Part 23

Posted on: 2011-02-19

Once she had informed her husband of the secret with which she could secure a means to recover some of their living expenses, possibly even their future security, any thought of compunction concerning the betrayal of such a confidence, or decency in respecting the privacy of another woman's life, left Caroline's mind, if indeed they had ever existed in the first place.

Together husband and wife debated the best way to inform Mr Reynolds's of the indiscretion a member of his household had the impudence to commit, settling on a plan for him and Caroline to talk alone. The conversation could not be had in Sackville Street, for their home was not suitable to entertain such a wealthy personage, or indeed convey the idea of the Wickham's wealthy reputation. So they settled upon the plan that Caroline would wait outside the Reynolds's townhouse in Portland Place, where, once she had caught sight of Mr Reynolds's and called him to her, the conversation would take place.

It was the evening before Caroline's patient watch in Portland Place upon the townhouse of the Reynolds's, once the old townhouse of the Darcy family, was rewarded with the sight of Mr Reynolds returning home alone. Since the early hours of the morning she had been waiting outside the gates, idly smoking her tiny cigarettes, indifferently admiring the golden initials that a past Darcy ancestor had wrought into the iron fixture, all the while keeping watch on the road for the person who had inherited this wealth. Opening the little window of her now grossly expensive Hansom cab ride, she called out to him.

"Oh, good evening, Mrs Wickham, I hope you're well," he returned.

"Not so well, dear Mr Reynolds, I'm uneasy and anxious," Caroline replied doing her best to sound as though she felt those emotions she had just named, yet never experienced in her life before. "I've been waiting for you for some time. May I speak with you?"

"Of course." Reynolds assured her, gesturing with the walking stick he carried to the welcoming lit windows of his townhouse ahead, waiting for his return. "Will you not join me in my home where I can offer you some refreshment?"

Caroline drew back into the confines of the cab. Though the comforting glow from the grand house tempted her with images of finery and elegant society, she knew that such a location was not the best place to disclose her news, particular if Mrs Reynolds was in company, to coax her husband into a sympathy neither she nor Wickham desired that she caused him to possess. "I'd rather not, Mr Reynolds. The matter I have to speak to you of is very delicate. Do you think this strange?"

"No madam, of course not," Reynolds replied, though it was quite apparent from the expression splayed across his features that his protestation was not entirely truthful.

"It is difficult to speak, but it is my duty," Caroline replied, though indeed, nothing could be further from the case. She opened the door of her cab. "Would you mind stepping into the carriage?"

Reynolds obeyed, mounting the step, then bending a little so he did not cause an injury to his head as he entered the vehicle, taking the empty seat across from her. "Now, madam, what is it that concerns you?"

"The proper conduct of your staff, Mr Reynolds regarding your ward," Caroline answered. "I understand you wish for her to be well matched?"

"Yes," Reynolds replied with a frown, puzzled as to where Mrs Wickham was going with this. "But I do not see what the conduct of my staff has to do with this Miss Bennet's martial prospects."

"She told me in confidence, Mr Reynolds," Caroline added, "but I cannot help but concerned for her, after all the man could persist and perhaps compromise her against her inclination."

Now Mr Reynolds was truly concerned, his mind speculating on the possible improper behaviour of one of his footman regarding Elizabeth or even Jane, for it would explain why she had left so suddenly. "Who do you speak of?"

"Mr Hurst," Caroline answered in a tone which implied the identity of the person involved was obvious. "Elizabeth told me that he declared himself one evening. I fear for her, Mr Reynolds, a young vulnerable woman with only your generosity to rely on."

Reynolds took care to his features devoid of expression as he received this news. What he had previously dismissed as being a figment of Mrs Wickham's imagination, he now knew to be true. Society was scandalised and he must act accordingly. "Thank you for the information, madam. You can be assured I shall deal with the matter at once."

"Oh, I am so relieved," Caroline replied, opening the cab door, a clear sign of dismissal, as though he were a servant bound to do her bidding. "And if there is anything else George and I can assist you with, please don't hesitate to let us know."

Reynolds nodded and exited the cab. As he entered the grounds of the Darcy townhouse, he heard the vehicle turn and clatter down the road behind him, presumably in quest for Sackville Street. Stepping inside the house he was greeted by Hurst, who appeared to have been waiting for him in the grand entrance hall for quite some time.

"Who was in the cab?" Hurst asked as he closed the door behind Mr Reynolds and help the man to doff his hat and coat. "It has been here all day."

"Mrs Wickham," Reynolds replied grimly. "Come, let us go into my study and talk."

Once inside he related everything which had taken place inside the carriage.

"Undoubtedly she has a more nefarious motive for telling you this," Hurst speculated aloud when he heard all. "Given their situation concerning their debts, unpaid staff, for I have heard much gossip below stairs, I would deduce that they want money."

"I don't mind paying them off," Reynolds confided. "But it won't end there unless you are gone." He paused, then inspiration struck, causing him to ask. "Are you prepared to declare yourself again?"

"Declare myself?" Hurst echoed in disbelief. "How will that help matters?"

Reynolds frowned. "I thought you said Lizzy and you are closer now?"

"We may be," Hurst allowed, recalling the visit to Pemberley, "but I don't know if she will accept me if I try again."

"Well, I think you must, my son," Mr Reynolds remarked, "just in a different manner to your last endeavour."

Hurst glanced at him intrigued. "Alright, what do you propose?"

"Prepare yourself to be slighted and oppressed," Reynolds continued. "I shall confront you openly with her present and we shall see how she reacts."

"And what if she stands by your accusations and rejects me once more?" Hurst asked.

"Then you will have lost nothing," Mr Reynolds pointed out. "Do you really have so little faith in her, son?"

"No," Hurst bowed his head. "If anything its myself I no longer have faith in." He turned to lean on the desk, as he had done long ago, when the truth was first revealed to Mrs Reynolds, that desolate evening. "Did I loose my mind when those scoundrels threw me in the river, Edmund?"

Mr Reynolds stepped forward and put an arm about his shoulders. "No, my son, you lost your heart, when you set eyes upon your intended. And when she learns the truth, when the time is right, she will understand." He gave the shoulders a comforting clasp. "These things were sent to try us, son. We would not be worthy of the rewards bestowed if nothing test our strength or our faith."

Elizabeth, on her way through the entrance hall into the breakfast room the next morning, witnessed Mr Reynolds pacing his study, mumbling something in audible and therefore intelligible to himself, a storm cloud splayed across his face, one hand pounding a fist into the palm of the other, and inwardly grew fearful of what could be troubling the man at this early hour.

When he joined them for breakfast, an uncomfortable silence settling over the room as he did so, he ate with only his fork, drumming his knife against the china with an ominous tattoo, a black look directed at Mr Hurst. Nothing could cease his actions, nor rouse him into conversation, not that Mrs Reynolds or Elizabeth wished to make him speak, fearful for what reply might be wrenched from his mouth if they did so.

The Secretary stood the tension for as long as he dared before rising from his chair and with a bow directed to the ladies, quitting the breakfast room. Instantly the tattoo ceased, leaving Elizabeth and Mrs Reynolds no doubt as to who was the cause of his distemper, if the black look had not betrayed such information before. Elizabeth could only speculate as to what Mr Hurst could have done to rouse his employer's wrath.

She knew Hurst was trying to bear with the changing character of his employer, possibly - she dared to hope sometimes - the sake of being with her. Since their visit to Pemberley, she had gown flattered by such consideration, by his quiet, gentlemanlike manner, in contrast to such behaviour shown from his employer, whose character seemed to worsen by the hour. It caused her to wonder afresh whether she really belonged here, or in the simple comforts of her father's house, loved for who she was, as opposed to what money could make her.

Moments after she and Mrs Reynolds finished they meal, Mr Reynolds summoned them to his study, where he and the secretary were waiting, in stances similar to when the employer announced what wages he was to give the man, and threatened to have a bell hung from this room to Hurst's, in order to summon him whenever the whim arose.

His wife took her usual seat and retrieved her usual piece of needlework with which to occupy her hands. Elizabeth hung back by the door, wary of the look which Mr Reynolds was directing at her, and the way Mr Hurst was facing him, his expression as if he were about to do battle with someone.

"Come in, Elizabeth, my dear," Mr Reynolds urged, moving from his stance by the desk to take her arm and usher her further into the confines of the parlour. "Do not be alarmed, my dear. We are here to see you righted."

Elizabeth frowned at the choice of words, for she was not aware that anything had taken place that was deemed to have wronged her "See me righted? Sir?"

Reynolds nodded, guiding her to take a seat beside his wife, before he turned to face Hurst, who regarded him with his head held high. "Now sir. Consider this young lady?"

"I do sir," Hurst replied.

Too late did Elizabeth realised what was about to occur. With those words let loose from Mr Hurst, as solemn as a wedding vow, the full nature of the wrong done to her was revealed. She was powerless to prevent it, nor the event which would undoubtedly follow. All she could do was listen and observe as everything unfolded before her.

"How dare you tamper with this young lady!" Reynolds cried, the force of his protest causing everyone within the room to flinch as if struck. "How dare you come out of your station to pester this young lady with your impudent proposals. This lady was far above you. This young woman was looking about the market for a good bid. She wasn't about to be snapped up by fellows that had no money to buy with."

When she was first sensible of the feelings which Mr Hurst had harboured for her, Elizabeth would have supported the claims Mr Reynolds was making now. But time had begun to soften her miserly ambitions, to temper her bitterness, reverting her character to the young woman who lived within herself as she rambled about the Longbourn estate. The one who desired that nothing but the very deepest love tempted her into matrimony. Who realised that never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him now, when all love must be in vain. She felt her power sinking, as everything must sink under such a humiliating assurance of the deepest disgrace. Appealing to Mr Reynolds for leniency in this was pointless, so she turned to his wife. "Mrs Reynolds..."

"My dear," that lady interrupted, her voice and gaze full of tears, her nerves close to hysterics, "I can't let,"

"Old lady, you hold your tongue!" Mr Reynolds shouted at his wife, quelling her into an even greater sorrowful silence. "Now Elizabeth, don't you be put out. I'll right you."

"But you don't," Elizabeth cried, causing Hurst to briefly direct his gaze away from his employer to her fine eyes, a hope beginning to burn within his breast. "You don't right me, you wrong me!"

Mr Reynolds ignored the pleas of his ward, turning his full attention on to Hurst, who faced him proudly, unwilling to give way. "This lady did herself tell you of your presumption did she not?"

In desperation did Elizabeth seized on this query, hoping she could persuade Hurst with a pleading look to deny his previous avowals. "Did I Mr Hurst? Did I?"

But disguise of any sort was his abhorrence, though an irony such a principle was just now, yet in this he would speak nothing but the truth. "Do not be distressed, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth turned back to Mr Reynolds,. "But I've asked him to forgive me since and would again now if it would spare him." The sorrow in her voice along with Mrs Reynolds's general distress over this matter, caused all restraint on that lady's grief to be lost.

"Old lady, stop that noise!" Mr Reynolds shouted at his wife before he continued, his wrath redirected once again on his wayward employee. "Now what have you got to say for yourself?"

"My interest in Miss Bennet began the moment I saw her," Hurst revealed, his gaze not on his employer now, but on the woman he loved. "Even before."

"H'm. This is a longer scheme than I thought," Mr Reynolds mused. "He gets to know about me and my property, about Elizabeth and the part she played in poor William Darcy's story and he says to himself 'ah, I'll get in with Reynolds and my ship will come well and truly in.'" Mr Reynolds turned to Elizabeth with a smug expression. "But he didn't know who he was dealing with, did he, Elizabeth, my dear? He thought to squeeze money out of us. And he's done for himself instead."

"I have borne my position here so that I might not be separated from Miss Bennet," Hurst continued, ignoring Mr Reynolds's untrue and unfounded accusations, continuing to direct his gaze to Elizabeth, who as he spoke, listened with a heart and mind that somehow rejoiced while at the same time despaired. "And since she rejected me I have not urged my suit with one syllable or look. But my devotion to her has not changed, except that now it is deeper and better founded. My feeling for Miss Bennet is not one to be ashamed of. I love her. And when I leave her in this house I go into a blank life."

"Let me assist you into that blank life," Mr Reynolds remarked contemptibly, dropping a pile of notes on the floor in front of Mr Hurst. "I dare say you can stoop to pick it up after what you've stoop to here."

Mr Hurst went down on one knee to collect the money. "I have stooped for nothing but this. And it is mine for I have earned it by the hardest of labours."

"You're a pretty quick packer, I hope," Mr Reynolds added smugly as his former employee rose up from the floor, the pile of notes in his hand.

Mr Hurst nodded, even deigning to give a bow of respect to his former master. "You shall have no fear of my lingering."

"One thing before you go," Mr Reynolds said, causing the young man to blink, and Elizabeth to flush as he attributed more falsehood upon her character. "You pretend to have a mighty affection for this lady but what is due to this young lady is money and the young lady knows that very well. This young lady only wants money and that is the end of it."

"You slander the young lady," Mr Hurst replied, rising to her defence before she could speak aloud such assurances herself.

"You slander her," Mr Reynolds countered forcibly and angrily. "It's money she makes a bid for, money, money, money!"

Mr Hurst chose not to respond to that last claim, and turned to the ladies. "Mrs Reynolds, for your delicate and unwavering kindness, I thank you." His gaze moved to Elizabeth, inwardly wondering if this would change anything, longing to take her into his arms and wipe the grief away from her face. "Miss Bennet, goodbye."

Elizabeth watched him take the short walk to the door and could bear it no longer. She rose from her seat and joined him there, her words causing him to halt the act of reaching to clasp the handle, turn and open the edifice. "Oh God, make me poor again! Someone, I beg, or my heart will break!" She turned to Mr Reynolds, slowly walking towards him, as Hurst listened her, still facing the door, scarcely able to hope. "Don't give me money, Mr Reynolds, I don't want money. Oh God, help me!"

"There, there, my dear," Mr Reynolds remarked in a warm tone. "It's all right, you're righted now. It's all right."

"I hate you," Elizabeth declared, making him pause and blink. "I've heard you with shame, for myself and for you. I am afraid that you have become a monster!." She turned from him and returned to Mr Hurst's side, who held his breath at her words, his eyes scarcely able to meet her gaze. "Mr Hurst, I'm deeply sorry for the reproaches you've borne on my account. I earnestly and truly beg your pardon. The only fault you should admit to is that you laid yourself open to be slighted by a worldly, shallow girl whose head was turned and was quite unable to rise to what you offered."

Tears threatened to conquer her at the last, causing him to take her hands tenderly in his own and raise them to his lips, pressing a soft kiss upon the pale skin of each. Then with one last look to her he opened the door and parted from her side.

Elizabeth watched him go, the mark of his lips on her hands awakening a mixture of feelings, too overwhelmed with grief at present to define. "Oh, Mrs Reynolds!" she cried in tone that once perhaps resembled that of her mother when disappointed of a scheme, going to her, and falling into her comforting arms.

Mrs Reynolds held her close, and glanced up at her husband, who met her look with a eloquent one of his own, offering a heartfelt apology in view of the grief which he had just put her, the girl in her arms, and the young man in the process of leaving the premises through. With one glance she forgave him, knowing the show had been necessary, for the future contentment of all concerned. There was also a silent hope with both of their breasts, as they prayed that this little performance of slighting and oppression, engineered by the schemes of one avaricious couple, would serve to thwart their plans, while bestowing a long awaited happiness to another.

"You vicious old thing!" Elizabeth cried to Mr Reynolds when her tears were spent and her emotions and mind and heart rose high to defend the actions and words of herself and the gentleman who had just left.

"Don't be rash, my dear!" Mrs Reynolds urged from her position on the sofa, all motions of comfort and support seemingly forgotten in the face of the insults thrust at her husband. "Think well what you do."

"Yes, you think well of it," her husband added from his stance behind his desk.

Elizabeth ignored the request for caution, any care or respect for the man before her having disappeared long since. She stood proudly before Mr Reynolds, a scheming young miss no longer, instead an avenging angel. "Your money has turned you to marble. You are a hard hearted old miser, who is wholly undeserving of the man you have just lost."

"What? You'd set Hurst against me?" Mr Reynolds scoffed as if the idea that a man with barely a penny to his name could be superior to him was preposterous.

"He is worth a million of you," Elizabeth avowed.

"Ah, yes I'm sure," uttered Mr Reynolds, taking her hand to clasp in his as he tried to coax some sense into her. "Now listen, I'm not angry, I'll overlook this."

"No," Elizabeth declared, wrenching her hands from his grasp, raising them to skies as if to warn him off her. "I must go home for good."

Mr Reynolds stayed her hand. "Now, don't do what you can't undo. Stay where you are and all's well. Go away and you can never come back. If you leave us like this you can't expect me to settle any money on you. Be careful, Elizabeth. Not one brass farthing!"

Elizabeth nodded, wrenched her hands free of him, exiting the room. She headed for the stairs, ascended, then walked to her room, where she opened one of the armoires and retrieved her small travel bag, together with the simple country dresses she had worn when she first came to the Reynolds's. Her fine eyes caught sight of the rich muslin she now wore in the large ornate mirror, the silks in the wardrobes, the gemstones upon her dresser. How she had once longed to see such things, and know they belonged to her.

