A Rare Ability: A Darcy and Elizabeth Pride and Prejudice Variation (A Pemberley Romance Book 10)

by Harriet Knowles

  “Oh?” Elizabeth was bemused. Why did Mama have such a sense of triumph? “Which one? I like them both very much.”

  “It was Faith,” Mama nodded portentously, the ribbons on her lace cap bobbing. “But I don’t believe she has gone to Hartlepool at all. They have put her away. She has got herself into trouble with one of the common soldiers.”

  Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no! But she is so sweet. I cannot believe it of her.”

  “Well, she has,” Mama sounded satisfied.

  “But, Mama, perhaps she was … imposed upon,” Elizabeth protested. “Some of those soldiers are not to be trusted.”

  “Well, she should have been careful not to be in a place where she might be taken advantage of,” sniffed her mother.

  Elizabeth smiled mechanically. “I think I will take Papa a cup of tea,” she said and poured a cup. As she crossed the hall, she heard Lydia’s coarse laugh behind her.

  Perhaps she would call on Mrs. Long later, and express her sympathies. But Mama might not permit it, the family would be shunned now.

  Chapter 28

  After a day or two at home, Elizabeth was worrying about Lydia in a very different way. Her sister was suddenly quiet and a little pale, although she ate ravenously at breakfast. Her eyes kept flickering towards her father, although Papa wasn’t taking much notice of any of them, and Mama, as usual, had not yet come downstairs.

  The heavy rain of the last day and a half had ceased now, and Elizabeth wondered if she might be able to walk out. The fields would be too muddy, but the lane should be passable without too much difficulty.

  Later that morning, she sat in a perfectly peaceful sitting room. Mama, Kitty, and Mary were concentrating on their needlework, and Elizabeth was perusing her book intermittently with staring out of the window. So she was the only one who saw Lydia, wrapped in her cloak, hurrying away from the house, almost as if she didn’t want to be seen.

  Putting down her book, Elizabeth asked to be excused, and walked sedately from the room. Once in the hall, she hurriedly took the nearest coat and hat from the peg behind the door, and ran after Lydia. Where could she be going? Was she all right?

  Once in the lane, she stopped, puzzled, wondering which way Lydia had gone. After a moment, she turned towards Meryton, it was the only place she thought Lydia ever went. She was puzzled, though. Lydia always prevailed upon Kitty or Lizzy to go with her. She wanted the company of others, not liking to be alone.

  But Lydia must have hurried, because it was more than half a mile before Elizabeth caught sight of the hem of her sister’s cloak just as she stepped off the lane down a side path towards the river.

  Elizabeth ran, heedless of being seen. The rain had been so heavy, she knew the river would be swollen and dangerous, especially for one so impulsive and thoughtless as Lydia.

  But before she turned off the lane, she caught a flash of scarlet, and hesitated, stepping behind a tree. For a brief instant, she wondered what the other people in the lane would be thinking. But she could not spare them a moment’s thought as she saw Lydia greeting an officer. As he turned, and bent his head towards Lydia’s face, she recognised Mr. Wickham, and her heart swelled in rage — rage at both of them — as he drew her young sister into a deep kiss.

  As she stepped out from behind the tree to confront them, Lydia drew back and said something, and he jumped away from her, his face darkening.

  Before Elizabeth could gather her senses, Mr. Wickham had seized Lydia’s arm and pushed her towards the swollen, fast-flowing river beside them.

  Elizabeth screamed as Lydia clutched at Mr. Wickham’s uniform to try and save herself, and both of them tumbled into the water.

  Elizabeth glanced round. A couple of farm workers with a horse and cart, looking at her. A tall figure on horseback in the distance, beside a coach and four.

  “Help me!” she screamed at them, before dashing towards the river bank.

  She saw them struggling in the water, her sister clutching at Mr. Wickham. She knew Lydia couldn’t swim and was horrified to see he was attempting to push Lydia’s head under the water. Without thinking, she bent and picked up a large stone, and hurled it at Mr. Wickham’s head. With a cry, he lost his footing, let go of Lydia, and immediately the current separated them, and he was carried out of reach.

