A Virtue of Marriage

by Elizabeth Ann West

  “Miss, miss . . . ” Anna, the maid who traveled with Elizabeth whispered just inside the door jamb. “Come quickly, there's not much time.”

  “Where . . .” Elizabeth's voice broke in a sob she managed to silence with a gulp of air, “where is he?”

  “He sleeps. Hurry, there's no time.” Anna's hand beckoned her employer's niece to leave as she stood lookout.

  Elizabeth tried to stand, but found she could not properly manage. Half crawling, half stumbling, she made it to the door only to find the room and stairs spinning madly out of focus. She blinked and blinked, and could see that Mrs. Plummer, the kind cook, stood by ready to open the front door. Despite the pain and nausea, Elizabeth managed to remember how she traversed the stairs back when her ankle was broken.

  Although unladylike, she scooted and slid step by step, holding onto the railing to steady herself though her eyes told her she was as if adrift in the ocean. As she reached the front door, Mrs. Plummer hastily opened it and the noise startled Mr. Collins napping in his study.

  As Elizabeth heard his voice call out, adrenaline took over and she bolted out the door, vaguely hearing it slam behind her. For a moment she thought to run to Rosings, but feared Collins would catch up with her assuming she'd go in that direction. Turning around, she ran south.

  She fell and got back up what must have been a dozen times. Her hands shook in pain, caked in mud, but she refused to stop. What felt like an eternity brought her to the doorstep of a familiar place and slumped to the ground, she hit the door with all of the strength she had left.

  The patting on the door barely registered a sound, and Elizabeth had no voice to call out with. Breathing labored, she kept banging on the door, or so she thought, until her strength and injuries threatened to overwhelm her.

  “See Momma, Miss Bennet is here!” a young girl's voice cried out as she opened the door and Elizabeth spilled onto the floor of the Holbein cottage.

  “Good Heavens! Petey, run now, fetch Mr. Darcy! Don't stop running, boy, all the way to the big house!” Diana Holbein shouted as she struggled forward though her advancing condition prevented her from moving easily. “Miss Bennet? Miss Bennet? You must wake dear and help me get you to a chair. Come, come, up we go now.”

  Elizabeth heard Diana Holbein's voice coming to her as if in a dream. Her mouth tasted funny again, and as she moved to retch, somehow she managed to lift herself with Diana's assistance. She apologized for the insult, but her words came out funny.

  “Lord help me in heaven, whoever did this to you deserves a month in stocks!”

  “Collins,” Elizabeth spat out his name and she lolled her head, her neck not strong enough to hold her up.

  “No, no, now you stay awake. Mr. Darcy will be here soon.”

  Elizabeth tried to look at Diana's face but she kept seeing two of the very nice woman. And she was so very tired. Why couldn't she just sleep until Fitzwilliam arrived?

  “Elizabeth! Wake up!” Diana called out, keeping her vigil over the young woman. Her husband's career of a lumber jack had long taught her the danger of letting one sleep after a blow to the head. The men would poke and prod to keep a fellow jack alert as long as possible, twas the only chance for survival.

  “Dear, you sleep now you may never wake up. It's a right nasty blow to your head from the bump on your brow.” Mrs. Holbein accepted a small pail of cool water carried in with mighty effort by young Mary Jane. Dipping her apron into the water, she dabbed Elizabeth's face and the cold made her jerk in response.

  “Ssh, careful, careful now love. Easy does it.”

  The sound of a horse outside the cottage announced the arrival of Mr. Darcy who stormed in without invitation. Spying his Elizabeth in a heap in the chair, he collapsed to the floor and took her into his arms just as Mrs. Holbein moved out of the way.

  “Lizzie, my Lizzie. My darling, I'm here. I'm here.”

  “Fitz . . .” Elizabeth managed before slipping back out of consciousness.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  All remnants of sunlight were gone when Elizabeth next awoke. Before she could make the decision to move, a firm hand touched her arm.

  “Please do not move. My physician is on his way from London but Simmons says you likely suffered another concussion. They are …” Darcy swallowed and struggled to speak. His man came forward and bowed his head to the young woman, for even he had come to admire for her fortitude.

