Duty and Desire: A Novel of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman
: Chapter 7

Although he would much rather have met and prevailed over his challenger, Darcy derived some small satisfaction from the fact that he had played Manning to a draw before they were called away to join the other guests. It was really quite ridiculous, he chided himself as he brushed down his buckskin riding breeches, but the underclassman who yet lurked in his soul and had suffered innumerable stings at Manning’s hands could not help but rejoice a little.

The afternoon’s expedition to a local sample of the mysterious stone circles that dotted the countryside had been enlivened by Lord Sayre’s offer of mounts to those who wished to ride rather than sleigh. Therefore, with the partial success against his old antagonist behind him and the prospect of an afternoon out in the elements before him, Darcy strolled across the castle’s courtyard with a lighter heart than he had experienced in some time. His crop tucked under one arm and his beaver at a jaunty angle, he was pulling on his riding gloves when he arrived just in time to catch an exclamation by Miss Farnsworth on the perfection of the weather.

“You think it ‘fine,’ Judith?” Lady Chelmsford addressed her niece in disbelief. “Fine for what, pray, besides freezing one to the bone?”

“It is not so very cold, Aunt,” Miss Farnsworth answered in an amused voice, “and you are to ride in a sleigh with hot bricks, after all. I do not think Lord Sayre would allow that you freeze, ma’am.”

Darcy raised a hand to his eyes as he looked up into a bright, crystal blue sky. He had to agree with Miss Farnsworth; it was a beautiful day. The air was chill, but the sun’s rays were warm on his upturned face. Although, truth be told, the sleigh was not inviting. He would much rather ride than—

“I, for one, would rather ride on such a day.” Miss Farnsworth echoed Darcy’s thoughts. “And am grateful to Lord Sayre for the opportunity to do so.” She turned from her aunt to smile at the gentlemen in the group and must have detected some sign of approval on Darcy’s face, for she paused. “I see you agree with me, Mr. Darcy. You must lend me support, sir.”

“But you are such an Amazon, my dear,” Lady Felicia interposed with a smile of condescension at her cousin. “Always chasing about the countryside. You must make allowances for the less hardy of our sex, who have no wish to compete with the gentlemen in what is their natural sphere.” She turned to Darcy. “Mr. Darcy was merely amused.” A look of surprise and pain passed fleetingly across Miss Farnsworth’s face, but not before it had summoned up a wave of indignation in Darcy’s breast. So this was how it was to be! With a precise coldness he stepped round Lady Felicia and offered his hand to her cousin.

“May I assist you to horse, Miss Farnsworth?” he inquired.

“You are very kind, Mr. Darcy.” She accepted and, with his assistance, sprang lightly into the sidesaddle, expertly gathering up the reins.

“My pleasure, ma’am.” He allowed himself a slight smile. Miss Farnsworth was a pleasing picture in her smart riding habit, and her confident, easy air upon a strange horse could not but elicit admiration. “I second your sentiments and choose to ride as well. Gentleman or lady, one can enjoy the prospects of the country far better from the back of a horse.”

“I have always thought it so.” She smiled back at him, inclining her head in thanks.

Darcy returned her courtesy and turned back to the other gentlemen. Monmouth and Trenholme had also elected to ride, and as their mounts were being led into the courtyard for them, Darcy swung up upon the rangy bay that was handed to him. The animal seemed biddable enough, but as he settled into the saddle and checked the stirrups, he could not help but wish for Nelson underneath him. Satisfied that all was in order, he looked on as the other guests arranged themselves in two sleighs and noticed the absence of one of their number. Nudging the bay forward, he inquired, “Is Lady Sylvanie not joining us, Trenholme?”

“Oh, no,” he replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “Her Ladyship does not deign to accompany us ‘to gawk at stones.’ Didn’t favor the idea from the start, from what Letty—Lady Sayre—says. So, since she could not carry her point, she does not come. Insufferable little—”

“Bev!” Lord Sayre’s voice snapped through the crisp air as he approached them. “Please excuse the interruption, Darcy,” he said, smiling deprecatingly, “but my brother is misinformed, as is often the case with siblings.” He reached up and laid a hand on Trenholme’s wrist, gripping it tightly before turning back again to look up at Darcy. “Lady Sylvanie is indisposed. Just moments ago her maid informed me that she is suffering from a sick headache, brought on, most likely, by the spiced apple torte at supper. It is always so when she eats anything containing cinnamon, but she was so far tempted last night that she partook of a bite. Alas”—he sighed sympathetically—“that was all that was needed to bring it on.” Sayre released his hold upon his brother. “But do not fear, Darcy, she will be recovered by the time we return, I am certain.”

Darcy nodded and signaled his mount to back up, then turned him to join Monmouth and Miss Farnsworth in awaiting the beginning of the expedition. Finally, the occupants of the sleighs were ready, and the drivers set their pairs in motion. When the horses put shoulders to harness, the jerk of the sleighs caused squeals of laughter to arise from the ladies. Exclaiming prettily, Lady Felicia fell against Manning as the sleigh jerked again, freeing the runners from ice that had already formed under them. Darcy could not, for his cousin’s sake, like the knowing expression on Manning’s face as he helped her to rights. But the lady had initiated the exchange, and he reminded himself that he did not stand in the place of her father or her fiancé. If Chelmsford would not rein in his daughter…

The sleighs lumbered out of the courtyard, but after they’d scraped and rumbled over the drawbridge, their speed and grace were revealed. The runners sighed as the teams drew the sleighs, scissoring through the glistening snow beside the packed track on which the riders now urged their mounts. It was, truly, a glorious winter day! The surge of pleasure, almost joy, which Darcy felt in it surprised him. As if reading his mind, his horse shook its head vigorously and snorted its approval of the path stretching before them, seeming to beg his indulgence in a proper gallop. Laughing at its honest enthusiasm, he allowed the horse to break into a faster gait, but it was not long before Monmouth and Miss Farnsworth were beside him.

