Page 4 of Chasing Shadows
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on the leather of her father’s chair. Her mind turned to Wickham’s easy smile, his persuasive tones, the lies she had once believed so readily. Shame burned within her at her credulity, yet the news of his death weighed heavily upon her heart. Deceitful though he had been, to hear him brought to such an end was a sobering fate.
Mr. Bennet broke the silence. “So then, we have a murderer still at large, one who chooses his victims with care and strikes without warning.”
“Indeed,” Fitzwilliam answered gravely. “And the militia grows restless. There is anger, suspicion, and fear. If not curbed, it may turn to violence. The only thing we could achieve was to prove to a few that Darcy isn’t the killer since he was here last night. Many still think otherwise, I must add. And if anything, we know the killer has a vendetta against Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s voice, low but steady, broke in. “And you are certain you saw him, Colonel? The man who did this?”
The colonel met her eyes. “Certain only that I saw his form, his speed, his purpose. But not his face. Not enough to identify him.”
Darcy leaned forward, his eyes upon Elizabeth. “You see, Miss Bennet, why I pressed you last night to caution. Wickham’s fate proves the danger is not yet ended. Another may yet be struck down. Perhaps—” his voice softened, “perhaps one less able to defend themselves.”
Her breath caught, for the truth was plain: it could have been her. She inclined her head. “I do understand. And I thank you, Mr. Darcy, for your care.”
The colonel’s expression gentled. “We will not rest until he is found. That you have my word.”
Mr. Bennet rose, his countenance grave. “Then my household shall keep to itself until more is known. I thank you both for your candour. Pray, keep me informed.”
Darcy and the colonel stood as well, bowing low. Darcy’s gaze flicked once more toward Elizabeth, lingering with an intensity that stirred something within her chest, before both men took their leave.
When Elizabeth returned to the parlour, she was beset at once by her mother and sisters, each clamouring for news.
“What did they say, Lizzy?” Lydia cried, bouncing upon the settee. “Is it true he was stabbed through the heart?”
“Lydia!” Mary admonished, scandalised.
Mrs. Bennet wrung her hands. “Tell us, child! Are we safe? Will soldiers guard the house? Or shall we fear being murdered in our beds?”
Elizabeth sank into her chair, weary. “No, Mama. You shall not. Colonel Fitzwilliam has assured us the militia will keep order. But the man who did this still walks free, and until he is caught, we must all be cautious.”
The parlour erupted again, but Elizabeth heard little of it. Her thoughts lingered on the study—on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s grave recounting, on Wickham’s last fate as described, and most of all on Mr. Darcy’s look, steady and protective, as thoughhe would place himself between her and every danger that threatened.
And though she sat amongst her family’s clamour, Elizabeth felt the shadow of Wickham’s fate and the murderer’s unseen presence heavy upon her still.
***
Fitzwilliam Darcy strove to appear composed as he and his cousin rode back toward Netherfield. The steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves filled the silence, but it did little to quiet the tumult within him. He suspected Colonel Fitzwilliam saw through his calm façade, yet he was grateful that his cousin, for once, chose not to press him with questions.
Darcy himself scarcely knew what he felt. Wickham had been a scoundrel, a man who had squandered every opportunity and stained his character beyond repair. Yet before the corruption of his nature, they had once been almost as brothers. To hear of his death and to know that he had played a part in luring him into danger was a burden difficult to bear.
But darker still was the thought that returned again and again to torment him.What if the killer had chosen Miss Elizabeth instead?The image was unbearable. He could not even permit himself to linger upon it.
The weight upon him only deepened when he recalled the discovery made at Mr. Jones’s house that morning as he arrived. Tobias Hatch had shown them the knife, the very blade Darcy himself had gifted to Thomas Granger weeks ago. It was a hunting knife, its blade inscribed with Darcy’s name, a token of encouragement for the horse hand. To find it buried in Wickham’s chest was irony of the cruellest sort.
Yet it confirmed what until then had been only suspicion. The murders were not random. They were deliberate, calculated, each one bound to Darcy by some thread of enmity.His cousin had once argued otherwise, but the proof now lay clear before them.
Tobias Hatch had urged secrecy, insisting they keep the matter of the knife from the public until more was known. It was the reason Darcy hadn’t mentioned the information to Mr. Bennet. The constable, at least, was certain that Darcy was not the guilty man, for he confessed to chasing after the fleeing figure. That much offered a measure of relief, but it was thin comfort when set against all else.
Darcy’s thoughts spiralled.What next?The question rang ceaselessly in his mind since Wickham’s body had grown cold. Who was this man determined to ruin him? How far would his malice reach?
Would he dare strike at Bingley or his family? Elizabeth’s face rose before him again, and he forced the thought aside, only to replace it with another, equally tormenting. What if the killer reached further still and sought Georgiana?
Darcy’s hands tightened on the reins. His sister was in London, far removed from the horrors of Meryton, yet he knew too well that distance might not be protection enough. If the killer’s aim was vengeance, what better weapon than Georgiana’s safety?
The idea took root, and he could not shake it. Should he bring her to Hertfordshire? At Netherfield, she would be under his constant eye, as well as that of Colonel Fitzwilliam and the household. Was that not safer than leaving her in London with only her governess and a handful of servants? It was a thought he must weigh carefully. Better that, perhaps, than to leave matters to chance or to retreat from Hertfordshire altogether, abandoning the field and letting the killer roam unchallenged. For he knew all too well that, to the killer, it was a game of humiliation.
Darcy swallowed hard and forced his thoughts away from Georgiana, back to the woman who haunted him most. Elizabeth Bennet. Had circumstances been otherwise, he might have confessed how her wit and her eyes had taken hold of his thoughts, even amidst the shadow of a murderer abroad. Yet to draw closer to her now would be folly. The murderer preyed upon those who had quarrelled with him; already she had placed herself in that danger once before.
For her sake, he must keep his distance. At least in public. To do otherwise would be to invite peril upon her head.
