“Papa!”
“And all I want to know is, which of the gentlemen involved has stolen it?”
Chapter 7
Elizabeth shot out of her seat. “Nothing could be further from the truth!”
Her father’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“There was no duel. There was nothing of the sort! Is that what Colonel Forster believed occurred?” Was that what the entire regiment thought? Was that….
Was that what Mr. Wickham was telling his friends?
Her father’s expression was one of utter astonishment. “Elizabeth, I believe you best tell me at once all that you know.”
Her breath came out of her body in a rush. “I know very little, Papa. It all happened so fast. But it was most certainly nothing like a duel. It was all a terrible accident. I believe Mr. Wickham had a pistol upon his person, and it misfired within his jacket.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Bennet shook his head in disbelief. “So he had no quarrel with Mr. Darcy?”
She colored. “That I cannot say. The enmity between them seems to be of long standing. I have known for some time that they are not friends, though they grew up in the same house. They have both informed me, independently, of their mutual hatred. But, Papa, their feelings have nothing whatsoever to do with me.”
“Elizabeth—”
“I swear this to you. Mr. Wickham, I believe, found me diverting, but we have hardly shared more than a few conversations and a dance at my Aunt Philips’s. And Mr. Darcy scarcely cares if I live or die.”
“Every man in Meryton saw you dancing with him last night at Netherfield.”
“Of course!” she cried. “I danced. At a ball. Where I might have had many partners, be they gentlemen or curates. There is no intrigue. My only sin was being present when the two men began to argue, and I did try, Papa. I did try to leave the vicinity at once.”
She did not add that only Mr. Darcy had enough wits about him in the moment to urge her to flee.
“This is most distressing,” he father said. “Colonel Forster wishes to investigate a duel.”
“He says it was fought over me?”
“Look at the letter for yourself,” Mr. Bennet said, and held out a slip of paper. The note from the colonel was short, saying only that there had been an incident of violence at Netherfield the previous evening, involving one of his officers and the gentleman from Derbyshire in what was presumably an affair of honor, and the colonel regretted to inform Mr. Bennet that his second daughter was also a party of interest.
“Oh, Papa!” she gasped, reading. “Am I ruined?”
Her father said nothing. Her father said nothing!
Elizabeth began to weep. As dreadful as all of this was, a new horror began to take shape in her mind. If Colonel Forster believed this story, if the men of the regiment began to believe it as well, then there would be no hope for her reputation going forward.
“Papa,” she whispered miserably, burying her face in a handkerchief. “Must I therefore marry Mr. Collins? Must I accept his offer, as insurance that I may be spared these dreadful whispers?”
She could scarcely allow herself to look up into her father’s face, terrified as she was that he might concur.
“Well,” Mr. Bennet said at long last, “I should hope there is no need to resort to such drastic measures as that.”
Elizabeth looked up, her weary eyes widening with hope. Her father’s expression was as grave as ever.
“No, I cannot part with you, Lizzy, though perhaps we shall both regret it in the end. But I cannot allow you to make such a rash decision. You say this incident has nothing at all to do with you—”
Nothing whatsoever, and yet everything all at once. But Elizabeth did not wish to make things any more complicated. She may be responsible, but she had not done anything to cause a scandal, or a duel of honor.
“—And I hope that Colonel Forster can be convinced of the need for discretion. No matter what his injured officer might be saying… the man may not be in his right mind…” Mr. Bennet met her eyes again. “My dear child, are you certain—quite certain, that there is nothing that can be attributed to you in this matter? Do not fear disappointing me in your confession. If the facts are thus, I would be infinitely more disappointed to learn that you had kept them from me.”
His expression nearly broke her heart. Any sense of composure she had managed to erect all through the dreadful night, and this ever more dreadful day, threatened to vanish completely at the thought of the harm she had done to her dear father.
