Page 90 of Midnight at Pemberley

“But not necessarily the more prudent one.” Elizabeth squeezed his hand. “No one who ever met you, Colonel, would think you anything less than honorable.”

The innkeeper’s wife interrupted their conversation. “Hopin’ the meat pies serve ye,” she said as she placed the tea service on the table beside the colonel’s tankard.

“They smell delicious, Ma’am. Thank you for all your trouble.”

The coachman appeared at the door, and Elizabeth motioned him forward. “Yes, Peters?”

“Mrs. Darcy, I be takin’ note, as ye asked. The Master’s horse is in the stable.”

“Trident?” Her excitement rose.

“Yes, Ma’am. Trident be glad to see me—gave him a randy apple, likin’ I always do.”

“Watch Trident for us, Peters. Let me know if anyone goes near him.” The servant looked pleased with the new responsibility. “We will be staying here for a few days, so use the time to make whatever repairs are required.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He bowed out of the room.

The colonel spoke: “You must rest tonight, Elizabeth, and I will find where Wickham is and how we might best approach him.”

“You will be cautious, Colonel?”

“I have not my cousin’s powers. Like you, my dear, I am very much a human, and I must depend on my wits to survive. Trust me, I will respond with intelligence. When I know something of import, we will act.”

“Make it soon, Colonel. I fear William requires our assistance.”

The colonel nursed his drink as two men shared their stories of how each night those foolish enough to be out after midnight took the chance of meeting what these men simply called “bloodsuckers.” He also learned the whole neighborhood “knew” the source of these diseased creatures to be the master of Wickford Manor. “Current master be the family of Seorais Winchcombe,” the one called Gordy told him, “the one who be lovin’ Lady Ellender. The lady and Lord Benning be buried up in the cemetery with all them others. It be odd the man returned here.”

“How far is it to Wickford Manor?” the colonel asked casually.

“Half’n mile back towards the church. Wickford Manor be not much by London standards, but it got some land. The thing is, it sit right on the back of the line where be the church’s graveyard. Like Wickford Manor takin’ in them souls.”

His partner offered his own insights. “Some be sayin’ them bloodsuckers dance in the hall every night. I nary believe it, but everyone be sayin’ it so.”

At length, claiming all the information he could from the men, the colonel bid the two a safe evening. “It is near eleven, gentlemen. I shall not detain you longer. I thank you for sharing your insights.” Edward Fitzwilliam knew he should disclose what he discovered to Elizabeth, but if what these men said was true, he must act, before the “dance” began.

A quarter hour later, he stood before the church’s graveyard. Everything appeared quiet, but after the past hour of listening to two grown men excitedly describe what they knew of the grave sites looming before him, the colonel steeled his nerves before proceeding. As rambunctious children, he and Darcy often played soldiers, hiding behind family headstones in a pretend battle, and in the military, he spent more time than he cared in remembering the dead and fighting in what would easily become a graveyard with the next day’s light.Yet this was different, and the colonel sensed it. In this cemetery, death lived.

Chastising himself for his fear, he quickly crossed the mounds to exit through the hedge shrub outlining the graves. A glance over his shoulder showed him a low, creeping fog spreading across the granite memorials.

His drunk tavern mates had described the house as being behind the cemetery. However, they forgot to mention the hill and the wooded field. Fortunately, light streamed from the house’s windows, serving as a beacon as he took unsteady steps on the hill. He made his way stealthily through the forested area to exit where the steps led to the kitchen. Edward reasoned how country homes would never be lit up as such at this time of night, but this was no ordinary household. Armed with cloves of garlic and a crucifix purchased in one of the small villages through which he and Elizabeth had passed, he edged the kitchen door open and slipped into a perfectly clean room. At first, its pristine condition shocked him, but then he recalled Elizabeth’s remark of vampires feasting only on blood. The pots and pans and kettle were purely Wickham’s playing at being the master of his estate.

