Shortly after dawn he was on the road again, not to ride toward the north and Pemberley, but cross-country, keeping well clear of main roads and even, when possible, side roads too. He knew exactly where he was going; it lay some twenty miles from Leek, on the outskirts of Derby.
In no hurry, he let Jupiter choose their pace, a treat for the big black horse that it relished.
At the prescribed spot beneath a signpost, he found his informant, a groom at a shady sort of hostelry in Sheffield, and a man who looked horsey enough to be instantly at ease among others of the same calling. Occasionally he did this kind of job for Mr. Skinner, whom he had known for a long time, and feared, and respected.
“Well, Tom?” Ned asked, reining in alongside him.
“No trouble, Mr. Skinner. His name is Ezekiel Carmody—Zeke for short. He works six days a week at the coach station, sleeps in the barn there. Sundays he goes home. His dad’s got a farm outside Nether Heage—big place, breeds coach horses.”
“The name of the farm?”
“Carmody.”
“Thank you, Tom.” Five guineas changed hands. “Go home now.”
And off went Tom, well satisfied.
The news was better than Ned had hoped for. With a name like Ezekiel, the groom was obviously a Methodist; to spend Sundays at home would have been mandatory. But I doubt, thought Ned, that the family knows their church-going son Zeke is hand-in-glove with a highwayman. Well, and who could blame a young fellow? No money to call his own with such a father, I’ll be bound; dad’s horses sold to the coach companies and Zeke’s wages garnished for family and church. No hope for a pint or a penny light-skirt. It’s a story I chance upon time and time again.
Gauging his progress accurately, Ned approached the Carmody farm at one o’clock—dinner hour. He found the main gate down the fourth lane he tried, with the name written upon it proudly: CARMODY FARM. Using his eyes to best advantage, he decided there was no other entrance worth taking if the farmstead itself was the goal; yes, this was the way Zeke Carmody would come. What kind of transport the groom would use Ned could not know; very likely he cadged a ride with someone going this way from Nottingham. But Ned took a bet with himself that Zeke walked the last quarter-mile of his weekly trip home.
On Saturday, while Jupiter dozed in its stall with oats in its manger, Ned worked very privately on a curious device: a post to which was attached a horseshoe of a size worn by light draughts, the kind of horse drew the extremely heavy public coaches.
On Saturday evening at ten o’clock he mounted Jupiter and set out for Carmody Farm, at first on the main roads, deserted at this hour. It was fifty miles as Jupiter went, but many a horseman rode a hundred and more miles in a day—couriers, ministers with a widely scattered flock, commercial travellers, those going in a hurry to a sickbed or a deathbed. There was no moon to speak of, but dense clouds of stars lit his way, and Jupiter was sure-footed.
They made good time; he reached his destination before dawn, and settled down to wait in the shadows beneath trees with pendulous leafy branches, not far from the farm’s main gate. His post-and-shoe untied from the saddle, Ned put that and some other things beside him. He was very much on his mettle, blaming himself for the loss of Mary Bennet, and determined that he would leave nothing for any nosy constable to unearth.
Zeke Carmody knew whereabouts Captain Thunder’s house was located, and his tongue wagged. Though the part of Ned that understood Zeke’s needs pitied his lot, which had to be death, not for a millionfold such pity would he have stilled his hand. Fitz was in danger through his, Ned’s, bungling, and that was all that mattered.
A cheery whistle from the end of the lane alerted him. Ned rose to his feet, stretching, and waited in the lee of the bushy trees for his quarry. As the groom passed, Ned swung the post and struck him on the side of his head. He fell without a whimper to sprawl in the lane. Moving quickly, Ned pulled the body under the trees, where he had spread out a sheet of canvas. Once the body was arranged on the canvas to his satisfaction, he put the horseshoe against the wound with accuracy and deliberation, and hammered the end of the post with a stone purloined from Farmer Carmody’s field. One imprint of the shoe was enough; looking at the pulped mess, he judged that anyone would deem the injury the result of contact with a big horse. Then he wrapped the body in the canvas, picked it up, carried it some distance down the lane, and emptied it out of its wrapping and into a field where four light draught horses grazed, their hooves and hairy skirts above muddied from a recent shower of rain.