  “Each blow to the head is harder on the mind, my lady.” Simmons bowed his head again and stepped back, afraid he had overstepped his bounds. But he truly wished for this young woman to prevail; he had seen his master's massive fall from grace when he last thought he had lost her. Simmons had no desire to return to those dark days.

  “Thank you, Simmons. Please tell my cousin she has awoken and I shall be ready presently. Then come back, if you please, and allow no one in this room.”

  The servant bowed low and quietly left the room.

  “I am so sorry, Fitzwilliam.” Elizabeth managed her words and felt pleased at least now she could string together a cohesive sentence.

  Darcy bit his knuckle as he stared down at her. Once he found his composure, he talked as softly as he could. “It is my fault for allowing you near that excuse for a man after the first time he struck you. But fear not, he shall not pass this night without paying dearly for his transgression.”

  Panic washed over Elizabeth as she began to fret and found frustration, as she could not again speak clearly. “No . . . no hurt . . . trouble for you.”

  Fitzwilliam's expression softened, as he understood the look in her eyes, the same beautiful eyes that made dizzying circuits as they struggled to steady their aim. A pair of fine eyes, indeed. She was so very injured and still her first instinct was to protect him.

  Leaning down to gently kiss her injured face and forehead, Darcy deeply inhaled her scent.

  “There will be justice tonight, Elizabeth. There will be justice, and the law shall not touch me.”

  “But —” she managed, before he placed a finger to her lips. Loud voices could be heard outside in the hall just as the door to her room burst open. The Colonel came in with an older couple close behind, all three squabbling.

  “Think son! He is a parson! The headlines shall read 'Rogue Colonel Beats Clergy!'” the older man cried out.

  “Richard, sleep on it. The parson is not going anywhere, you can easily . . .” the elegant woman's voice trailed off as she spied the sorry state of the woman in the bed. “Lations!”

  The older man grasped the woman before she fainted, but she patted his support away.

  Perplexed, Elizabeth's head began a new steady pounding in her ears as the blood felt too pinched inside. “I apologize if I look badly.” Again, she cheered herself on making sense. Maybe she only needed practice to keep speaking correctly.

  “There she is! Lord and Lady Matlock, please meet Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the strongest, funniest, most charismatic woman of my acquaintance and soon to be my cousin as soon as Darcy manages the paperwork. Miss Bennet, these are my parents.”

  Elizabeth tried to move her head, but Darcy's hand on her shoulder reminded her she was not to move. Instead, she blinked a number of times and tried to smile, but realized her lip felt swollen and would not move.

  Lady Matlock glided around the bed and waited for her nephew Darcy to vacate his chair. He refused at first, but Richard gave a low whistle, and Darcy, with a pained look in his face, reluctantly complied.

  “Aunt Maddie—”

  “Simmons is here, Catherine will not come near, upon my word.”

  Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. Richard clasped him on the shoulders and the worried suitor shed his misery for the courage of a knight, charged with availing his Lady Love of her treacherous cousin.

  Just as the men were about to leave, whispering quietly of their plans, Lady Matlock grasped Elizabeth's hand and looked again on the poor woman's battered face.

  “Boys, take Declan with you.�
��

  “Mother?” Richard paused to make sure he understood his mother's order.

  The Countess of Matlock turned away from one of the worst crimes she had personally seen perpetrated and glared at her son with the fire of true Fitzwilliam.

  “And if you do not kill the man, leave Declan there in the service of Mrs. Collins.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Caroline Bingley rose earlier than she was inclined, a woman on a mission and no time to fail. If her calculations were correct from Eliza's last letter to her sister, Mr. Darcy would be leaving Kent at any moment after his cousin married the sickly de Bourgh girl. Then, he would be free to see Caroline for the dutiful spouse she was educated to be, and the first part of that plan involved learning why all of the furnishings and décor were mysteriously disappearing.

