Sharon Lathan - The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

Mrs. Smyth, once recovered from the trauma of almost touching the doctor’s garments, delivered the message from Mrs. Hanford that Michael was awake and needing his mother.

Georgiana responded to the summons, as much to assist as to turn her mind away from the horrors that only grew worse. She informed the stricken nannies of Lizzy’s absence as succinctly as possible, her emotions buried while attending to her nephew. Assisting Mrs. Hanford with the chore of inducing a thoroughly angry baby to ingest warmed, sweetened cow’s milk and wheat porridge, and then rocking him to sleep while singing favorite lullabies had been an oddly comforting procedure that wrested her thoughts away from the drama beyond the nursery walls. At least to a degree as she was torn between envying Miss Lisa’s tears and shamefully wanting to throttle her!

Now she stood at the end of the hallway desperately searching for the strength to continue walking. She flipped open the dainty pocket watch fastened at her waist, shocked to note the time now a quarter to five. Barely an hour and a half since she blithely walked into the garden with Simone. Her thoughts were so scattered and clouded that the passage of time had no meaning. It could have been fifteen minutes ago or half a day and she would feel as shocked and numb.

Mrs. Smyth passed with a tray of coffee and pastries, heading toward Darcy’s study, drawing Georgiana into the present. “Mrs. Smyth. Would you please tell Mr. Darcy that Master Michael is fed and asleep? I am sure it will offer some comfort.”

The housekeeper nodded. “As you wish, Miss Darcy.”

Georgiana watched her walk away, momentarily distracted by the woman’s pained expression and clipped intonation. She is definitely an odd woman, Georgiana thought, but I would not have considered her caring for Lizzy enough to be so distressed. She shrugged, squaring her shoulders and entering the parlor.

“Needlepoint?” she exclaimed, so surprised that she released a humorless laugh. “You can focus on needlepoint?”

Simone did not glance up from her hoop. “I learned years ago that painful vigils passed quicker if my hands were occupied with something other than wringing my skirts. Precise stitchery requires concentration and calculation, thus keeping my thoughts away from dwelling upon the trouble of the moment and spinning wild with speculation. This is a new situation for me, to be sure, but I am well acquainted with periods of strain and waiting.”

“Yes, of course you are. Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive. But do not be deceived, my dear. I am frantic on the inside, doubly so as many people I love are in jeopardy and not just my son.” The needle flashed, each stitch perfectly sewn. “Of course I now have trunks filled with completed samplers, garments, pillows, and so on. Quite beneficial for Christmas and birthdays.”

She smiled at Georgiana, who again laughed, albeit briefly. “Richard has not returned?”

“No. I am sure he is acting as expeditiously as possible, but amassing an armed forced must take some time. I am fairly confident that whoever he enlists will be highly competent for the task.”

“Armed forces. Loaded pistols.” Georgiana sank heavily onto a chair across from Simone. “Lizzy and Alexander kidnapped from my house. While I was here just yards away! While servants moved about and…” She drew in a deep breath, clenching her fists to control the shaking. “Please tell me this is a nightmare from which I shall awake momentarily?”

“I wish I could, Georgiana, I truly do.”

“Should we watch for them?” She glanced to the wide windows overlooking the Square, restless anxiety wrecking havoc on her attempts to calm. “Perhaps time will be saved if I alert William as soon as they enter the Square.”

“They will come in through the mews,” Simone answered with a shake of her head, continuing at the questioning expression on Georgiana’s face, “Richard will be considerate of discretion. Best not to cause a scene. I am sure the neighbors are already spinning conjectures over what brought Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam galloping crazily into the Square.”

“Oh! I did not think of gossiping neighbors! This is horrible enough without wild tales spreading through Town!”

“Breathe, my dear, before you faint.”

“I cannot bear it, Simone. Please, tell me how you have learned to remain tranquil in crisis situations. How do you maintain your sanity and stay strong and act bravely? And do not say needlepoint!”

Simone shrugged, the needle continuing to steadily pierce the stretched linen in even strokes. “Tranquility and strength are illusions. And bravery in my case is more bravado. Trust me, crying and raging occurs. Frequently. All I have learned to do is choose the time for my emotional collapse when I am alone and not inconveniencing anyone. Well, generally so, I should say. I did try to kill my own father when my feigned acceptance and patience failed me.”

