“You can stay here if you like. I’ll just go and speak to that policeman.”
“No, I’m coming with you.”
I came around to her side to help her out. The place was caked in dust and the pavement had been badly damaged by falling stonework. Her feet looked awfully small against it as she stepped out of the car, but her face was blank with determination. She closed the car door behind her, straightened her winter coat and looked at the unforgiving scene with a steady eye. Quite unexpectedly, as we advanced towards the policeman, she slipped her hand into mine, and there it remained as we picked our way across the chaos.
“Excuse me, Officer, is this Rosemary Avenue?”
“It was, sir.”
“I know you must be busy, but I wonder if you can help. I am looking to find out about some friends of mine. Name of Potter. I believe that their flat was in number 4?”
“Well sir, I see you’re a servin’ gentleman. I’m sure you know ‘ow things are. Jerry took out the ‘ole street and the next one. There ain’t nothing left of number 4 nor any other number. I can’t tell you ‘bout names—you’ll ‘ave to speak to Bill down there”—he indicated his colleague who was dealing with a queue of enquiries.
We spoke to Bill after waiting in the bitter cold for some time. It took us hardly any further, as the dead had been counted but not named, and the emergency services were still hard at work. The hour was late, but Elizabeth refused my offer of food. She had cried once, silently, almost secretly, following which we had asked in the local church but again found no new information. It was plain to me that there was no hope. At length, and after some protest, she accepted my argument that her parents would be frantic with worry and we should return.
It was as we approached the car in the indistinct light of dusk that I heard it. A thud of feet against concrete and a breathless cry of “Lizzy! Lizzy, it’s you!” The figure of Lydia Potter, dressed in a party gown and high heels, too old for her years, clattered along the destroyed street and into the arms of Elizabeth.
“I thought you were dead!”
“I thought you would never come!”—they both spoke, tears streaming.
It transpired that Kitty and Lydia had escaped the raid by chance. They had gone out for the evening with some old friends at a music hall a mile or so away and heard the blast, from a safe distance. Kitty had broken her ankle in a pothole returning to this scene of devastation in the early hours, and they had remained here, hopeless and desperate, until we arrived. Their parents, with whom they had had a cup of tea before going out, had perished. Understandably, they didn’t seem to question or even notice my role in proceedings. While the ladies comforted one another, I spoke to the police and obtained a number to telephone in order to arrange matters. I carried Kitty to the Derby and Elizabeth tucked a blanket from the boot around her legs. Lydia sat beside her on the backseat and held her hand in the darkness while I drove all three ladies home. At Longbourn, amid many shrieks of relief and tears of lament, I helped them out of the car and then made immediately to leave them to themselves. As I did so, Elizabeth caught up with me.
“William?”
I had been expecting a friendly thank you, but she touched her hand to my arm, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed my cheek. We agreed that I would visit the evening after next, at six o’clock. As I drove down the gravel drive, I watched her waving form shrink in the rearview mirror and concluded that there was indeed, reason to hope.
* * *
Jenetta James is a mother, lawyer, writer, and taker-on of too much. She grew up in Cambridge and read history at Oxford University where she was a scholar and president of the Oxford University History Society. After graduating, she took to the law and now practises full-time as a barrister. Over the years, she has lived in France, Hungary, and Trinidad. Jenetta currently lives in London with her husband and children where she enjoys reading, laughing, and playing with Lego. She is the author of Suddenly Mrs. Darcy and The Elizabeth Papers.
Pemberley by Stage
Natalie Richards
“The distance is nothing when one has a motive.”
Miss Elizabeth to Mr. Bennet, Chapter VII.
CALIFORNIA, 1860
The stagecoach rocked hypnotically as it jostled down the road. Leather straps swayed back and forth, hanging from the ceiling like pendulums. The creak of leather and wood made a sort of soothing music, lulling a body into a state of catatonia, at least until a wheel hit a rock or rut. It had been a long, difficult journey, one I was ready to have come to an end. Thankfully, we were on the last leg between San Jose and San Francisco.