  She had already plied that simpering Georgiana for details, but any mention of potential financial challenges and the girl began to cry buckets! Sentimentality was an asset in many a lady, but not possessed by the mercenary Caroline Bingley. She had no time for such useless, futile emotions. Feelings warped one's perspective of their goals.

  Aggravated to conduct her own toilette, the necessary denigration would keep her plan a secret. Being a guest at Darcy House for over a week she watched the Wickhams most carefully. They were never in the same room together, aside from the occasional meal. And twice now Caroline had tried to seek Georgiana's weaker state after retiring for the evening to find her suite of rooms locked. All was certainly not as it seemed, this was no love match.

  Tiptoeing into the Master's study, Caroline froze when a loud snore startled her progress. She whipped her face towards the sofa along the far wall to spy a lounging George Wickham, splayed in half dress along the length. Cursing her bad luck, she moved gingerly, wondering why the man had not stayed out all night like all others, but decided there was no time like the present to settle one's destiny. Darcy might arrive any day, and without the truth, he would cast her aside as an afterthought like so many times before.

  Carefully, Caroline shifted the papers on the desk, moving the ink pots and letter opener to the very edge of the desk. A missive about mines in Derby, signed with the seal of Lord Strange piqued her interest immediately. The wedding of Thomas Stanley to that milquetoast Sarah Milbanke was the event of the season, the wedding of the year! But the Viscount was hardly in control of such sums of money, something was amiss.

  Scrambling to find more information, Caroline forgot her need to be quiet and it was only when she realized the snoring had stopped that a pit in her stomach dropped to somewhere around her knees. Looking up from her shady endeavors she found herself staring directly into the blue eyes of none other than George Wickham.

  “Miss Bingley, I had no idea you had such a head for business.” George Wickham's normal debonair style fell flat as a sobering belch interrupted his sentiments.

  Repulsed, Caroline wrinkled her nose and waved the offending airs away. “As a longtime friend of the Darcy family, I felt strongly that my interest for Mr. Darcy and Georgiana were paramount in looking into these affairs. You've pared down this home a great deal and I'm curious as to what you expect to happen to replace your theft before Mr. Darcy returns?”

  George Wickham's jawline tensed and a lesser woman would have cowered. Not Caroline. The half-drunk man stumbled around the desk to come closer to her person, and Caroline watched as he used the edge to steady himself ever so often with mild amusement.

  “It is very dangerous to come along and accuse a man such of myself of criminal activity. I believe you have miscalculated Miss Bingley in the extent of my gentility.”

  His hand reached out for the woman, his mind anxious for violence, his body's coordination less capable. In a thrice, Caroline snatched the letter opener in front of her and slashed his hand, just above the wrist, making him cry out and recoil.

  “You cut me! How dare you!”

  Caroline pursed her lips and gave a swift push on the already teetering man so he fell backwards, knocking his head most satisfying on the globe behind him. Dazed and laying contentedly on the floor, Caroline collected the most damning pieces of parchment before looking one last time over the listless body of George Wickham. The drink would wear off, no doubt, but for a time, he was harmless.

  “Please, I've parried more vicious attacks in a ballroom,” she scoffed, taking great pleasure to plant a determined stomp at the crux of his legs. His cries and moans bothered her none as she left the study, satisfied she exacted some revenge for the miserable baggage sobbing herself to sleep each night above stairs.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Mid-morning at Rosings was a somber affair. Elizabeth's sick room became a regular stop as people came in and left to check on her. Such attentions frightened Elizabeth as Fitzwilliam could not be present the whole time, and she had in fact not seen him since last night. Worry, fatigue, and her vulnerable position made her convalescence an absolute torture.

  Mr. Darcy's personal physician, Doctor Matthews, did his best to inquire discretely about all of her injuries, but with Lady Matlock in the room, Elizabeth's mortification over the entire ordeal won out.

  “I'm terribly sorry, Miss Bennet, but I must ask. Did your cousin violate any personal privacy?”

  “No, nothing of the kind. He was angry, he was not depraved.” Elizabeth sat up further in the bed, adamant to will herself healthy again.