“Papa, I promise. I do admit that I was partial to Mr. Wickham at one time, but I have done nothing that I would be ashamed to have known. Indeed, I am only ashamed that I allowed myself such tender feelings for a man who did not, when all was said and done, deserve them.”
Her father considered this for a long moment, and Elizabeth blushed furiously, understanding that he was now weighing what he knew of her truthfulness. “Well, Lizzy, let us not kick a gentleman when he is down. It is possible his information has been misconstrued. He is, after all, reported to be in quite dire circumstances.”
Elizabeth realized that Mr. Bennet was speaking of their assumption that Mr. Wickham was the origin of this wild story about a duel. However, Elizabeth had her own reasons for regretting any regard she had once held for him. Even before the violence, she had come to understand that Mr. Wickham’s intentions toward her were neither honorable nor harmless.
That Bennet chit has nothing, and thus nothing that can tempt me to marriage. All I was after was a bit of fun.
It felt wrong somehow, to harbor so much anger toward a dying man. And yet, still she did. How curious, given that once she had held nothing but contempt for Mr. Darcy. She had been so determined to dislike him, with so little reason, when the real snake in the neighborhood had been her favorite.
Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “And now, all that must be decided is what to tell your mother. She will be quite beside herself, I am afraid. Quite done in with disappointment if you do not marry Mr. Collins.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Papa, if I do not marry Mr. Collins—if I do not, and the worst comes to pass—”
“Let us not borrow trouble, my dear child.”
There was a knock at the door, and a servant peeked in. “Sir, Mr. Philips is here to see you.”
“Show him in. That will be all, Elizabeth. Do try not to embroil yourself in scandal again before tea.”
“Yes, Papa. What shall I tell my mother about Mr. Collins?”
Her father’s eyes circled heavenward. “Oh, let me deal with all that. But let me speak to my brother, first.”
As Elizabeth turned to leave the library, Mr. Philips entered.
“Oh, you are here, niece!” He said, in a tone of some surprise.
“Yes, sir.”
“You must excuse us, now. I have urgent business with your father.”
She curtsied and departed, but even as the door closed, she heard her uncle begin to speak to Mr. Bennet.
“I have been engaged by the gentleman from Derbyshire, Bennet. I do not know if you are aware of all that has transpired—”
That was all she heard, and though Elizabeth was the daughter of her mother, she could not bring herself to stoop so low as to listen at a door.
“Lizzy?” came a voice at her back. Elizabeth nearly leapt from her skin. She turned to see her sister Jane standing there, in a pelisse and bonnet, and holding out Elizabeth’s hat and shawl. “I thought you might like to take a long walk with me. Now.”
She nodded wordlessly, and hurried into her outdoor clothes. “Yes, yes, thank you, Jane. I do not know what I should do without you.”
“Let us go, then, and do not bother about the others,” Jane said. “I do believe you need your beloved wilderness today.”
“And my beloved sister,” she replied. Jane would want to hear all, of course, but heavens did Elizabeth dread the telling of it. Together, they rushed from the house and into
the fields, their surreptitious escape making Elizabeth feel as if they were more like thieves than daughters of Longbourn proper.
As was her way, Jane ventured not to make any forays into conversation. Elizabeth, for her part, enjoyed the silence, as well as the brisk, wet wind upon her heated face. It seemed in the house as if she could hardly catch her breath, but even at the pace she had set in their tramp through the muddy fields and paths, she found it easy enough to fill her lungs with air.
Escape. The word repeated itself like the very drumbeat of her heart within her breast. Escape.
Would that there really were an entrance to fairyland beneath the roots of old Mr. Banner’s yew. They walked past it in silence, and Elizabeth could not help but remember that time —was it only a few days earlier?—when she and Mr. Darcy had exchanged words and barbs beneath its branches.
Oh, he had tried to warn her then. To tell her of Mr. Wickham’s perfidy, his treachery. But she would not hear it. She had been deaf to his reasoning and blind to the evidence before her very eyes that her favorite was not all that he appeared.
