Logic assured him that once Lady Fotherby was completely beyond his reach, his heart and soul would be free to embrace the love he held for Georgiana.
The page finally turned, the dreaded month of December was ushered in, and with it came the arrival of Darcy to Town. His planned journey of approximately three weeks for business had initially been arranged as a family vacation. He and Lizzy thought it would be fun to spend the weeks prior to Christmas in London for the holiday entertainments available and improved shopping choices. They both agreed that this year they preferred a quiet Christmas, opting instead to visit relatives at their residences rather than inviting everyone to Pemberley. However, days before their departure date Alexander developed a mild cold and it was agreed that he should stay home where it was warm and safe.
Darcy arrived in London determined to finish the necessary work. He did, of course, immediately send word to Colonel Fitzwilliam hoping the two could drown their mutual sorrows in vigorous fencing or horseback riding or even darts if that would do the trick. He was not surprised when Richard did not respond.
For his part, Richard was not intentionally being rude. He was considerably swamped with work, his evasion of extracurricular activities not exclusively due to a desire to prevent idle chitchat that may inadvertently lead to a topic he wished to avoid. He knew Darcy would be in Town for several weeks, so figured there would be time later… after… when he would undeniably need his oldest friend’s companionship.
Yet, as the days ticked rapidly by and before he found the time to contact Darcy, two events occurred that would forever alter his future.
The first was the murder of Lord Wellson.
Colonel Fitzwilliam got wind of the tale one afternoon, three days before the marriage of Lady Fotherby and Lord Wellson was to occur, while walking through the yard on the way to the stables. A group of privates stood lounging in front of their barracks, unaware of the approaching officer as they were so engrossed in bawdy commentary and laughter.
“Caught him naked as the day he was born, in the act itself!”
“Wonder if he had finished. Seems a shame to take a bullet for the tasty joys of a trollop without the final glory, ya know!”
“What a way to go! Die with a smile on your face!”
“Maybe. Depends on how far it had gone. If the timing was right, then neither of them may have felt any pain.”
Richard shook his head, diverting around the rough group and hoping they would not see him as he was in no mood for salutes and genuflecting. His own thoughts were dark today for no reason he could ascertain, and being forced to chastise a rowdy bunch of underlings was not appealing. He was almost past when one of the young men said, “Old rake! Serves him right for carrying on with another man’s wife. With the pretty dainty he is engaged to you’d think he’d be willing to keep his stick occupied with her! Weren’t enough free bits-of-muslin out there to pluck, so Wellson needs to plow a married woman?”
Richard rounded on the fellows, face grey and tight. “What did you say?”
But he could get nothing coherent out of the men then. They were universally too embarrassed by being caught crudely gossiping and passing around a flask of whiskey by a Commanding Officer.
Heart thudding dangerously, he immediately whirled about and headed toward his office building where newspapers were plentiful. The story was plastered on the front page of every paper.
The notorious Lord Wellson was discovered flagrantly fornicating with the wife of a Fleet Street publisher by the name of Mr. Harris, in the man’s own bedroom no less! The man had suspected his wife of dallying with the infamous rogue and came prepared with pistol in hand. It was likely swift and messy, but details of the crime scene were so outrageously exaggerated that the truth would never be fully known. Lady Fotherby’s name was dragged into the circulating clamor, the reality that the poor woman was more a victim than any of the others lost to only a few. The scandal was immense and the gossip titillating.
Suddenly Richard could not circumvent hearing her name, and the associated rumors, as they were the prime discussion. Facts of any substance were scarce and so jumbled within the innuendo and blather that deciphering truth was difficult. But one detail that repeated was the news that Lady Fotherby had all this time been in Hampshire at her father’s estate. No one had seen or heard from her since well before the betrothal was announced. This was extremely odd, and although most folks used this as a launching point for further vulgar jokes, hidden in the discourse was the sporadic speculation that there was something unnatural about the whole relationship from the outset.
Richard felt truly ill. He could hardly think during the remainder of his day and functioning with any sort of normalcy was nigh on impossible. The new recruits and anyone else who crossed his path suffered the brunt of his foul mood. All the sensibilities of the past weeks that he thought he was successfully dealing with surged forth in a tumultuous spin of emotion. He could not focus onto any one long enough to grasp onto it. The reality that Lord Wellson’s death meant she was now a free woman again was not entirely lost on him, but the welter of emotions was so overwhelming and competitive that nothing rational reigned.
As soon as he was able, he left and rode directly to Darcy House. Darcy was waiting, whiskey thrust into Richard’s shaking hands before greetings were verbalized. There was some talking as the evening turned into late night, mostly on Richard’s part, as Darcy comforted by simply listening, but primarily Richard stared into space as his thoughts swirled.
Two days passed with Richard attempting to perform normally. At times the urge was overwhelming to do something, but he had no clue as to what that should be. What was the proper course? She had rejected him, he reasoned, so he certainly owed her nothing. Yet his heart refused to grow cold no matter how he pleaded for it to do so. By the end of those two days, as he rode slowly through the busy streets toward his home, exhausted and sick, the last thing he wanted or expected was to have another shock waiting for him.
My dearest Richard,
How many days and weeks have I contemplated what I would say to you if I was so blessed as to be given the chance! Oh God Richard, I pray you still believe in my love for you! Please, I beg you, do not toss this away as you probably should. I am so afraid that you will do just that and not read what I have to say. I have much to explain, but fear I have no time. As it is, I do not know if my fortunes will prevail long enough for me to finish this letter. I must be hasty.
I need your help, dear one. I am at my father’s house in Hampshire, where we have been since my foolish departure from you in September, under lock and heavy guard. My father and my uncle, evil men I now perceive, held me captive, using my children as blackmail to force me to agree to marry Wellson. Never would I have done it! Never! But my sweet Oliver has been so ill and treatment was declined him ere I relented. I know it must sound implausible, like a badly written play, but it is true. I have prayed incessantly for the slightest glimmer of hope, seeking any crack in the vigilance so I could escape and end the sham. It came finally in the news of that horrid man’s death! Please forgive me, dear Richard, for possessing no mercy, but I can only exalt in the salvation of his demise. The method matters naught to me, nor do I care about the scandal. I am in a state of utter bliss! Father is furious, somehow in his wicked dementia blaming me. He has gone insane, I am certain of it, and I am extremely fearful. Yet the ensuing chaos has given me an opening. At least I hope.