“You will love San Francisco, Darcy. It is the most exciting place, full of opportunity, fascinating people. I am certain we shall do well there.” Bingley had not stopped repeating variations of this theme ever since we left St. Louis nearly a month previously.
His enthusiasm made me smile. “If I did not believe you the first time you said it, I would not have come.” In truth, these words belied a confidence I did not feel. Leaving my familiar, orderly life in Boston for the unknown of the West was not a decision I had made lightly. I glanced at my sister, who somehow managed to fall asleep despite the rough road. Was I mad to be taking a young girl to such a wild place? She is completely innocent of the world’s dangers. Bingley’s sister I worried about less; Louisa always landed on her feet. Why, she spent most of the trip thus far flirting with Mr. Hurst, a railway investor with the Central Pacific Railroad. Caroline, the other Bingley sister, flatly refused to leave and remained in Boston with her aunt.
Despite my misgivings, there was something about the wide open spaces of the West that called to me. Seeing the alien landscape rush past filled me with a sense of excitement and wonder.
“Hold on!”
The stage picked up speed as the driver cracked a whip—and a gunshot split the air.
Georgiana jolted awake. “What was that?”
“A gunshot. It seems we have run into trouble.” I wrapped one arm around her and gripped one of the pendulous leather straps with the other. I looked across the aisle and met Bingley’s eyes. My friend was white as a ghost, Louisa clinging to him in terror. The other passengers, a widow traveling with her elderly father-in-law and young son, ducked down low.
More gunshots followed. It sounded as though several men were shooting at us, and the man riding shotgun with the driver fired back. I heard indistinct shouts, followed by a cry and a thump as the body of the conductor hit the side of the stage on its way to the ground. Louisa screamed and Georgie flinched against me.
Bingley stuck his head out the window then pulled back quickly as a bullet whistled past his head.
“What do you see?”
Bingley’s voice was uncharacteristically grim. “Bandits, at least two on this side. I doubt we can outrun them.” He looked at me with a question in his eyes.
I held Georgiana in a close embrace for a brief instant, as if she was still a child small enough to sit on my lap, before trading places with her on the bench. Her whole body shook, but thank God, she was not screaming or in hysterics.
We could fight but at what risk? As businessmen from Boston, our skill in a gunfight had been untested. “If we cannot outrun them, we will give them what they want. Save the bullets in case they threaten the ladies.” I made sure to meet Bingley and Hurst’s eyes to verify we were in agreement.
Louisa was babbling hysterically. “We are going to die! We will be robbed and ravished and left to the wolves and Indians! I want to go home. Charles, we need to turn around and go home!”
“Miss Bingley, be silent! You are not helping.” Mr. Hurst commanded. “You have my word I will keep you safe.” This, surprisingly, brought an effective end to her cries.
I lifted a corner of the curtain and peered out. “Three on this side.” They were close, close enough I could see the lead man’s green eyes above his blue-and-white-checkered bandana.
A rifle shot rang out from the other side of the stage, and t
he vehicle careened sideways.
“Damn,” Bingley swore. “I think they got the driver.”
The stage left the road as the horses ran wild, spurred on by gunshots.
In an instant, the violence of a collision lifted one side of the stagecoach into the air, slamming the passengers into one another, before crashing down onto its side. The last thing I heard before everything faded into darkness was the screaming of horses.
* * *
I woke to the sound of laughter. My eyes opened slowly, blinking away the blackness as the world slowly came into focus. I lay in a heap of limbs at the bottom of a hole. No, not a hole, that was not right. I was lying on a door—the stage’s door—I realized as I pushed myself up on one elbow. I heard gasping, pain-filled breaths and looked up to meet Bingley’s eyes. My heart stuttered at the ashen cast to my friend’s skin. Louisa knelt beside him, feverishly trying to stop the bleeding from a bullet hole in his leg.