She’d been a fool. Almost as big a fool as Mr. Wickham had been, to be so careless about the deadly weapon he carried. It was a miracle he’d shot only himself. What might have happened if someone had bumped against him on the dance floor?
Perhaps that had been the reason he’d so steadfastly refused to dance with her, Elizabeth thought now. She’d noticed how ill at ease he had been from the moment he arrived in the ballroom, how eager he’d seemed to leave it again. Perhaps he’d always feared that Mr. Darcy would start trouble.
Perhaps he meant to start it himself.
She recalled now how his grip had tightened on her arm when she’d tried to leave him in the garden. She’d been harsh with him in that moment, thinking he had nothing more to threaten her with than wicked words. Mr. Darcy coming along just when he did had saved her. Truly saved her.
Mr. Darcy!
Her steps faltered, and she leaned against a nearby fence post for support.
“Dearest,” Jane said. “It cannot have been so very bad. Mr. Collins is a fool, it is true, but Papa will not make you take him. Of that I am quite certain.”
“No,” Elizabeth managed to reply. “Papa will not make me take him, though he might live to regret his indulgence.”
“Lizzy?” Jane asked.
Tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Jane! Oh, Jane, it is not Mr. Collins who has me so distressed this morning. It is quite another matter altogether. One that I know not if I should even share with you. It is too terrible to tell anyone!”
Jane’s expression was half-astonishment, half-hurt. “You can always tell me, Lizzy. I shall take your secrets to the grave, you must know that.”
“You are too good—”
Now her countenance turned firm and Elizabeth was reminded that, sweet as she was, Jane was still her older sister. “But not good enough to hear what pains you so? Not good enough to hold my own sister when she suffers? Truly, Lizzy, tell me. I cannot bear to see you in such agony.”
And so Elizabeth told her everything. Every twisted, confusing detail. Every unfortunate, horrible happenstance, from her fraught conversation with Mr. Darcy beneath the yew, to the meeting with Mr. Wickham in Meryton, to the night of the Netherfield ball, and to that dreadful moment on the stairs, when the entire world seemed to tip on its axis.
Jane listened in understanding silence, and even when Elizabeth had talked herself dry, said nothing at all beyond, “I am so sorry, dearest one. These must have been terrible hours for you.”
“They were,” she agreed. “I cannot tell you what a comfort it was to have you assisting me last night, after the ball.”
“And here I thought you had drunk too much wine.” Jane shook her head, ruefully. “How silly I must have sounded, going on and on about a dance with Mr. Bingley when my sister was suffering so.”
“It is not your fault, Jane. It is not anyone’s fault but my own. Had I not urged Mr. Wickham to come to the ball, despite his concerns about meeting Mr. Darcy there, this all might have been prevented.”
Jane’s misgivings were scrawled across her pretty face. “But Lizzy, if it as you say, and it was Mr. Wickham’s own pistol which caused his injuries, then you—or even Mr. Darcy—cannot be held to account. It was a terrible accident, nothing more.”
“His pistol would not have misfired had he not been fighting with Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied miserably. “And he would not have been fighting with Mr. Darcy had I—” she broke off at the sound of a carriage approaching, and she and Jane moved to the side of the lane to allow it to pass.
It was quite a grand carriage, and from habit, Elizabeth glanced at the livery to see if it was one she recognized. To her utter dismay, she did: Mr. Darcy’s.
She turned away, shielding her face with the edge of her bonnet as the carriage passed. She did not want to be tempted to look inside.
The carriage continued down the road, but Elizabeth had no sooner breathed a sigh of relief than she could hear it slow.
Then stop.
“Darcy,” Bingley cried. “Are you mad?”
Perhaps. Perhaps he was. He’d called for the coach to stop before he even knew what he was about. He’d seen her, and he’d rapped upon the roof. It was as simple as that.
“Do not do this, man.” Bingley put out a hand as if to stay him. “We must to London. You know we must.”
