She tried to restore tranquillity in the blending of the two voices, but was glad when the music ended and it was time to pull on the bell-rope and order the tea.
The tea tray was brought in by Billings, one of the footmen. She knew that he was destined to leave Pemberley in the spring when, if all went well, he could hope to succeed the Bingleys’ butler when the old man at last retired. It was a rise in importance and status, made the more welcome to him as he had become engaged to Thomas Bidwell’s daughter Louisa the Easter before last and she would accompany him to Highmarten as chief parlourmaid. Elizabeth, in her first months at Pemberley, had been surprised at the family’s involvement in the life of their servants. On Darcy’s and her rare visits to London they stayed in their townhouse or with Bingley’s sister, Mrs Hurst, and her husband, who lived in some grandeur. In that world the servants lived lives so apart from the family that it was apparent how rarely Mrs Hurst even knew the names of those who served her. But although Mr and Mrs Darcy were carefully protected from domestic problems, there were events – marriages, betrothals, changes of job, illness or retirement – which rose above the ceaseless life of activity which ensured the smooth running of the house, and it was important both to Darcy and Elizabeth that these rites of passage, part of that still largely secret life on which their comfort so much depended, should be recognised and celebrated.
Now Billings put down the tea tray in front of Elizabeth with a kind of deliberate grace, as if to demonstrate to Jane how worthy he was of the honour in store. It was, thought Elizabeth, to be a comfortable situation both for him and his new wife. As her father had prophesied, the Bingleys were generous employers, easy-going, undemanding and particular only in the care of each other and their children.
Hardly had Billings left when Colonel Fitzwilliam got up from his seat and walked over to Elizabeth. “Will you forgive me, Mrs Darcy, if I now take my nightly exercise? I have it in mind to ride Talbot beside the river. I’m sorry to break up so happy a family meeting but I sleep ill without fresh air before bed.”
Elizabeth assured him that no excuses were necessary. He raised her hand briefly to his lips, a gesture that was unusual in him, and made for the door.
Henry Alveston was sitting with Georgiana on the sofa. Looking up, he said, “Moonlight on the river is magical, Colonel, although perhaps best seen in company. But you and Talbot will have a rough ride of it. I do not envy you battling against this wind.”
The colonel turned at the door and looked at him. His voice was cold. “Then we must be grateful that you are not required to accompany me.” With a farewell bow to the company he was gone.
There was a moment of silence in which the colonel’s parting words and the singularity of his night ride were in every mind, but in which embarrassment inhibited comment. Only Henry Alveston seemed unconcerned although, glancing at his face, Elizabeth had no doubt that the implied criticism had not been lost on him.
It was Bingley who broke the silence. “Some more music, if you please, Miss Georgiana, if you are not too tired. But please finish your tea first. We must not impose on your kindness. What about those Irish folksongs which you played when we dined here last summer? No need to sing, the music itself is enough, you must save your voice. I remember that we even had some dancing, did we not? But then the Gardiners were here, and Mr and Mrs Hurst, so we had five couples, and Mary was here to play for us.”
Georgiana returned to the pianoforte with Alveston standing turning the pages, and for a time the lively tunes had their effect. Then, when the music ended, they made desultory conversation, exchanging views which had been expressed many times before and family news, none of which was new. Half an hour later, Georgiana made the first move and said her goodnights, and when she had pulled the bell-rope to summon her maid, Alveston lit and handed her a candle and escorted her to the door. After she had left, it seemed to Elizabeth that the rest of the party were all tired but lacked the energy actually to get up and say their goodnights. It was Jane who next made a move and, looking at her husband, murmured that it was time for bed. Elizabeth, grateful, soon followed her example. A footman was summoned to bring in and light the night candles, those on the pianoforte were blown out, and they were making their way to the door when Darcy, who was standing by the window, gave a sudden exclamation.
“My God! What does that fool of a coachman think he’s doing? He’ll have the whole chaise over! This is madness. And who on earth are they? Elizabeth, is anyone else expected tonight?”
“No one.”
Elizabeth and the rest of the company crowded to the window and there in the distance saw a chaise, lurching and swaying down the woodland road towards the house, its two sidelights blazing like small flames. Imagination provided what was too distant to be seen – the manes of the horses tossed by the wind, their wild eyes and straining shoulders, the postilion heaving at the reins. It was too distant for the wheels to be heard and it seemed to Elizabeth that she was seeing a spectral coach of legend flying soundlessly through the moonlit night, the dreaded harbinger of death.
Darcy said, “Bingley, stay here with the ladies and I’ll see what this is about.”
But his words were lost in a renewed howling of the wind in the chimney and the company followed him out of the music room, down the main staircase and into the hall. Stoughton and Mrs Reynolds were already there. At a gesture from Darcy, Stoughton opened the door. The wind rushed in immediately, a cold, irresistible force seeming to take possession of the whole house, extinguishing in one blow all the candles except those in the high chandelier.
The coach was still coming at speed, rocking round the corner at the end of the woodland road to approach the house. Elizabeth thought that it would surely rattle past the door. But now she could hear the shouts of the coachman and see him struggling with the reins. The horses were pulled to a halt and stood there, restless and neighing. Immediately, and before he could dismount, the coach door was opened and in the shaft of light from Pemberley they saw a woman almost falling out and shrieking into the wind. With her hat hanging by its ribbons round her neck and her loose hair blowing about her face, she seemed like some wild creature of the night, or a mad woman escaped from captivity. For a moment Elizabeth stood rooted, incapable of action or thought. And then she recognised that this wild shrieking apparition was Lydia and ran forward to help. But Lydia pushed her aside and, still screaming, thrust herself into Jane’s arms, nearly toppling her. Bingley stepped forward to assist his wife and together they half-carried Lydia to the door. She was still howling and struggling as if unaware of who was supporting her, but once inside, protected from the wind, they could hear her harsh broken words.
“Wickham’s dead! Denny has shot him! Why don’t you find him? They’re up there in the woodland. Why don’t you do something? Oh God, I know he’s dead!”
And then the sobs became moans and she slumped in Jane’s and Bingley’s arms as together they urged her gently towards the nearest chair.
Book Two
The Body in the Woodland
1
Instinctively Elizabeth had moved forward to help but Lydia thrust her aside with surprising strength, crying, “Not you, not you.” Jane took over, kneeling beside the chair and holding both Lydia’s hands in hers, gently murmuring reassurance and sympathy, while Bingley, distressed, stood impotently by. And now Lydia’s tears changed to an unnatural whooping as if she were fighting for breath, a disturbing sound which seemed hardly human.
Stoughton had left the front door slightly ajar. The postilion, standing by the horses, seemed too shocked to move and Alveston and Stoughton dragged Lydia’s trunk from the chaise and carried it into the hall. Stoughton turned to Darcy. “What about the two other pieces of luggage, sir?”
“Leave them in the chaise. Mr Wickham and Captain Denny will presumably be travelling on when we find them so there is no point in leaving their baggage here. Get Wilkinson, will you Stoughton. Rouse him if he’s in bed. Tell him to fetch Dr McFee. He had better take the chaise; I don’t want the doctor riding through this wind. Tell him