  By then, Elizabeth was wading into the water, reaching out to Lydia, who had clutched at a tree branch and thus had not been taken by the current. But the branch didn’t look strong and was bending ominously.

  “Lizzy!”

  “Hold on, Lyddie!” Elizabeth was shocked at the strength of the current but she inched forward, hoping the branch wouldn’t snap and leave both of them at the mercy of the current.

  There were voices calling out from the river bank, several men’s voices, and a lone lady’s voice. “Lizzy!”

  “Miss Elizabeth!” A stentorian cry reached her and she glanced back. Mr. Darcy was running towards her, hat and cane discarded in his wake. “Come out of the water, let me recover her!”

  But Elizabeth dared not allow an instant to waste. She could see the branch bending, threatening to snap, and she took another little step forward, concentrating on her sister.

  “We’re coming, Lydia! Hold on!”

  Then Mr. Darcy was wading out towards them, his own body cleaving the water, which swirled around him.

  “Go back, Miss Elizabeth. Your grasp is risking the branch.” He took her arm, and even in her terror, she shivered at his touch. “Please.” His eyes were dark, almost black.

  “Will you get Lydia?” Her gasps seemed to go unheard; he was already forging forward and stretching out towards the girl.

  “Miss Lydia, hold on until I have you!”

  Elizabeth was reassured and tried not to allow all her weight to be pressed against the branch as she watched.

  In an instant he had grasped Lydia’s arm and drawn her towards him.

  Elizabeth relaxed and began to pull herself back towards the bank, but as her worry for her sister receded she remembered Mr. Wickham, and shame filled her. Had her stone, thrown instinctively, caused his death?

  As the three of them waded to the bank, arms reached out for her. Jane was there, and Mr. Bingley. How were they here? The farm workers helped pull them all onto the safety of firm ground and Jane draped a blanket from their coach over her.

  “Thank you, Jane. Do you have another for Lydia?” Elizabeth had begun shivering.

  Then Jane was with Lydia and Mr. Darcy came towards her, his concern obvious. “Come, Miss Elizabeth, you must get in the coach and return to Longbourn at once. I would not have you catch a chill.”

  She almost laughed. A chill would be almost inevitable now, she thought, but she could not spare the time to laugh.

  “Mr. Wickham!” she choked out. “It is my fault, I … I threw a stone to make him let go of her, and the current carried him downstream. I do not know if he would be able to escape the river.”

  His expression darkened, as he glared along the river bank. Then he turned to his friend. “Bingley, please escort the ladies back to Longbourn forthwith.” He turned to the farmhands.

  “You, come with me; I must see if he is to be found.”

  Elizabeth waited until the three men had plunged off through the undergrowth, the bank slippery and obstructed with torn branches. Then she followed them.

  “Lizzy!” Jane called her back. “We must get you back and into dry clothes!”

  “No, I will go, too. You get Lydia back safely and send for the apothecary,” Elizabeth called over her shoulder. “I will be home soon enough.” She must know what had happened. Would she be the cause of a man’s death?

  Her heart pounded within her, and she wondered if Mr. Darcy would be in very great danger. Was she very wicked if she felt that Mr. Wickham was not worthy of Mr. Darcy risking his life?

  She hurried as best she could, but she was very afraid of slipping in her sodden boots and clothes, and she made slow progress.
She heard shouts up ahead, and she clenched her jaw and pulled herself along faster, holding onto branches and bushes as she went.

  Round the next bend of the river, as it foamed and swirled, she saw a great section of the bank had been washed away, and the mud darkened the water an uninviting brown.

  She could see Mr. Wickham pinned by the current against a rock in the centre of the stream; his face was pale and blood was running through the water as it washed against his face. But he looked angrily determined as he saw the men calling from the bank. For a moment, she thought that he was going to try and make his way to the far bank, but he seemed to realise it was impossible.

  Mr. Darcy waded into the water, seemingly without hesitation, but as the water got deeper, he began to pick his way more carefully.

  One of the men on the bank called out. “Here, sir!” and extended a stout branch. Mr. Darcy looked back, nodded, and grasped the branch, enabling him to feel his way out further to the centre of the river.