All he knew was that he must speak to her. He must. He could not leave without a word.
Darcy did not wait for the footman, but swung out of the carriage and jumped to the ground, his great coat swinging about his legs. She was standing with her sister near the ditch at the edge of the lane, but as soon as she saw him, she stepped forward.
That was all the encouragement that he needed. Perhaps he ran—he could not remember— but in a moment he stood before her. Her sister was several yards away, out of earshot. Had Elizabeth, too, come forward to meet him? His shriveled heart seemed to pump again at the thought.
Her face revealed the ravages that she, too, must have suffered since the ball. Her eyes were red, her skin pale. Darcy could not fault her for this. He felt as if he’d aged twenty years in the last twelve hours himself.
“Mr. Darcy.” Even now, she dropped a curtsy. “Do you leave our fair county?”
He had no patience for protocol. Not this morning, and certainly not the pointed variety that Elizabeth Bennet made her specialty. “Yes. But I cannot leave without ensuring your safety. Have you heard the news?”
Her eyes were wary. “My father received a note from Colonel Forster. There is a tale...” She trailed off.
“No longer,” he stated, slicing his hand through the air. “I have made sure of it.”
Her glance was curious, piercing. “You do not have the power to stop gossip, sir. I do not believe any force on Earth is equal to it.”
“I have done what I could,” he replied. “If tongues wag, it will be in my direction.”
Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Elizabeth Bennet speechless. That was a wonder.
“And that is not the news, at any rate,” he went on.
Her brows knit.
“I am sorry to report that Mr. Wickham succumbed to his injuries at dawn.”
She gasped, and in her countenance there was such an expression of pain and shock that Darcy’s heart curdled anew. But of course. But of course she was in love with him. Had she not been, none of this would have occurred. Why did he torture himself so?
“I have sent my representative with all the particulars to your father.”
She gathered together her composure. Her struggle was evident in every comely feature on her face. “Mr. Philips?”
“The very same.” He felt a great pain in his breast, as if Wickham’s bullet had indeed found its intended target.
“Mr. Philips is my uncle, sir.”
“I know.” He’d been impressed by the man’s professionalism, especially when Colone
l Forster’s first note had arrived, and in it such scandalous lies about the lawyer’s niece. “I believe this will make what comes all the easier for you.”
She stared at him for a breath. “And what of you, Mr. Darcy?”
He was not equal to responding. “I will survive. Goodbye, Miss Bennet. God bless you.”
And then, somehow, he was back at his carriage. He was climbing inside, and taking his seat across from Mr. Bingley, who was glaring with such a frown as he had never seen on his friend’s jovial face.
“You should not have done that,” Bingley said.
“Jane was with her,” Darcy mumbled.
“As well I know,” his friend responded. “You don’t see me jumping out of moving carriages.”
It had been stopped. Mostly. “I wager we can trust her.”
“I will not take that bet, and you know it. But we cannot think of the Bennet ladies at present, Darcy. Neither of them.”
Darcy snorted and looked out the window as the carriage began to move again.
How could he think of anything else?
Chapter 8
Several days passed before Elizabeth dared to venture beyond the garden wall of Longbourn once more. Mr. Bennet had restricted the younger girls’ trips to Meryton, though, of course, they could not be completely shielded from the news.
Everyone in the village was talking about the death of Mr. Wickham. What a terrible tragedy! What a charming, handsome man! What a brave and noble officer!
The cause of his untimely demise remained somewhat nebulous to Elizabeth’s younger sisters, at least, according to the scant information they were able to glean without venturing into society. That he had been shot, they knew, but it was unclear if it had been in the course of military exercises or in some other manner.
Where he had received his wounds was a mystery to Kitty and Lydia, though Elizabeth did not venture to suppose that it was similarly unknown or undiscussed among their neighbors. She dreaded to think which stories were spreading, or which whispers might persist, despite the insistence of both Colonel Forster and Mr. Philips upon one particular version of the truth.
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