“I am sorry,” Bingley whispered. “I am so sorry. I tried to stop them.”
“Stop—” I startled at a loud thud from outside, followed by a raucous yell.
“Look at these ‘ere fancy underthings. They look about the size to fit that little princess ye got there, boss.”
My blood ran cold. Georgie! Where was Georgie? Searching desperately about the upended stage, I saw the widow and her child huddled together with the old man, whose neck was bent at an unnatural angle. The boy was hiccupping, his face red from screaming. The woman seemed to be in shock.
“You were out, and she was trying to wake you, shaking you, when the door opened . . .”
I realized I was practically sitting on Mr. Hurst, who was bleeding heavily from a gash on his head, but he seemed to be coming around. The only person I could not see was—
An unmistakably feminine scream split the air.
“Georgie!” I gasped.
“He made her gather anything of value we carried in here, threatened to shoot you where you lay if she refused. She took our coins, watches, and guns, then handed them all over. He took them, and Georgie too, as a hostage.” Bingley drew in a sharp breath as Louisa pushed down on the wound harder. “He shot me when I tried to stop him. Said he’d be in touch about a ransom.”
I stood and pulled myself out of the opposite door, ignoring the dizziness threatening to send me to my knees. I had no weapon, no plan but to get to my sister. Peeking over the front wheel, I took in the scene.
Most of the horses looked dead, their bodies broken in the crash. The survivors were roped and tethered to the bandits’ horses. I could see the still form of the driver a few feet away. Our trunks from the roof were unstrapped and opened. The treasures that we had so prudently selected to bring with us to California were strewn about in the dust or looted. Not far from the wheels was a boulder, the likeliest culprit behind our overturning.
Three of the robbers were stuffing sacks while two others remained in the saddle, including the man with the blue-and-white-checkered bandana. Georgiana was seated sideways across the withers. I let out a breath I did not realize I had been holding when I saw her alive and unharmed.
“Ah, little princess, it looks like your brother has decided to join us,” the green-eyed man laughed. “I rather hoped he would.” He ran a gloved hand down her hair.
I clenched my fists. His voice . . . there was something ominously familiar about his voice. “Release my sister. Whatever it is you want, you will have it. You have my word as a gentleman. Simply let her go.”
“The word of Will Darcy is known to be a formidable thing. If I returned her to you, here and now, you would still make good on the ransom? Even if she was no longer in danger?”
“My word is my bond.”
He cocked his head. “I believe you.”
I felt my fists loosen.
“Ten thousand dollars in cash or gold. I will send word as to when and where. Do not worry. I will wait a few weeks so you have plenty of time to gather the money.” His eyes glittered with malicious amusement.
There was no way I intended to leave my sister in this monster’s hands for any length of time, much less weeks. “It will not take me nearly that long. The majority of my funds has already been transferred to San Francisco. I can get them in a day if you leave one of the horses.”
The bandit threw back his head and laughed. “Always the clever one, an answer on the tip of your tongue. Well, I could leave her and you would fetch my money, but I won’t. I like you groveling at my feet.”
“You want me to grovel? You want me on my knees?” I climbed down to stand, mere feet from my sister and the bastard who held her. When I moved, the other bandits all swiveled to aim pistols and rifles at me. But I did not care. I dropped to my knees. “Here I am . . . Wickham.”
“I wondered how long it would take you to realize who I was.” George Wickham pulled down his bandana and grinned. “But . . . I think it will be much more fun to make you suffer, as you made me suffer when you stole my livelihood and good name. Do not worry, so long as you pay the ransom, dear Georgiana will come to no harm, but until then, she shall remain with me.”
“No!”
“Quit fooling around. Let’s take the girl and go!” One of the bandits grumbled. Wickham ignored him, all his attention upon me.