  Elizabeth was watching, her hands over her mouth, her heart pounding in fear. She could do nothing but pray Mr. Darcy remained safe.

  The cold from her sodden clothing seeped into her very bones. Even the blanket wrapped round her was wet now, and she was shivering as she watched.

  But Mr. Darcy had reached out and grasped the other man’s hand. Slowly, they were both able to make their way back to the bank, one of the farmhands holding the branch, his other arm looped round a tree, and the other wading in to assist pulling Mr. Wickham to the bank.

  As Mr. Darcy followed, covered in mud, with water cascading from him, he seemed to notice Elizabeth with a start. It seemed to galvanise him, and he hastened back, scrambling up the bank.

  “What are you doing here? I told you to go in the coach to Longbourn.” He pushed his hair back from his face. But before she could answer him, they all heard shouts from the road.

  One of the farmhands shouted back, and she could hear sounds of rescuers pushing their way through the bushes towards them.

  Elizabeth thought inconsequentially that it would be preferable to be scratched and bruised pushing through the trees, than make her way back along the bank and she shuddered.

  Mr. Darcy’s arm curved protectively around her. “Come, I must get you back to Longbourn at once.”

  She looked up at him. “I think you also need to get warm, sir.” Then there were people all around, Mr. Bingley, and his coachman and servants; servants from Longbourn; — Jane, and her maid, holding blankets and looking anxious.

  Elizabeth felt the loss as Mr. Darcy removed his arm before they were seen, and she tucked her hand in his offered arm. As Jane reached her and flung a dry blanket round her, Mr. Darcy left her side and turned to the farmhands. She heard him thanking them, and instructing them to go to Longbourn to be seen by the apothecary.

  Then he turned to Mr. Wickham. “I think you, too, should …”

  “Don’t even think about it, Darcy,” he sneered. “And if you think I should feel grateful to you, then your thoughts will be in vain. You did not do this out of care or concern, you cannot feel such a thing, and I will never be indebted to you!” He turned and walked away from them.

  Jane watched him go, and turned to Elizabeth. “What was that about?”

  Elizabeth shrugged slightly, as she saw Mr. Darcy hesitate. “I must go to him, Jane. He saved Lydia’s life, and very likely mine, too.”

  “He wants you to get warm and dry, Lizzy. Come with me.” Jane tugged at her.

  But Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy turn back to the bank. Suddenly he was kneeling down, back at the muddy, treacherous bank, and feeling under some tree roots, stretching into the water.

  She hurried over to him, fearful of his safety, as he scooped into his hand a tiny kitten, so muddy she couldn’t tell its colour, mewing pathetically.

  Mr. Darcy tucked it gently under the blanket that Mr. Bingley had draped around his shoulders, and smiled at Elizabeth. Suddenly, he seemed happier.

  “I declare, Mr. Darcy, you are more concerned for a kitten than for anyone else,” she laughed.

  His eyes met hers. “I am happy I was able to assist you.” His expression closed down. “If that branch had given way, you might have been lost — and your sister, too.” He suddenly shook himself. “But come, I must get you home.”

  Chapter 29

  Darcy rode on the back of the wagon following Bingley’s coach to Longbourn.

  There, he accepted his host’s offer to use his chamber to wash and change into borrowed clothes. Smiling, he sponged the worst of the mud from the kitten, and allowed it to drink a little warm milk the manservant fetched for him.

  “You’re a determined soul, I can see that,” he murmured to the small creature. “Not sure you’re old enough to manage without your mama, though.” He asked the servant to find a basket with a lid, and went downstairs to enquire after the Bennet girls.

  The house was somewhat in uproar, and Mr. Bennet took him into his library, where he found Bingley waiting for him.

  “Mr. Darcy, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Bennet poured a whisky for him, and Darcy took it gratefully.

  “Think nothing of it, sir. I’m glad I was there.” He sipped his drink, feeling that he wanted nothing more than to be back in his bedchamber — just as soon as he was assured of Miss Elizabeth’s wellbeing.

  “I wonder if you can tell me of Miss Elizabeth — and Miss Lydia. Are they well?”