“Ho there, Darcy!” Monmouth hailed him. “Your beast has got the rest all clamoring for a run.” He flicked his glance meaningfully toward Miss Farnsworth.

“Do not hold back for my sake, gentlemen.” She answered his implication a bit stiffly. “I daresay I could keep up with you.”

“Miss Farnsworth!” Monmouth protested. “I have no doubt of your horsemanship with your own cattle and in good weather, but under the conditions, ma’am—”

“A trifle, I assure you, my lord.” Miss Farnsworth laughed and urged her horse past them, but it was evident that she was somewhat piqued at his concern. Monmouth shrugged his shoulders at Darcy and Trenholme, then laid crop to flank. His action startled his mount, which responded with a sideways jump. Man and horse recovered, but the rider’s action had not pleased his beast. In a moment, Monmouth’s horse had worked the bit between his teeth and was off.

“Tris!” Darcy bellowed as Monmouth’s horse made a dash for the lead. Miss Farnsworth’s mount, disliking the commotion of voices and hoofbeats approaching from behind, laid back its ears and swung its hindquarters out into the middle of the path, contesting the way. Foreseeing serious consequences if she were left to her own devices, Darcy set his heels into his own animal, hoping he could reach the lady before the inevitable.

“Watch out! Out of the way!” yelled Monmouth as he sawed at the reins to no avail. Miss Farnsworth looked over her stylishly clad shoulder to see the Viscount bearing down upon her at a reckless speed. Her face turned white, and she immediately began pulling on her reins, urging her mount over with a generous application of her crop. This action did not sit well with the animal, who not only ignored all her commands but began to engage in a series of tight hops that positioned its hindquarters for a concerted defense of its lead position.

Monmouth’s horse swung to the right, determined to pass the other, who was equally determined it should not. As he drew near, Miss Farnsworth’s horse neighed out a warning and bunched its muscles. In a flash, the animal flung a well-aimed kick, causing Monmouth’s beast to stumble and scream out in anger.

Darcy reached Miss Farnsworth just as her mount was preparing to answer the challenge. He made a dive for her reins, but to his chagrin, Miss Farnsworth jerked the horse’s head away, her face red with anger. “Stay away!” she commanded him as she worked furiously at the reins. “Do you think I am such a ninny! Stand back, I say!”

Astounded, Darcy paused but then made another attempt at the reins. If he could draw the animal into a tight circle…His fingers grasped only air, and then with a great leap, Miss Farnsworth’s horse was off after the other. Darcy wheeled his mount around and followed after, praying that with or without Miss Farnsworth’s help he could stop the runaway before a very nasty accident occurred.

The uproar had not been lost on those in the sleighs, but as they had not seen all, it was mistaken for a race. The passengers called out encouragement to the various riders and to their own drivers to keep up with them. Looking ahead to Monmouth, Darcy could see that he had finally succeeded in forcing his horse off the track and into the snow. Greatly impeded by the drifts, it was slowing, and he had no doubt that Monmouth would soon be back in control. He returned his attention to Miss Farnsworth, who was still careening along the track. Confound the woman! Why had she not done the same?

Although she may not have appreciated it had she known, Miss Farnsworth had not been given the fastest horse in Lord Sayre’s stable, and for this, Darcy was soon thankful. Although the slickness of the track caused his bay occasionally to lose its footing, it recovered quickly each time, its long legs eating up the distance between them and the runaway. Cautious this time of the temper of both the horse and its rider, he eased up alongside them.

“What are you doing!” Miss Farnsworth glared at him but received no answer as Darcy edged closer and closer, forcing the other horse from the track and into the snow-covered field. “I do not need your help,” she shrieked. “You’ll cause it to break its legs!” Darcy leaned over, grabbed a rein, and immediately turned his mount away, forcing the other to turn. After twenty yards thus, he was able to bring them both to a halt.

“Your pardon, Miss Farnsworth.” He restrained a desire to match her glare for glare. “But I beg to disagree. It was too dangerous to allow the animal its head. Better a lamed horse than a broken neck, ma’am!” Before she could issue him the heated reply that was forming on her lips, Trenholme and Monmouth brought their mounts up on either side.

“Miss Farnsworth,” the Viscount began immediately, “I am aghast at the danger in which I placed you! Please, allow me to beg your forgiveness and assure you that it was not my intention to test your horsemanship, for which, miss, I must say, I salute you.” The steel in Miss Farnsworth’s countenance softened quickly under Monmouth’s soothing speech, and by its end, she was once more the agreeable young woman who had charmed them in the courtyard.

“My lord, you are quickly forgiven, for I was in little real danger.” She studiously avoided Darcy’s face, choosing rather to exert her charm upon Monmouth.

“You are too modest in your praise, Monmouth,” Trenholme interrupted. “Miss Farnsworth, you were magnificent!” Darcy looked between the two men in disbelief. Both incidents had betrayed an abysmal lack of caution or understanding of horseflesh on the part of both his old roommate and the lady. Trenholme’s part had been wholly that of a coward, offering no help during the danger at all! Without a word, Darcy urged his mount back onto the track with the conviction that, with such encouragement as the two were giving Miss Farnsworth, the accident that had been avoided would merely be postponed.

The sleighs caught up to them in a matter of minutes, and the situation was explained and exclaimed upon for a full quarter of an hour before they recommenced the outing to the stones. The riders took up places beside the sleighs so that conversations begun could continue. It was a question from Miss Avery that drew Darcy beside the sleigh conveying her, her brother, Lord Sayre, and Lady Felicia.

“I don’t know, Bella. Ask Sayre,” Manning grumbled at his sister. “And mind you speak up, girl.”

Miss Avery swallowed nervously as she turned her eyes upon Sayre, causing Darcy to feel a new burst of pity for her; but her curiosity must have outweighed her fear in this instance, for she blurted out her question. “My l-l-lord,” she began, her voice quavering, “Lady Sylvanie s-s-said that t-the stones have a n-n-name, and that w-when stones have n-names, they have a story. Is that t-t-true?”