Now the sight of them sickened her. She realised all her opinions on finding an establishment, on marrying for money, were no more her own now than they had been when the past granted her such an idle fancy. A chance encounter in her youth caused her to take for granted that she would attract a man who possessed those qualities, as well as her mother's influence and continued instruction. She had sworn to marry for nothing but the deepest love, when she knew that the chance encounter would prevent such a vow from ever being carried out. And now that such a freedom was granted to her by the drowning of that chance, she surrendered to the desire for financial security, knowing past experience taught her nothing was certain, causing her to refuse a man whom she could no longer deny that she cared a great deal for.

Mr Hurst may be worth a million of Mr Reynolds, but Elizabeth was no longer certain that she was worthy of his regard, indeed if she were superior to him in any way. While she professed opinions which were not her own, he had remained steadfast and constant in his affection for her. He may not have urged his suit with words or looks, but his desire to encourage their friendship, their companionship, had resulted in her change of feelings regarding him. That he had fallen in love with her in the first place was astonishing, for their early acquaintance was hardly begun under the best of terms; she determined take offence at his every action, he continually trying to figure her out.

Idly she glanced at the riches of her current life once more, her eyes fixing on her timepiece and noting the hour. Doubtless Mr Hurst had returned to his lodgings by now, at her father's house. Had he hoped she would follow him after his dismissal from here, she asked herself, which caused her to speculate as to whether she should. Mr Reynolds had threatened her in such a manner as for her to understand that, presuming she stayed here, relations between them would never quite be the same. The situation would cause her to be uncomfortable both here and in society, thus eliminating any chance of finding someone else to love as much as she might Mr Hurst.

Which only left her one alternative. Silently she changed into one of the country gowns, then packed everything else she had brought from Holloway before leaving the room, carrying case in hand, a note upon her dresser addressed to Mrs Reynolds, thanking her for her kindness to herself and to Jane throughout their stay.

As she approached the offices of her father's work, she felt a little of her previous doubts, fears and shame returning. Seeing him apparently content in his position, knowing that her words might trouble him as she had done the last time she arrived to see him, this time without the assurance that she would be welcomed back at his home.

However, of these anxieties she was soon easily rid; her father only had to look up, catch the rather pensive expression on her face, observe the travelling bag within her hand, and he was outside in the street before her.

"Elizabeth, I am glad to see you. Have you come for a holiday?" He asked as he sought to confirm his deductions.

"No, I have come to my senses, father. Am I able to return?" She inquired softly.

"Of course, my dear," he replied, and with a signal to one of his colleagues, he took hold of her free hand and escorted her home.

In an effort to make her feel comfortable he amiably informed her of all that had occurred within her family's life since her last visit, so that by the time they turned into the street on which the house was located, Elizabeth felt able to tease him as she used to.

"I suppose Kitty has abducted my room in my absence, having declared a preference for it more than once when I was at home?"

"Indeed, she has, my dear, but I'm sure she will make way." He turned to her with a gentle, loving smile. "You have been quite missed by all of us, Lizzy."

They came closer to the house, when a door could be heard to close somewhat violently, causing them to halt in the street as the one above the raised entrance opened, and Mr Hurst ran out.

Elizabeth had scarcely time to realise his intent before he was standing in front of her, striving to speak and catch his breath at the same time, a joyful yet hopeful smile gracing his open mouth.

"My dear girl," he uttered before taking both her and her father by surprise as he embraced her. "My gallant, courageous and noble Elizabeth." He drew back to gaze into her eyes, anxiously seeking confirmation. "You are my love?"

Elizabeth smiled at him, as she chose to answer at once, rather than taking a moment to savour this second and previously thought impossible proposal. "Well I suppose I am, if you think me worth the taking."

His reply was such as a man violently in love can be supposed of taking, with a father and open street to witness. A hug which though was sensible, rendered appropriate to occasion by pressing his lips to her hair, as he closed his eyes in silent relief that part of his desires since he returned to life were now accomplished.

The rest depended entirely on the goodwill and cooperation of others.

Part 24

Posted on: 2011-02-26

Later that evening, when all the fuss from Mrs Bennet's highly strung disappointed nerves, caused by another daughter ruining and squandering all her hopes of an excellent marriage in returning home and the distemper of Kitty from being forced to make way for her sister, had worn out conversation and put them both to bed, Mr Bennet joined his soon to be son in law for a drink and some conversation in his lodgings.

"I imagine, sir, that this has surprised you," Mr Hurst remarked after the first sip of port passed their lips.

"You imagine quite astutely," Mr Bennet replied. "In fact, it would be difficult to do otherwise. I must confess that I am wondering how all this came about, though presumably the two of you spent a lot of time together at the Reynolds's?"

"We, did, sir." Mr Hurst confirmed.

"Given your somewhat early return here, followed by my daughter, I take it that Mr Reynolds has dismissed you from his employ," Mr Bennet further deduced. "So my next inquiry is how do you expect to provide for my daughter."

Hurst's hand halted in mid journey to his mouth, and he took a deep breath as he returned the glass to the table. "This is why I wanted to see you privately, sir. I know how much Elizabeth cares for you, which makes it important to me that I have your blessing as to how events proceed now. The simple answer to your inquiry is that I can provide for your daughter far more than my public financial situation would testify."

Mr Bennet raised a eyebrow. "And the complicated answer?"

Hurst met his gaze solemnly, before relating every article he had confided to the Reynolds's previously. When he reached the end of his tale, he raised the port to his lips to slake his thirst, and quietly observed his soon to be father in law's features, waiting for his vocal reaction.

"Well, you have certainly proved my private theory that the husband of my favourite daughter would surprise me," Mr Bennet remarked. "However, your story has assured me than you can provide for her. My only concern now is why you have not chosen to confide in Elizabeth concerning all this?"

"I am worried about her reaction," Hurst replied. "I know how much she disliked the position of being left in a Will to me. I am afraid that she will choose to overlook that I chose this course in order for us to have a chance to find happiness, instead of hating me for the deception." He took another sip of his drink. "There is also the matter of Wickham."

Mr Bennet frowned. "The one whose wife caused this early conclusion to your unusual courtship of my daughter?"

"No, the Wickham who I speak of is his father." Hurst drained his glass and poured another, inwardly surprised that he was about to confide so much of his troubles in a man soon to be his father in law. How was it that when it came to telling Elizabeth that he was so terrified of her reaction, when here he sat telling her father all? He put the query aside and continued his tale.

"Old Wickham is the grandson of my grandfather's steward at Pemberley. He followed his father into soldiery, but unlike him, survived the battlefields on which he served, though not without injury. Having worked on the estate all his life, Mr Reynolds has known of the long standing history between my family and that of the Wickhams. Past intrigues of his ancestors caused us to become distant relations. When he discovered that Wickham was getting his living on the streets, his charitable nature decided to help him to a position; namely in charge of the dust mounds that my father built his fortune on. During his employ there, Wickham happened to see Mr Reynolds hide something which consequently he found and now intends to blackmail Reynolds with, his motive being to accomplish revenge of my family where so many of his antecedents have failed."

Mr Bennet studied the man before him. "How do you know he intends to blackmail you and Mr Reynolds?"

"When I asked Mr Reynolds to retrieve the piece of paper, he was unable to find it in the place he had left it. And the Wickhams have a history of blackmailing anyone connected with the Darcy family for their own nefarious advantage."

"Will this piece of blackmail have any consequence on you and Elizabeth, if made public?" Mr Bennet asked.

"None whatsoever, sir, for Mr Reynolds and I do not intend to provide Wickham with such an opportunity."

"In that case I wish you god speed in the matter," Mr Bennet said, stretching his glass forward for a refill. "As to your fears, I assume that you do intend to tell my daughter the full worth of what she is entitled to sooner rather than later?"

"You made assured that I will, sir, once I find the courage," Hurst answered. He took another sip of his drink before venturing more. "I confess, sir, that I find myself relieved at your reaction to all of this intrigue, particularly with regards to your daughter's ignorance."

"I find that I approve of you," Mr Bennet replied. "And, as you shall discover, sir, when I approve of someone, I take delight in finding out whatever articles of wit or oddity they seem to possess."

Elizabeth awoke early the next morning, half inclined to wonder if all that had occurred to her was nothing more than the result of a long sleep. Confirmation lay waiting for her in the form of a note by her beside, in her father's scrawl, saying that he wished her and Mr Hurst every happiness. The postscript included a request from her fiancee, asking if she would join him in his lodgings so as they might reach agreement over a wedding date. The coupled words caught her a little by surprise, it had not occurred her until this moment that her agreeing to marry him would entail a wedding.

Finishing her ablutions, she walked to the window and surveyed the familiar street of her second home without any focus on its features, except as her recollections of her routine spent in this building. Silently she remembered her days filled quietly reading or mending, helping her mother and her sister in an effort to console their sorrow concerning the change in their circumstances. While she had missed them, a part of her had no desire to return to such a routine for a great length of time.

Calling upon her imagination, she speculated as to what her married life might entail. The prospect of time spent in a house by herself with none but Mr Hurst for company did not seem altogether evil, indeed she found the idea very attractive. A frown caressed her face when she remembered that he lodged in the rooms above, and, as far as she was aware, little in the way of funds to afford them somewhere else. Not that she disliked the lodgings, indeed she had helped her mother fit them up before they were advertised. Still, she had hoped that her married life would not begin in such close proximity to her family.

None of these wonderings would be resolved however, without some consultation with her future husband, she realised. Removing herself from the window, she went to look for him.

She found him where her father's note said he would be, waiting in the principal room of his lodgings, a selection of breakfast foods, along with tea and coffee adorning the small circular table before him. He was seated in an arm chair, an open book resting in one hand, his eyes instantly removing themselves from the pages upon her entrance.

"Good morning, Elizabeth," he uttered, closing the book and rising from his place to welcome her. "Shall I take the sight of you this morning as confirmation that you are not offended by presumption to ask you to meet with me?"

"Why should I be?" Elizabeth countered as she neared him, taking the hand he proffered. "We are engaged after all."

"Yes, but does that allow to meet in my lodgings without a chaperone at so early an hour?" he queried.

She took a step back towards the door. "Sir, if indeed you are so concerned as to proprieties, there lies an easy remedy. I am sure it will not take too much time to rouse my father from his bed."

"Only if you wish it," he replied.

Elizabeth smiled and shook her head. "No, I believe I can trust us to behave within the boundaries of society. And I have some inquiries sir, that my father may not wish to hear the answer for, if he is to loose a lodger and daughter at once."

"I took the liberty of informing him of such last night," Hurst replied, resuming his seat once more and gesturing with an eloquent look and hand for Elizabeth to take the other nearby. "As to the question which follows such an answer, I assure I do have enough money put buy to provide us with somewhere to live, dependent on your approval of the place of course."

"And as to our living there, will you be able to find another position?" Elizabeth asked. "I suppose neither of us can ask the Reynolds's for references."

"I gained my position with Mr Reynolds without a reference," Hurst remarked, "but I cannot suppose another employer to be so eager not to hold such a lack against me. All I can promise you, my love, is that I will endeavour to find a means of providing for us, as quickly as society will allow me."

"What about the wedding?" Elizabeth asked. "I must confess, until your note, I had forgot such a ceremony was needed."

"That can take place as soon as a licence is procured, and a date is fixed between us," he replied, glancing at her.

"In that case, why not as soon as possible?" Elizabeth asked.

He smiled at her eagerness. "You do not wish to spend some time with your family?"

"With my father, yes, I shall be glad to mend the relationship between us. But as for my mother and Kitty," Elizabeth sighed. "I would rather not be a burden to them. I fear the sight of me would cause them to wonder why I gave up such an advantageous station in favour of a man with little but character to recommend himself."

"Then I shall sort out the licence today," he replied, before he gestured to the food before them both, whereupon they proceeded to break their fast.

So it came that one morning Elizabeth and her father stole out of the house in Holloway, to a church where Hurst awaited, a bunch of wildflowers in his hand, gathered in the dawn hours to fulfil the task of being his bride's bouquet.

The priest exited the church upon arrival of the intended couple and in law, his gentle voice opening the ceremonial rituals of welcoming them into the marriage state, reminding them of the reasons such a union was formalised and obtaining their vows to commit to each other for richer, for poorer, for better or for worse, until death did they part.

All ceremony at an end, Mr Bennet threw petals about them as Hurst drew his wife forward for a kiss more intimate than that of the day when he declared his affections were unchanged, and she was driven to confess that hers were not.

The trio moved to a nearby park, where they wondered down the wide avenue arm in arm, the newlyweds passing smiles between each other, their meaning eloquent to none but themselves.

Elizabeth espied a young woman of her or her sister's age, attired in the dark weeds of mourning, with a gentleman seated on the bench beside her, his manner attentive and solicitous, answering to every appearance of a lover. She broke from her father and husband to hand the young woman her bouquet in expectation of the happy event to come, receiving a wordless smile of gratitude in return.

Further on in the park there stood a photographer, earning his means to live by taking photos of willing passers-by. Two children from the prosperous middle class were posing for their photos at present, and the trio waited for their turn to come.

The children possessed a generous and curious nature, allowing them to join in the photos, and they amused themselves by posing for various family like scenes. Then the children went, leaving the photographer to take images of the trio, then just the bride and groom, Hurst wrapping his arms around Elizabeth's waist, then Mr Bennet, Hurst and Elizabeth all by themselves.

When all the moods of such likenesses were satisfied, the trio moved to a pleasant area of grass in order to take their ease, before going home to spring their news upon an unsuspecting mother and sister in law, who would no doubt be torn between scorning the inequalities of such a match, the poor prospects that await them in the future, and disappointed that they had not been invited to attend the event.

Part 25

Posted on: 2011-03-05

An announcement of the wedding made a notice in the paper, simple and discreet. 'Miss Elizabeth Bennet to marry Mr William Hurst,' without a syllable said about her who her family or where she came from. But for those who possessed an eagle eye, the notice was immediately caught and the news spread.

"To lose the ward and the secretary in one afternoon, that is extremely impudent of Mr Reynolds," Lady Catherine de Bourgh bemoaned. "What is worse is that Miss Elizabeth Bennet and that Hurst fellow have run off together." She turned to her nephew, her hapless companion at this present moment, and now a source for admonishment. "Oh really Richard, when you know the man needs counsel."

Richard Fitzwilliam shrugged. Though he learned of the news before the union was made public, it was still second hand, via Mr Reynolds, his client, who despite all reports seemed little disappointed to hear of the event. "I hardly see how I can be to blame. If two people are inclined to run off with one another, a lawyer is the last person to prevent it."

"I said no good would come of settling so much money on a dustman," Lady Catherine reminded all present, confident and proud of the strength and proof of her convictions, holding no desire to be magnanimous. "How will he protect himself from the jackals now? The man is a mere novice in the ways of the world."

These words of warning were said in the presence of two such jackals, who did their best to appear as innocent of such a low and degrading practice as any such progeny of that dubious pedigree should. Caroline exchanged a glance with her husband, causally flicked her fan, and took a sip from her glass, while George inhaled another lungful of tobacco, before affecting to maintain his previously bored and indifferent expression.

Younge looked up from his latest additions to the shop floor as the bell signalled the arrival of his comrade in crime and arms.

"So have you found anything?" He asked, studying the old squaddie curiously, searching for the merest hint of deception. "Do not attempt to conceal anything from me."

"Well man and brother and partner in feeling, equally in undertakings and actions, I have found a cashbox on the dustheap." Wickham Senior reported. "On the outside was a parchment label saying 'my Will, George Darcy, temporarily deposited here.'"

"We must know its contents," Younge remarked, in a tone still awed by the wonder of the discovery.

"That was my feeling exactly comrade, so I broke the box open," Wickham reported eagerly.

Younge froze, a suspicion of doubt entering his mind about his supposedly loyal comrade in arms and crime. "Without coming to see me first?"

"Exactly so," Wickham replied. "I was bent on surprising you, sir, before we were surprised by that rogue Reynolds. I examined the document, regularly executed, regularly witnessed. In short, he, George Darcy, leaves to Edmund Reynolds the little mound which is quite enough for him and he leaves the whole rest and residue of his property to the crown."

"The date of the will must be proved," Younge murmured, scarcely daring to believe what he was hearing. "It may be later than the one generally accepted."

The old squaddie beside him nodded triumphantly. "Exactly my thinking, comrade. I paid a shilling, mind I did not ask you for sixpence, to look up that will. It is dated months after the generally accepted one."

"I would have thought that you would have consulted your partner earlier as to a course of action," Younge remarked, glancing at his comrade with a raised brow.

Wickham was all innocence. "But sir, think of the surprise!"

Younge hesitated for a moment, then relented. "Let's see this document at last."

His companion obliged, retrieving the parchment from his dusty old rag-worn coat, placing it on the table, so that Younge could run his magnifying glass over the elaborate legal wording and attempt to translate it into layman's understanding.

"Am I correct in its content, partner?" Wickham asked.

"Partner, you are," Younge confirmed.

Wickham slapped his hands together in eager satisfaction of the bounty that was to come their way. "We'll extract a hefty payment from Reynolds to keep this secret."

Younge frowned a moment as a sudden black thought entered his mind. "What if he's honest and gives up all according to what is written legally?"

"Him?" Wickham queried, incredulous at the suggestion. "Prove honest? He's grown too fond of money for that."

"The question is, who is going to take care of this will?" Younge mused as he rolled the parchment into a cylinder. "Do you know who is going to take care of it?"