I stared at the man I had long ago called friend. I scarcely recognized the dapper, charming gentleman of six years ago in the hardened criminal before me now. “Your own choices cost you your name and livelihood, not me—and certainly not Georgiana.” Once upon a time, Wickham treated Georgie like a little sister, tugging on her braids and bribing her with treats. Now, he held a gun to her head. “Look at yourself, George. Is this what you are now? Is there nothing left of the boy I grew up with?”
Something like regret flickered in Wickham’s eyes, but it vanished so quickly I thought I must have imagined it. “I am what necessity has made me. We cannot all begin life with the world already in our grasp. Some of us have to bite and claw for what you have always taken for granted.” He began to wheel his horse around. “You will await my instructions.”
“I will not let you take her!” I lunged to my feet, then froze as Wickham pulled back the hammer on his revolver. The horse side-stepped and pranced as Georgiana held perfectly still with the gun’s muzzle pressed into the tender skin of her throat.
“Yes, you will. You have no choice. I have taken it away from you, as you took away mine—when you threw me in prison to rot—amongst the filth of humanity.” Wickham’s eyes were colder and harder than any I had ever seen. “You took my life from me. I will have this in return.” He set off, riding west, picking up speed as the other bandits fell in behind him.
“Georgie!” I cried, chasing after them on foot. One of the bandits fired into the ground near my feet, bringing me to an abrupt halt.
“Will!” Georgiana’s scream echoed as they galloped away, leaving naught but dust in their wake.
* * *
With the remaining daylight, we scavenged for firewood and a water source to set up camp. Louisa managed to snap the widowed Mrs. Reynolds out of her shock and occupy her with caring for Bingley, as well as gently draw the tearful young Pete away from the body of his grandfather, while Hurst and I dug shallow graves for our dead.
I ached to pursue Wickham but without a weapon or a horse . . . Come morning, I would head out on foot in the hopes of reaching a town or the next outpost.
“How is he?” I knelt by Mrs. Reynolds’s side where she sat holding Bingley’s hand.
“Not good,” she said softly. Sarah Reynolds was a handsome woman, or had been once, before the pain and grief of too many losses made her an old woman at twenty-nine. I had learned that her husband died of typhoid only five months ago, along with her two older children, and I had thought to hire her as a housekeeper once we settled in San Francisco. “The bullet is still in his leg. I’ve managed to stop the bleeding, but I know nothing of doctoring.” There was a hint of bitterness to her tone.
> Bingley slipped into a restless sleep, his skin clammy. He murmured over and over, apologizing for Georgiana’s abduction.
But I knew the fault lay solely with me. I had brought Georgie to this godforsaken land. And for what?
When Bingley returned home from his first trip west, he carried tales of wondrous adventures and a city of extraordinary freedom . . . stories that made me think perhaps I could start over, escape from the whispers, and begin anew. Now I could lose my sister forever out of my own selfish dreams.
“Hello to the camp!” called a friendly voice. I leapt to my feet, placing myself between the others and this new threat.
“Who goes there?”
“Simply two weary travelers who spotted your fire. Might we stop and warm ourselves?” Into the light cast by the flame stepped two people, a man and a woman, leading a pair of mustangs. They both wore rifles on their backs, and the man carried revolvers holstered on either side of his belt. The woman wore a faded calico gown; a straw bonnet hung from its strings down her back, leaving her light hair to gleam in the fire’s glow. The young man was slender, his clothes ill-fitting, falling off his body as if they were made for a man twice his size, his flannel shirt buttoned up to his chin. He wore a Stetson pulled low over his brow, leaving his face in shadow.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Elias Bennet, and this is my sister, Jane. We ain’t here to cause trouble. It looks as though you folks have seen enough already.” he said with a husky, Southern accent. “We’ve come a long way, though, and my sister is feelin’ poorly.”
The woman coughed, swaying slightly on her feet. She looked tired and thin and, despite my wariness, I could not turn them away. Besides, we had no weapons, and these two were well armed; if they decided to take whatever they wanted, I was in no position to stop them. “We have no food, but you are welcome to our fire, and there is a stream down there, around the bend.”
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 39