Sayre smiled at his sister-in-law. “Miss Avery, there are always tales, nonsense really, about old things: old castles, old tombs, old trees, old stones. The King’s Men are no exception. I am sure there are any number of stories about them.”

“King’s Men?” Miss Avery’s brow creased in confusion. “Lady Sylvanie did not c-call them th-that!”

“Ah…well,” Sayre responded but then lapsed into silence.

“Miss Avery is correct, my lord,” Lady Felicia said. “Lady Sylvanie called them the Knights, I believe.”

“The Whispering Kn-knights!” Miss Avery declared triumphantly. “Yes, th-that was it! C-can you tell us the s-story, my lord?” Darcy was not the only listener to be taken by surprise by the vehemence of Sayre’s answer.

“It is all rot, I tell you! Nothing to it!” His Lordship’s eyes stormed black in his pale face. Miss Avery cringed visibly.

“What is ‘rot,’ my dear brother?” Trenholme advanced his mount to take up the place on the side opposite Darcy’s.

“The Knights!” Sayre huffed. “Rubbish, all rubbish!”

“I would like to hear the tale,” Lady Felicia said, smiling up at Trenholme, “rubbish or no.” Trenholme cocked a brow at his brother, but Sayre only snorted and looked away.

“It is a dark tale, my lady, and perhaps not fit for delicate ears,” Trenholme began solemnly. Darcy rolled his eyes as the man baited his audience. As Darcy expected, Trenholme’s listeners demanded he begin immediately. “The stones have been called the King’s Men for only the last hundred years. From time immemorial, they were known as the Whispering Knights.”

“Why was the name changed?” asked Manning. “King’s Men…Whispering Knights! What nonsense!”

“As I told you,” interrupted Sayre.

“It is said,” Trenholme continued, regathering his audience, “that our great-grandfather took the opportunity to change its name when some writer fellow came through Oxfordshire gathering local tales. Our grandsire told him they were called the King’s Men, made up some Banbury tale about them, and sent the fellow on his way. So, to the world outside Chipping Norton, they are the King’s Men, but those who have lived here all their lives know better.”

“Why d-did he d-do that?” Miss Avery’s fascination was complete.

“Because of the legend, Miss Avery, the legend of the Whispering Knights. He wanted to put a stop to it. But I ask you, can a mere change of name confound a legend?” Trenholme looked to his rapt audience for an answer, but no one ventured to gainsay him except Sayre, who snorted again and shifted his bulk in his seat. Darcy bit his lip to prevent himself from laughing at the easy success of Trenholme’s strategy. He was quite good, really.

“The legend, Mr. Trenholme, tell us the legend.” Lady Felicia reached across and took Miss Avery’s hand.

“Yes, the legend…A thousand years ago the land here was the domain of a powerful lord. Norwycke Castle faces toward his fortified hill, actually.” Trenholme’s voice dropped. “As with many such men at that time, he had enemies from both without and within, including one of his own sons. This unfaithful son was assisted in his disloyalty by six of his father’s knights, to whom he had promised wealth from his father’s strongbox or deeds of land if they would support him. The night came when they were to strike, but within moments of their appearance, the cry of ‘Treason, treason!’ rang through the keep.” Miss Avery clutched Lady Felicia’s hand at Trenholme’s cry and gasped aloud. Manning and Lady Felicia were hardly less caught in the tale, their eyes trained upon Trenholme.

“Yes, and then?” demanded Manning.

“The conspirators knew they had been betrayed, but which one was the betrayer? They had no time to determine who among them it was, for flight was their only chance to survive. They fought their way out of the keep and past the gates, never thinking to ask themselves how they had succeeded in winning past all their lord’s mighty men. All they knew was that life lay across these fields and on to the sea and Ireland.”

“Rather careless of this lord to let them slip through his fingers when he had been warned,” Manning observed, his air of disinterest now flown.

“Careless? Or part of the plan?” Trenholme countered. “The traitorous son and his men fled for their lives over these very fields, only to be met by his lord father and his personal guard. The lord cried out to his son to lay down his arms, but he answered his father with great curses and called his men to resist. They formed a circle, the better to protect each other’s backs, and railed against the lord and his guard, challenging them to come to and fight. All, that is, except one. The betrayer, or rather the knight loyal to his lord, stepped from the circle and stood with his lord. Enraged with the man at whose hands his dreams had been slain, the son drew a knife from his boot and threw. It flew true, and the faithful knight fell dead at the feet of his lord.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Lady Felicia and Miss Avery, their eyes as wide as the buttons on Manning’s greatcoat. Darcy smiled. Yes, Trenholme was very good indeed. It lacked now only the curse. There was always a curse. He looked away to Sayre and discovered a listener who was no longer derisive of the tale being told. The hand grasping his walking stick was actually trembling! The other was occupied in loosening the knot at his throat while he attempted to take in gulps of air without attracting the notice of his companions. Good heavens, the man was clearly rattled! Darcy narrowed his gaze upon Trenholme.

“‘Oh’ indeed!” repeated the storyteller. “The lord knelt at the side of his fallen knight and pulled the knife from his body. Then he rose and faced his son. In the hearing of all he disowned him, called him traitor and worse. The rebels jeered and rattled their swords against their shields. ‘These are the dogs that have sworn you fealty, bought men you bribed with your own birthright?’ the lord asked. His son said nothing, but his eyes spoke everything that was in his black heart.

“‘Tonight, I curse you,’ declared the lord, ‘and all who would sell their patrimony. To you it is given to hunt down such curs to join you here in this field forever.’ With those words, he threw the bloody knife into the ground at the son’s feet, and in an instant, they all were turned to stone.”

Miss Avery cried out at Trenholme’s end and moved to sit between her brother and Lady Felicia. Manning swallowed several times before he was able to summon up a laugh. “Sayre was right, Bev, a great deal of rubbish fit only for frightening children.” The stones could now be seen across a small dale. The drivers turned the teams away from the main track into a smaller one prepared for the passage of Sayre’s guests.