"I am?" Wickham sought to confirm.

"Oh dear, no," Younge replied. "That's a mistake. I am."

Wickham grabbed the free end of the bundled legal document and for a moment a brief struggle of possession ensued.

"Now I don't want to have any words with you," Younge remarked, "and still less do I want to have any anatomical pursuits with you."

"What do you mean?" The old squaddie asked.

Younge glared at him a little. "What I mean is that I'm on my own ground. And I'm surrounded by the trophies of my art, and my tools is very handy."

Wickham resisted for a moment, confident having served in a war and lived in the gutter that he could do some damage, until he caught sight of the unusual items for sale, placed within handy reach of the proprietor, who looked more than capable of using them to his advantage.

Reluctantly, he surrendered hold and possession of the Will.

"Now, I presume, having had the advantage of time, you have formed a view of how we should proceed?" Younge questioned.

Wickham nodded. "Yes comrade. I propose that we wait while Reynolds clears the mounds to see if we can profit equally. And then we can use this to make him pay in money and in humiliation."

Fortune continued to favour the rogue that was Jenkinson, granting him the means and opportunity to acquire a roomy dwelling by the river, some distance upstream from the cavernous city, with leasehold of a good, hardy lock, to fund the rest of his natural life. This profession, though difficult in colder weather, granted him not just monetary gifts from those who requested passage along the river, but also information, which might prove useful to his further, future advantage.

"Lock, ho!" One of these passerbys called out as their wooden boat glided towards the solid, secure impasse.

Jenkinson rose up from his reflective pose to raise the doors, catching sight of the man's profile, and recognised him. "Mr Charles Bingley t'other governor," he murmured to himself, consideringly. "What exercises you on the river today?"

Charles Bingley guided the boat through the upward passage, then drew out the coins for payment. As he prepared to toss the fee to the lockman, he also acquired recognition. "Ah, its you is it?" He remarked, before throwing a coin. "Honest friend."

Jenkinson caught the circle of metal and answered. "Yes I'm the keeper here. No thanks to you for it, or lawyer Fitzwilliam."

"We shall save our recommendation for the next candidate," Charles replied, "the one who offers himself when you are transported or hanged. Don't be long about disappointing him, will you?"

Jenkinson glared at the carefree boater long after he had ceased to become a concern of his, watching him as he progressed up river, his mind quietly speculating if it were possible to do that lawyer some personal damage. When the boat was nothing but a speck upon the horizon, his gaze travelled amongst the hedgerows which covered the opposite bank. And there he spied another man whom he knew from the city.

"Oy there! Lock ho," he called out. "Mr Schoolteacher if I'm not mistaken. Lock ho." he cast a speculative look upon the man's profile, startled and suspicious to see a curious resemblance between them. "Well bless me t'otherest if you haven't taken to imitating me. Never thought myself so good looking before."

"These are my holidays," Collins replied, his gaze travelling from Jenkinson to the boat now far up river, his expression turning stormy.

"Well your working days must be stiff'uns if these is your holidays," Jenkinson commented. He grinned inwardly as he divined the object of the man's stare. "Don't worry. He takes it easy that one. But you know you could have outwalked him."

Collins turned back to his companion. "Would you say I'm following him?"

"I know you're following him," Jenkinson answered.

"Yes, well, I am," Collins confirmed, before seeking to move on, only for a staying hand of Jenkinson's. "He may land,..."

"Be easy," the lock keeper murmured. "He'll leave his boat behind as a marker won't he? He can't carry it ashore under his arm."

Collins found little fault with that observation so he took breath awhile beside the lock and river. "What did he say to you?"

Jenkinson shrugged, showing that the insults traded between him and the lawyer Bingley hardly troubled him. "Cheek. Spite. Affronts. Said I'd be better hanged."

"Damn him!" Collins swore. "Let him get ready for his fate when that comes about."

"Oh, then I make out, t'otherest, that he is going to see her," Jenkinson deduced, remembering his last conversation with the schoolteacher, concerning Jane Bennet, niece of his late partner, Gaffer Philips.

"He left London yesterday," Collins revealed sombrely. "Until now he has done nothing but torment me by walking the streets of that city. And now he suddenly ceases and leaves, taking care to do it discreetly? I have little doubt he's going to see her."

Jenkinson stilled as he observed the schoolteacher. There was a quiet deadliness about him, as if a passionate fire of dark purpose was burning deep within. "Are you that sure?"

"As sure as if it were written here," Collins replied, placing a hand over the piece of his shirt that covered his chest, where his heart beat below.

The lock keeper caught the tell tale shadows under the eyes, along with the certain hollow pallor to his face, indicating that the schoolteacher had undergone many stresses since their last passing encounter. "But you have been disappointed before, it has told on you."

"I've followed him day and night now, through the summer holidays," Collins revealed. "And I won't leave him till I've seen him with her."

"And then?" Jenkinson prompted.

Collins rose up from the grassy bank. "I'll come back to you." He retrieved a few coins from his pocket and handed them over to the rogue. "Now I must go. Though he'd have to make himself invisible before he could shake me off."

"You'll put up at the lock on your way back?" Jenkinson asked, which caused Collins to nod before he left.

"Now why did you copy my clothes, schoolmaster?" Jenkinson murmured to himself as he watched the man walk on in search of the lawyer that could lead him to a glimpse of her. "What is your plan?"

He entered his dwelling and went to the clothes chest, retrieving a red scarf, which he placed around his neck. "Now if I see him in a similar, I'll know its not by accident."

Later, as the afternoon gradually surrendered to the dusk, the sombre figure that was the schoolmaster returned to Jenkinson's dwelling by the dock. The owner awaited his return, leaning upon the bow of the lock, pipe in his mouth, the small chimney of smoke visibly indicating the coldness of season.

"He's put up for the night," Collins informed the lock keeper. "He goes on early in the morning. I'm back for a few hours."

"You need them," Jenkinson diagnosed, for the schoolmaster looked worn out, as though he had been trekking through the mountains, not an easy stroll down the river bank on the trail of a boat and its rower.

"I don't want them," Collins replied. "But if he won't lead, then I can't follow." He glanced down at the sheer, dangerous looking shaft which led to the bottom of the river and the lock. "This would be a bad pit for a man to be flung into with his hands tied."

"The gates would suck him down afore he'd have a chance of climbing out," Jenkinson observed, before darting across the narrow bridge to join the schoolmaster on the other side of the river bank.

Collins watched in admiration of his seemingly reckless manoeuvre. "Yet you run about over six inches of rotten wood. No wonder you don't fear being drowned."

"I used to," Jenkinson confessed, "but I can't be drowned now."

"You can't be drowned?" Collins echoed dubiously.

"Nah, Its well known," Jenkinson confirmed, "I've been brought back out of drowning and I can't be drowned again. You should better come along and take your rest." He led the schoolteacher into his dwelling.

Down in the city, where night was illuminated by the gas lamps adorning many a fine residential street, a dark avaricious figure stalked the brightly lit windows that belonged to the Reynolds' house.

"Honest," Wickham murmured, echoing the word his partner and comrade in crime had previously uttered that day. "He's grown to fond of money for that. What wouldn't you give me for my box? Look out for a fall, my lady dustwoman, I'm gonna have your Reynolds, I'm gonna turn him upside down and grind him down."

Part 26

Posted on: 2011-03-12

There had been few times in Jane's life when she was truly scared. The first was during the year an illness came to Meryton and took two of her sisters. The second was when Mr Collins had threatened to kill Mr Bingley, causing her to run from her sister and Mr and Mrs Reynolds, from her mother, father and last sister, from London, to her Aunt and Uncle in Derbyshire.

Life was such a contrast here when compared to the dusty and smoke filled town. She had forgotten how quiet the country was, how lush the greenery appeared to the sight and touch, the smell of the flowers, the sound of the birds. In Lambton she had rediscovered the quiet tranquillity that she lost when her father sold Longbourn. The Gardiner's house was by no means as large as that estate, but it was comfortable and fashionable, without leaning towards ostentatiousness, or the dark gothic style which had infected society of late.

The rooms were large and airy, the few servants pleasant and hardworking, her cousins well behaved children who made her duty of looking after them a pleasure. Here she could almost forget the tragedy which had struck her and her family, indulge in a belief that she was simply vacationing with her Aunt and Uncle.

Which she did, until a few weeks before Elizabeth came to visit her. The indulgence was abruptly broken by an article in the newspaper, on the rise of industry built fortunes, using the Darcys as an example. The article included everything concerning the mysterious circumstances of the heir's death, how his body was found and by whom, bringing the full horror of that time back into Jane's mind.

It mentioned the solicitor in charge of the case, it mentioned the involvement of his friend Charles Bingley, it even included a brief postscript about her Uncle Phillips' death and his only surviving son. The mere mention of Charlie caused Jane a turmoil she had not known before. It was as though she was experiencing the full horror of what Mr Collins might do to Mr Bingley for the first time. Her motive for running away returned with full force.

For days she anxiously scoured the papers, fearing to find reports of Mr Bingley being attacked, or Mr Collins connected with acts of violence. She was concerned that her absence from London would cause more tragedy than her presence there. Eventually she became reconciled to this too, and her mind returned to the quiet tranquillity she had first discovered, with the added noble cause of protecting the best man she had ever known.

Then, one day, as she walked out into the village on an errand for her Aunt, that tranquillity was once more disturbed, by the familiar sight of a figure awaiting her before a table outside the local Arms.

"Hello Jane. What a pleasant surprise," Charles remarked as he rose up from his chair in an attempt to get her to sit with him. "I was out for a day on the river." Observing her continued resistance, he resumed his previous position. "Actually I was on business and who should I find?"

For a moment Jane couldn't breathe, much less move. When she found her voice again, her first thought was for his safety. "Mr Bingley, you must leave this place instantly."

Charles regarded her solemnly. "I will. If you'll grant me an interview. A private interview. Then I will leave, I promise. I give you my word."

Jane had no choice but to comply, nodding her head, all while her mind silently wondered if Mr Collins was still in London.

Had she the foresight to glance around the outskirts of the Arms, upon the rural alleyways which led into other lanes, she would have received the answer to her question, in the shape of a shadowy figure, darkly attired, a red collar wrapped around his neck, almost as a portent of the tragedy to come.

Jenkinson retired to the relative safety of his cottage as soon as the storm set in, seating himself by a window as he watched and waited for the return of the schoolmaster. It was dark before that creature returned, in a hurried run, caught in between flashes of lightning, as he sought the shelter of the house, bursting in through the rapidly opened and shut front door.

"You've seen him?" Jenkinson asked. "With her?"

"I have," Collins confirmed in a hoarse voice, turmoil visible in the plains of his darkly troubled visage.

"Where?" Jenkinson queried.

"Upstream," Collins replied. "His journey's end. I saw him wait for her and meet her!"

"What did you do?" Jenkinson sought to discover.

"Nothing," Collins answered desolately.

Jenkinson uttered the final part of his catechism. "What are you going to do?"

For a moment Collins had no answer. Instead he sank upon the bed, and suddenly began to retch, blood dropping from his mouth. "I don't know how this happens," he choked out when he had breath left to speak. "I can't keep it back. I taste it, I smell it, I see it and then it chokes me."

The dock keeper watched the schoolmaster as he retched again before heading back outside. Through the window, illuminated by the lightning flashes within the storm, he saw Collins tilt his head towards the sky as he sought the comfort of the rain into his mouth. After a while he turned and came back inside.

Jenkinson rose and fetched him a generous snifter of ale. "You're like a ghost."

"You asked me what I would do," murmured Collins despairingly. "I don't know! What can a man do in this state?"

Taking the ale away, Jenkinson guided the schoolmaster to the bed, where he helped him lie down. "Here. Sleep now," he uttered in soft, hypnotic tone. "Sleep. Smooth and round. And when you wake, you'll know what you have to do."

The old rogue sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, observing his sleeping guest, then with all the care of an old Charon, he rose and gently pulled at the covers about the schoolmaster's neck, to reveal a red scarf, identical to the one he had sought to attire himself in only this morning.

It was clear to him now that some part of Collins knew exactly what he would do when the lawyer Bingley met with Jane Bennet.

Charles had been wearing a path out in the grassy field upon the outskirts of the village almost from the moment he woke, having taken a brief repast at the local Arms, where he spent the night. So far his only company had been the white squat beasts that patrolled the field, otherwise known as sheep. One gazed at him now, contentedly chewing grass, the inscrutable visage seemingly able to ask him for his judgement.

"Yes, you're stupid enough, I suppose," he answered mildly. "But if you're clever enough to get through life tolerably, then you have the better of me."

A sound of a distant rustling drew his gaze from the animal to the grate, where he observed the arrival of the woman he had been waiting for. Silently he watched her walk towards him, waiting until she was before him to speak. However, as his brown eyed gaze caught sight of her face, he realised something which almost made him abandon the meeting altogether.

Of all the expressions he had imagined her to possess when he was reunited with her, terror wasn't one of them. Jane looked downright fearful of him. Sure her eyes were bright, there was a serene smile splayed across her lips, but barely hiding behind them was powerful, nearly soul consuming fear of something, and his mind could only speculate as to who or what was the source.

"I was saying to myself you were sure to come," he murmured gaily, hoping his eagerness would infect her, "even though late, as you always keep your word."

"I had to linger through the village, Mr Bingley," Jane replied, and he found himself analysing her voice, for behind the serenity, there was undercurrent of nervousness and vulnerability.

"Are the villages such scandalmongers?" Charles asked, attempting for levity, as he held out his hand in quest for hold of hers, hoping it might give her some courage.

Instead Jane flinched and stepped back. "Will you walk beside me, Mr Bingley, and not touch me?" she asked him reproachfully.

"I'll try," he replied, forlornly withdrawing his hand. She continued to keep her distance, walking slightly ahead of him. "Jane, don't be unhappy. Don't be reproachful."

"Mr Bingley, you must leave this place," she pleaded once more, turning slightly so she could see his confused and stricken face.

"Jane, you know I can't go away," he replied, refusing to be convinced by the fear in her tone, or the equally terrified expression barely concealed by her serene features.

"Why not?" She inquired, half frustrated.

"Because you won't let me," he answered, causing her to falter. "I don't mean that you design to keep me here, but you do it. You do."

For a moment, his answer reminded her of Mr Collins, when he talked of her leading him into any fire, or committing any dark deed. Self doubt arose within her mind, asking herself if it was she, however unconsciously, who caused men to act this way, rather than their natures. Yet the resolution was still the same. She had to keep her distance to protect him, whether this were true or no.

"Mr Bingley, will you listen to me while I speak to you very seriously?" She asked. When receiving only a mild inclination of his head in reply, she summoned her courage and continued. "When you said you were much surprised to see me, was it true?"

"It was not in the least true," he confessed. "I came here to find you."

She was not surprised by that answer, for in truth she had left him little alternative but to come, having paid him no farewell or let him know of her whereabouts. She bemoaned her actions back then, that final night in London when she realised she had to leave. One last conversation conveying an excuse that her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner needed her could have prevented this encounter. "Can you imagine why I left London, Mr Bingley?"

"I'm afraid you left to get ride of me," he deduced astutely. "Not very flattering, but I'm afraid you did."

Jane halted and bowed her head, for she was ashamed to confirm his fears, as it was true, from a certain perspective. "I did."

"How could you be so cruel?" He asked her, halting behind her.

"Is there no cruelty in your being here now?" Jane countered, despairingly.

Bingley heard the grief in her voice and feared that if he walked the short distance which separated them, then turned to look upon her, he would see tears staining her beautiful complexion. "Please, don't be distressed," he begged.

Jane resolutely shook herself into a better composure, or at least an attempt of one, before she turned to face him. "What else am I to be? You put me to shame!"

Bingley saw the grief upon her face which he had descried in her voice, and abandoned the questioning in favour of confessing why he had followed her, in the hope that it would lessen her grief, as well as his own, caused by seeing her in such a state. "Oh Jane, I never thought there was a woman in the world who could affect me so much. You don't know how you haunt me, you bewilder me. You don't know how the carelessness that helps me at every other stage of my life cannot help me now, you've struck it dead. Sometimes I wish you'd struck me dead with it."

Here there was more shades of Mr Collins' speech to her. Jane drew another breath, refusing to let herself be shaken by the reference, and continued in her attempts to dissuade Mr Bingley from pursuing her. "But you must think of what you're doing," she appealed.

Think of what he was doing? Nothing else had consumed him so since his passage into adulthood. "What am I to think of?" he asked her.

"Think of me!" she cried.

Bingley sighed. Something which had consumed him so. "Tell me how not to think of you and you'll change me altogether."

"Think of me as belonging to another world from you," Jane explained. "I have no protector, except in yourself. Respect my good name. If you have feeling for me as if I were a lady then give me the full respect of a lady. I was once, until the illness that changed mine and my family's fortune, causing me to become a working girl. If you were a true gentleman..." she paused, at loss as of how to continue.

He gazed at her solemnly, realising, perhaps for the first time, how much grief he determined pursuit of her had caused. "Have I injured you so much?"

"If you don't leave me alone consider what you'll drive me to," she added.

A dark hold settled over his heart. For a moment he could not breathe, let alone speak. This conversation had left the direction he desired it to follow long ago, and now he feared that he would never be able to turn it back, or turn her. Softly, he dared to ask her, "What shall I drive you to?"

