but she could only take her carpetbag. Where she was going, she wouldn’t need the rest.

  She shrugged into her blue coat, then added the matching hat and picked up her bag. Moving towards the door, she stopped, then darted back to the desk. Sliding the drawer open, she lifted a letter from Fitzwilliam and the photograph of her beloved. She couldn’t leave them behind. Tucking them into her bag, her gaze circled the lovely room she’d called home for the past three days. Goodbye, Pemberley.

  ~THREE~

  Driving rain greeted Elizabeth as she stepped outside. Turning up her coat’s collar, she glanced at the tumultuous sky. It was five miles to Lambton.

  With one arm around her carpetbag and the other over her hat, she dashed to the shelter of a wooded copse bordering the drive. She would follow the road to Lambton, yet stay out of sight to avoid anyone who might come looking for her. But with Pemberley’s expansive interior, surely it would be hours before Mrs. Reynolds discovered her absence.

  Climbing the hill on the far side of the lake, she turned over her shoulder for a last look at her beloved’s home. It had been a wonderful dream, but she was not Cinderella, and there was no fairy godmother with a magic wand.

  She pressed on, and the rain drove harder, bending the branches of the evergreens. Elizabeth hugged the carpetbag closer. At this rate she would be soaked by the time she reached town. Spotting a gazebo in the distance, she ducked her head and quickened her steps. Although she was no more than half a mile from Pemberley, it would be wise to take refuge until the storm abated. Arriving like a bedraggled dog would surely draw unwanted attention.

  “Miss Bennet?”

  She jerked her head up. “Sapper! What on earth are you doing here?” She stepped under the protection of the gazebo and smiled at The Ritz’s faithful postman whom she’d come to know so well during her time there.

  “I’ve come for a wee visit.” His heavy Scottish accent held none of his usual good humour.

  “A visit?” She placed her bag on a bench and brushed the rain from her coat. “Here?”

  His countenance turned stone cold. “Just give me the medal, and there’ll be no trouble.”

  “The medal? Y-you know I lost it. At The Ritz.” Elizabeth took two steps backwards as a frisson of fear snaked down her spine.

  “Are ya’ sure?” He drew a revolver and cocked it with a click.

  “Sapper! What are you doing?” Reality struck. He’s going to shoot me! She ducked behind a stone pillar just as a bullet pinged off the column.

  Elizabeth darted for the woods when, Boom! The gun discharged again. Running as fast as she could, she expected searing pain at any second.

  “Put it down, lad!” came a feeble voice in the distance, and then the crack of rifle fire.

  Elizabeth kept running.

  “Miss Bennet!” came the unfamiliar voice.

  She glanced over her shoulder. An elderly man dressed in a tweed jacket and breeches was lumbering towards her. Sapper lay crumpled on the ground. Out of breath, she slowed. Suddenly her knees buckled, and she sank to the wet ground, gulping for air in the showering rain. What had just happened? Sapper! One of her dearest friends at The Ritz. He was going to kill her!

  “Miss Bennet?”

  The man who appeared to be a gamekeeper was approaching. How did he know her name? She pressed a hand to her head. If she couldn’t trust Sapper, whom could she trust? She scrambled to her feet on the slippery ground. “I—.” Without a second thought, she bolted bac
k to the gazebo, grabbed her bag, and ran as fast as her wobbly legs would allow her.

  “Miss Bennet!” His voice trailed in the distance.

  Whoever he was, she couldn’t afford to reveal any more than she already had. If he was one of Fitzwilliam’s caretakers, he was sure to inform Mrs. Reynolds straightaway. If he had ill motive....

  Clutching the bag while pumping her other arm in the driving rain, she crested the hill and spotted the village in the far distance. She could no longer risk keeping close to the road. Was Sapper alone? What of the other man? She’d have to take her chances going overland.

  Late in the afternoon Elizabeth emerged from the edge of the woods, the rain at last abated. Breathing hard, her eyes trailed the gravel road before her, relieved to see it led to Lambton. She wasn’t far now.

  She dropped her carpetbag and sucked in the damp air, desperate to rest her exhausted, aching limbs and fill her burning lungs.

  A car rumbled around the corner, and she stumbled behind a tree, pressing her head against the rough bark. She closed her eyes. She mustn’t be seen until she looked presentable and could blend in.

  She glanced down at her blue coat. It wasn’t completely soaked, but tiny remnants of nature had lodged in the fibres, and a smudge of mud traversed the velvet cuff. She brushed it off, then reached for her hat and grunted. It must have fallen off somewhere along the way. The chignon still held but must look a fright. Smoothing her wet, frizzy mass, she reset several hairpins. Appearing in public without a hat would be awkward, but she had no other choice.

  Elizabeth kept to the shadows as she stole down Lambton’s main street lined with shops. At last she spied the railway station and sighed with relief. The activity there confirmed a train’s imminent arrival. Four VADs bustled about the covered platform, setting platters of sandwiches and urns of cocoa on a makeshift table for the soldiers en route north. A dozen fathers and mothers and wives with children milled about, eager to greet their Tommies arriving home for a ten-day leave.