Page 53 of Love Among the Shadows
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The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of Netherfield’s library, falling in golden bars across the carpet. A decanter of Scotch sat on the low table between the cousins,their glasses half-filled. Fitzwilliam lounged easily in his chair, one boot stretched toward the hearth where the fire burned steadily, though more for comfort than necessity. His eyes, however, were sharp upon Darcy.
“What’s with you and Miss Elizabeth today,” he said, tone casual but edged with curiosity. “I saw you. And I saw the way you looked at her. You even followed the carriage simply to speak with her.”
Darcy swirled the liquor in his glass before answering. "I admire her, Richard. More than I expected, more than I intended, more than I had cared to admit to myself until now. If matters were different, I should have called at Longbourn—perhaps even..." He stopped, the admission hanging between them."
“Perhaps court her?” Fitzwilliam supplied, brows lifting. “Now that is a surprise. I had thought you too proud to entertain such an idea. And surely you know what our aunt would say of it.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “Lady Catherine may say what she pleases. She cannot govern my heart. She has long fancied I should marry her daughter, but I have no such intention—and, frankly, I do not believe Anne has either. My mother raised me better than to consider only rank or fortune. She taught me that in marriage, regard must matter more than connection.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled low. “Hear, hear. Still, it is not like you to speak so openly of such things. Miss Elizabeth must be something indeed.”
Darcy’s gaze grew distant, heavy again. “She is. And yet, I cannot pursue her—not now. Not with all this.” His hand tightened on the glass. “The killer still roams free. Mr Doughty is the only name we can fix upon, yet his alibi holds fast. It makes no sense. Each time we draw near, the man proves untouchable.Tobias Hatch’s diary gave us nothing—only two lines: ‘Ether? Alibi?’ Words that found us nothing. And still the trail goes cold.”
Fitzwilliam leaned forward, resting his glass on his knee. “You sound bested, cousin.”
“It feels that way. As if the killer is always one step ahead, watching us struggle.”
“But,” Fitzwilliam said firmly, “do not mistake it for victory. Tobias Hatch’s death was his first mistake. He miscalculated, striking a man in broad daylight. That alone tells me he is not invincible. We may see nothing now, but when he moves again, the pattern will shift. What we thought useless may suddenly prove vital. All we need is patience, Darcy. His hand will show again.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, setting his glass aside. “Patience. That is a virtue I have little of just now.”
“I know.” Fitzwilliam’s tone softened. “But you must hold steady. For Georgiana’s sake. For your own. And perhaps,” he added with a faint smile, “for Miss Elizabeth’s as well.”
Darcy allowed himself the ghost of a smile, though his thoughts remained heavy. “For all our sakes, Richard, may it end soon.”
The cousins drank in silence then, the fire snapping low, each man waiting for a storm not yet come.
Twenty Nine
In the third week of December, just about nine days before Christmas, Mr Thomas Dobson arrived in Meryton, having travelled from Bolton. He was a man of no remarkable height—perhaps five feet four—with legs somewhat bowed, hair sprinkled liberally with grey, and a countenance so unremarkable that he might pass twice in a crowd without notice.
Trade had been ill that year; indeed, he had nearly abandoned his circuit altogether when a chance acquaintance advised him that Hertfordshire and its surrounding villages might prove a profitable venture. The prospect cheered him. A travelling tradesman by necessity rather than choice, Mr Dobson sold children’s toys. It was not, of late, the most lucrative of employments, for the great workshops of London produced them faster and cheaper than a solitary man might contrive. Yet with Christmastide approaching, country families were often more inclined to delight their young ones with trifles than those in town, whose gaieties turned rather upon fairs and splendid assemblies.
Thus persuaded, Mr Dobson entered Meryton the previous evening, took a modest room at the inn, and in the morning made his way into the marketplace. There he displayed his wares to any who would pause long enough to look. Fortune seemed to smile; he sold a few articles readily and, his spirits improved. Just before noon, he resolved to refresh himself with a draught of ale.
He stepped into a public house and had scarcely approached the counter to make his request when his attention was arrested. A gentleman sat but a few paces off. Dobson started, his eyes narrowing as he looked more closely. The face was familiar—strangely so. He could not, for the life of him, recollect where he had seen it before; yet the conviction persisted that he had.
A familiar face, here, in Hertfordshire? It was the first such he had met since his arrival. After a moment’s hesitation, he resolved to draw nearer and discover whether his memory deceived him.
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He sat in a shadowed corner of the public house, half-concealed by the smoke and clamour about him. A pewter tankard rested at his elbow, its contents scarcely disturbed save for the faint mark of his lips upon the rim. He had no taste for liquor that afternoon; it was habit alone that had carried him thither—the need to sit among men whilst remaining apart.
His gaze lingered upon the dark swirl of ale as his mind drifted. It had been no accident. For months—nay, for a year—he had marked their steps, watching, listening, learning what he might. Wickham’s haunts were ever taverns and gaming dens; Darcy’s movements, more guarded, required a keener ear. Yet servants talk, and gossip travels swiftly when coin loosens tongues. That was how he learnt of Darcy’s sojourn into Hertfordshire.
The knowledge roused him at once. Here, in this quiet corner of England, lay the very stage he had long desired. Wickham could be summoned easily—his weakness for drink, for women, for the promise of sudden fortune, made him pliant. A handful of paid drunks murmuring of Meryton, of ladies withpurses and prospects, had been bait enough. The fool had taken it eagerly.
Thus, the threads were drawn together. Darcy and Wickham, side by side in the same village. The thought had thrilled him. It was not enough to strike one and then the other, apart and unknowing. No—the truest satisfaction lay in weaving their fates together, so that each ruin might reflect the other.
The first three deaths had been artfully contrived, each designed to strike at Darcy’s reputation, leaving the proud gentleman entangled in whispers and suspicion. He had enjoyed listening with secret exultation as villagers muttered that Darcy must be the culprit. A fitting justice. A taste of the shame Darcy himself had once inflicted.
But then—Hatch. Tobias Hatch, the parish constable. The fellow had pressed too near. That cursed handkerchief—the single mistake. Dropped in haste when flight became necessary; better to leave it than to be seized outright. For a week, he had waited, certain Hatch would carry it to the magistrate. When none came, he discerned the man’s intent: to pursue the trail quietly. Cleverer than most. Too clever.
He tapped the rim of his tankard with a fingernail, a thin smile curving his lips. He had accounted for such a contingency—that was the very reason the ether had been procured in Richard Doughty’s name. A stroke of foresight, and well-judged. Let suspicion fall once more where it had already settled, should any grow too inquisitive before his work was complete. The notebook in Hatch’s chamber ought to have sufficed. Yet the magistrate, the colonel, even Darcy himself, had accepted a paltry alibi and allowed Doughty his liberty. He hissed softly between his teeth.Fools.They couldn’t catch a fish already trapped in the net.
And now Darcy scarcely quitted Netherfield, watched on every side by vigilant eyes. The sport had grown stale—toolong protracted, too cautious, too fatiguing. The hour was fast approaching when all must be brought to its close. It was for this very purpose he lingered there, pondering in the shadowed corner how best to complete the remainder of his design.