No one had come out of the house, no dog barked. Breathing quite normally, Ned folded the canvas carefully to contain the very little blood, and dismantled his instrument of murder. The shoe was flung far into the field, the post tucked inside the canvas. He kept to the shadows until he reached the little road that led to Nether Heage; there he straightened and walked swiftly to Jupiter, grazing nearby. After saddling a horse delighted to see him, he mounted and rode away. In the far distance a church bell was tolling, but no one saw Ned Skinner, now cantering toward the road to Chesterfield.
Undoubtedly there were other grooms Captain Thunder used as sources of information—post house inns were ideal—but they could not matter. It was Ezekiel Carmody who had spoken to the gigantic fellow on the gigantic horse, told him whereabouts the Captain lived. With Zeke the victim of a shocking accident, no one was left who could connect Ned Skinner to the highwayman. It was always best to tidy up. The shire constables were a dozy lot, but…
The news that Mary had been abducted by parties unknown left Elizabeth winded, not least because Fitz had chosen to make his news public in the Rubens Room after dinner, just before Charlie, Angus and Owen had returned. Though Elizabeth had been aware of her disappearance for some time, Fitz hadn’t taken his wife to one side beforehand and told her privately of this abduction. Instead, he told her in the presence of Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst—and Louisa’s daughter, Letitia/Posy, perhaps the most vapid and cheerless girl of Elizabeth’s acquaintance. So she had no alternative other than to suppress her anger until a more appropriate moment to unleash it on Fitz’s chilly, unfeeling head. Under the shield of Caroline’s exclamations, Louisa’s faintness and Posy’s squeaks, she sat with a red spot burning in each cheek, but so composedly that no one could have assumed she did not already know. Pride, Elizabeth! You too have pride.
Her husband went on to explain the measures he proposed taking, much the same as he later outlined to Charlie, Angus and Owen: the notice, the reward, Susie’s pen-and-ink sketch, the style. He told them of Captain Thunder’s part in the business, and the insoluble mystery of her disappearance while she was under Ned Skinner’s care. He made no intimation that the Captain was responsible for this second disappearance, though he did not mention the Captain’s death at Ned’s hands. Only that it could not have been the Captain who kidnapped her.
“Shall you tell Susie of the sketch, or shall I?” she asked.
“I shall. I know what I want,” said Fitz.
“When do you ever not know what you want? I must go to Bingley Hall first thing tomorrow to tell Jane.”
“Oh, do let me keep you company!” cried Caroline. “Twenty-five miles there, and twenty five miles back again. You will need a truly sympathetic hand to hold.”
And Elizabeth literally saw red: a scarlet veil descended in front of her eyes. “I thank you, madam,” she said with a bite, “but I would rather hold the Devil’s hand than yours. It is more honestly malign.”
A collective gasp went up. Caroline sprang to her feet, Louisa flopped sideways in her chair, and Posy pitched forward onto the floor. Elizabeth sat with a sneer on her face, enjoying every moment of it. The bought mouse had suddenly turned into a large rat, and oh, it felt so good! After one amazed glance at her, Fitz fixed his gaze on a splendid Rubens nude above the fireplace.
“Pray excuse me, I am very tired,” said Caroline, with a venomous glare at Elizabeth, who returned it with a purple flash Miss Bingley??
?s brown orbs could not equal.
“I will come too, dear,” said Louisa, “if you help me with poor little Letitia. What a demonstration of ill breeding!”
“Yes, get yourselves away!” Elizabeth said fiercely.
“About the only thing I can be thankful for, Elizabeth,” Fitz said at her bedroom door, “is that Charlie, Angus and Mr. Griffiths were not present to hear you insult Miss Bingley with such vulgar coarseness.”
“Oh, a pox on Caroline Bingley!” Elizabeth opened her door and marched inside, her arm in position to slam it in Fitz’s face.
But he wrenched it from her and followed her, face as white as hers was red. “I will not hear you speak to one of my guests so—so contemptuously!”
“I will speak to that woman in any terms I please! She is a liar and a mischief-maker, and they are compliments compared to some of her other characteristics!” said Elizabeth, ending with a hiss. “Abominable! Reprehensible! Malicious! Cunning! Meretricious! I have suffered Caroline Bingley for twenty years, Fitz, and I am done with it! Next time you invite her to Pemberley or Darcy House or anywhere else I happen to be, kindly inform me in time for me to shift my person from her neighbourhood!”