“A dreadful tale, Mr. Trenholme.” Lady Felicia brushed at her coat. “It is no wonder that your grandsire desired to change it.” She paused and then queried, “But why ‘whispering’? Is there something you have not related, sir?”

“Why, yes, there is, my lady,” Trenholme replied, as if she’d reminded him of something he’d forgotten. “It is said that the rebel knights watch over the lands that make up the old lord’s estate for any who would break up the holding or sell it off piecemeal. And if they replace such a one, he is given warning so he may mend his ways before they come for him.”

“A warning?” Darcy asked, an appalling suspicion forming in his mind.

“Yes, Darcy, they whisper his name.”

As the drivers pulled the teams to a halt at the base of the hill from which the Knights maintained their reputed vigil over the countryside, Darcy dismounted and handed the bay to a stable boy who had appeared rather suddenly from behind a less sinister outcropping. Evidently, the party had been preceded to the site by a number of Sayre’s servants. Now visible to one side was a sledge from which refreshments for the guests had been unloaded and a cheery fire prepared against their arrival. As he watched the occupants of the sleigh disembark, Darcy could not determine whether Miss Avery or Sayre was the most affected by Trenholme’s recital. Once coaxed out of the conveyance, Miss Avery made obvious her wish to stay close to her brother by clinging to his arm. Manning, just as clearly, desired her elsewhere and finally sent her over to the fire with an order to “drink something hot and try to stop behaving like a little fool.” Sayre made straight for the fire as soon as he descended, demanding a flask of whiskey be produced immediately. No sooner was the flask in his hand than he availed himself of a prodigious gulp, all the while regarding the stones with a baleful eye.

Those who had not been privy to Trenholme’s story strolled toward the path that led up to the circle of weathered, lichen-covered stones on ground swept almost clean of snow by the wind. “Come, Sayre, are you not joining us?” Trenholme called from among the other guests, displaying a glee in his brother’s fearful loss of composure that Darcy found, under the circumstances, not only distasteful but disturbing. “P’rhaps we shall catch a whisper or two!”

“Go to the Devil,” Sayre shouted back and turned away from the stones and his brother’s laughing countenance.

As troubling as his hosts’ behavior appeared, Darcy was disinclined to indulge in further speculation upon it. The suspicion that had arisen in his mind concerning Trenholme’s purpose during his tale was dismissed as unworthy and evidence of his own disordered thoughts rather than nefarious intent on the part of the teller. Sayre and his brother had engaged in a certain rivalry as far back as Eton, he reasoned, and it most likely extended to the cradle. That in the intervening years its animosity had increased was not to be marveled at, although the turn it appeared to have taken was a curious one. Darcy would not have credited that either brother was of a superstitious nature beyond that of any man addicted to the gaming table. At least, when it came to stories of ghosts and their curses, he would have derided the notion, save it was undeniable that Sayre had been profoundly affected. Even as Darcy looked on, His Lordship downed another gulp from the flask, his nose shining a distinctive pink against an unnaturally pale visage.

Turning away to join those on the stroll, Darcy began up the short, steep hill. At the head of the party, Trenholme acted as guide. Poole and Monmouth followed closely, as did Miss Farnsworth, who had tossed the train of her habit over one arm, thus exposing a shapely pair of ankles as she strode with the gentlemen. Behind them, Lady Sayre leaned upon Lord Chelmsford’s arm, Lady Chelmsford having decided to remain with the warmth offered by the fire, and the two appeared engaged in close, private conversation as they slowly made their way after the others. Having divested himself of his sister, Manning squired Lady Felicia toward the stones, taking every opportunity the terrain offered to put a hand to her waist in assistance. There was but one of the party unaccompanied in the climb to the Whispering Knights, Darcy noted, and she appeared to be waiting for him.

“You see, I am quite left behind, Mr. Darcy.” Lady Beatrice smiled helplessly at him as he drew near her. She rose from her perch upon a fallen companion of the stone guards above them. “I fear the way is rather steep.”

“Please, permit me to offer you my arm, my lady.” Darcy extended his arm, suspect of her true purpose in waylaying him and in no doubt that she would enlighten him soon enough.

“Thank you, sir. I see your manners are those of a more polite century than this.” Lady Beatrice’s lips pursed for a moment as she looked up to those who had so unceremoniously left her to fend for herself before turning a handsome smile upon him.

“You are very kind, ma’am,” he replied smoothly. Lady Beatrice was not exactly a young widow, perhaps just forty years old, but she could not be accused of looking her age. Rather, with her fine figure, delicate porcelain complexion, and gracious manner, she was the fulfillment of what was as yet only a promise in her daughter. Regardless, he was fairly confident it was of her daughter that she wished to speak. Whatever were her designs, Darcy was not to discover them as yet, for a call from behind them stopped their progress.

“M-my lady, Mr. D-darcy,” gasped Miss Avery as she hurried toward them. “Your p-pardon, ma’am, but may I accompany you? I do not w-wish to stay with Lord—” She stopped and bit her lip. “That is, L-lord Sayre is not…Oh, dear! I m-must see my b-brother!”

“Of course, my dear.” Lady Beatrice withdrew her hand from Darcy’s arm and drew the young woman’s arm through her own. “You may certainly accompany Mr. Darcy and myself; is that not so, sir?” Darcy nodded a curt assent as he looked back to the fire and Lord Sayre, who was still nursing his flask. Blast the man! Had he no better sense than to disgrace himself and then frighten his young kinswoman with his intemperate behavior…all because of a legend? And Manning! Darcy looked back up the hill to the Baron, silently excoriating the fitness for Society of one who showed more interest in another man’s betrothed than in the safety and comfort of his own sister.

“Th-thank you, my lady,” breathed Miss Avery in great relief. She disengaged her arm from Lady Beatrice and stepped lightly before them, whereupon Her Ladyship possessed herself once more of Darcy’s arm.

“Poor child,” Lady Beatrice commented, shaking her head. “Do you not have a sister near to Miss Avery’s age, sir?”

