Chapter 7

Seven

Despite the beauty of the chilly November afternoon, George Wickham was restless. The other officers, even Denny, were jealous of him, leaving him to his own devices more and more often. Chafing at the inaction and lack of opportunities in Meryton and its surrounds, he found few marks available for a man of his talents—and now that Darcy was in the vicinity, he must keep his head lower than ever. The few unsatisfying flirtations he had managed had done nothing to satiate his appetites, and there were far more concerned mamas and papas lurking round every corner than available females willing to risk reputation for a bit of sport.

Speaking of which, one of the noisiest of those mothers was currently marching up the street, looking as militant as any soldier in the regiment. Had Napoleon himself dared pop up before her, she would have obliterated him with one strike of her swinging reticule.

"Mrs Bennet," he called in his most charming voice. "How lovely to see you on a fine November's day. Meryton is quite dull today, as everyone exhausted themselves last evening. Do not tell me that you failed to dance until dawn? If only I had been able to attend, I should have made certain you were never lacking a partner."

Her expression lost a degree of chill, as he had known it would.

"If only you had been there!" Mrs Bennet cried. "You might have put that awful Mr Darcy in his place! There is no one to stop him now!"

At that moment, a breathless, heavyset young man caught up to her—Mr Collins, Wickham remembered. A vicar now, but the future heir of Longbourn. Envy twisted in his malevolent soul.

"Dear, dear! Stop Darcy from doing what, good madam?" Wickham asked.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Collins beat her to it.

"From stealing my bride," he said sourly. "Mr Darcy has eloped with the faithless, fickle Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

Wickham's brows rose as high as they could go.

Mrs Bennet gave Collins a quelling stare. "We are on our way to my brother Philips," she explained. "He must lend us his carriage. We shall follow the couple and ensure that the nuptials are performed. My Lizzy is entirely blameless in this matter, and if Mr Darcy believes he can make away with my daughter without repercussion, I will give him something else to think about!"

Wickham nearly burst into laughter—as if this foolish pair could possibly exert any influence over Darcy! The man could not be bought nor bullied into doing anything he did not wish. I should know.

There must be more to this supposed ‘elopement' than these two were admitting. Darcy would never approve of an elopement of any kind, not for any reason—Wickham also knew that all too well.

For that matter, neither could he envision Miss Elizabeth Bennet indulging in any kind of improper behaviour. If she were the sort, I would certainly have already indulged with her!

Nevertheless, Darcy's honour often could be used against him, as had been proved in times past. Miss Elizabeth and Darcy were caught up in something , and Darcy was unlikely to want her hurt. Oh, they could never force him to a marriage he did not wish—no one could, else he would already be wed to the de Bourgh chit.

No, whatever had happened between Darcy and Miss Elizabeth, Darcy would expect to use his wealth and influence to remove all stain. Wickham did not pretend that Darcy could not succeed. However, the more witnesses there were to this supposed infraction of society's rules, the costlier it would be. If Mrs Bennet and Collins were the only ones who knew of it, Darcy could escape practically unscathed. If, however, someone whom Darcy could not trust to keep his mouth shut—at least, not without significant incentive—were to witness him in a potentially scandalous situation, why, Wickham could almost guarantee he would pay. And pay. And pay.

"I will escort you," he offered handsomely. "I know just how to find him in town. I was practically raised with him, you know."

It was dark when Elizabeth wakened, still a trifle disoriented, but feeling much more herself. The same servant, again, was dozing in the chair, and again wakened instantly when she—carefully this time—sat up.

"You're awake!"

"Good evening, Molly," she said. "You have had a very dull day of it, I am afraid."

"It's happy I am to have a dull one, every now and again," the girl said kindly. "And your husband's been paying me well to have it. Is ye hungry?"

Elizabeth thought about this. "You know, I think I am. Perhaps something more substantial than broth? I truly feel much better."

Molly seemed uncertain about whether such a meal would be allowed, but obediently left to ask ‘himself'—or so Elizabeth assumed.