“This is the outside of enough, madam! You are my wife, and in the eyes of God sworn to obey me! I order you to treat Caroline civilly! Do you hear me? I order you!”
“Do you know what you can do with your orders, Fitz? You can put them where the monkey puts his nuts!”
“Elizabeth! Madam! Are you as stark a lunatic as your younger sister? How dare you speak to me so disgustingly!”
“What a sanctimonious prig you are. At least I will say this for Caroline Bingley,” said Elizabeth in pensive tones, “what one sees is what one gets. No false façade. Just a dripping sponge soaked in vitriol. Whereas you, Fitzwilliam, are the most duplicitous, the most underhanded of men. How dare you break the news to me that Mary has been abducted in front of two harpies like Caroline and Louisa? Have you no feelings? No compassion? No grasp of what is due to a wife as well as a sister? What was to stop you taking me to one side and telling me privately? What excuse can you tender for such cold-hearted stupidity? I could not even react! Had I, it would have been all over the best houses the moment Caroline returns to London. With a titter here, a sly look there, and everywhere an innuendo! Oh, cruel, Fitz! Abominably cruel!” Visibly shaking, Elizabeth ran down, could find nothing more to say.
He stepped into the breach. “Of course your criticisms of me are not a new phenomenon, I am aware of that. You first took delight in apostrophising me as—er—conceited, arrogant, proud and ungentlemanly twenty-one years ago. I congratulate you upon finding a new set of epithets. They leave me unwrung. As to why I did not apprise you privately of Mary’s missing state, blame yourself. I dislike women’s vapours and tears. Our marriage does not stand upon a rock, madam, it moves around on shifting sands. Sands that you have created. You do not obey me, though it is a part of your marriage vows. You lack a proper disposition, and your language is the height of impropriety. What’s more, your conduct is growing rapidly worse. I can no longer be sure that you will comport yourself with any more decency than your sister Lydia.”
“Whereas I suppose you find nothing to fault in your telling me that you wished you had never married me?” she asked, eyes blazing.
His brows rose. “I spoke the truth.”
“Then I think we should end this farce of a marriage, sir.”
“Death will do that, madam, nothing else.” He walked to the door. “Do not antagonise me further, Elizabeth. I will engage to soothe Caroline’s feelings by telling her that you are not yourself. A slight dementia brought on by worry for your sisters. She is aware of the weakness that runs through your family, so my tactful explanation will suffice.”
“I have not asked you to make a hypocrite of yourself by being sweet and reasonable to Caroline Bingley! In fact, I ask you not to bother! You are branding the Bennets!” she cried as he opened the door. “Lydia, Mary, now me!”
The door shut behind him with an audible snap. Legs giving way, Elizabeth staggered to the nearest chair and sat with her head between her knees, fighting dizziness. Oh, Fitz, Fitz! Where have we gone wrong? Who is your mistress? Who, who?
Her heartbeat began to slow, her head to clear. Elizabeth got herself out of her dove-grey silk gown, the jewels, the underwear, and into her gauzy nightgown. Why do I bother with such fripperies when Fitz never comes near my bed? Because they are comfortable is why. The flannel of my youth chafed and itched.
Somewhere outside a fox shrieked, an owl screamed. Oh, Mary, where are you? Who would have braved the wrath of Ned Skinner? And what is Fitz keeping from me? How has Lydia settled into her house, Hemmings?
After eating a bread roll crisp from the oven and drinking a cup of hot chocolate, Elizabeth set out the next morning for Bingley Hall and her sister Jane. Who had suffered yet another miscarriage—a mercy. Since Charles had written that he would be away at least another twelve months, perhaps Jane would recover her health before the whole business started again. What had Mary said? That she wished Charles would plug it with a cork. How mortified Fitz would be at such plain speaking from a maiden lady!