"I live here peacefully, respectfully and I am well employed by my family," Jane answered. "If you continue to see me, you'll force me to leave here as I left London and by following me, you'll force me onwards."

A sad expression crossed his features, all but weakening her resolve. He took the final few steps which separated them to stand before her as he dared to ask another question. "Are you so determined to run away from me?"

Distressed, Jane leaned against him, her fevered forehead pressing into his own hot brow, inflamed by the stress of the conversation. Seeking some relief, gently they fell to their knees upon the soft cushioning of the grassy field, the long green tuffs flattening under their weight.

"Answer me this," he asked her tenderly, his eyes desperately searching her own in the vain hope of salvaging something positive from this encounter. "If we had been on equal terms, would you make me leave?"

"I don't know," she replied, moving to rise, anxious to bring this distressing interview towards the desired end, but his arms clasped hers, refusing to let her. "Please let me go."

"I swear I will let you go directly," he promised. "I will not follow you, but you must answer. Would you still have hated me?"

Jane shook her head as his mistaken impression, and then met his eyes for the first time as she answered him. "You know me better than that. How can I think of you as being on equal terms? That first night I met you, when you looked at me so attentively, I had to draw away. Having so looked up to you and wondered at you since that night and at first thought you to be so good as to be at all mindful of me."

Bingley searched her face, inwardly struck at how upon hearing confirmation of her feelings for him, he could feel nothing but grief. "At first so good, and now so bad?"

"So good, so good," she assured him. "But our continued acquaintance is impossible. If you do feel for me the way you said this evening, then there is nothing left us in this life but separation. Heaven help you, and heaven bless you."

Their faces were so close, their hearts pounding so loud and so in tune, the next move was almost inevitable. His hands slipped upwards from her arms to the soft planes of her cheeks. Within another move, he was kissing her. To his joy she returned the gesture, giving as fiercely as he, receiving and acknowledging all that lay between them, the barriers enforced on them, parting them forever.

Resolved, Jane parted softly from his lips and drew away from him. Reluctantly, he let her go, rising to his feet only a moment after her.

"I promised I'd not follow you but, shall I keep you in view at least?" he asked, with a slight gesture to the late afternoon light that now surrounded them. "It grows dark."

Jane shook her head, for she feared he would follow her to her Uncle's house and call upon her in the morning. Her Uncle Gardiner was an early riser and would not rest until he and thus Mr Bingley, learned why his niece refused to see a gentleman lawyer who desired to pay a call on her. "I am used to being alone at this hour. Please do not."

Charles bowed his head in compliance with her request. "I promise. Jane, I can promise you no more tonight, except I will try to do as you wish."

The thought of encountering him again as she walked into the village tomorrow, or indeed any day after this, filled her with the same dread as refusing to see him in her Uncle's house. Not just dread for her, but for his continued safety, after all, it was entirely possible that where he had managed to trace her, so had Mr Collins. "You will spare yourself and me, if you leave this place tomorrow morning," she added.

"I will try," he replied, inwardly knowing that it would be a failed attempt. Silently he watched her go, waiting until her figure faded from his vision before he turned away, walking towards the river.

"Oh Richard," he uttered, wishing his friend were here to console and catechise him in his usual manner, "who could believe this ridiculous position. And yet I've gain a wonderful power over her," he realised. "She loves me. She is so earnest, she will be earnest in that passion. We must both follow our natures, and we must both pay for them."

He stopped for a moment as he considered his next move. "Now suppose I married her. Impossible. And yet I should like to meet the fellow who could tell me I do not love her for her true beauty and warmth, and in spite of myself, I'd not be true to her."

Shaking his head, he resumed his wandering, he mused as to his distant friend's opinion of this affair. "I can hear you Richard, your sorrowful voice bemoaning, 'Charles, Charles this is a bad business.' Yet I'd like to hear any fellow say a word against her."

"Yet she begs me to go away," he murmured, unable to think of any good reason that would justify such an action. "I'll not go away. I will try her again. She shall not resist me." He smiled as he imagined Fitzwilliam's response upon hearing such a resolution. 'Ah Charles, Charles, this is a bad business.'"

Someone brushed past him just then, the surrounding countryside too dark now from him to make out who or what caused the altercation.

"Hello there, friend are you blind?" he asked, before returning to his more immediate dilemma. "Out of the question to leave her. Out of the question to marry her. Richard, we have reached the crisis."

Here his mental and doubtless physical wanderings would have continued, but for the sudden violence of another knocking him forcibly to the ground. Shaken, Bingley made to rise, but the other anticipated the motion and beat him back to the ground, striking him again and again, first with fists, then with a oar, until, much to his relief and the attacker's, unconsciousness claimed all his senses.

Jane had not walked far, only to the outskirts of Lambton, before her own thoughts overtook any desire to go home, causing her to turn round and take a wander in the fields on her own in an effort to reconcile her mind to another no doubt difficult meeting with Mr Bingley on the morrow. For a while she contemplated telling him the truth behind her escape to Derbyshire, her fears that if she continued to spend time with him that Mr Collins would carry through on his threat to kill him. Would he scoff at her concerns as he had done so just now, or would he take them seriously, and accede to her wishes for separation?

She wandered on for some time, without any care as to direction, and thus she was still close enough to hear the crash of waves. A shiver of dread stole over her, causing her first to halt, then turn and run towards the source of the sound, also immediately fearing and knowing who she would find.

Darkness surrounded her, threatening to blind her sight, but the river was lit by the light of a full moon, and she had her experiences from helping her Uncle with his Charon like duties to provide her with enough vision to guide her first into the waiting boat, and then out into the river.

He was lying unconscious in the middle of the stream, bloodied and bruised, his breathing slowed, a paleness haunting his complexion, indicating that his body had suffered much injury, and was certainly near death. In the darkness and due to the violence visited upon him, she could not make out his features, but in her mind and heart she knew them well, almost as well as she knew her own.

"Oh, Uncle, help me now," she pleaded to her dearly departed relative, as she hauled Mr Bingley out of the water and into the boat, their combined weight fortuitously not enough to be in danger of sinking the light yet sturdy craft, "help me make amends. Help me restore this poor soul to someone who holds him dear."

There had been few times in Jane's life when she was truly scared.

Unfortunately for all concerned would not be the last, but the first of many more to come.

Part 27

Posted on: 2011-03-19

We open upon a series of wakings throughout our tale, as morning conquers the fearful and violent events of the night before, the sun and blue sky casting a warmth over the green grass, country villages and estates, even the dusty, smoked filled towns of the industrial ventures, permeating through all realms of society, rich and poor, high and low, for it does not necessarily follow that one is the other, or vice versa.

No rain, either of a meteorological or metaphorical nature threatened to blot the landscape, ensuing a gentle calm after the torrid events of the night before. Up and down the rivers of Victoria's great imperial headquarters, dawn was calling people from their beds, noting who was absent and who was not, calling attention to what would face them today, what new trials lay ahead to bring torment or pleasure to their lives, or hinted perhaps at the portents to come.

Church bells from the numerous churches which occupied various areas of that aforementioned regal sovereign's great capital, greeted one of the lawyers who inhabited the quarters otherwise known as Lincoln's Inn, Grey's Inn, and Temple Bar, their chimes penetrating through the window panes into the rooms behind, calling him to rise and attend to his metaphorical lightly covered legal piece of furniture, also answering to such a descriptive name as the third of those aforementioned boroughs.

Richard Fitzwilliam abandoned all thought to attend to his usual morning ablutions, instead rising from his bed and wandering from his room to that of his friend's still in his nightshirt. A sight which he had observed for several days now, once again greeted him this morning. Crisp white sheets which adorned the bed belonging to his friend lay undisturbed, the pillows freshly plumped, without any indentation as to betray evidence that the piece of furniture had been occupied during the course of the night.

His friend had yet to return from his sight seeing jaunt. Richard's features grimaced, as his mind was forced to speculate once more on the whereabouts of his friend. Bingley had not given him a reason as to his motive for leaving the city, causing him such trepidation within his mind, a feeling which only worsened as the length of his absence continued to increase.

Richard knew that there was nothing of a legal nature which required that Bingley leave his lodgings for a time, as his friend had not been called to the Bar since before the Darcy romance, as he had taken to calling the circumstances surrounding his cousin's death.

That left only matters of a personal nature calling Bingley away from the city, and since it was customary for Mr Bingley Senior, or 'most generally respected father' as Charles referred to him between themselves, to visit his son rather than summon his son to visit him, Richard was left with only one explanation as to why Bingley had left.

Jane Bennet. As the name of the young woman entered his mind, Richard's expression darkened a little further. Barely a week of her absence passed before his client Mr Reynolds called on to cease in his efforts for searching for the sister of his ward, his late cousin's intended bride, as the ward had received news from sister that indicated she was staying with their Aunt and Uncle in the country.

He had informed Charles of this, thinking that to be the end of the matter. That was, until a strange visit was paid them some nights ago, by a drunken carriage driver, that Bingley had piled with three penny after three penny worth of rum until he revealed the location of that Aunt and Uncle to be Lambton, Derbyshire.

Lambton. Richard counted himself fortunate as to be familiar with the likely destination of Bingley's sight seeing jaunt. By a strange stroke of providence, Lambton was not five miles from Pemberley, the estate that belonged to his late cousin's family. He remembered running from the boundaries of that country home to the great chestnut tree by the village Smithy every morning when he and Darcy were boys, when Darcy's grandfather was alive and his father, Richard's Uncle, let him visit the estate.

Lawrence Darcy loved children, particularly his father's namesake, and generously allowed the offspring of his and his brothers in law free rein to visit Pemberley whenever the whim took possession of them. Many a delightful summer had Richard passed, sometimes with his siblings and cousins, sometimes just his siblings or just his cousins, rambling up and down the valleys which surrounded the estate, or the villages that bordered it. Even now he could claim as intimate a knowledge of Lambton as he possessed of the villages bordering his father's estate in Matlock, or the streets of London.

Thus, if Bingley's absence continued, it would pose little difficulty as to finding him, supposing him to be in Lambton. Richard did not have to ask for directions as to the Gardiner's address, and therefore acquire the concern of Mr Reynolds, he could easily travel into the village and ask one of the inhabitants that were mutually acquainted with him and the Gardiners for the whereabouts of their niece and thus his friend. Or even just seek a room at the local Arms and wait for Bingley's return, as doubtless it was the only place where his friend would seek lodgings for the duration of his stay.

Yet, even as his mind pondered the practicalities, Richard could not help but feel a certain dread as to what might await him in Derbyshire. His mind continued to recall the disturbing evening when Bingley bribed and imbibed the carriage driver, and the hunt which followed. He could not help but think of the man who preyed upon them, the schoolmaster, following them down every street, goaded into madness by his friend, who claimed such deeds were his only solace. Richard feared that Bingley had not taken care to shake off the dogged pursuit of that schoolmaster, and that Mr Collins had followed his friend to Derbyshire.

Further downstream, in what was then the rural suburbs of Blackheath, a faded redbrick, leafy wrapped cottage with a lovely tendered garden greeted the dawn far more contentedly, having no troubles to plague the occupants from the night before. It was by no means a large cottage, but neither was it a small one, possessing adequate means of accommodating a growing family, or a childless couple.

The structure was sound, the roof tiled, the windows paned and inside, the walls plastered. Airy rooms, consisting of beds, kitchen, halls and three good parlours, one of which doubled as a study, occupied the interior of this cottage, furnished comfortably by the owner and his wife, with more attention to sustain-ability and warmth that any desire to appear fashionable.

It was into this cottage which Mr Hurst had carried his wife, formally, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, over the threshold after they left her father's house in Holloway. He brought the place with his savings, and the furniture from his lodgings was moved into the rooms, along with a few other pieces which the couple received in celebration of their union, from the Gardiners and the Bennets.

For a time they took occasion to become accustomed to living as man and wife inside the cottage, before Hurst sought fresh employment in the city, soon finding himself a job at one of the China Houses. Today was one of the many mornings when such employment called him to rise from his bed and depart from his house and wife.

Inside the house, Elizabeth opened her eyes and turned to see the peacefully asleep figure of her husband, William Hurst, resting beside her. Asleep, he had all the appearance of a little boy, with dark curled locks of hair caressing his forehead, crying out to be ruffled by her fingers. Domesticity had settled upon them since their removal from Holloway to Blackheath, and she found herself vastly contented, both with their comfortable arrangements and all the extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to their new situation.

Though her husband's gainful employment called upon her to spend many of the daylight hours alone in the house, Elizabeth found herself able to occupy and while away those hours, usually with the perusal of a novel or housekeeping or factual, historical book, or some needlework such as mending her or William's clothes, or a piece of furnishing for the house, or embellishing a handkerchief with their initials. She took great delight in the simple tasks of domesticity, such as helping their maid with the house work, cooking a meal for herself and her husband, or baking a delicacy with which to tempt their palettes.

She had never done such tasks before her marriage, for at Longbourn Mrs Bennet had made a point of her daughters being above such menial tasks that families such as the Lucases taught their offspring, before their great grandfather's knighthood and acquirement of an excess of wealth that granted them access to the highest circles of Society. Even in Holloway, Mrs Bennet had insisted that their father hire a maid of all works to cook for them, though it caused them a further stress on their now meagre finances.

Elizabeth smiled as she recalled her husband's reaction when, for the first time he arrived home, to find her putting the finishing touches to a small cake that was to be their desert that night. An expression of heartfelt delight diffused over his face, adding another attractive quality to his already handsome features. That night he had felt no need to ask her, as he usually did at least once a day, if she was happy with marrying for no wealth at all, he had known it from her flushed and delighted features as she presented to him their evening meal.

She often wondered why he felt a continual need to be reassured by her regarding such concerns, for as much as he told her that he did not doubt her word, the daily question caused her to speculate that he must have a motive, but what it was she did not know, nor could she begin to figure out.

Each time she attempted such a thought provoking endeavour, she would be forced to conclude that it was a shade of his character, a solicitousness born from either nature or nurture. She could not help loving him for it, as indeed she loved him for other shades of his character, the kindness, the gentlemanlike qualities, the manners, tenderness and passion with which he loved her each day of their married life.

It was no hardship to be contented by such daily, unchanging treatment, to return such loving gestures just as deeply. Over all, she was happy with her life now, able to look back on her past as she to, with a remembrance which gave her pleasure, and to continue to gaze into the future, where she saw naught but her and William's continued happiness.

Closing her eyes, for the time that required them to rise was still some distance off, she joined her husband in the nocturnal realm for another half hour or so.

In the more crowded streets of the chaotic capital, where the dust yards ruled Maiden Lane and its surrounding boroughs, a crippled squaddie woke, not to the chimes of any of London's great churches, but to another canopy of noise that was of a more industrial nature, which caused a sudden and violent awakening, as though it were a storm greeting the quiet calm of the night before.

Scrambling for his supporting crutch, it was with speed and therefore great difficulty that Wickham rose from his bed and hopped his way across the short distance over to the window. He drew back the shard of well worn material to gaze out on the hazard that was greeting him with such a violence of sound this morning.

Outside in the yard below, people were hard at work, shovelling mounds of dust and goodness knows what else into the wheelbarrows brought in to rid the yard of the source of the previous occupant's fortune and move to more salubrious surroundings. Given the state of the yard, along with the sight of many already full wheelbarrows, it was clear that the people had been employed in clearing the mounds for many hours, and, if the quantity employed was any indication, their employer intended for the mounds to cleared as soon as humanly possible.

Wickham was incensed. Ever since he took up Mr Reynolds' offer of keeping guard on the old Bower and the mounds, he had come to view the probable fortune contained in the mounds below as his own. All his life, he had listened to his father's tales of woe, of having been disappointed of his rightful inheritance by the son of his godfather, forcing him to take a commission in the army.

How such misfortune tallied with marriage to a woman who was the younger sister in law of this son was unclear, but Wickham never bothered to speculate, he was too conscious of the desire to revenge himself and his family upon that son and his descendants. When his father perished on the field of Alma, this desire overwhelmed him, but it was not until his own injuries caused by his own career in the army that he was allowed to be shipped homed from the Crimea, thus in a position to fulfil that desire.

Meeting Mr Reynolds in London had not been entirely a matter of providence, he had researched the fortunes of the Darcys until he found the whereabouts of the current heir, and stationed himself in the borough to which Maiden Lane belonged, waiting for the first news of the return of that Darcy heir from Africa.

When the death was published in the papers, along with the news that the Reynoldses would inherit, he followed Mr Reynolds until the man acknowledged him, whereupon he sold him his sob story of being injured out of his chosen career, thus angling himself into gainful employment. He settled into the house, confident that given enough time, he could wrangle his own fortune out of the mounds, thus depriving the Reynoldses of further profit, and revenging himself on his grandfather's employers.

When he found the Will, dated later than the one recognised, that intended all the fortune to go to the Crown, he was further incensed against a man like Mr Reynolds, who had the nerve to grab such a fortune that the country was entitled to. He felt, as a man who once served in her Majesty's army, that he had a duty to deprive Mr Reynolds of this fortune.

That this Will, and, consequently the fortune, was his just reward for all the injustice which his forefathers had endured. And now, to see the mounds in the process of being cleared away, without any warning, or indeed so much as a by your leave, before he had a chance to profit from them, or proposition Mr Reynolds, it was enough to make him considerably angry. He felt all the injustice visited upon his father descending upon him afresh, overwhelming his senses, causing him to fume.