Cautiously she stood, noting with distaste that her frock—never one of her favourites—was wrinkled beyond belief. In her stocking feet, she took several experimental steps around the small room, pleased to find that she was now quite steady. Molly returned with a tray—soup again, but a much heartier version. Once the meal was consumed, Elizabeth felt almost her usual self.

Molly carried out the empty dishes, promising to give assurances to ‘himself' that she was really quite restored.

With the return of her health, Elizabeth's mind fastened again on the problem at hand, and the many questions begging to be answered. What kind of character has Mr Darcy? Why did he rescue me from Mama's designs? If he is honourable enough to the point of marrying me in the process of saving me from Mr Collins, why did he treat Mr Wickham so abominably? Why did he marry me?

Besides all that, there were so many important details absent from her splintered memories. Who even had married them? Mr Palmer? Her mind was fuzzy on the order of things, but she remembered being at Longbourn with Mama and Mr Collins and then riding in a carriage. There had been a licence, she somehow recalled, although she could not remember any details about why she knew this. Why could she not remember a ceremony, or even the foggiest notion of a church? There was a memory of a stranger, an older man, offering her a peppermint. Was he a vicar?

At that moment, she spied her half-boots resting beside the hearth.

These were questions only Mr Darcy could answer, and she was no child, afraid of treading the stairs of a respectable establishment in search of him. He might not be in a private parlour, or even the tavern proper. If that were the case, however, someone could fetch him from his room, could they not? She donned her shoes.

A glance in the mirror, unfortunately, told her that her hair was a wild mess, her dark curls having taken on a life of their own—and there was no brush available to tame it. It would be best to wait for Molly, and ask her to obtain an audience with her benefactor. My husband. My husband? It seems impossible.

She waited. And waited. The girl did not return.

Her impatience with the entire situation grew to unbearable proportions. Finally, she freshened herself as best she could with the bowl and pitcher of water provided, and quickly left the warmth and quiet of the small chamber before she could change her mind.

"Mr Darcy!" cried a snivelling voice. "Where is my bride?"

Darcy sighed. He knew he ought to have waited for a private parlour to empty, but in his relief at hearing of Elizabeth's apparent recovery, he had opted to forego one in favour of immediate fortification. He had been nearly trembling with relief and elation at the news of her improvement. Reluctantly, he turned to face his accuser.

"She never was your bride, idiot," he said—not bothering with politeness.

A second person rounded on him. Wonderful. A duet of dunderheads. Just what Elizabeth does not need—a public spectacle.

"What have you done with my daughter?" Mrs Bennet shrieked.

"I do not know what you are talking about."

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked as though she might begin beating him with her reticule. Every person in the inn—including Molly, he abruptly noticed, who was supposed to be waiting on Elizabeth—turned to stare at them.

"Tell me now or I shall search every room in the place!" she screeched.

He would not allow it—and nor, he suspected, would the innkeeper, whose bushy brows were already drawn together in a frown. This was a respectable inn, and the attention they were drawing was anything but.

"Listen to me," he growled in the low tones of one accustomed to deference, his eyes narrowed in wrathful command. "If either of you have a brain in your head, you will turn round immediately, and walk out that door. There is no one here. Everyone is safe. Everything you desire shall be returned to you with no harm done, but only if you quietly leave. Do it. Now !"

The last word was uttered with such vehemence that the two before him quailed, slumping accordingly into a compliant obedience. In fact, everyone in the entire room seemed to find something or someone else to look at.

That is right. Nothing to see here . As long as they departed without a fuss, there was unlikely to be any scandal. He could maintain Elizabeth's choices for her, as he was honour bound to do, and which he knew she would prefer. His own preferences mattered little in comparison.

But into that sudden quiet, a soft voice emerged. "Mr Darcy, I would speak with you, please." He swivelled to meet it. Elizabeth—lovelier than he had ever before seen, pink-cheeked, her long hair tumbling and curling over her slim shoulders and a crumpled dress, looking for all the world as if she had just emerged from his bed after a long day of play—stood at the inn's stairwell.

"Mama? Mr Collins?" she questioned, her confusion obvious when they, too, turned to look at her.