Bingley Hall lay in five thousand acres outside the village of Wildboarclough, well south of Macclesfield. It had been a happy purchase for one seeking to advance his social station from plutocrat to aristocrat, and had fallen to Charles for a good price thanks to Fitzwilliam Darcy, who stood as guarantor not for his wealth (that was proven) but for his respectability, his propriety. Charles Bingley would not use the wrong fork or put the port decanter on the table! The land was well tenanted and Charles an excellent landlord, but the chief glory of the estate was its mansion, a large white building of central pile and two wings. Its beautiful and imposing Palladian façade dated it to the seventeenth century.
The boys were off somewhere—the youngest was now eight—which meant they knew their mother needed peace and quiet. The only girl, Priscilla, had come after William, Percival, Robert, James and Marcus, so there was no hope that Prissy, as she was universally called, would turn out in a feminine mould. Since Hugh and Arthur were her juniors, she had two brothers to dominate and bully, and hared about with quite as much vigor as her brothers, leaving havoc in her wake and a mountain of darning in the housekeeper’s mending basket.
“She’s always more difficult when Charles is away. He knows exactly how to deal with her,” said Jane, having gone through the Bingley litany for her sister’s delectation as soon as she arrived. Which she did in time for breakfast, served at ten o’clock, and dreading how to broach the subject of Mary.
William walked in, not to dine, but to pay his respects, for he viewed his favourite aunt with great affection; Aunt Elizabeth was uniformly loved, Aunt Louisa was tolerated, and Aunt Caroline feared. A year older than Charlie, he was a handsome young man who resembled his father and seemed likely to follow him into the labyrinthine corridors of plutocracy. Since he had elected Cambridge, he and his cousin never saw each other apart from Christmas, for which Elizabeth was glad. They would never have got on together. Charlie was brilliant, William a plodder. Charlie’s looks were spectacular, William’s orthodox. Charlie didn’t notice girls—or boys, curse Caroline’s slanders!—whereas William liked to break hearts and keep tally of his conquests.
However, he did not stay long, and none of the others appeared in his place, even Prissy.
“You’re not eating, Lizzie,” said Jane with disapproval. “I swear that you are as slender today as you were when you married, so you have no excuse. Have some bread-and-butter.”
“Just coffee, thank you. I ate at Pemberley.”
“That was hours ago. What is this I hear about Lydia?” Jane asked, pouring coffee.
“Lydia?” For a moment Elizabeth stared blankly—oh, too much had happened in the past few days! How could she possibly have forgotten Lydia? So she ploughed through that story first, while Jane listened in horror
.
“Oh, it is too bad! Can’t you tell me the exact words she used to Fitz?”
“Believe me, I can’t. The foulest-mouthed soldier doesn’t say That Word—he would be flogged within an inch of his life. Truly, Jane, she used the worst words in the English language! And she was so drunk! Coaxing her with a bottle was the only way we could elicit coöperation from her.”
“Then she must be shut away,” said Jane with a sigh.
“So Fitz has decided, and what he decides is the law. Still, much and all as I condemn his highhandedness, I must confess I too can see no alternative other than to shut her up as Mama was. Her new address is Hemmings, ten miles the other side of Leek. Perhaps sixteen or seventeen miles from Bingley Hall. As soon as I can, I’ll visit her.”
“Let us go together. What is today, Wednesday? Shall we plan for this Friday?” asked Jane.
“We cannot,” said Elizabeth miserably. “Lydia isn’t the sum of my news. In fact, I’ve come for quite a different reason.”
“Tell me, please!”
“Mary has disappeared, we fear abducted.”
As Jane was still sadly pulled down after miscarrying, she fainted. Brought around by the hartshorn and vinaigrette, she began to weep, and half an hour passed before Elizabeth could calm her enough to give her the details.
“I came because I didn’t want you seeing it in a journal,” she concluded. “Fitz even had the notion of including a sketch of me because I look like Mary. There is a reward of one hundred pounds, large enough to stimulate a good search.”
“Lizzie, this is dreadful! Oh, poor Mary! All those years of looking after Mama, and now this. What was she about, to travel on the common stage?”
“We don’t know, even Angus Sinclair. Were it not for him and a disjointed letter she wrote to Charlie last year, we would be even more ignorant. They seem to think that she embarked upon some kind of investigation of the poor, with the intention of writing a book. Perhaps the stage-coach journeys were a part of it.”