For a good ten minutes he stood before the window of his bedroom, gazing out upon the yard, fuming as he watched the people steadily clear the mounds away. Abruptly, a sudden calm settled over him, as his military mind awoke within him, and he began to realise the practicalities of time. Despite the size of the people employed and diligence in which they carried out their work, it would still take many days before the yard was completely clear of the mounds.

Thus he had time to visit Mr Reynolds and put the man's nose to the grindstone. He would also have the advantage then, of Mr Reynolds acquiring more money due to the clearance of the mounds, thus granting him the opportunity to profit even further from his proposition.

"Clear the mounds, clear off the evidence!" Wickham crackled once he finished his ruminations. "It won't make any difference. I'll have you Reynolds. Your destiny is downfall and I'm the one whose destined to bring you down."

Up river, in the lock keeper's cottage that was situated upon the lock just outside Lambton, Jenkinson woke from his sleep to discover that the guest bed was empty. Not only that, it displayed little evidence that it had ever been occupied during the night.

Rising from his own bed, he attended his ablutions, dressed, and exited his humble abode to discover that his house guest who had evidently quitted the cottage when he fell asleep, had passed his nocturnal slumber on the grass outside. Silently he abandoned his morning exercise, usually consisting of a stroll with his pipe down to the village and back, and walked over to observe the changes as to ascertain where the schoolmaster might have been.

Mr Collins lay upon his back across a small stretch of grass that lay between the hedgerows and the river. His complexion was flush, almost fevered, with the added stains of mud, grass and blood, spread across not only his face, but his hands and the part of his chest where the shirt was open to give himself the freedom to breathe. The very sight of such an open shirt suggested another observation to deduce, that his struggle to breathe had been caused by an altercation that required such clothing to be undone.

Such speculation was further evidenced by the overall state of his clothes, for aside from being worn by the usual wear and tear caused by wearing, they also possessed the appearance of having being in an altercation, stained with mud, grass, blood and sweat. There was also another dampness, which was different from the stains of sweat, as it was colourless against the faded white cotton shirt. Such dissimilarity was not easily distinguishable to the common observer, but then Jenkinson never thought so humbly of himself to consider his observations as anything out of the common way.

About the neck there was also a large circular bruise, caused no doubt by something, or someone for that matter, pulling at the red scarf which the schoolmaster had tied about himself, in what Jenkinson was convinced was a deliberate attempt to frame him for any dark actions that the schoolmaster decided to commit.

"He's been hung on to pretty tight," Jenkinson observed aloud, for Mr Collins was sleeping the heavy sleep of someone exhausted and unlikely to be disturbed by speech, providing such speech was not unduly loud. "He's been in the grass, and he's been in the water." For Jenkinson, having been raised by a career in the many occupations involving the river, knew the difference between sweat and water stains when he saw them. "And he's spotted and I know with what. And I know with whose."

Within the village of Lambton, in the locals Arms, a distressful scene was to be met by the local physician, as he arrived that morning, having been summoned from his home and his family only minutes ago. A local man, he was the latest of his forefathers to have been born and raised in the village, and in the profession which he chose to train for.

He was blessed with a natural compassion when it came to dealing with patients and those closest to them, that was only enhanced by his medical training. There were few people in the village and outside it that could not speak well of his affability and ability to tend to the sick.

The scene which caused him distress was the sight of a young woman, cradling a man in her arms, a man who was bloodied and bruised, and, given the condition of his general appearance alone, looked miraculous to have survived the night.

Gently he crouched beside the young woman who held the man, silently surveying the severe damage which had been visited upon his body as he asked the occupants within the room a question. "Who brought him in?"

"I did sir," the young woman beside him replied, causing him to blink as he took a fresh impression of her.

"You, my dear?" he murmured, amazed, as he observed her slender figure, and stricken countenance. Despite her clothes, she looked for all the world to be a daughter of gentleman, or at least a comfortable merchant, not belonging to the circles that used their fists to settle disputes, which the man in her arms looked to be the victim of. "You could not lift, far less carry, his weight."

"I think I could not, sir, but I'm sure that I did," she confirmed.

The physician nodded, and moved his gaze from her face to his patient. Summoning his training, he carefully and diligently examined the injuries, ascertaining their depth, the damage to the bones, muscle and or organ situated below, and assessed what little progress the body itself had made to try and heal these wounds.

All through his exam, the young lady did not move, except to assist him in moving the patient, her slender hands tending to the man's fevered brow with a gentle, soothing caress. What concerned him even more, was the lack of response from the man himself, who continued to remain in an unconscious state as he was moved and prodded, unaware of what was taking place.

"What happened to this man?" he asked the young woman. "Were you able to see what foul act befell him?"

The young woman shook his head. "No, sir, it was dark. I was walking in the fields outside the village, and I heard a splash."

"You were out alone in the fields at night?" the physician sought to confirm. Receiving a nod, he felt it his duty to admonish the young woman for such ill thought as to her safety. "It is dangerous to be out at such an hour of the day, my child, even such a village with as good a reputation as Lambton has. You never know with what ruffians you might meet."

"I know, sir," the young woman answered. "I have lived in London, sir, and I know what horrors men or women are sometimes driven to. I am used to being awake at such an hour, and I can protect myself."

He nodded, laying a hand on her own. "Forgive me, I did not mean to cause you further distress. You were saying you heard a splash?"

"Yes. I went to the source, and I saw Mr ... Bingley lying in the river."

"Mr Bingley?" He echoed. "The gentleman told you his name?" If this man had managed to regain consciousness at some point during the night, there was hope for him yet.

"No, I knew him in London, sir. He is a lawyer, he had occasion to deal with a case involving my family. I could see he was unable to remove himself from the water, so I took the boat that I saw was lying nearby, out into the river, and fetched him aboard."

"So you retrieved him from the river and carried him to the village?" the physician concluded, and when the young woman nodded, his estimation of her rose even further.

"Sir, shall I send word to his family and friends?" the young woman asked.

For a moment the doctor hesitated in replying, for he did not wish to alarm the young woman by asking her to send for the family, leading her to conclude the worse. "It might be beneficial, my dear, if he has a friend, for word to be sent. The voices of those he holds dear could give him the strength to survive."

The young woman nodded. Rising to his feet, the doctor reluctantly parted from her and the patient, to meet the landlady who stood waiting upon the threshold of the room, to deliver his dreadful diagnosis.

"Attend to the girl," he advised the woman, who was a good and generous owner of this fine establishment, respected by parishioners and guests alike. "She must be amazingly strong at heart, but I fear that she's set her heart upon the dead."

Back at Blackheath, in the dearly situated cottage, Hurst observed his wife as they broke their fast, wondering if today he would tell her, and, seeing the contented state of her beautiful features, immediately deciding against it. Everyday he contemplated whether or not to tell her the truth, and everyday he would see her so happy that he feared to bring out news which would surely spoil the emotion, for clearly she was satisfied with what little they had now, and saw no need to desire more.

He glanced at his briefcase, packed for work at the Reynoldses, for he visited the townhouse everyday, taking care to arrive by the servants entrance so as to avoid the surveillance of Mr and Mrs Wickham, who since his dismissal had taken it upon themselves to watch the Reynoldses everyday, no doubt in expectation of the earliest opportunity to foist themselves upon them and scrounge what money they could.

His glance was one of reluctance, for there was little reason for him to go to work, as he did not have to earn for their living. Indeed, the only motive he had to absence himself from the house and his wife, was in order to keep alive the deception concerning his name and his true fortune. Now that he had Elizabeth's love, there was nothing but his own fears to prevent him from telling her that they were rich, his fear that she would resent him for lying to her.

Turning his gaze from the briefcase, to the woman beside him, he caught her own eyes occupied in travelling the same path. "Is there something wrong, my love?" He asked.

"No, nothing, my love," Elizabeth replied, but not without something in her tone, which indicated that she intended to say more. "I was wondering..."

"Yes?" He encouraged, eager to answer whatever concerns she might have.

"Well, if one day I might go with you to the china house." Elizabeth looked to him, her beautiful face full of eager curiosity.

An image sprung to his mind; of her accompanying him to the Reynoldses, discovering that it was not the china house, that his real name was Darcy, the man she was promised to, like a horse, or a dog or a package, and turning from him in disgust, their marriage falling apart, caused him to rise from the table with a sudden enthusiasm for work.

He had never forgot the words she said to him when he first confessed to having an interest in her, they preyed on his conscience even more so since their marriage, increasing his fears that she would spurn him when the truth was known. "I'm afraid you would find my office life in the city very boring."

Elizabeth shook her head. "No," she protested as she followed him from their kitchen into the hallway to stand before the front door, watching as he readied himself for departure and journey into the city where that office was located. "Its just, I watch you pick up your briefcase in the mornings. I do not know where you go, or what you do, with whatever is in that important looking case."

Hurst ceased his preparations to leave, in order to clasp his arms tenderly about her waist, concerned that this seemingly light-hearted teasing curiosity on her part might be out of a need for more comforts than their present situation could reasonably afforded them. "Are you bored, Elizabeth?"

"Of course not," she replied so assuredly that it convinced him such was the truth of her happiness. "Our own dear house. Spending our own dear lives together. There's so much to do, how could I be?"

"You are not regretting it?" He asked, searching her gaze. "Having married no money at all? Absolutely no future whatsoever!"

"You must not tease me," Elizabeth returned. "Its clear I'm being tested in some way, but you will not break me, no you won't."

He leaned forward and kissed her tenderly. Another symbol of her love, another avowal of how happy she was, in their simple lives. Would she resent the sudden influx of wealth, he wondered once more, as he walked away from her. He had promised the Reynoldses that it would not be long before he told her, but seeing her so happy every day, in their dear, little house, made him muse that it would be nice to remain in Blackheath forever, without the demands of society and responsibilities that his fortune would impose upon them.

For, while it did not deprive them of the advantages of a comfortable life, this anonymity did protect them from the opinions and occupations of Society, and the duties that his estate in Derbyshire would thrust upon them, such as the welfare of his servants and his tenants.

The welfare of his servants and tenants. Acknowledgement of such duties caused him to pause in his thoughts for a moment. It was not that he doubted of the ability for Mr and Mrs Reynolds to cope with such duties, indeed it was what they had been trained for, before they moved from Derbyshire to London to be with his father while he sought his fortune.

It was rather that he could not help but feel that his refusal to publicly acknowledge those duties was an act of selfishness on his part, a crime against the reputation of his ancestors who had left him this inheritance to manage. He was merely a custodian afterall, it was expected that he would not shirk such responsibilities.

He hadn't, insofar as seeing to the welfare of the tenants and servants, both at Pemberley, the townhouse in London, and the numerous other cares of the Darcy estate, but he had not let it be known that he was a Darcy, and responsible for their welfare. It was a minor distinction, but a distinction nonetheless. In the desire to protect himself and Elizabeth, had he neglected the welfare of all those under his care and employ? It was a disturbing thought, and one which he resolved to ask Mr Reynolds about, during the course of the day.

Jenkinson clung to the shadows of the hedgerows that bordered the environs of the lock and his cottage, as he watched the schoolmaster wake at last from his deep slumber. He had spent most of the day before, sleeping beside the river, and now his body began to awaken, and rid itself of the violence it seemed to have visited on someone, in a similar manner as to what he did when he was revived from almost being drowned in the river.

He stood silent, as Collins coughed himself into an awareness of his surroundings, then hurriedly attempt to brush away the evidence of how he had spent the night. This care caused Jenkinson to inwardly grin, for such concealment was useless, as he was about to inform the schoolmaster, once he sought him out.

Emerging from the hedgerows, he watched Collins attempt to hide the blood which was littered about his attire, as he walked along the lock to greet him. "Why t'otherest, I thought you been and gone and lost yourself," he remarked. "Two nights away. I almost believed you'd given me the slip. 'Cept I knows you's an honest man and a respectable schoolmaster."

Jenkinson gestured for Collins to follow him inside his house, presenting him with a table and chairs, upon which was laid some bread and cheese, enough for a meal for himself and the schoolmaster. "Eat, you must be starved after all your travelling."

"I'm not hungry," Collins protested, but the sight and smell of food was enough to alter his mind, and a violent hunger conquered him, causing him to grab a knife and attack the humble provision before him with a vengeance.

"Watch out, t'otherest, you'll cut your hand," Jenkinson remarked, and sure enough, the schoolmaster soon did. He showed the lock keeper the wound, almost in defiance, shaking the blood from the wound upon him, before his host fetched a cloth with which to bind the injury.

Jenkinson observed the schoolmaster carefully as Collins returned to meal, attempting to cut the bread with a great deal more care than before, as he revealed what he knew. "Well, t'otherest, news has gone downriver before you."

The schoolmaster froze noticeably, gripping the knife in what appeared to be fearful anticipation. "What news?"

"Who do you think picked up the body?" Jenkinson remarked, inwardly grinning, for not only did he know who, he also knew how much consternation this would cause to the schoolmaster. When he saw Collins appear incapable of speech, he prompted him. "Guess."

"I'm not good at guessing anything," Collins responded resentfully, sensing a little of the glee his host possessed, and attempting to appear unruffled by it.

"She did," Jenkinson uttered, laughing as he watched the schoolmaster blink, drop the knife in shock, a exclamation escaping his mouth. "You did well there sir. She picked him up. She used her skills to recover the body."

Collins sank down into a chair, a darkness visiting him. When he struck Mr Bingley, he intended for the river to carry him some distance hence, away from the village, to claimed for dead by strangers, who had no knowledge of his acquaintance with the lawyer.

He had watched as Bingley met with Miss Bennet, as they walked and talked, his mind reeling as they fell down upon the grass and shared a kiss before parting. He had not dared to watch them from a vantage point where he might hear their conversation, for fear of being seen, so he could only speculate as to what might have passed between them. Given their kiss, he was forced to assume that they were soon to unite themselves in the holiest of bindings.

This conclusion incensed him and caused him to remain, while she left the field, presumably for the village, while Bingley continued to stroll in it. Then he rose from where he had hidden himself and made his way to his rival, brushing past him before setting himself upon Bingley, attacking him. Minutes seem to pass them by as they struggled, but he knew that it could not have been more than one or two before he rendered him incapable of fighting back, and dumped him in the river.

During the fight, he had not given one thought as to how far the girl might have travelled. It had not occurred to his fevered brain that she could not have gone far before he set upon Bingley. He should have waited, followed the girl, taken the risk that Bingley would linger in the fields before seeking his bed.

But it was useless to ponder the alternatives, now that he had committed the deed. It mattered not now that Jenkinson had referred to a body, not once saying that Bingley was still alive. Whether the lawyer was alive or no, his fate had not changed.

As Miss Bennet had rescued him, she would know who had attacked him, for he had been too foolish and angry that day she refused his proposal, to conceal from her his murderous intentions. He had doomed himself almost as surely as he had doomed his enemy. And her. He said once that she was the ruin of him. Now he had proved it utterly. "I intend to leave as the sun goes down."

"Well, t'otherest, you won't get far without something to sustain you," Jenkinson pointed out eagerly, for he had no desire that the schoolmaster leave yet, not while there was a chance for him to confirm why he was so bent on framing him, and what profit he could possibly gain from that. "So eat."

Part 28

Posted on: 2011-03-26

While the sudden energy to clean the dust yard in Maiden Lane roused the old squaddie that was Wickham into a state, his comrade and partner that was Younge of Clerkenwell, sobered himself out of the depressed condition which the combined influences of drink and unrequited love had served to make him vulnerable to the old soldier's schemes.

As he began to return to usual self, Younge realised the evils of the schemes, and the probable cruelty it would do to the Reynoldses, of whom he had always heard nothing but good. Even from Old Darcy, when the miser was alive, there had been praise for his servants, who helped run the dust yard and raised the children he grew to hate and dispossess. And now, since the Reynoldses inherited his fortune, they were known for being all that was liberal and generous around their old neighbourhood, doing what they could to improve the living conditions of their employees.

It further deepened his guilt, the thought that he would deprive these good people of the means to continue their charitable endeavour, by entering into a partnership with Wickham. The old soldier had little planned to do with what money he could blackmail out of the Reynoldses that did not involve enriching himself.

Younge could not imagine what he would do with such a fortune, except improve his shop and the lives of people he knew. The fortune would not alter his lonely life, it would not give him the hand of the woman he loved. If knowledge of his actions were ever made public, his reputation would surely be ruined. He had no motive for this scheme other than his verbal, drunken agreement to a partnership with Wickham, whom, Younge was certain, would be glad to keep all the money to himself.

In short he had nothing to gain and everything to loose. With this in mind, Younge sent a note to the Reynoldses, with the intention of apprising Mr Reynolds of the nefarious scheme, and, if it were possible, help him keep his inheritance, thus redeeming himself from the evils Wickham colluded him into. The note was short and succinct, containing very little beyond a name, directions and the request to see Mr Reynolds at his premises in Clerkenwell as soon as possible. Younge preferred to tell the man in person of the sin about to be committed against him, it was the honourable thing to do.

"Well I lost no time," Mr Reynolds remarked when he arrived, closing the shop door behind him. "I know an urgent summons when I see it," he added, gesturing to the note he held in one hand with the other.

Mr Younge brought them both a cup of tea, courage for himself and calming for his guest, taking sip of his before he began. "Before starting, sir, I have to ask we be in confidence."