She spoke in a lighthearted tone, almost as if jesting, but Georgiana knew the pain buried underneath her carefree words. Suddenly, Lady Simone dropped the hoop into her lap, reached across the narrow space, and clasped Georgiana’s hand. “There is no shame in crying. You do not need to be brave or strong if tears are necessary. Releasing the emotion usually aids the rebuilding of one’s fortitude and restores clarity.”

Georgiana shook her head, opening her mouth to assert her intention to remain brave for her family when the door chime rang, jolting through the depressive pall heavy in the air as if a clanging cymbal. Nerves strung tighter than a coil, Georgiana jumped up, taking an involuntary step toward the doorway.

“Fret not. Mr. Travers will handle whoever it is.”

Georgiana nodded but moved closer to the foyer to overhear. Mr. Travers’s polite greeting transmitted across the expanse, but the response from behind the stout door was muted. Yet something in the hushed, mumbled tenor piqued her curiosity.

She opened the door further, peeking curiously through as a hand appeared with a folded envelope extended to the butler. “I shall see that Miss Darcy receives this as soon as she returns, sir.”

The hand disappeared, the butler beginning to close the door, when the response reached her ears. “I would appreciate that, thank you.”

Instant recognition swept through her body, the musical timbre of the male voice causing her heart to lurch with joy while also pulverizing the tenuous tethers holding her emotions in check. Her legs carried her across the tiled floor before she found her voice, then shouted, “Sebastian!” startling Mr. Travers into dropping the note.

Mr. Butler was equally startled, but responded with a broad grin of happiness which lasted about two seconds before the impact of his beloved’s body knocked the air out of his lungs and nearly sent him sprawling onto the outside step. Thankfully, Mr. Travers grabbed one arm, the other instinctively clutching the wooden threshold for stability so he did not tumble with the clinging, sobbing Georgiana onto the stones, but his emotions at such a bizarre greeting were chaotic to say the least!

Years of experience paid off as the butler rallied rapidly, hauling on Mr. Butler’s arm to bring him into the foyer and slamming the door shut. Then he retrieved the fallen note and walked away as if Miss Darcy weeping in a strange man’s arms was a daily occurrence.

Although not adverse to having Georgiana locked within his embrace and not impervious to the fragrance of her hair and warm curves pressed against his chest, Sebastian was utterly flummoxed, his confusion not aided by Georgiana, whose words were indecipherable amid the crying. He held her tight, comforted slightly upon noting Lady Simone standing in the parlor doorway. But her expression was grave, sending additional alarms through his mind, and then the appearance of an armed Colonel Fitzwilliam from the dimly lit back hallway sealed the awareness that something was seriously wrong.

“Ah, perfect timing, Mr. Butler,” Richard said, not a trace of humor or warmth on his face. “The ladies will need your added support. However, I would suggest that all of you retire to the parlor and shut the door as I do not think it wise for Mr. Darcy to see his sister in your arms right now, all considered.”

And then he pivoted, sheathed sword knocking against a holstered pistol, walking purposefully down the left hallway.

I have your wife and son. No harm shall befall them if you heed my demands, quietly and alone. 70,000 pounds will pay for their safe release. Make arrangements immediately. You will be contacted for further instructions. Any hesitation or deviation from my dictates and they will die.

Darcy read the words for the hundredth time. He had no need to read them, as they were indelibly etched into his brain and would likely never be forgotten. No salutation. No signature. The handwriting was not Wickham’s, of that Darcy was certain, so he assumed it was Orman’s penmanship. Of course, there was no way to know for sure, but he had little doubt.

He sighed, closing his eyes and dropping the clutched note to his side. The wait was killing him. It had only been an hour since the messenger had arrived at Angelo’s and they had torn through the crowded streets of London to reach Darcy House. An hour that was an eternity.

At least he was calmer now, Richard succeeding in penetrating his irrational raving before departing to collect the necessary manpower required to deal with the situation. Of course it had required taking him bodily and slamming Darcy into the library wall to accomplish the feat, utilizing a strength that amazed his younger cousin who was physically larger. Richard had revealed a side to his character that Darcy was not familiar with: the commanding colonel who knew how to quell an entire company of men with a single look or growled demand. It was painful, and a bit humiliating, but the action had done the trick. Darcy’s emotions were no less tumultuous, but at least he had them well buried and under a semblance of control. The arrival of his uncle was beneficial, the older man so accustomed to trauma that he was a stabilizing force.