  “Miss Bennet, please, I must advise for you to rest and lay down properly. Mr. Darcy will be very cross—”

  “It's quite alright, Doctor. Mr. Darcy is well aware there is little I do properly and he has accustomed himself to my faults.” Elizabeth wished to jump from the bed in joy that her mental faculties seemed fully returned. She checked for offense to Lady Matlock, Darcy's aunt that she had to say was a considerable improvement over the other relation of her acquaintance, but saw none. Instead the Colonel's mother appeared to enjoy her small jest.

  The examination stopped when Mr. Darcy himself appeared, well dressed and attended to by his man. Elizabeth smiled and reached out to him, full of glee when he quickly came around to the other side of her sickbed. Grasping his hands, she immediately noticed his injuries.

  “Fitzwilliam! You are hurt!”

  Slightly sheepish, Darcy held out his hands and flexed them. Visible bruising and swelling bubbled around his knuckles, but he was certain none were broken.

  “A most satisfying injury, my dear. Fear not.”

  “But you must be attended to, there Dr. Matthews, see to his hands please. I am perfectly fine and fit, just a slight set back.” Elizabeth made sure not to wince as she settled the blankets more properly around her person. Her effects and Anna had arrived early this morning and she was very grateful to the maid in helping her change out of her ruined gown covered in blood, mud, and grass stains.

  “How is she? This is her second head injury as I told you.”

  Elizabeth frowned as her Fitzwilliam spoke about her like she was not there. Doctor Matthews replied that while the short-term effects were promising, it was still too early to say she was without permanent injury.

  “Oh for pity's sakes! Lady Matlock, might I have a word in private with your nephew?” Elizabeth looked to the matron for support. She hoped she measured the woman correctly and felt relieved when her ally agreed, provided she might send Anna in. Elizabeth agreed and poor Doctor Matthews found himself swept out of the room and Fitzwilliam stunned at the sheer efficiency in which women work.

  Gently, Elizabeth patted her bed to motion for Darcy to sit on the edge, a scandalous proposition, but she had a feeling they were far beyond the bounds of propriety in the strictures of the relationship. Fitzwilliam complied, if for no other reason to become closer to his Elizabeth for his and her own comfort.

  “Fitzwilliam, I wish to leave this place.”

  “Certainly, in a week or two, when you are recovered—”

  “No, sir, I wish to leave within the hour, this very moment
it may be managed. I am not safe here, I have visions of Lady Catherine barging in at any moment.”

  “She is heavily sedated, a recommendation of Dr. Smeads I can finally agree with.”

  Elizabeth turned slightly, sucking in her breath at the pain in her rib cage. Exhaling, she looked her Fitzwilliam in the eye and did not break contact.

  “We must leave. To London. I cannot explain, but I know in my heart this place is too precarious. Lady Catherine cannot be kept unconscious forever. The Colonel and Anne have his parents to support them, we must leave.”

  Taking another deep breath, she begged. “Rescue me, Fitzwilliam, take me away from this awful, awful place.”

  Elizabeth sobbed as she collapsed forward into Darcy's chest, crying until she felt no more tears could possibly fall. The evil memories invoked by the doctor's examination overwhelmed her and she wished with all of her might to erase the horrors of the parsonage's sitting room.

  Deep in Darcy's own soul a damn broke of the emotion he had held back. He had made a mistake once in not protecting her, he would not make another.

  “As you wish, madame. As you wish.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Darcy carriage was packed and readied for travel as swiftly as the staff could manage. The equipage took no pause at the parsonage for a farewell, Elizabeth too upset at her friend's complicit actions during her attack. Sitting on a bench in Mr. Darcy's arms with her maid Anna across from her, the nausea and throbbing headache returned almost immediately.

  Refusing to say she was too unwell to travel, Elizabeth Bennet willed herself to sleep to keep from vomiting in Mr. Darcy's fine carriage. Her mind fractured in its thoughts, she tried to think of happier times and could not seem to pull from the well of her memories. The panic of feeling trapped in the hell of her mind made her tense, and Mr. Darcy soothed her with calming words.