Mr Reynolds nodded. "I suppose that sounds fair."

"I have your word and honour, sir?" Mr Younge challenged.

"Good fellow, you have my word," Mr Reynolds assured him. "How you can have that without any honour, I don't know. I've sorted a lot of dust in my time. I never knew the two things go into separate heaps."

"Very true, sir, very true," Mr Younge agreed. "Mr Reynolds, I have to confess I fell into a proposal of which you were the object and oughtn't to have been. I was in a crushed state at the time, having recently being subjected to a romantic disappointment."

"Quite so, Younge," Mr Reynolds offered understandingly.

"That proposal was a conspiracy," Mr Younge revealed, "against you, sir. I ought at once to have made it know to you, but I didn't, Mr Reynolds, and I fell into it. Not that I was ever hearty in it and I viewed myself with reproach for having turned out of the paths of science in to the path of.." he paused, seeking an appropriate name, at last settling on making his own, "...Wickhamery."

At the lock in Lambton, the schoolmaster finished eating and, having endured an atmosphere akin to a dead man being served his last meal for long enough, said a short, almost curt farewell to his host, before rising from his chair and heading for the door. Outside the greeting of the weather was little better, the cold air that signalled the onset of winter touching his skin with all the comfort of an executioner preparing him for the hangman's noose. Collins had felt the hemp close around his neck ever since Jenkinson announced what news came before him down river. The brief pleasure experienced in delivering violence upon the lawyer Bingley faded quickly in the face of such gossiping reprisals.

Doubt now resided where the pleasure had once been housed, and a larger nor more grandiose estate could not be conjured into being. Hindsight guarded the entrance to the room in which it was housed, beside memory, who replayed the act over and over again in his mind until Collins began to comprehend the depth of failure to which he had sank.

He realised now, that he had let his passionate nature rule his better judgement. That he should not have attacked Bingley that night, but waited, until there was no possibility that someone would rescue him from the violent blow that he dealt to him. Emotion had always been his enemy, the window to his soul that harboured his hopes and dreams of archiving something better than his dreary drudge of a life. Now emotion was his hangman. He had once said to her that she would be the ruin of him, certain that she would save him from this. But because of his passion, he had let her damn him forever.

Collins was an apprentice to this craft. Murdering may need no training, but the aftermath required a mastery which he, like any first timer, lacked. Nothing had prepared him for the conflict waging within his mind, just like no one had forewarned him of the evils that would hinder his escape. He had realised that such violence required planning, demanded that he conceal not just the act but his involvement in that act, but it had not occurred to his passionate inflamed mind that such concealment might be seen through. That by choosing to pin the blame on someone else, he would lay himself open to detection. It was true what the Inspector said, that murder lay within anyone. What was also true that one murderer can usually recognise another, long before they are even aware of it.

Jenkinson was one such man. When Philips accused him of robbing a sailor, and a live sailor at that, he had known that the sailor paid the price for making such a accusation. Nor that the sailor had not been the first or by any means the last. There was the sailor who gifted him William Darcy, the young man travelling home to claim his fortune and his bride.

Jenkinson knew from the moment he met that sailor, that the seaman intended to kill William Darcy and pocket the inheritance. That was why he followed him to the lodging, waited for the sailor to attack William Darcy, and then he would attack the sailor, robbing him of the inheritance he desired to plunder. Pinning the blame on Gaffer Philips took no great craft, just as he realised now that it would take nothing from Collins to do the same to him.

So Jenkinson waited for the schoolmaster to leave the house, then quietly rose from his chair and crept outside to follow him. Retribution was within his mind, even though he yet to have the proof required as justification. Evidence was not needed for his own peace of mind, nor for the schoolmaster's, or even the court. It was the threat of evidence, that would lead to courts which he needed in order to achieve his ends.

Without that threat, he could not profit from this act, just as he had profited from all the other murders committed in his name, albeit by his own hand. He knew that if it came to court, it would be the word of a rogue against a schoolmaster, but he also knew that would never get that far. For the schoolmaster would be too terrified to rely on his profession to prove his innocence, too consumed with the doubt and fear that his victim and his lady waited in the wings to testify against him.

With this scheme in mind did Jenkinson follow the schoolmaster, down the path that ran along side the river, far from his lock until the respectable dwelling was hidden by the greenery which surrounded hunter and prey both. Into his greenery did the rogue advance, using what pockets he could find to conceal himself when the schoolmaster abruptly halted, where from he observed his former guest divest himself of his clothes he had taken such care to make so similar to the ones Jenkinson wore, and then descend into the river.

"Not a killing of yourself, schoolmaster," Jenkinson murmured, for he recalled the man's face when he told him of the news concerning the lawyer being recovered by Miss Bennet. He might not know the details of the relationship between the schoolmaster, the lawyer and Gaffer's niece, but he knew a black humour when he saw one, and Collins had worn such a murderously expression of that metaphorical garment since the news was relayed. "Not before I've squeezed the last penny out of yer!"

Instead of proving such an assumption true, and ridding the rogue of the profit he felt he deserved in payment of being framed for another murder, Collins began to wash himself, his body shivering under the assault of the cold water, causing his host some relief. No stranger to such customs of cleanliness in others, the lock keeper continued to watch as the man finished his ablutions and retrieved the clothes he had been wearing only minutes before.

He bundled them together and threw the bloodstained attire into the river, before dressing himself in his usual black school clothes, the uniform Jenkinson had seen when he first encountered the man, before he left London for his lock, receiving five shillings for his trouble of saying that he had witnessed the lawyer Bingley's kindness to Gaffer's niece.

"I see what you're doing," Jenkinson murmured, his eyes travelling the path of that bundle, knowing, thanks to his trade craft around water, where it would end up and how long he could wait to retrieve the bundle of evidence. "Trying to throw your crime on me. Well, we shall see about that, t'otherest. We shall see!"

Mr Reynolds quietly listened to everything that Mr Younge had to reveal, about the discovery of the Darcy Will among the dust heaps, the reading of it, and the quest to find out whether it was of a later date than the one officially recognised, and the plan to rob him of what they could by blackmail. He was not surprised that Wickham was behind it, but the lack of such emotion disgusted him all the more.

Vindictiveness seemed to run like a hereditary disease within that family, tainting one generation after the other, settling to deprive one Darcy scion after another. The latest heir of the Darcy fortune was a deserving young man who did not need to experience more hatred than what his miserly father had already bestowed on him, causing even further grief to himself, his wife and Mr and Mrs Reynolds.

"Now look here, Younge," Mr Reynolds remarked when the tale reached the end. "If I have to buy Wickham out, I shan't buy him any cheaper for your being out of it. Might you pretend to be in it till Wickham was brought up and then hand over to me what you'd been supposed to have pocketed?"

Mr Younge shook his head. "No, no I don't think so, sir."

"Not to make amends?" Mr Reynolds persisted.

"Well, it seems to me, the way to make amends for having got out of the square, is to get back into the square," Mr Younge reasoned.

"And by the square you mean?" Mr Reynolds asked.

"The right, sir," Mr Younge elaborated.

Mr Reynolds sighed. "I suppose there's no doubt as to the genuineness and date of this confounded Will?"

Mr Younge shook his head. "None whatsoever."

"And where might it be deposited?" Mr Reynolds asked.

"Its in my possession, sir," Mr Younge revealed.

"Is it?" Mr Reynolds' gaze widened. "Now for any liberal sum of money that could be agreed, Younge, would you put it in the fire?"

"No sir I wouldn't," Mr Younge replied.

"Or give it to me?" Mr Reynolds pleaded.

"That would be the same thing," Mr Younge pointed out.

As Mr Reynolds began to despair of finding a solution to this matter, he heard the sound of singing, from someone making their way up the road.

Younge made to destroy all evidence of the presence of his visitor, removing the tea from the table nearby to the vicinity of the fire once more. "Hush! Here comes Wickham. Hide behind the young alligator in the corner, and judge him for yourself." He gestured to a beast which Wickham had long regarded with apprehension, and therefore would not care to examine more closely, thus discovering his comrade's decision to desert the latest scheme of revenge upon the Darcys. "Get your head well behind his smile," he instructed. "He's a little dusty, but he's very like you in tone. Are you alright, sir?"

"Yes," Reynolds just had time to reply before Mr Younge had to shut the drapes to conceal the animals, just as the shop bell struck, and Wickham entered.

"Partner, how's our stock in trade?" Wickham asked as he prowled the shop floor, sparing only a glare towards the exhibits he had long since tired of seeing. "Still safe, partner? With all your friends watching over it?"

Mr Younge noted the stress of slight fear upon the word 'friends' and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief that his quick concealment had succeeded, before he retrieved the document and showed it to his new visitor. "Nothing new, Mr Wickham?"

Wickham nodded angrily. "Yes, there is. That foxy old grasper and griper!"

"Mr Reynolds?" Mr Younge sought to confirm with a glance to the alligator, from which behind that foxy old grasper and griper peered anxiously over the meeting, trying to judge in a fresh light a man he had once taken pity over and offered employment.

"Mister be blowed!" Wickham scoffed at such a title applying to the man who had disturbed him so rudely this morning. "Dusty Reynolds sends his dust carts at dawn to wake me up. He's clearing those mounds to get the better of me. When I see him put his hand in his pocket, I see him taking liberties with my money! Flesh and blood can't bear it. No I go further, a wooden leg can't bear it. His nose shall be put to the grindstone for it!"

"How shall you do that, Mr Wickham?" Younge asked, with another discreet glance in the direction of the alligator.

"I propose to insult him openly!" The old squaddie cried. "Then, if he offers a word in return, I'll say, add another one to that, you dusty old dog, and you're a beggar! I'll break him. I'll drive him. Put him in harness, bear him up tight! The harder he's driven, the higher he'll pay! And I intend to be paid highly, Mr Younge, I promise you!"

"You speak quite revengefully, Mr Wickham," Younge observed, and which Mr Reynolds noted with regret concealed behind the alligator.

Wickham shrugged as though such a motion could shake such evil emotion and notions from him. "Perhaps I've allowed myself to brood too much. Be gone dull care! I'll be seeing you afore long. But let it be fully understood that I shall not neglect bringing the grindstone to bear and putting Boffin's nose upon it until the sparks fly off in showers."

The old squaddie left the premises, leaving Mr Younge to glance at Reynolds, who waited for the sight of the soldier to disappear from view before he emerged from behind the alligator. For quite some time did he remain in the shop with Mr Younge, as both silently contemplated how they would foil this product of vengeful scheming without laying themselves open to further losses which the law would require.

At the school in which Collins taught, the man to whom that name belonged stood before his black board, his chalk in his hand, writing down the multiplication tables for a fresh intake of boys, who sat behind tables in his classroom, waiting for his instructions. But his mind not within his body, instead it was far away from him and his pupils, and far away from London, travelling upriver towards that place where there lay evidence of the violence which he had visited on the lawyer Bingley.

When he returned to London there was more news awaiting him in the newspapers; that the lawyer was on his death bed at a local Arms, in the village of Lambton, Derbyshire. Bingley may not be wealthy man by himself, but as the heir of his wealthy, if some what unconventional father, by choosing to have his children earn the money they would inherit, he held a reputation that required such attention by the press as to whether he still lived.

Details on the nature of his attack were still sketchy, but the reporters who wrote the newspapers had the joy of making up their own version of events, with all the gruesome violence and gothic horror such an age gloried within. Nothing yet as to the identity of the attacker, but Collins knew that it was only a matter of time. For Jane Bennet had retrieved the lawyer from the river, the same woman to whom he had first made his threat of wishing violence upon Bingley, all those weeks ago.

Not once did his mind believe that Jane would keep her silence. The estate of doubt still resided within him, acquiring more and more acreage to its name as he continued to think and rethink over the act, and what he should have done, as opposed to what he did do.

If I had hit him more from behind he would not have seen me, he realised silently, his hand hovering over the board, chalk poised to write out the next sum. If I had finished the job before throwing him in the river, he would not hover between life and death as he does now. Even now, he grinds me down. Even now, she ruins me along with him.

"Sir? Sir?" A boy called him out of the dark thoughts and back to the classroom. Silently he turned round to attend to his inquiry.

Part 29

Posted on: 2011-04-02

Several days passed before news of the attack would reach Jane's family members. As soon as she had the strength, she had written to Mr Fitzwilliam, who came to be with her and his friend as soon as he received the note. Richard had been devastated and shocked by the news, and at the desperate state of his friend's condition.

Although he knew immediately who was responsible for this heinous crime, it did not prevent him from placing some guilt within himself, for not accompanying his friend on his journey to find Miss Bennet, or not counselling him more successfully, by persuading him to remain in London, make his peace with the schoolmaster and thus perhaps preventing this terrible violence from taking place.

All too easily did he recall the mornings he had spent wandering back and forth from his room to his friend's, hoping to see Bingley asleep in his bed only to be confronted with the then ominous reality of undisturbed sheets and an empty lodgings. Why had he not begun a search on the first morning that he noticed such a state of affairs?

He was a lawyer and by no means inexperienced in these matters. Why did he adopted the manner of delaying and inactivity, the same one that he always reproached his friend for doing? It was not as if he could have wasted time searching, after all his supposition as to where his friend was likely to be proved to be the case.

With this blame and guilt in his heart did he take himself to Derbyshire and into Lambton, where such emotions only increased as he first set eyes on his friend. The physician was just leaving as he entered, and the good man delayed his departure in order to warn the lawyer that it would not be long before his friend began a journey of his own. Richard took in the sorry news as he stared at the patient, lying unresponsive in his bed, and the young woman beside it for whom his friend had risked his life to find.

There was guilt to be felt regarding her as well, for had he not promised the Reynoldses that she would be protected from the danger which sent her here in the first place? Inwardly and not for the first time, he doubted his career choice. So little had he succeeded at what was required of him by the few clients he could claim to work for.

"Miss Bennet," he began, as the young woman turned to face him. But before he could attempt to speak of his repentance, she rose from her seat to come before him and speak of her own, assuaging his altogether.

"You did nothing wrong, Mr Fitzwilliam," Jane uttered, quietly so as not to disturbed the sleeping gentleman behind them. "If you need someone to blame, lay the charge at my door. It was I after all who was first warned of the violence threatened against Mr Bingley. I thought that by leaving London I would protect him, but clearly I should have stayed behind and allowed Society's natural barriers to keep his attacker at bay. My disappearance only inflamed the dangerous passionate mind of his attacker."

Richard shook his head, as the truth entered his mind at last. "No, Miss Bennet, if I am not to blame, then neither are you. How do we know what would have happened if you had chosen to remain in London? Mr Collins knew where we lodged, he had warned Charles long before left town. The only person to whom we can assign blame, is the schoolmaster and he will be brought forth to account for this." He took a breath, then focused his gaze on her. "Now, is there anything that you need for your present relief?"

Jane shook her head, but Richard could clearly descry some reluctance within the motion. He reached for her hand to press his point. "Please, Miss Bennet, you must attend to yourself as well as Charles. He will be comforted to know that you are not alone."

"I have no wish to make you leave when you have only just arrived," Jane replied.

"Ah," Richard nodded. "It is your sister, yes?" he waited for her nod, then smiled. "Then the sooner I go, the sooner I can return. In truth I should have thought to bring her with me in the first place."

Jane thanked him, then parted from his kind support to write a note for her sister, before sending him on his way once again. Richard took advantage of the age of steam, and found himself back in London within no time at all. It was almost dusk when he came upon the pretty little cottage in Blackheath and knocked for admittance.

Elizabeth Hurst frowned curiously at her visitor as she opened her door. "Mr Fitzwilliam, what brings you here to see me?"

"Pardon me, Mrs Hurst." Richard handed her the note. "You must believe me when I say that this note is from Jane."

Elizabeth glanced at the piece of paper. There was just one line and written very ill, barely recognisable as her sister's hand. Yet the words contained therein were unmistakable. Come to the Gardiners at once, I need you so, my dear sister. "It is very short."

"There was no time to make it longer," Richard replied sadly. "My dear friend, Charles Bingley is dying. He is dying at some distance from here, from injuries received at the hands of a villain who attacked him in the dark."

Elizabeth clutched hand to where her clothes covered her heart, the letter creasing in her palm. "She is with him?"

"Yes, yes, she's there," Richard confirmed. "I've come straight from his bedside."

"Poor Jane," Elizabeth murmured softly. "Oh my poor Jane."

Richard gazed at her sadly. "Please come. She asked me to fetch you. We have long been much more than brothers. I know well the comfort received by the support of a sibling."

"Of course, I'll come," Elizabeth replied. "I just need a moment to write my own note, to my husband."

Her own note was just as short, yet she took care to make it as legible as she could. Leaving it somewhere William would find it, she grabbed what necessaries she might need for the journey, then joined the lawyer outside.

The ride to Derbyshire was quiet, full of deep thoughts. Richard handed her a newspaper which contained the most accurate report of the attack, and Elizabeth spent most of the carriage journey trying hard not to imagine the worse. She hadn't seen Jane since her visit to Pemberley, when she spoke of the resolve to keep herself away from Bingley, to protect him. She could only speculate as to what had changed; Bingley some how managing to discover her location, travelling up river to talk to her. Had he managed to before he was attacked? And had Collins attacked him?

