“Now, Henry, I am telling you, with this money you can—”
Henry shot Wickham, straight in the gut. The sudden sound echoed through the camp like rolling thunder. Wickham looked down, an expression of surprise turning to resignation as he fell backwards.
“Henry, ye can’t . . . ” Frank sputtered. “Ye just . . . Why did ye . . . ?”
“Because I never liked the bastard. Always lording it over us like he was better, like he was so special. He was an outlaw, same as us. I’m in charge now, and I say we kill these two, dump them in the mine, track down the little ladies, and sell them to the highest bidder. Guaran-damn-teed money, and no lawmen on our trail.” He pointed the pistol at me once more.
“No!” Lizzy, who was frozen in shock after the gunshot, went wild in his arms, kicking and biting, slamming her head back against his chest.
His shot went wild, and with a vicious curse, he slammed the smoking barrel against her head. She crumpled to the ground in a limp heap. “Damn, little devil,” he muttered, then realized too late he just dropped his shield. His pistol came up, but I was already firing.
I fired once, twice, three times. The first missed by several feet, the second winged Henry’s shoulder, throwing off his shot, and the third struck his throat. It was a hideous death but quick.
I turned to Frank. “Drop your weapon.” He did. “Now tie your brother’s feet.” He complied, despite John’s angry grumbles. As soon as he finished, I knocked Frank out with one swift blow, binding him hastily, my hands shaking. I rushed to Lizzy’s side, wincing at the dark mark on her temple, a combination of bruise and burn. “Lizzy!”
A long, breathless moment later, her eyelids fluttered and opened wide. “Will! Did we make it?” She frowned, touching her head carefully. “I do not think my head would hurt so much if I was dead, so I think we made it.”
“Yes, love, we made it.” I laughed and pulled her close. “I do not know how it happened, how any of this happened, but you have become quite dear to me. I do not know what I would have done had you been seriously harmed.”
Smiling, she traced my lips with her finger. “Careful, you might really convince me I have truly gone to Heaven.”
“Lizzy? Lizzy Bennet, is it you?” Wickham’s pained whisper interrupted us.
Much to my disappointment, Lizzy scrambled out of my lap. “Wickham? I thought you were dead.”
“I think I am . . . or almost, at least. It is you, isn’t it? I did not recognize you in that getup. And your hair!” He paused. “On second thought, I like the hair.” His voice was paper thin, his blood pumping into the dirt with every beat of his heart, and still he was an incorrigible flirt.
I looked down at my former friend and felt nothing but pity. “You did not kill the driver or the shotgun rider, did you?” When it came down to it, I did not think Wickham would have been able to kill me. It simply was not in him.
“No. Only wanted the money . . . and to make you sweat a little.” He coughed. “I just wanted what you owed me.”
Lizzy looked up from examining his wound and shook her head.
“I owed you nothing, George. Your choices were your own.”
Wickham laughed, gasping for breath. “Perhaps it was good you came when you did. I did not like the way Henry was looking at Georgie. I never would have hurt her; you have to tell her. Please . . .”
It was the closest Wickham would come to an apology, and I would take it for what it was. “I will tell her.”
“You and Lizzy Bennet, hmm? Never in a thousand years—”
“Did you really marry Lydia? Legally?” Lizzy asked.
“Yes, for the babe. I wanted my kid to have my name. Put it down to an unexpected remnant of conscience.”
“Damn it, George, why? Why did you do this?”
“What else was there? I had nothing. You had everything.”
We stayed with him until he took his last breath, then carried his body and Henry’s into Wickham’s house. “We can return and bury them in the morning,” Lizzy murmured.
I nodded, wondering if everything would sink in by then. I killed a man—and did not regret it. I watched a man die and only regretted the waste of potential, only grieved the man Wickham could have been. None of it felt real. Then Lizzy took my hand in a grip so tight my bones ground together. That was real. She was real, which meant the rest of it was too.
We locked the gang in a shed, grumbling behind their gags. No doubt someone in Velvet would be willing to take them to San Jose and collect the bounty on their heads.
I was surprised to see Collie waiting for us in the trees. “I sent Lydia with Collie.”
“I met her on the way back up after I found your sister a hiding place. When I explained to Georgiana what was going on, she threatened to leap right off the horse! To be perfectly honest, I did not need much persuading. When I saw Lydia, I knew you had done something foolish, so we switched horses and I sent her to Georgiana. Then I came the rest of the way at a dead run.”
“You could have been killed!” I pulled myself up behind her, relishing the sensation of her in my arms, the knowledge she was alive despite the terrible risks she took.
“You could have gotten yourself shot!” she retorted.
“I suppose we are well-suited, then.”
She melted against me. “I guess we are.”
SAN FRANCISCO, 1861
“Your young man is here to take you riding,” Mrs. Gardiner announced when Lizzy entered her aunt’s parlor. I smiled, drinking in the sight of her as if I had not seen her in months rather than a mere two days.