And then the awful voice, the voice he hated most in all the world, the voice of one he had wished beyond reason that he would never have to hear again, called out loudly, derision in every word.

"Well, well, well, Darcy. How fortunate that I spotted your carriage. Methinks the cat has been caught cavorting with the canary, with a few sweet feathers still sticking to his lips."

Elizabeth was not stupid. She heard and understood Mr Wickham's insinuation; she supposed he might be excused for some misinterpretation of the circumstances, but she did not appreciate his blatantly coarse—and loudly stated—assumptions.

Darcy shot to his feet, glaring, anger pouring from him; he was a good half a head taller than Mr Wickham, who reddened, but did not move away. Mrs Bennet glanced at the two men warily, as if she had just grasped that the situation might be a bit beyond her touch. Mr Collins took an actual step backwards.

"Shut. Your. Mouth," Darcy ordered, his voice low and wrathful.

"Oh, happily," Mr Wickham said smoothly, never even glancing at Elizabeth. "For a price."

Elizabeth gaped. Was this man—whom she had believed a friend, at least, if not a suitor—threatening extortion ? What if she had been abducted? What if she had needed rescue? Apparently, all she could expect from this…this villain, was more trouble.

Darcy did not appear surprised at Mr Wickham's coercion.

"You may toss your lies and allegations at me all day long. I could not care less for the accusations of a worm. One note of caution however: say one more word which implicates or alludes to anyone else of anything except the highest standards of comportment, and you shall be very sorry indeed."

Darcy had not raised his voice—although with the patrons all so silent, he could be easily heard. Nevertheless, and despite the softness of his tone, Mr Collins took another step back. Mr Wickham, however, managed a laugh—although she was certain she heard the tension in it and saw the shifting of his feet, as if he were tempted to bolt.

"Who am I to accuse you, my good man? I see nothing wrong with a bit of bed sport with a willing female—and all females are willing at heart, are they not? If you have finally shaken a few feathers from her stingy little tail, 'tis all well and good. I require only a few pounds to forget what I witnessed here."

Darcy moved so quickly, Mr Wickham never saw the punch coming. One moment, the vile man was standing, taunting—the next he was on the floor, blood dripping from his nose, his face a wreck of damaged cartilage. He scrambled to his knees, attempting to rise, spewing curses—but Elizabeth had had enough.

"You contemptible vermin!" she hissed, going at once to Darcy's side. "This is my husband whom you accuse. You are unworthy to be standing in the same room with him! It is fortunate indeed that he began with a warning knock—a little tap, really, and only a small portion of the anger and disgust he rightly feels for you."

Mr Wickham sat back down on the floor, looking at her and then at Darcy in astonished disbelief. She heartily wished she had the strength to punch him herself.

"B-but…you cannot be married to her !" Mr Collins cried. "You are betrothed to Miss Anne de Bourgh!"

Darcy gave Mr Collins a look such as Elizabeth never hoped to receive, taking a threatening step towards him. He scurried from the room.

Darcy turned to her then, his expression immediately gentling. She held out her hand and he took it, tucking it in the crook of his arm, his dark eyes fathomless.

She glanced at her mother, who appeared strangely satisfied. "How could you, Mama? How could you? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I hope you are—but regardless of whether you feel any guilt or regret, I will never agree to receive you after the trouble you have caused my husband. You may tell my papa…" Here, her breath hitched.

Darcy would be well within his rights to cut her off from all her family, and certainly to distrust them—they had forced his unwilling hand. Perhaps in time, she could convince him of the goodness of the Gardiners; she hoped he was not unreasonable. But she would not blame him if it required some years—indeed, she was very fortunate he did not hate her along with them. "Tell Papa to quit taking that awful tonic, and he will likely be well in no time at all. And Jane…"

She could not manage a message for Jane. She would burst into tears and might never stop crying if she thought too much of her sister. "I will write to her," she said. She looked up at…at her husband. "Shall we?" she asked.

He nodded soberly.

Together, arm in arm, they walked from the room.