“Yes, ma’am. Miss Darcy is a year or so the junior of Miss Avery.” The thought struck him then how different Georgiana was from Miss Avery! Yes, his sister had been demure and still was somewhat shy, but never could he recall seeing the self-conscious timidity in her eyes that seemed Miss Avery’s daily companion. On the contrary, Georgiana’s demeanor had ever been one that trusted in the goodness of the world that had been created around her…until Wickham had shattered it. Lately though, since her newfound contemplation of religious themes and the solace it seemed to have afforded her, Georgiana had exhibited a maturity in both mind and manner that far outmatched Miss Avery’s thin veneer of social sophistication.

“She is not yet out then,” Lady Beatrice asserted, continuing the conversation.

“No, my lady. Perhaps next year she will be introduced at Court,” he replied carefully.

“It was not so long ago that my daughter made her curtsy, Mr. Darcy. Such a trial! When she was a child, Mr. Farnsworth would have Judith always with him, for he had—alas—no sons, and that meant in the stables and out in the fields, you may believe, not the drawing room.” Her Ladyship sighed. “That all ended, of course, with his accident. The poor man finally met a fence that he could not master and left me a widow.” She glanced quickly at Darcy as he murmured the appropriate condolences. She then continued. “Judith did not immediately take to the circumscription of her former activities with her papa, but I am glad to say, by the time she made her curtsy she had been brought to recognize where her happiness lay.”

Lady Beatrice slowed her pace, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Darcy did likewise. “I cannot deny that Judith is of a strong-minded temperament, Mr. Darcy. She is a little like her father in that regard, but she is yet young. She will, I am certain, respond to a firm hand and quickly settle down to the enjoyment of all those domestic accomplishments required by a gentleman of the highest position and influence.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, as had his resolve during Lady Beatrice’s excuse of her daughter’s exhibition of a shockingly headstrong temper. So, she needed a firm hand, did she? And was it hoped that he would choose to be responsible for her schooling? He could well imagine the scenes enacted within the Farnsworth household when Miss Farnworth’s will was crossed. There might be some men who enjoyed bringing such a woman to heel, but he was certainly not of their company. Good Lord! He shuddered inwardly at the thought of a life spent battling Miss Farnsworth’s temper. Any hopes this lady entertained in his direction were to be dampened at all costs!

“Undoubtedly that will be the case, my lady, when the appropriate gentleman appears,” he returned in as disinterested a fashion as he could summon.

“But you, Mr. Darcy, have had the raising of your sister and know your way in this regard, do you not?” Her Ladyship persisted. “I have heard wonderful things concerning Miss Darcy…”

“I thank you, ma’am,” Darcy intervened. “But I believe that the rearing of a sister cannot at all be compared with that of such instruction as you say Miss Farnsworth should require at the hands of her husband. In that task, I believe, my experience would serve me but little.”

“Well!” responded Lady Beatrice, withdrawing her hand from Darcy’s arm. “Upon my word, sir, you are forthright!”

“Your pardon, ma’am, but you would not wish anything less than the truth in a matter regarding the happiness of your only child, I am sure,” he returned coolly.

Her Ladyship’s eyebrows twitched upward before settling into a countenance graced with a speculative smile. “I see you have encountered your due share of matchmaking mamas, Mr. Darcy.” She laughed throatily. “You handled me quite well, sir. Quite well, indeed.”

As there was naught he could decently reply to such an observation, Darcy held his silence but with increasing unease at each step. Several times he detected measuring glances from the lady as they progressed, and when she stumbled over a rock upon the path and into his arms, he began to be alarmed at the possible meaning of her regard. When they reached the top, he quickly excused himself and strode toward the rest of the party.

Miss Avery had gained the crest before them and all but run to her brother, who listened to her briefly and with displeasure. “Bella, stop your damned stammering, girl, or I shan’t listen to you. What about Sayre?” Miss Avery assayed to meet his demand, but he soon turned and called to his other sister. “Letty! Bella is in a state…something about Sayre. P’rhaps you can make it out, for I cannot abide her babble a moment longer!”

At his very public complaint of her, Miss Avery’s face turned a pink that did not recommend itself to her other features and in haste left Manning’s side. Striking out in the opposite way, she avoided the rest of the party and went off alone toward a large, singular stone that brooded over the landscape some yards away.

Darcy watched her progress for a few moments before turning to the rest of the party, his jaw clamped down in anger at Manning’s callous display of contempt for his own flesh and blood. He really could stomach it no further.

“Shall we hear them whisper, Mr. Trenholme?” asked Lady Felicia, cautiously brushing the tips of her glove-clad fingers along the side of the largest stone.

“I cannot say that I have ever heard them,” Trenholme confessed, “but I would hazard that we will not hear anything in broad daylight. Such things,” he dropped his voice into a menacing register, “belong to the dead of n——”

A scream of abject terror cut off Trenholme’s words and froze the smiles on his listeners’ faces. “Bella!” shouted Manning. Again the scream was heard, jolting them out of their icy trance. Finding the use of their limbs returned to them, Darcy and Manning broke into a run across the ground that separated the stones. Heedless of Manning’s claims, Darcy quickly outstripped him and, reaching the great monolith, rounded it to behold Miss Avery. She stood as one bewitched, her hands clasping and unclasping, her face drained of color. If she recognized him, she did not show it but continued her screaming until Darcy was nearly upon her.

“Miss Avery!” Darcy stood between her and the stone, taking up the entire window of her vision. “Miss Avery!” he repeated and grasped her arms. Finally, she looked at him, her eyes wide with terror; and with a pitiful wail, she cast herself against his chest, burying her face in his coat and clutching at the lapels. Without a thought, he brought his arms around her just as he had done countless times to comfort Georgiana. “What is it?” he probed gently. She only shook her head and clung to him more tightly.

The others must be almost upon them, Darcy reasoned, as he looked back over his shoulder. What in the name of Heaven had frightened this girl who trembled so in his arms? The King’s Stone loomed behind him. Its ancient, weathered solidity challenged his sweeping gaze and silently compelled his attention, drawing it down…down to its piercing claim upon the earth. The blood in Darcy’s veins turned to ice.