  His host’s face suddenly looked more lined than ever. “I hope so. I know that I owe their lives to you.” He looked at Bingley.

  “And your assistance and willingness to use your coach to convey them here, too.”

  Darcy nodded. “Then we will take our leave, sir.” He bowed. He needed to go. He needed a bath, and the privacy that went with it. Time to think.

  Bennet bowed also. “Of course, Mr. Darcy. I would just like to ask if you know what happened. How did they come to be in the river at all?” He shook his head. “I cannot comprehend it.”

  “I am not certain, Mr. Bennet.” Darcy tried to keep his voice gentle. “Perhaps your daughters will be able to tell you later. I confess, I, too, would like to know.” He glanced at his friend.

  “Are you going to wait for Mrs. Bingley?”

  Bingley shook his head. “I am not sure. I think she will want to stay here for a while with her sisters.” He looked at Bennet. “May I return later this afternoon?”

  Bennet bowed his head. “Of course. If Jane wishes to return before that, I will send her in my coach.”

  As they waited in the hallway for Bingley’s coach to be brought round, the housekeeper appeared carrying a small, lidded basket. Darcy smiled. The kitten was making a prodigious amount of noise for such a small creature.

  Bennet was waiting with them, and he took off his spectacles to peer at the basket. “Whatever do you have there, Mr. Darcy?”

  Darcy smiled. “Another waif from the river, sir.” He reached into the basket and scooped out the little creature. He tucked it into his jacket, next to his shirt, where it instantly settled down, tiny claws hooked into the fabric.

  Bennet chuckled. “I know you disdain talking about philanthropy, Mr. Darcy, but your actions betray you.” Darcy’s lips tightened at that; he was fortunate that the coach stopped by the door at that moment.

  Siting in the coach with Bingley, on blankets spread over the muddy upholstery, Darcy wondered at his sense of contentment. He should be wound as tightly as a watch spring, reliving again and again what had happened, but ending in the disaster it could have been. That is what had always happened before.

  But today, he felt unaccountable contentment. Elizabeth was safe. She is safe. He repeated the thought to himself, knowing his contentment was because of that. She had been immersed in the freezing river for some minutes and then, cold and wet, been on the bank in the chill breeze, so it was possible she might not yet be out of danger. But the memory of her eyes, dancing with happiness and relief, as she t
eased him gently about the kitten, made him smile foolishly. Suddenly, he thought he knew what it felt to belong, and his heart seemed to swell too large to remain in his chest.

  “You seem very cheerful, Darcy,” Bingley remarked from the other side of the coach, and Darcy was pulled from his contemplation.

  “I’m glad all went as well as anyone could hope, Bingley,” he said mildly. His friend was amiable and kind, and Darcy valued him as a friend. But he knew the man had little insight into the problems Darcy faced, and he must make allowances for that.

  He smiled. “I hope you do not mind me bringing the kitten back to Netherfield, Bingley.”

  “Not at all. I am sure I can find a worker on the estate who will give it a home.” Bingley looked as if he wanted to lean back against the seats, but they were muddy and he was still awkwardly upright, as was Darcy.

  “Thank you, but I would rather keep it with me.” Darcy thought hastily for a reason that might be acceptable. “Miss Elizabeth seemed enamoured with it.”

  “Of course.” Bingley seemed incurious.

  Back in his chambers, once his bath had been prepared, Darcy sent his valet to procure a deep box, as he was quite certain that the kitten would not be deterred long from escaping the basket.

  * * *

  A few hours later, bathed, shaved, and neat, he was beside Bingley in the second coach as they drove back to Longbourn to see if Mrs. Bingley was ready to return home. Darcy was there, too, hoping to see Miss Elizabeth. She was a strong and resourceful lady, she would have come downstairs, he was certain.

  But he was not as fortunate as he had hoped. Mr. Bennet greeted them warmly. It seemed he was now considered part of the family, and Darcy wondered at his own acceptance of the fact.

  Even when Mrs. Bennet came barrelling towards him, her overdone reactions of gratitude almost too much to tolerate, he barely flinched. Within a few moments, her husband adroitly intervened, and Darcy and Bingley found themselves in the master’s library.