It turned out the Gardiners did quite well for themselves since Lizzy’s last visit. They owned a fine, new house in a respectable area, if not a fashionable one, and were delighted to take in their nieces. If they were also delighted one of them planned to marry and leave after only a few short months, they did not say as much. Bingley was not on his feet a full day before he came to call on Jane, and they planned to marry on the first of February.
Lydia was also doing quite well. She reinvented her past, portraying her late husband as a heroic army officer who perished in performance of his duties. The story grew more tragic and dramatic with every telling, making her a great favorite amongst the other young ladies her age. Her child was due in seven weeks, and already she crooned and murmured to the babe with surprising sweetness. She may not turn out to be the most conventional of mothers, but she would be an undeniably loving one.
I led Lizzy outside where Collie and my new horse, a black gelding named Augustine—because someone needed to appear dignified—waited, already saddled.
“Where are we going?” Lizzy asked as she arranged her split skirts. The irritation she displayed as she dealt with the heavy fabric made me smile. My lady had become accustomed to the freedom of men’s clothing and was not happy returning to female fashions.
“If I told you, it would not be a surprise.”
We rode out of the city, heading south until cobblestones gave way to dirt roads, then dirt roads gave way to green, rolling hills. We continued for nearly an hour, not following any path but the one in my mind. “Here we are,” I said at last, dismounting and assisting her down.
Lizzy looked about, curious. “And where is here?” We stood in a wide valley between gentle slopes dotted with trees. The scent of the ocean filled the air, but it was just out of sight, the valley sheltered from the fierce Pacific winds.
“Imagine a house, right there”—I pointed—“with stables, just over there.”
She stared at me, eyes wide. “This is yours?”
“I was thinking perhaps it could be ours—convenient to the city for my work, yet far enough away for you to keep horses—if you like it.” I took her hand. It was not as rough as when I first met her but still strong and capable.
Her breath hitched as I caressed the top of her hand with my thumb. “What are you saying, Will?”
I knelt. “I am saying I love you, Elizabeth Bennet. From the f
irst moment of my acquaintance with you, I was impressed by your courage, your wit, and your selfless concern for the safety of others, even when it placed you in considerable peril. Since then, my feelings for you have only grown, from admiration to the most ardent affection. I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the only woman in the world whom I could ever marry. I would be honored if you would consent to being my wife.”
I nearly fell backwards when she threw herself into my arms. “Yes,” she whispered into my ear. “I love you, Will, so much I can scarcely bear it. I never dreamed anyone could be as happy as I am now.” Her breath was warm against my neck as we sat on the damp earth, simply holding each other close. I could have stayed there forever, but after a time she pulled back, smiling at me through tears.
I produced a handkerchief and gently wiped them away. “You have not yet told me what you think of this valley.”
Looking it over, her brow furrowed in thought. She studied every detail until I convinced myself she hated it. “I think a place this beautiful ought to have a name,” she said at last.
I laughed, relieved, as I drew her to her feet. “So long as you do not name it something so ignoble as Collie.”
I kissed her, a pleasure I felt compelled to enjoy with the greatest frequency possible.
Laughing, she looked up at me, and the sight of her took my breath away. “I cannot imagine a place more beautifully situated. No matter what it is called, it will be home.” I will always remember her in that moment . . . her curls peeking out under her new hat, ruffled by the wind . . . the cinnamon freckles on her sun-kissed face . . . an expression of heartfelt delight shining from eyes I could gaze into forever. Never had I felt like I had come home.
“Pemberley,” I said. The name felt right.
“Pemberley? What is Pemberley?”
“It is the place my family came from, before they sailed to America.”
“Why do you think it is a good name for our valley?”
I tried to think of a way to put my thoughts into words without sounding like a besotted fool, and failed. “They traveled a fair distance—just as we have—to unfamiliar lands. They could do this because they knew home was not a place but people . . . the people you love. This”—I waved a hand at the valley—“is just a place. We could travel anywhere, live any place, and so long as you are by my side, I am home.”
Natalie Richards is a writer, blogger, and singer. She started her book review blog, Songs & Stories, in late 2010 after falling in love with Jane Austen fanfiction. Her writing can also be found on Figment, the Darcy & Lizzy Forum, TeenInk Magazine, and in the Austenesque anthologies Sun-kissed: Effusions of Summer and Then Comes Winter. She resides with her family in the Oregon countryside and currently works as a waitress and babysitter.
Darcy Strikes Out
Sophia Rose
“By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”
Mr. Darcy to Miss Elizabeth, Chapter LVIII.
And it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game.”
The organist played the final fanfare, and the dreaded song was over. Seattle fans, probably feeling all kinds of goodwill, were busy assuming their seats. Darcy loved the song as a youngster. It was part of baseball tradition. Lately, it left a sour taste in his mouth and drew his thoughts back to an evening in July when a beautiful woman scornfully ticked off her long, graceful fingers—the same fingers he had dreamt of holding in his own—the three strikes she held against him. Her words dug deep—especially since one of those strikes might have some merit. However, the others were particularly harsh because they were false. Hearing the woman who he thought far outshone all others, who he thought bright and witty, and who he thought understood him, mistake his character . . . yeah, that still hurt. People got him wrong all the time, but Darcy imagined the exceptional and lovely Liz Bennet to be different. Nearly three months later and he was still not over her spectacular rejection.