“Good God!” Manning’s voice trembled with horror as he swayed away from the base of the stone and looked up into Darcy’s eyes.

“Yes,” Darcy agreed tersely. Miss Avery still trembled and sobbed so into his coat that he doubted she could stand on her own strength. “Manning!” he called sharply to the Baron, whose attention was once more transfixed by the grisly bundle at his feet. “Manning!” He had to shout again before the man’s head came up, his visage almost as pale as his sister’s. “Miss Avery is in need of you,” he continued in a firm but subdued tone. “She must be taken from here immediately and the others warned away.”

“Yes…ofcourse,” Manning agreed hoarsely, shaking himself as if to awaken from a nightmare before stepping toward Darcy and his sister. With more gentleness than Darcy had before seen him employ, Manning eased her grasp on Darcy and transferred her weight to himself. He held her tightly for a brief moment, whispering something in her ear, then bent down and took her up in his arms, pressing her face into his shoulder. With a nod to Darcy, he began to make his way down the hill to the fire. As soon as Manning and his sister were seen, the rest of the party surrounded them. From his vantage point, Darcy observed Manning’s vigorous refusal of assistance. Sheltering her closely, he bore his sister free from their clinging curiosity and continued to the fire, the others trailing after him in agitated confusion.

Satisfied that they were well occupied, Darcy turned back to the monstrosity lying at the base of the stone. His stomach revolted at the sight, but he resolved to ignore it as well as the icy prickings down his spine that urged him to flee the task before him. What confronted him could only be called what it was: Evil, monstrous Evil. The bundle of blankets wrapping the tiny figure was stained with blood. Despite the cold, perspiration stood out on his forehead as he carefully drew off the first layer of swaddling, revealing the infant face turned away toward the stone. His gorge rising in his throat, Darcy gently tipped its head back, then sucked in his breath, his eyes narrowing in surprise and thought. What was before him was certainly a mask. Made of a flesh-colored fabric and cunningly stitched, it was fashioned to imitate the face of a child. Its delicate, cherubic features stuffed with cotton wadding enhanced the illusion and completely covered whatever was beneath it.

“Darcy!” Trenholme’s shout caused him to look up just as its owner rounded the stone. “Darcy,” he repeated when he saw him, “I say, what—Good God!” Trenholme’s hand went to his mouth as he unwittingly repeated Manning’s horrified exclamation, his shoulders jerking so convulsively that Darcy fully expected he would hurl his breakfast. To his credit, Trenholme regained control of himself and dropped down on his haunches beside him. “Is it…a child?” he asked in a whisper.

“I am not yet certain,” Darcy answered, his voice constricted with the effort to contain his own trepidation. “Look here, Trenholme.” Darcy pointed at the head. “It is wearing some sort of mask.” Trenholme stared at him in stupefaction. “I was about to remove it when you arrived.” At Trenholme’s glazed nod, he took a deep breath and, reaching over, grasped the top and pulled it away. For a moment the two men could only stare in perplexity at the sight before them.

“Thank God!” Darcy closed his eyes and leaned back, embracing the flow of relief that was easing the tight hold he had maintained upon his nerve.

“It’s a pig!” Trenholme croaked. Then, his voice rising in anger, “It’s a damned, bloody baby pig! Oh, this is beyond everything! I’ll not have it! Where is my horse?” He scrambled to his feet and would have run for his mount had Darcy not risen swiftly and caught his arm.

“Do you know who did this?” Darcy’s piercing examination bore down upon the man. “Trenholme! Do you know?” Trenholme looked back at him in outraged anger, but he could not conceal from Darcy the shadow of fear in his eyes.

“What do you mean, sir? No! No, I certainly do not know who did this…this filthy…Gaaugh!” He wrenched his arm from Darcy’s grasp and fell back a few steps. “The Stones have always drawn those who hold with the old ways…as well as lunatics who dance around them in the middle of the night. Love potions, cures, curses—the whole lot—but not this!” He shook his head as he gestured toward the stone. “Never this!” Under Darcy’s narrowed gaze, Trenholme turned away and stumbled down the hill to the others, leaving him to the solitary contemplation of their awful discovery.

Darcy cast one more look over the scene before the great stone. Although its horrors were materially lessened by the knowledge that an animal lay beneath the bloody wrappings, he could not suppress the shudder that passed through both his body and his mind. It had been meant to pass for a child! Someone had prepared for and committed this hideous, unholy sacrifice pretending it was a child. The evil of it was staggering in its implications, and they granted him no quarter in their assault on his own careful view of the world. It simply did not fit! Such execrable practices belonged to another age, millennia past, when men were slaves to superstition and cringed in fear before a capricious universe. This was the Nineteenth century, for Heaven’s sake! Men had long been accustomed to rule by the dictates of logic, not some bloodthirsty deity lurking about ancient stones on an Oxfordshire hillside! The idea was totally irrational, absurd even, save for the terrible fact that stained the hillside at his feet.

Darcy looked down the hill to the confused gathering at its foot. A roar from Sayre reached his ears. Although he could not understand his host’s words, Sayre’s meaning was obvious as all the servants scurried to pack the food and other amenities that had been provided for their master’s guests. The outing was over, and it was expedient that he rejoin the others. There was nothing more he could do here.

Except for Trenholme, who brooded over a mug of hot cider at the fire, the party was divided into two groups near the sleighs. Manning had retired to one group, his sister still within his embrace. Around them, the ladies clucked or cooed over Miss Avery, trying to entice her face from the folds of her brother’s greatcoat. The remaining gentlemen formed another group, but Monmouth and Poole, seeing his approach, broke from them and strode over to meet him.

“Darcy, what happened?” Poole gasped out as he came to a halt. “Manning will only say it is something horrid, and Trenholme will speak to no one!”

“We apply to you, old man.” Monmouth nodded his agreement with Poole’s words. “The ladies are imagining all sorts of lurid scenes à la Mrs. Radcliffe. ‘No such thing,’ I told them. ‘This is England, not Italy or the deep reaches of Carpathia. Probably tripped over a dead rabbit or bird,’ I said. But truly, Darcy, what happened?”