Leaving the kitchen behind, he followed a staircase leading to the private living quarters, but again the rooms offered no insights into how to defeat Wickham, because they stood unused, a mausoleum to an unemployed life. Only one door was locked, and although he wished to force his way into it and view what it might hold, a pulsating cadence caused him to curtail his search and find his way towards the center of the house. Drawn by the unusual sound, he crept on all fours to edge forward to where the upper floors overhung the center hall. He glued himself to the wall, crouched so he might respond if necessary, and looked upon what he could not explain. The sound increased as he peered between the slats of the railing to the room below. He feared his presence might affect the show, but nothing stopped the accentuated movements as one after another shadowy eidolon entered a spiritual gambol. They turned and twisted and oscillated to an undulating rhythm. Periodically, one pasty form would hazard a challenge to another, and the room would fill with squeals of despair and of yearning before returning to the murmured chants.

Then a creature as pale as the colonel had ever seen rose from his grotesquely adorned chair. He held out his hand to a pretty sort of girl with curls pinned tightly to her head. Then, horror of horrors, the image the colonel assumed to be George Wickham looked on in infinite sadness as the girl slid into his embrace. Wickham brought her closer still, swaying with her in a primitive invitation to passion. His hands searched her body, and then wordless voices rose in exultation as the fiend lowered his head and drank the girl’s blood. Edward bit back a cry of dark contempt for the display. He shuddered in anguish at his inability to prevent Wickham’s variance. With a gesture of despair, he withdrew to the servants’ stairs. He must escape before the surging call of the coven pulled him in.

Slipping cautiously down the passageway, he paused with his fingers on a door’s latch, before a muffled sound on the other side sent his heart racing. Edward froze with fear, unable to move, and prayed that what was on the other side would not discover him. He pressed his ear to the door, listening with all his senses, but he heard only a soft wind. A mysterious presence moved past the closed portal, and the colonel could feel it so exactly, it was as if he could see through the wooden door. He knew the moment it moved on, and he eased the latch to the right, sliding the door aside only far enough to fit his body through before silently resettling it.

Clinging to the wall, he stepped softly, attempting to escape his growing fear and what occurred in the house. On the battlefield, he knew death was all around him, but he had never felt it before, never knew it to fill his lungs like acrid smoke, never smelled the stench of decay so clearly. He felt totally unprepared for this battle.

A door stood ajar on the other side of the hearth—a door that was closed before, and despite his desperate impulse to flee the room and the house, he made himself peer into the space. Before him, Wickham paced to and fro, but when he stepped to the side, Edward caught the frame to steady his stance. Darcy slumped against the wall, held in place by attached chains. Darcy is alive! Edward’s first instinct was to storm the scene and fight Wickham to the death, but how did one kill something already dead? From a distance, he heard the murmuring increase, but he continued to watch as Wickham bent to taunt Darcy. The tension rose between the two, and for a moment, Edward thought Wickham would attack Darcy, but then he realized Wickham would not feed again so soon. And despite the number of vampires dancing ceremoniously in the main hall, Edward knew Wickham would allow no other to touch Darcy. The fiend would destroy his enemy himself. If Wickham wanted Darcy dead, his cousin would no longer be breathing.

Assured he could do nothing on this night, he let himself out the kitchen door. He still was not safe if what his drinking consorts said was true. He slipped the crucifix from his pocket and lifted his sword in readiness for any attack. He wove his way among the trees and climbed the hill, but when he reached the cemetery, Edward circled the hedgerow on the outside. Loudly repeating every prayer he could recall, he vigilantly watched as the fog he thought to be part of the countryside congregated solely in the church’s cemetery. From it, specters formed and disintegrated before his eyes. Some challenged his progress, but all retreated from the raised silver weapon he carried and from the sign of the Lord’s forgiveness.

Reaching the road to the inn, he followed the embankment. The mist trailed him, but the spectral provocations—strange, unheard presences— kept their distance. He congratulated himself for leaving the horses at the inn. A nervous mount would serve no master. Edward kept up his litany of invocations and refused to look about to see what might trail him.

When he arrived at the inn, Peters permitted him entrance. Edward had set the man on guard when he left for Wickford Manor, and he was thankful for his foresight. He handed the garlic and the crucifix to Peters. “Keep them close,” he warned.

“I saw what followed you, Colonel. If these keep that evil away, ye will not be able to pry them from me.” The coachman bolted the door. “Will they not attempt to enter?” He listened closely to the howls of the night.