* * *
Several thrilling minutes after the seventh inning stretch, the game was now tied 3-3 in the ninth, as Darcy took his place in the warm-up circle. His best friend, Richie Fitzwilliam, current batter and most powerful hitter on the New York Lancers ball club readied for his first pitch. Darcy stretched, pulling his arms up and back behind him, as he analyzed the pitcher he was to face; that is, if Fitzwilliam got on base safely. Cummins was a decent relief pitcher and had a hundred-mile-an-hour-fastball in his arsenal. Darcy had batted against the young rookie before during the regular season, but this was October, and the Lancers were in the play-offs.
Fitzwilliam got a piece of the ball and it fouled back toward Darcy, causing him to duck away. Fitzwilliam smirked at Darcy’s ungainly movements trying to avoid the ball. Darcy drilled him with a “glad I could amuse you” glare and Fitzwilliam grinned even wider as his eyes took in the dirt and grass stains on Darcy’s jersey and pants.
Earlier in the game, a routine fly ball was hit in his direction. Usually Darcy could be counted on to catch it. Instead, he was distracted and was forced to dive to make the catch. With the exception of his rookie year, he had never been this unfocused. For the first time, Darcy had struck out with a woman—and reminders still creeped in at the most inconvenient moments. Involuntarily, his thoughts drifted again to that evening three months ago.
The luxurious hotel restaurant was bustling with people enjoying some downtime after the final events of the Major League Baseball All-Star game in San Diego and before they needed to get on planes to head home.
Darcy smoothed down his tie and checked the wall mirror nearby. He knew his tall, athletic frame looked good in his tailored suit, and he ran his hand through his dark, wavy hair. A serious face and piercing blue eyes met his gaze. Darcy tried to temper his expression. He had heard often enough from others that he could be intimidating. And that was not what he wanted tonight. Friendly. Confident. Desirable. A guy with good game. He wanted to impress this gorgeous, talented woman—a dream woman worth pleasing.
Deep breath. Stepping inside the restaurant, he looked for a certain familiar figure. Ah! There she was—near the bar at a tall table by herself. She had shed her professional look for something softer, sexier. Her curly brown hair was released from her usual messy bun, and she was dressed in a blue summer dress. Her long, graceful neck was bent over her tablet, as she seemed to ignore the room around her.
Darcy had little doubt of his success with Liz Bennet. Over several encounters, she had teased and debated with him, resulting in a flattering profile piece for the sports page of the NYC Courier. During their most recent interview, he had even flirted, making her blush from her ears to the rise of her chest.
Unlike some, Liz respected the game and was a professional. She accurately analyzed teams and players while bringing an interesting story to her readers. No wild speculation for shock value, just good journalism. He respected and liked her, and it seemed from the moment he met her, she was all he thought about off the field.
She noticed his approach and raised a questioning brow to him.
“May I join you?”
Liz swept her hand in silent invitation to the open chair at her table.
A cocktail waitress arrived with a menu. He ordered a glass of wine and looked to her.
“No, I’m good. Thanks.” She stared at him, waiting.
“Uh, this is nice”—he gestured at the room around them. “You look nice, too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of a suit.”
Liz sipped her wine. “Thanks.”
He had discomfited her and thought that was cute—and he told her so. Before he could ask her out on a real date, a middle-aged couple stopped by the table and asked for an autograph. “Sure,” he had said automatically, as the woman scrambled for a pen and anything to write on. With no little impatience, he scribbled his initials on the napkin and handed it back to
the woman. Once again alone, he leaned back, studying the beautiful woman before him.
She was sophisticated and likely accustomed to controlling the conversation in her interviews. Darcy speculated she would welcome the chance to know him off the field. After all, during an earlier interview, when he had remarked that some of her questions were too private, she said, “I’m merely trying to make out who you are, Darcy. I hear such contradictions about you.” Yet that had made him nervous enough not to have a witty reply.
But on this occasion, she crossed her arms over her bosom and sat back, listening to him explain his reservations about dating a sports reporter, followed by his efforts to determine that she was more than the usual grubbing type out for a sensational story. Then, he jokingly added, “You know we would be good together.”
She huffed out a breath that moved the loose wisps of hair on her forehead and mouthed, “Wow.”
Her fine eyes never wavered from his nor did she raise her voice, and yet Liz shredded his heart, leaving his ego on the floor in tatters. She made it abundantly clear: one, she could not stand him for supposedly ruining ex-fellow teammate Wickham’s ball career; two, breaking up her sister and his old college roommate; and three, being a pretentious prat who had a disgusting way of managing his celebrity. Those in the industry described her as articulate, sharp, and one of this generation’s most promising journalistic wordsmiths. Her words rang through his mind. “Your arrogance and conceit are monumentally egotistical. You are the last guy on the planet with whom I would ever—ever—go out with.” Darcy couldn’t argue that assessment. He was too dumbstruck with rising fury and a stab of disappointment to do more than watch her stand up and walk away.
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 43