Darcy hesitated. This is England. He knew exactly what Monmouth meant by the phrase. Had not every man in the country used it at one time or another, or heard his father declare it? The French may brutally lop off the heads of their aristocrats and later follow a madman across Europe, but This is England. The Italians might form secret, murderous societies and regard poison as merely one more political tool, but This is England. Yet above them on an English hillside lay a reality more maleficent in its authorship than any novel Mrs. Radcliffe had ever written.

Darcy looked into the faces of his old hall mates. A wave of disgust washed over him as he detected neither concern nor compassion for Miss Avery in their importuning of him, but only a rampant desire for the satisfaction of their curiosity. He would not feed it.

“If our hosts decline to discuss the incident,” he responded stiffly, “I must naturally respect their wishes and remain silent as well.” He interrupted their vociferous protestations. “Excuse me, but the lad has my horse ready. Gentlemen.” He bowed quickly and strode around them. The bay pricked up its ears at his approach and bent its neck to watch him as he gathered the reins and prepared to mount.

“Mr. Darcy.” Miss Farnsworth brought her horse alongside him. “I fear, sir, that I must humbly beg your pardon. You were proved quite correct in your concern and, I confess, your advice as well.” She smiled contritely. “My horse,” she supplied at his vague return of her regard. Darcy inclined his head in weary consent—that she could speak of that now!—and vaulted into the saddle.

The sleigh drivers signaled to the stable lads, who stepped away smartly, and the party departed the cursed scene with a nervous chattering that drove Darcy to the rear of the procession until they should gain the track leading to Norwycke. In his circle back, he brought his mount abreast of Manning’s sleigh to inquire after Miss Avery. She was still pale as she shivered in her brother’s arms, but some color had returned to her face. Her eyes remained tightly shut against the world, and wrenching sobs would overtake her as tears spilled down her cheeks.

She still mourns a child! The realization that Trenholme had not relieved her suffering with the truth of her discovery sent a hot surge of fury through Darcy’s body. Cursing himself for not immediately seeking assurance that she was in possession of the truth, he leaned down.

“Manning,” he ventured. His old antagonist raised eyes still shadowed with incomprehension at what they had beheld.

“Darcy,” he sighed in acknowledgment. “How can I thank you? Poor Bella…thank God you kept your head.”

Dismissing the Baron’s expression of indebtedness, Darcy continued, “Manning, it is of the gravest importance…you must know and represent the truth of it to Miss Avery—it was not what it appeared to be.”

His hearer’s brow creased in confusion. “But, I saw it…in all that bl——”

“Quite.” Darcy forestalled him describing the scene in the hearing of the sleigh’s other occupants. “It appeared so and apurpose, but it was not; I assure you. Miss Avery must replace a great comfort in that.”

Manning shook his head in bewilderment and then looked down into his sister’s face. Gently, he caressed her cheek and the curls that had escaped her bonnet. “Why would someone do such a thing?” he breathed and looked back up at Darcy.

Darcy drew upright, his jaw clenching as he looked into the darkening distance behind them. Why indeed? Returning to the Baron, he inclined his head. “I regret that I can be of no further use to you in that regard. Please convey my best wishes to Miss Avery.” At Manning’s nod, Darcy checked his horse, allowing the sleigh to sweep past them through the clean, white snow.

By the time they had clattered across the castle’s bridge and into the courtyard, Darcy was stiff with cold and wished for nothing better than the solitude and comfort of a hot bath to stay his mind from further reflection on the events of the day. The discovery at the stone had so preyed upon his mind that he could not have relayed anything about the journey back to Norwycke Castle save that a solemn twilight had crept over them, accompanied by a rise in the force and coldness of the wind.

He dismounted slowly and handed his horse over to a burly fellow already leading two others back to the stable. Although he and the bay had reached a mutual respect, both man and horse parted gladly in weary hope that their respective attendants were well prepared to minister to their needs. Apparently Sayre and his other guests were of the same mind, for no sooner had bedchamber doors slammed shut than upraised voices and the sound of running feet on backstairs were heard throughout the guest wings.

Darcy laid a hand upon the doorknob of his chambers and turned it with fervent hope that Fletcher had not lost his talent for anticipating his needs. From the sounds echoing through the castle, hot water would be a very precious commodity in short order. His hope was fulfilled to more than his satisfaction.

“Fletcher.” He sighed at the sight of his dressing gown laid out. “I believe you are truly priceless.” He sniffed the air. “Food as well!”

“Yes, sir.” Fletcher bowed. “Your bath lacks but one more bucket of hot water, which is on its way; and the food will keep warm until you desire it. May I help you, sir?” He reached for the edges of Darcy’s coat and expertly pulled it off his shoulders. Brushing it lightly, he laid it down and turned to proceed to Darcy’s waistcoat when he stopped short, his brow crinkled in question. As Darcy unbuttoned his waistcoat, Fletcher returned to the coat, picked up a sleeve, and turned the cuff around several times, examining it closely.

“Mr. Darcy!” he finally said. “There is blood on your cuff, sir!”

Darcy looked up from his task. “There was so much of it, I am not unduly surprised. Can it be gotten out?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Fletcher sputtered, his agitation increasing, “but are you hurt, Mr. Darcy? Was there an accident? Why was I not informed?”

Darcy regarded him with wonder, but it soon gave way to a guilty exultation. “Can it be you do not know, Fletcher?” he demanded gravely, unable to resist the temptation to exploit this singular experience, whose novelty expiated, to a degree, the grim circumstances upon which it was predicated. Fletcher’s struggle to admit his ignorance of so great an event as the cause for blood upon his master’s clothing would have been terrible to behold had Darcy not been almost giddy with weariness, hunger, and an unconscionable delight in having, at last, astounded his valet.

“No sir, I do not, and I am sure it is none of my business if you are not hurt,” Fletcher confessed stiffly. He dropped the sleeve and stepped round Darcy to remove the waistcoat. “I trust you are not hurt, sir?” he added quietly.