The newspaper only detailed the serious extent of the injuries, nothing about who was responsible. From what little Mr Fitzwilliam had said, his friend was too near death to even contemplate identifying his attacker. And as much as she felt sorry for him, she felt far more for her sister, who was about to loose the man she loved. It would be like if Darcy had never drowned and come back to claim her and his father's fortune, parting her and William Hurst forever. She did not know how she would deal with the loss, let alone how Jane would be if the worse happened.

It was late evening when the carriage stopped outside the local Arms in Lambton. Richard helped her down from the vehicle, then they entered the pub and took the flight of stairs up towards the room.

As she pushed open the door and caught sight of Jane by Bingley's bedside, Elizabeth felt a sigh of relief come over her.

"He's still alive," she heard herself whisper.

"If he were gone, she would still be sitting by him," Fitzwilliam replied.

Jane looked up at that moment, and with a muted cry rushed to embrace her sister, leaving her travelling companion to take her place by his friend's bedside. Richard felt as if something heavy suddenly appeared to weight itself across his shoulders as he sank into the chair and took one of Charles' hands in his.

Proximity did nothing to improve the pitiful sight. Every inch of his friend's features seemed to be covered in bruises and what little skin that threatened to show past the vivid lurid colours was devoid of the proper pallor. Richard supposed that he should be grateful that his friend had yet wake and become aware as to the desperate state of his condition. But he also knew that if Charles did not wake soon then it was entirely probable that he would not wake again.

Elizabeth meanwhile, after directing one sad glance at the two gentlemen, led her sister outside for a bit of air, knowing that the sick room often caused the sensation of suffocation if not left by those who are for brief times. "Jane, what happened before this terrible dead took place?"

Her sister took a breath to calm herself before she relayed the events of that day when she had suddenly encountered Mr Bingley in the village, and been asked to meet with him alone for a conversation. "When I heard the splash, I knew immediately that something had happened to him, Elizabeth. I do not know how I knew, I cannot explain it. Since then I have thought over that meeting so many times, wondering if I could have somehow prevented what followed."

"Jane, you must not blame yourself for this," Elizabeth uttered as she tightened her comforting embrace around her sister. "No one could have foreseen this violence."

"But I could have, Lizzy," Jane argued. "You and I swore we would follow our hearts when it came to whom we loved. You chose to do so, and I did not. I thought too much of what society would think."

"You thought to protect Mr Bingley," Elizabeth reminded her. "Jane, there is nothing wrong in what you did. Only the man who attacked Mr Bingley is blame for this. I hope he is suffering under a conscience at last, but I fear that a man who knows how to deliver violence such as this, cannot possess one."

In London, though the city was too far from the village of Lambton for the guilty party to hear such a speech, the schoolmaster was still discovering the truth in Mrs Hurst's words. Almost from the first moment after the deed was done did he begin to suffer under a conscience. He was an educated man, he knew well the price of murder, even attempted murder for the courts paid little heed to semantics.

It was only recently however that he began to discover the price that your own mind would set upon you while you waited for the offices of justice to come to your door. Not knowing if he was to be called to account for his actions was an ignorance far more likened to hell than bliss. He had little in his life to derive a measure of happiness from, and the future promised no relief, save death.

He wondered if he would find it easier to live if he knew that the lawyer would not, or that he would soon endure the price of his crimes. As the days passed, their hours shortening in daylight as was the custom when autumn turned to winter, a part of him began to hope that his violence would remain unpunished.

That he would be able to return to his life without suffering justice dealt by anyone except his own mind. Scholastic conscience he was accustomed to, it was something he was used to enduring. But if the words of others decided to intervene, he knew not what he might be driven to.

Abruptly the door to his classroom opened, and another master entered, disturbing him from his thoughts. Mr Collins looked up and could find nothing but pleasure from the welcome intrusion. The young man before him had prospered well since their parting, passing his exams with distinction and transferring into a school to become a master himself. Collins could not help but feel a small measure of pride at seeing such a product of his tuition establishing himself so successfully.

"Come in, Philips, come in," he beckoned, emerging from where he stood behind his desk to greet his former pupil. "Well, how is your new position?"

"Mr Collins, haven't you heard the news?" Philips asked him, brushing aside any attempts at civilities.

"What news?" Mr Collins inquired, moving to stand before his board, his hand reaching to retrieve the cleaning rag, so that he may erase the previous lesson and replace it with the one to come.

"The news about that fellow, Charles Bingley," Charlie replied, managing even now to convey the name with a sneer, and using the word fellow as if to imply that he had not ever encountered the gentleman before. "That he is killed."

Mr Collins's hand froze before the black board where previously he had been washing away the remnants of chalk. "He's dead then," he remarked before adding somewhat hurriedly, as if to counter the suspicion which might arise from his reply, "I mean, I'd heard about the outrage but I had not heard the end of it."

"Where were you when it was done?" Charlie asked. His former teacher made a gesture as if to answer, but he forestalled him. "No, stop! Don't answer that! Don't tell me! If you force your confidence upon me, Mr Collins, I'll give you up. I will. I'll have nothing to do with you!" He cried. "If your selfishness- passionate, violent and ungovernable selfishness -had any part in this attack, you've done me an injury that's never to be forgiven! By pursuing the ends of your own violent temper, you've laid me open to suspicion." He paused before querying, "is that your gratitude to me?"

Mr Collins turned from the board to face him, inwardly wondering what sort of gratitude did Philips think he was owed. Surely it was the other way round, as only one of them had profited from their meetings and it was not he. "You've no idea how long its taken me to reach this position. I did not have your natural abilities." He paused then added, "your cousin was something..."

"I've done with my cousin!" Charlie cried, cutting him off. "And I've done with you! My prospects are very good. I intend to follow them alone. Whatever happens, I hope you'll see the justice of keeping wide and clear of me. And I hope that you might think how respectable you might've been yourself," He turned and opened the door, uttering one final epithet before leaving. "And will contemplate your slighted existence!"

Collins remained still long after his former pupil had departed. He found himself disappointed by the young man's outburst. Arrogance had always been Philips' one real failing, and it was a shame that the fault had only worsened since he last saw him. But it was not his arrogance which called him to ponder on Philips visit long after he was gone, but the words, particularly the critique on his nature, which were too true be denied.

At the local Arms in Lambton, the deathbed patient stirred from his slumbers to call out to his friend. Days had passed since his injuries were inflicted, time which Bingley could not comprehend, having been unconscious for most of them.

When he did struggle to rouse himself from that state, his labouring could only sustain him for short burst, causing him to learn the necessity of making his words and actions count. For a man who abhorred any activity which required energy, he now wished for such a strength to exist within himself daily. "Richard... I must... Jane?"

Fitzwilliam immediately looked up from his novel where he had been keeping post by his friend's bedside, although in truth the leather bound volume had held little of his attention from the moment he first opened it. "I'll fetch her. She's always nearby."

Charles shook his head, the motion only causing a further stain upon his suffering, yet the seemingly incomprehensible motion was immediately understandable in the eyes of his friend. A request that what he was about to say must not be spoken in her presence. "No... she... this attack... Richard, this murder."

"You and I both suspect someone," Richard sought to confirm, whilst his thoughts tried desperately not to fix on the charge his friend had laid at the guilty party's door.

"He must never be brought to justice!" Charles cried in a sudden fit of energy.

Richard sighed at the adamant protest, before attempting to dissuade his friend from the refusal to seek justice for the violence visited upon him. "Charles..."

"She would be punished," his friend added before he could utter another word. "Her innocent reputation. I've injured her enough. I would have injured her more, believe me. You must not avenge me at her expense." He reached out to clutch at Richard's hand, the previously limp body part possessing some sudden strength within its muscle. "Listen to me! It was not the schoolmaster Bradley Collins. Promise me!"

Fitzwilliam gazed into his friend's eyes, and seeing that he was in earnest, reluctantly agreed to obey.

In the Reynolds's house, the good lady of that name waited at the dining table with another young woman, Mrs Wickham, while their husbands attended to a meeting concerning a business proposition. After allowing several days to pass without witnessing a return of the secretary and the ward, the couple felt that the time was right to assume the positions they had scandalised their rivals out of.

Caroline and Mr Wickham presented themselves at the house in time for nuncheon, having spent some hours outside in the carriage, checking for a final time that the Reynoldses would be alone when they visited. The vehicle also acted as a useful hiding place from the debt collectors who had begun to ask for the bills of payment for the lavish lifestyle of which the couple were fast reaching their untimely demise.

When their card was presented to the footman and they were granted admittance, the couple determined to separate their host from their hostess, and Mr Wickham was soon closeted with Mr Reynolds in his private study to present their business proposition. Caroline meanwhile took to entertain Mrs Reynolds in the breakfast parlour, imagining inwardly many a morning spent thus in this finely decorated room.

"It is true that both my secretary and my ward have proved ungrateful enough to leave me and Mrs Reynolds stranded here in this grand house all alone," Mr Reynolds asserted as he and Mr Wickham entered the parlour, considerably earlier than either Caroline or Mr Wickham had planned for them to do so.

"Edmund, my dear..." Mrs Reynolds began, nervously, glancing back and forth between her husband and their guests, torn for feeling sorry for the former as well as the latter, disappointed at the Wickham's seemingly self-serving motives, as well as being forced to go along with such a scheme in order to help the Hursts.

"Oh, now look here, I'm afraid the old lady is a little uncomfortable," Mr Reynolds observed. Caroline Wickham made to rise from her chair, whilst her husband began to remove his supporting hand from her shoulder in the direction of their hostess, but Mr Reynolds forestalled them both.

"No, no, no. You see it really won't do. She doesn't care to lead you on. Either of you. And I suppose it is safe for me to assume that you were hoping to fill these vacancies in our household? You and your wife have done me and the old lady great service. We mean to reward you. We think a hundred guineas should do it." He paused to take an envelope out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the table before the couple. "Now as for your filling any position in this house I'm afraid it won't do."

Caroline would have liked to found herself surprised by this somewhat kind refusal, but she could not find herself so. She had suspected as much when she and her husband were shown into the parlour earlier. Mrs Reynolds had done nothing but glance at her sympathetically, just as the housekeeper at her father's house used to do whenever her father decided to refuse her or her siblings, or her mother something it was not in his power to give. As her husband made move to protest, she felt the weight of their debts slowly piling themselves about her shoulders. "But, Mr Reynolds..."

Mr Reynolds shook his head. "No it really won't do at all," he repeated and Caroline was struck by something in his tone. For a moment she wondered if he had seen through their attempt to gain money from them. His expression and the odd note in his voice reminded her so much of when her father had suspected her own schemes to gain money when she carelessly run dry of funds before she abandoned his household in quest to gain one of her own, preferably more grander and richer than he could ever hope to possess.

Her husband tightened his grasp upon her shoulder, and silently she reached up with her hand to touch his fingers, preventing him from making a further protest. They had exhausted the scheme, there was nothing more they could do to persuade Mr and Mrs Reynolds otherwise. Understanding her motion, he delivered their farewells, before she rose from her chair and they departed from the house.

Although like his father and ancestors in many respects with regards to possessing the vengeful desire to take some of the Darcy fortune for himself, this George Wickham at least had the awareness if not perhaps the sense to realise when he was defeated. However he was not above adding a spiteful epithet or two upon the conclusion of the matter as he and his wife walked through the open gates that granted admittance on to the public streets.

"Let the old fool fend for himself," he remarked somewhat arrogantly. "There'll be plenty more jackals sniffing round here tonight."

At the Lambton local Arms one evening, the patient woke from his slumbering once more, to find the room bathed in candlelight, his friend at his friend and Jane sewing nearby. Several days had passed since he had been graced with such company, during which time his father had visited but once, complaining at the conditions of his accommodation for his excuse to return to London, rather than fearing to face the probable death of his son. The Gardiners too had visited, as well as Jane's sister Elizabeth, whom could stay only a night or so before returning to the capital to be with her own beloved.

For Charles himself, he was glad that Jane was by his side, just as he was glad that he found it easier to return to the world of living than he had during the first days of his injuries. However, was also tired, so very very tired of not possessing the energy to do the most simplest of activities. He who had once bemoaned his lack of vigour for life now realised how much strength he had used to live in the first place.

Bruising from his injuries weighed heavily upon his body, the mind stressed by the prodigious amount of time spent unconscious. Charles feared and yet welcomed the end of his suffering, for although he would like to face a time free of his injuries, he could not help but feel that such a freedom required the sacrifice of the company of the woman who attended him so faithfully.

He had come here in order to gain her, and now that he had her, he was afraid to loose her, yet equally aware that he did not deserve her. Summoning what little remained of his strength for thought, he recalled the moments when he woke to see her in the chair by his bed, where his friend sat now.

Keeping herself occupied, she would sew while he slept, or read to him when he did not, and he would savour the sound of her sweet voice uttering the power of the written word. When he did not despair of his end, he would dream of many a day spent employed thus, with her by his side. It was an idyll he could not imagine being easily bored of, and it was with this in mind that he roused himself to speak to his friend.

"How long will this last, Richard?" He asked, pondering the very real possibility that the physician might have visited while he slept and perhaps noted a change in his condition, whether for the good or the worse.

Fitzwilliam closed his book of law, although the attempt to focus his mind on work had been just as successful as the attempt to involve himself in a novel, and leaned over to look into Charles's eyes, observing the fire of the living still within their dark depths. "You're no worse than you were."

"I pray I shall last long enough for you to do me one last service," Charles remarked, his voice inflamed with that same element.

"Tell me what it is you want me to do, Charles," Richard remarked. "Try to be calm," he added, as he saw his friend abruptly grow short of breath.

"You may leave me..." Charles said, between breaths, feeling quite nervous and somewhat embarrassed at what he was about to ask his friend to do, a task he wished he had the strength to do himself. "Leave me and ask her..."

"What is it you want me to do Charles?" Richard asked, only to receive deep, wavering breaths in reply. Watching as his friend's eyes moved to gaze at the other figure upon attendance in the sickroom, he began to comprehend what kind of service his friend was asking of him.

"Charles, listen to me. Were you about to ask me if I would speak to Jane? Were you about to ask me if I would entreat her to be your wife?"

A relieved sigh passed through his friend's mouth, followed by whispered words of profound gratitude. "God bless you, Richard."

"Trust it to me, Charles," he assured his friend, before rising from the chair and walking the short distance to the hearth, beside which Jane was situated.

He found her looking up from her needlework, her face flush not just from the heat of the fire, but from having overheard the assurance to his question regarding her hand, her eyes and features radiant.

"You have no need to ask, Richard. The answer is yes."

Part 30

Posted on: 2011-04-09

Weddings do not allow for the haste that a sick bed can sometimes demand, requiring such necessaries as licenses, witnesses and a man of the cloth to preside over the entire affair, as well as the blessing of the families involved. Nevertheless, Richard attempted to ensure that the arrangements were sorted as soon as was reasonably possible.

He sought a moment of time with Lambton's parish priest, who was luckily an old friend of his family and therefore perfectly amenable to performing a service for two not born in the parish, then took off to London to accomplish the rest of the tasks. Securing the license was no difficulty thanks to his profession, nor was the visit to Bingley's father, as he was well acquainted with the man thanks to his friendship with Charles. And his manners granted him the same speed when he visited Holloway Street to acquire the blessings of the bride's family.

Although Mrs Bennet had been forced to give up many of her comforts in the removal from Longbourn to London, her desire to see her daughters marry well remained one held dear to her heart. While Mr Bingley was not the ideal that she demanded for her eldest daughter, - as he was dependent on his father for his wealth, -she gathered enough assurance from his friend to hope that Jane would not suffer in any event, and with that she was content. Mr Bennet required only an verbal surety that his daughter would be looked after if the worse occurred, thus leaving Richard free to carry out the last task required; that of securing witnesses.

Jane had requested him to ask her younger sister and husband, causing him to pay a visit once more to the Hurst's cottage in Blackheath. Elizabeth was sewing at the table in the kitchen when her maid let him in, fresh from his travelling to and fro all over the city.

"Mr Fitzwilliam," she greeted eagerly, rising from her chair, hoping from the apparent good humoured expression upon his face that he brought news of his friend's condition seeing a little improvement.

He bowed at her briefly. "Forgive the hour, Mrs Hurst, but I have come from Jane with the earnest hope that you'll come back with me to see her married."

"Then Mr Bingley is recovering!" Elizabeth cried joyfully.

Richard shook his head sadly, his expression immediately loosing the joviality he had summoned for the call. "No, no, he's dying. Time is of the essence, Mrs Hurst."

Elizabeth nodded and put aside her needlework, just as the sound of the front door opening and closing echoed down the hall through the open entrance to the kitchen disturbed them, causing her to rise from her chair. "There is my husband. Take some refreshment, Mr Fitzwilliam. And then we'll all go down together."

Taking a candle from a nearby shelf, Elizabeth joined her husband in the hall. "We have a surprise visitor, my love. I fear Mr Fitzwilliam is much fatigued."

William froze as he heard the name of their guest, having to rapidly school his features into an expression which did not reveal the sudden panic that seized his heart when he heard the name of their visitor. "Mr Fitzwilliam?" He queried, seeking to confirm. When she nodded, he placed his jacket on the stair post, took hold of his wife's free hand and without another word led her into the privacy of their parlour.

Elizabeth frowned at his rather strange behaviour. "William, what is it? You will come with me to see Jane married, will you not?"