That Fletcher’s concern was real Darcy did not doubt; and he felt a twinge of shame for his teasing. “No, I am not hurt,” he said over his shoulder. “It is not my blood; it is not human blood at all but animal.”

“Indeed, sir,” Fletcher would not be drawn in again. Darcy sat down at the knock on the dressing chamber door. Fletcher answered it and motioned the boot boy to enter and proceed while he supervised the last bucket of water being added to the bath. The boy’s tasks complete, Fletcher sent him off, waiting until the ringing of his boots upon the stairs was no more before he closed the door.

“The bath is ready, sir, but have a care. It is quite hot.” The valet moved to catch the shirt Darcy flung off as he walked toward the dressing room. A few moments more and Darcy was easing himself down into the bath. Steamy vapor rose from the surface and swathed his face as he leaned back and savored the relief granted his body by the liquid heat. If only there were a similar remedy for the mind, he mused as he closed his eyes. But the scenes of the afternoon played out again beneath his eyelids: Sayre’s fear, Miss Avery’s hysteria, Trenholme’s rage, and most troubling, the bundle at the foot of the stone. What did it mean? Even Trenholme, who knew the Stones as magnets for the superstitious, was shocked and sickened, claiming that nothing like it had occurred before. If he was being truthful, the sacrifice must signal an attempt to manipulate fate in a vastly more serious way than the cure of warts! The illusion of child sacrifice created by the mask indicated a grasping after power, a good deal of power. And if power, would it not likely be directed against a rival “power” in the neighborhood? Sayre, perhaps, who was already in a quake about the Stones? But to what purpose? A groan of frustration escaped him.

“Mr. Darcy?” Fletcher appeared at the door. “Did you call, sir?”

“No.” He sighed. “But you may pour the first bucket.” Soon warm water was sluicing down his face and shoulders. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and blinked against the remaining drops.

“Your soap, sir.” A bar of fine French-milled soap was thrust before his nose, accompanied by a washing cloth. Darcy fumbled for the soap, which popped from his grasp like a cork from a bottle and plunged, uncorklike, to the bottom of the bath. One of Fletcher’s brows arched, but he turned away to the tray of grooming articles without comment. Darcy retrieved the bar and vigorously applied it, the silence between them deepening uncomfortably.

“The second, sir?” Fletcher’s disinterested voice arose from close by. With a nod, Darcy steeled himself for the rinsing water. It came down gently, carrying the lather out of his hair in directed streams. When he had cleared all from his eyes, he looked up at his valet intently. He had grown rather used to the man’s uncanny prescience and bold repartee, as well as his conscientious service. This falter in an impressive record clearly discommoded Fletcher and his own insensitivity had added the proverbial insult to injury.

Excellent, Darcy! He silently congratulated himself. Estrange your most trusted ally just when he is most needed! Who else but Fletcher might be relied upon to untangle the webs being spun around them? Images of the villainy at the King’s Stone flooded through him again. He needed Fletcher at his best, not sulking over a temporary failure and his own poor attempt at humor.

Darcy rose thoughtfully from the bath as Fletcher held out the dressing gown, guiding the sleeves up his master’s arms, then left him for the dresser to bring out clean smalls and stockings. Donning the garments quickly, Darcy cast about in his mind for how he might restore the man’s confidence and direct his talents without prejudicing his perception. Should he lay the whole before him? Doubtless Fletcher would pry loose the story, or some version of it, from someone’s maid or manservant. Would it not be more useful for him to be in possession of the facts and, therefore, free to observe the inhabitants of the castle unhampered by the shock of revelation?

As Darcy pulled on his black knit breeches and buttoned them over the silk stockings, his social obligations suddenly recalled themselves to his attention. They were to play at charades tonight, he remembered joylessly, and he was supposed to be looking for a wife. In that, too, Fletcher could be invaluable. Darcy passed over the faces of the eligible young women he had met so far and discarded all save one. Lady Sylvanie. He could not say that she did not intrigue him with her otherworldly beauty and enigmatic eyes, but he also had to acknowledge that there had not yet arisen that irrepressible pull that had o’ertaken him every time Eliza——

“Your neckcloth, sir. Are you ready?” Fletcher held out the perfectly starched article. Darcy nodded and sat down. Well, there had hardly been time, had there? The fact that his interest had been caught so quickly in their short acquaintance was certainly in Sylvanie’s favor. Perhaps there was hope that his needs and requirements would soon be met acceptably and he could go home. With that thought, Darcy felt a pang of longing for the comfort of home—of the woman he had imagined there, in every room. He knew his own desire; it was already engaged in the person of one impudent, exciting, lovely little piece of baggage by the name of Elizabeth Bennet, whose unsuitability reached to the stars. He was here at the command of duty. Duty necessitated that he remain at Norwycke with people whom he was fast coming to loathe.

“Your coat, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher’s toneless voice broke into Darcy’s thoughts once more. He slipped his arms into the frock coat and shrugged it over his shoulders, then observed his reflection in the mirror as he pulled down his cuffs. The coat was newly made and fit like a second skin, but he found no pleasure in it. He was almost ready and soon would have to depart his chambers for the drawing room battles below. How to span the breach and set Fletcher’s nose atwitching?

“Fletcher,” he tossed over his shoulder while the valet applied the lint brush across his back. “You have read or attended a performance of Macbeth, have you not?”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy. It is strange that you should mention it, for I was thinking of it myself. Your coat reminded me, sir—‘Out, damned spot!’” He laughed ruefully, then stiffened up again as the correct gentleman’s gentleman he had been since Darcy’s return. “Your pardon, sir.”

“Not at all. But that was not the line of which I was thinking.” Darcy waited until Fletcher came round to flick the brush over the front of his coat. “Do you remember how the line goes, ‘By the pricking of my thumbs…’?”

“‘Something wicked this way comes,’ sir?” Fletcher asked, more than a flicker of interest sparking his face.

Darcy fixed him with a darkling eye. “Precisely, Fletcher.”