Her husband shook his head reluctantly. As much as he wished to attend the event with her, he knew that if he consented, the meeting and the consequences which would inevitably follow said meeting, that he had been avoiding since that terrible night when he came face to face with his attacker, would inevitably occur. "No, I cannot."

"Am I to go alone?" Elizabeth asked him, her frown deepening, confused by his refusal, for she had never learned of the peculiar request he made to Mr Reynolds concerning dealings with Richard Fitzwilliam.

"No you will go with Mr Fitzwilliam," he replied. "You must go. But I'm afraid I must ask you to excuse me to him altogether."

Elizabeth no was further enlightened by his request. "But he already knows you're home. I've told him so."

"Well that's a little unfortunate, my dear, but I'm afraid I cannot see him," William informed her somewhat reproachfully.

His wife shook her head, unable to foresee a reason as to why he would wish to avoid a man who had been so very kind to her and her family since she had first come to make his acquaintance at the Reynolds' soiree. Unlike their once kind benefactors, she had never been informed of his particular condition upon employment. "William, don't be so mysterious. What harm do you know of Mr Fitzwilliam?"

William sighed, clasping her hand almost sadly. "None my love." His hand went her cheek, the fingers etching a loving caress across that soft skin as he realised that the time for further mysteries, as she had called them, had long since past. She was his wife, and he loved her. That was all that mattered. He could delay telling her no longer. She would have to know his secret, as soon as this event was over.

"Forgive me, I will come." He paused as her features brightened, unable to resist kissing her briefly. When he broke back, he was unable to refrain from warning her if indirectly. "Elizabeth, my life! Don't you remember telling me you felt you were being tested in some way? Well I think the time may be coming when you will be tested. But for now, trust me, please."

Elizabeth nodded, brushing aside her curiosity, in favour of relieving the vulnerable shadow that her husband's handsome features seemed to have acquired since she informed him of Mr Fitzwilliam's visit. She had no desire to upset him, not when she had gained his agreement to accompany her to an event he was initially reluctant to attend. "I trust you, my love. Now, I will go and inform our guest."

"And I will wait for you outside," he replied. Silently he watched her depart from the room, following her with an uncertain step into the hall, then with an equally dubious glance as her beautiful form disappeared into the kitchen to inform their guest that they were ready to leave. He had feared this encounter for so long, even though he knew that it would one day be inevitable, if he was to have any hope of ending this secret.

He remembered his cousin of old, the days when they played on his grandfather's estate, the last truly happy, innocent days of his childhood before his father moved him and his sister to London. Those memories held an idyll he often found too impossible to gain once more, so many tragedies heaped upon his shoulders by his father and then his return from the continent. He hoped Richard would remember those innocent days too, and not hold this deception against him.

Lifting his jacket from the newel post he placed the garment about himself once more, his hand absently slipping into one of the pockets to retrieve the last reminder of his secret that he had received from Mr Reynolds only this morning. A letter from his sister, long delayed by travelling across continents, full of eagerness to see her native country once more, and the wife her brother had found himself. Unable to bear the idea of lying to a sister that looked up to him and loved him so, he took the courage to tell her everything that had occurred from the moment he returned to England.

Georgiana's reply had been all that he had dared to hope for and more. Four pages was not enough to contain her raptures of learning that he had fallen in love and gained the woman their father willed his fortune on, along with the earnest wish that he tell her sister in law everything soon. With a wisdom that both astonished and pleased him did Georgiana advise him to be as honest with Elizabeth as he had been with her, to trust in their love, and by doing so all would be well.

And now that hour of telling was soon to come upon him it seemed. As his sister has written in her letter, 'one cannot always depend upon events proceeding as exactly as one desires them to.' William took a deep breath, secured the outer garments needed for a long journey to Derbyshire, then sought the privacy which the darkened porch of the cottage afforded him to prepare himself for the denouement.

Richard's first acquaintance with Mr Hurst was made in the dark, as they shook hands while Elizabeth collected some wildflowers from the garden, knowing Jane would not have the time to think of a bouquet, let alone any other adornment to signify the day.

"It is strange that you and I have not met earlier, Mr Hurst," Richard remarked to man who had yet to emerge from the privacy of the front porch, "for you and I have often been engaged in the same business, on Mr and or Mrs Reynolds's commission."

"Indeed, sir," Hurst answered, just as his wife rejoined them.

They mounted the carriage, Richard tapped his stick upon the roof, and they were off. In the darkness of the interior, it took some time before his eyes adjusted to be able to distinguish the features of his companions. Elizabeth's he knew well from his time at the Reynolds's, but her husband was a mystery, for he never once dealt with the gentleman, only with his former employer.

Even now the former secretary was a enigma, keeping himself silent throughout the journey, his features all but buried in the confines of his clothes. One hand held that of his wife's, while the other he buried deep in his coat, his gaze either directed toward Elizabeth, or the towns and eventually rural villages and countryside which the carriage drove by.

It took some time before Richard figured out that there was a reason for the man's continued preoccupation with those two views, and it was not due to a desire for deep introspection. Rather it appeared to be a deliberate and studied avoidance of meeting Richard's curious gaze, or even acknowledging the lawyer's interest.

Which only deepened the fascination. Desperate for anything to distract his mind rather than contemplating whether his friend would still be in the land of the living by the time they reached Lambton, Richard recalled the explanation Mr Reynolds had given him for choosing to deal with the legal business of his estate management rather than passing such work on to his secretary. At the time he had not given the comment much thought, but now, when he had the figure before him, a man whom he realised now had done his best to avoid him whenever he could, the explanation appeared dubious in the extreme.

There had to be something else behind his avoidance, a private secretary could not have a reason not to meet with him. Richard could think of only one, which was that they had dealings before, dealings which made it difficult for the secretary to meet with him now. Yet, when he looked at Hurst, he could not remember when that was, if indeed it ever happened. But what else was there that could explain the avoidance?

As the journey continued, in between the brief pauses demanded upon them by having to change from horse and carriage to that of train and then back again, Richard carried on studying the mysterious Mr Hurst, searching his memory as he waited for some spark, or word, or glance to bring forth recognition. Starting from his earliest recollections, he tried to de-age his mysterious companion, focusing on the dark hair and dark eyes, attempting to imagine them upon a somewhat more youthful face and figure, then gradually reversing the process until he restored the man to his present appearance.

By the time the coach reached Lambton, he was still none the wiser as to the man's supposed connection with himself. His attempt to find a resemblance dating from his youth ended in frustration, for it was the first time he had ever attempted such technique, making the conclusions somewhat sketchy. As the vehicle halted outside the local Arms, forcing his mind away from the subject, he returned to that of his friend, as he escorted Charles' soon to be sister and brother in law out of the carriage into the bedroom of the local arms where the parish priest, bride and groom were waiting for them.

Though the ceremony was conducted in unusual circumstances, and the overwhelming symbolism of the bed in which his dying friend lay seemed to hung over the words that the Reverend uttered, Richard did not feel the haunting presence that he always felt hovering over the threshold of the room, waiting for some sign with which to launch inward and take his friend from this life into the next. His mind and his heart tried not to raise his hopes to take that as a sign of his friend's recovery, but the attempt was half hearted at best.

"Inluminet vultum summ super nos et misereatur nostri," the holy man recited the words of the ceremony devoutly and tenderly, his voice low but sincere, as though he were all too aware of how far Jane and Charles had travelled to come to this moment between them, what trials they had faced along the way. Indeed he was an compassionate man, of long standing in his parish, and well liked by all his congregation.

Within moments of meeting the couple he was about to join in matrimony, he had comprehended the grave conditions and adapted his ceremony accordingly. "Ut cognoscamus in terra viam tuam, in omnibus gentibus salutare tuum. Confiteantur tibi populi, Deus, confiteantur tibi populi omnes. Laetentur et exultent gentes, quoniam iudicas populos in aequitate et gentes in terra diriges. Confiteantur tibi populis Deus, confiteantur tibi populi omnes. Terra dedit fructum suum benedicat no Deus Deus noster. Benedicat no Deus et metuant eum omnes fines terrae."

Jane retrieved the ring which rested upon the priest's bible for Charles had not the strength to place it upon her hand in the usual manner, slipping the thin circle of silver around her finger. She then smiled at her husband, before offering her hand to Richard, then to Mr Hurst, who both gave their blessing with their lips upon the soft slender skin. They retreated and Elizabeth rose from her chair to hug her sister, before all three of them quietly left the newlyweds alone to savour the moment.

"I bless the day," Charles murmured as Jane came to his side, taking the liberty to sit on the bed, for now she was his wife, all the propriety of a chair could be forgotten.

"I bless the day," Jane echoed, dealing a kiss to the hand she now clasped, followed by one to his forehead, which for once displayed little evidence of injury, being cool instead of flushed or deathly pale, nor hot with fever.

"You have made a poor marriage, Jane," Charles sighed, feeling alittle guilty at having accomplished what he had so long desired. "A shattered, graceless fellow, and next to nothing to leave you when you're a young widow."

Jane continued to bestow kisses upon him, an unusual reproach for his words, but a gesture he was gratified to receive all the same. "I have made the marriage I would've given all the world for."

"You've thrown your heart away," he persisted.

"No, I have given it to you most freely," Jane assured him, turning so her eyes met his gaze, allowing him to descry the emotion contained therein, "most happily."

Charles stared at her for a moment, then uttered, "if you should see me wandering, Jane, call my name, and I think I shall come back." He blinked as his mind wandered over the path that they travelled to bring them to today. "How can I repay all that I owe you?"

"Don't be ashamed of me," Jane began, "and you will repay all..." her voice failed as his eyes slowly closed. Fearfully, she cried, "Charles not so soon! Come back!"

It could only have been a moment, but it seemed a very long moment for both of them before his eyelids parted and he was gazing at her once more. "You see... you call me back from the dead."

"Live for me, Charles," she pleaded. "Live to see how hard I try to improve myself."

"You cannot be improved upon, my darling," he returned, gazing wondrously into her eyes as he attempted to obey her plea. "Impossible. On the contrary, I was thinking that dying is about the best thing I could do."

"And leave me with a broken heart?" she countered.

From somewhere he managed to summon the strength to smile at her protest. "You seem to think quite well of me."

"Heaven knows I love you dearly," Jane avowed.

"Heaven knows I prize it," he replied. "If I were to live you might find me out."

"I should find that my husband has a mind of purpose and energy which I know he will put to the best account," Jane answered assuredly.

Her husband sighed. "I wish I could think so. But how can I look at such a wasted youth as mine and believe it? I'm afraid if I were to live I should disappoint you."

Jane shook her head, bent forward and kissed him, driving such thoughts from his mind, almost forever.

The ride back to Blackheath was a quiet one, with all three of the carriage's occupants reluctant to break the silence. As the vehicle rolled past the gradually brightened countryside, the early morning changing into a brightly sunny afternoon, their minds were stationed some distance behind them, with the couple they had left behind. William and Elizabeth were remembering their own wedding conducted not many months ago, on a bright sunny morning such as this, with cares that seemed light when compared to what Jane and Charles faced.

Richard's thoughts were deeply introspective, as he travelled back with them, having promised his friend and Jane that he would see the Hursts safely home. He could not help but think of the schoolmaster, the man ultimately responsible for causing this ceremony to take place now, as opposed to when, if at all.

If Mr Collins had never struck Charles, would this ever have occurred, he wondered. As a lawyer who dealt rarely with the courts of criminal rather than chancery, he was not used to dealing in the hypothetical, but he did believe that without Mr Collins interference, there was a strong possibility that Jane and Charles might never have been united as they were mere hours ago.

Where was that schoolmaster now, he mused wordlessly, picturing the darkly passionate man stalking an classroom, delivering a lesson to the innocent youthful poor of the Philips borough. Did the crime he committed haunt his mind as much as it haunted the victims, or did he no longer bother his conscience with such an act? If there was any feeling which the schoolmaster was capable of experiencing, then surely his suffering must be greater now, knowing that his violence had brought about the one thing he desired the most not to occur between Jane and Charles.

The carriage stopped outside the little redbrick cottage in Blackheath, and Richard descended from the vehicle first to help his companions out. As he stepped round in time to witness Mr Hurst assisting his wife out of the compartment, he saw the man properly in the full light of day. For a moment he paused, waiting for a chord of recognition to strike within him, but to no avail.

Choosing to bid them farewell at the gate of their house, he brushed the puzzle away from his mind and shook hands with them both. "Thank you for coming, Mr and Mrs Hurst."

"How could we not?" Elizabeth remarked. She squeezed his hand in sympathy. "Mr Bingley seemed a little better this morning," she ventured.

Richard nodded, his heart gladdened by her observation. "We may hope," he replied, before raising her hand to his lips. "Goodbye."

He walked away, his mind already half way to Derbyshire, when he noticed the something within the coach. Bending down, he retrieved the articles and returned to house, whereupon all suddenly came clear to him.

"You forgot these, Mrs Hurst," he uttered, before all thought left him, as the memory of how he and the man standing there under the porch met emerged from the depths of his recent memory.

It had been a dark night, with the moisture from the docks whipping through their hair, assisted by the cold wind, mounting a chill upon their bodies despite the protection afforded by the material of their travelling cloaks and evening wear. His companion, no friend of his as he remarked to the Inspector, stuck to the shadows, until the sight of the body in the Limehouse parish mortuary took his legs out from under him. Even now, Richard recalled the tone in his voice as he commented upon the horrible sight of the victim.

The victim. William Darcy. Suddenly Richard found himself chilled to the bone as deeply as he had been that night in the mortuary, when the Inspector commented on murdering needing no apprenticeship. He remembered that man of the law asking the stranger to give his name, then ordering a constable to follow him when the stranger hurried out of the mortuary. His mouth opened and he stared at that stranger whom stood beside the woman that in another life would never have been his wife at all.

Mr Hurst had the power to speak and explain before he could. "Mr Fitzwilliam and I have met before, my dear," he remarked to his wife, who was puzzling over their exchanged expressions of shock. "When Mr Fitzwilliam saw me my name was Frederick Denny."

"Frederick Denny," Elizabeth repeated with a frown, bewildered as to why her husband had taken a false name. "Surely not?"

"It was at the time of William Darcy's drowning," Richard added, knowing that Elizabeth had no idea of the significance of that first encounter. "He came with us to view my cousin's body. I took great pains to seek him out after the Inspector lost sight of him."

"Quite true," Hurst remarked, acknowledging and confirming the events quite calmly, to the surprise of the lawyer, "but it was not my object or interest to be found out."

Richard glanced from the man to the wife, his mind now removed from Derbyshire, and very firmly fixed in the dark matter that was his cousin's demise. "My position is a painful one. I hope that no complicity in this very dark matter may be attached to you, but you must know that your extraordinary conduct has laid you open to the deepest suspicion."

Mr Hurst nodded solemnly. "Mr Fitzwilliam, you know where I live. I know you have urgent demands on your time. You have my word I will not disappear again." He offered his hand once more to the lawyer, who took it hesitantly. "I hope hereafter we'll be better acquainted. Good day."

With that speech and a simple shake of hands, Richard was abruptly reminded of everything that had happened since that encounter. Nodding in acknowledgement, he bid them both farewell, returning to his carriage. Once within the confines of the vehicle he made a mental note to visit the Inspector of the Limehouse Borough before he returned to Lambton. For the Inspector had the means and resources to conduct an investigation, and, as Mr Hurst had pointed out, was not demanded to return elsewhere by the illness of a friend.

Elizabeth turned from watching the carriage carrying Mr Fitzwilliam away from their house to her husband, a countless number of questions upon her lips. William merely kissed the hand that he clasped, then parted from her to go inside, remarking that he had some work to do before he left for the China House.

She longed to confront him, but her mind felt unusually fearful of broaching the subject. His casual confession that he had taken a false name, been to see the body of the man that would have been her husband was confusing to her now troubled mind. She could not understand why he had been to see the body, or why he had given a false name to the Inspector and Mr Fitzwilliam. Or why he had taken care to assure that Mr Fitzwilliam never saw him again.

It was not that she feared to ask him anything, but that she feared what the answer might be. Her own speculation could only conclude that he had in some way been involved with Mr Darcy, or the circumstances surrounding his death. But if so, why did Mr and Mrs Reynolds not inform her of this? Or were they as much in the dark as Mr Fitzwilliam had been until he left their house just now?

She loved her husband, and she feared that his answer might cause them to be parted from one another, with little hope of reunion. She remembered what William had said to her earlier, that she was about to be tested as she had once jokingly supposed. That trial was no longer something she looked forward to enduring.

William did not return from the China House until she was in bed, slipping quietly beneath the sheets to sleep beside her, unaware that sleep was far from her mind. She spent the night tossing and turning, her mind pondering one dark conclusion after another, interspersed with memories of Jane's wedding and her own, the recollections overlapping each other, with the presence of William Darcy's drowned body floating in the river, looming over everything in her life, like a dark omen. Suddenly the image of his face, transformed into another she had long come to hold dearly, causing her to rush up from the pillows in terror.

"William Darcy is dead," she murmured, reminding herself that he was not some phantom come from the afterlife to claim her husband.

Unseen behind her, William Hurst blinked as he woke, hearing the words and the fearful tone with which she used to utter them. "What is it, my dear?" He asked when he had the courage to broach the subject.

Elizabeth turned to him, and he saw, almost with relief, that she simply wanted nothing more than his comfort, than his assurance that nothing was going to part them now that they had found and bonded with each other. "William Darcy is drowned."