21. Facing the Enemy

CHAPTER 21

Facing the Enemy

I t ought, by all rights, to have been the happiest day of Darcy's life. He was a married man, and while only two weeks ago, he would not have deigned to offer more than a nod to Elizabeth Bennet, he now understood what a gem he would have given up. He was a changed person, and hopefully, a better one for it. She was his. Mrs Darcy. The world should have been glowing with sunshine and music, trumpets and angels singing from each cloud.

Instead, he was terrified.

Rather than drinking a toast with his cousin and friend, enjoying a celebratory wedding breakfast, and riding off with Elizabeth to begin their lives together, he was preparing to face the man who had been a thorn in his side for too many years to count, and who now was quite literally out for his blood. Any dreams of a wonderful wedding night with the woman he loved were put aside. He would be lucky to survive the morning.

But terrified or not, Darcy knew he could betray not the slightest weakness. Wickham might succeed in ending his life, but he would not give the blackguard the satisfaction of seeing him cower. He would face his enemy with stoicism. That alone would be a victory, no matter how hollow.

Richard's mixed regiment of farmers and soldiers met them outside the church. Twenty men were assembled there with Major Hawarden at the front, all armed with muskets or rifles, some in regimentals and others in the everyday garb of the common man, all ready to take on their foe. They had assembled a procession of carts and wagons for their purpose, and within moments of Darcy and Elizabeth leaving the chapel, he found himself on horseback beside his cousin, in preparation to lead their band of makeshift warriors.

He had not even had the chance to kiss his bride.

They moved quickly now, as fast as the horses could draw the carts that followed them. Down the long, snakelike road they travelled, around curves that almost turned back on themselves, through stretches of wood, and past small farms, until they reached the lane leading to the house where Wickham had Jane held captive.

"Are you ready?" Richard asked. There was no need for more. Words were quite inadequate for a moment such as this. All Darcy could do was nod.

He guided his horse onto the lane, and the carts behind him followed. Almost at once, the path widened into a clearing, past which the house, crumbling and decrepit, could be seen down a narrow trail that led through a fallow field.

Darcy gazed into the distance, past the old house. It had been less than half an hour since they left the village. A lifetime and a moment. His entire existence seemed to be focused on this one point. This was the fulcrum upon which his future depended.

Without a word, he pulled the reins and nodded to his cousin.

"We stop here," Richard commanded as he turned around towards his troops. "Are you set, Matthew?"

Hawarden nodded, silent and stern.

"Men?" Richard called louder.

"Aye," came the response, and the miniature army alit from their wagons to approach the house.

The noise they made was remarkable, sounding for everything like a motley crew of untrained rustics. They yelled and hooted, some singing and others issuing bizarre whoops and yodels. It was a most unusual scene, and a far cry from the silent approach Darcy would have anticipated from seasoned officers like his cousin and his assistant.

As expected, within seconds, the door to the house swung open and a shape emerged. It looked, at first, like a strange creature with two heads and an unnatural number of legs, but quickly resolved into a sight that left Will horrified. The front of the shape was Jane Bennet, her hands bound before her, a knife held to her throat. The knife was held by George Wickham, standing behind her, with black thunder written on his once-handsome features. This was a man who had nothing left to lose, and who would stop at nothing.

At once, Darcy's fears for himself dissolved into a fear for Jane. He had to get her out of Wickham's lethal embrace, and he had to do it now.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward, face-to-face at last with his enemy.

"Well, well, well," Wickham taunted from behind the trembling woman. "Whatever brings you here, Darcy? I wondered when I'd see you. Have trouble finding me, did you? I didn't think it would take this long."

Darcy gathered his wits.

"Let her go. What sort of depraved ghoul holds an innocent woman hostage like this? I expected better, even of you." His voice carried through the din still emanating from the rag-tag army behind him. "Let her go now!"

"You're a fool, Darcy. You should have known there'd be no escape. You asked for this. Now watch her die!"

Wickham began to wave his knife, and Jane began to crumple. Only his other hand, snaking around her and pinning her to him, kept her upright.

"Let her go. She's not involved in this. It is me you want, not her."

"Offering yourself as a sacrifice to secure this piece of skirt's safety? How noble of you. Maybe I don't want to let her go. Maybe I'm more interested in what she can offer me. She's far more enticing than you are."

"Enough, Wickham!" Richard bellowed and made a sideways gesture with one arm. Behind him, the men stopped making their noise. "Let Miss Bennet go free. We can talk like sensible men."

Wickham laughed, a chilling sound in the bright morning sunlight. "It's too late for sense. I want what I want, and if I'm not given it, I'll just take it."

"Be reasonable, George. I am offering myself to you. That is your goal, is it not? You wanted revenge? Well, take your revenge. Myself for the lady. You must know that if you harm her, you will not survive a minute." Behind him, Will could hear the assembled regiment shift, raising their weapons at some command he had not seen.

Wickham's eyes narrowed. He scanned the men once more and then directed a malevolent glare at Will.

"Very well. That is, after all, why we are all here. I am not so very unreasonable. You for the chit. But I have my demands."

Somewhere in the ranks, a man started singing. That was Hawarden's voice, steady and strong. It began as a low thread, almost a hum, and grew louder and louder as the others joined him, until the entire assembled crew were singing in full voice. It was not a battle anthem or a hymn, but, incongruously, a dance tune. The men were a strange sort of army, but they could sing very well. It appeared there was more than just rumour to the tradition of fine Welsh voices. Wickham's scowl turned to a frown of confusion.

"What nonsense is this? Are we to have a party before I kill you? Is someone ready to serve tea and cakes? Shall we waltz?" Wickham stepped forward, pushing Jane before him, the knife beginning to wave through the air before pointing, once more, at her ivory throat.

The singing grew louder still, and some of the men began banging their weapons together, creating even more noise and confusion. In the midst of the din, Jane began to scream, and it seemed, for a moment, that all chaos was about to break loose.

"Be quiet!" Wickham screamed. "You do this exactly according to my orders, or the chit dies. Understood?"

The noise quietened down.

"First," Wickham yelled, "I want Darcy. There will be no argument. I want him, and the fastest cart you have. Is there a curricle or a gig? What sort of back-woods place is this? That one, in the back." He gestured with his head, keeping the knife at Jane's throat. "Get it ready for me. Not too close. Good."

At Richard's nod, two men began to do exactly that.

"Now," Wickham continued, "This is what's going to happen. The first thing that everyone will do is put down your weapons. There, on the other side of those bushes, in the field. Unload them all. I want all your hands empty."

"Very well, men." Richard agreed, and the men did as requested.

"No surprises!" Wickham yelled.

"As you see, George, every man here is unarmed."

Out of the corner of his eye, Darcy saw the men hold their arms before them, hands clear and empty; most of his attention, however, was still on the sight before him.

"Good. Now, step back, away from the weapons. Further. Another step." Wickham's voice was slightly less wary. "Next, you will bring the cart here, into the clearing. Then secure Darcy's hands. Nice and tight. When he's close enough, and you've all stepped away, I'll let the girl go."

Darcy swallowed and gave a nod that he hoped was more confident than he felt. His heart was racing, and the world seemed to waver before him.

"Why go through this pretence, George?" Richard called out. "You know you will not make it a dozen yards before you are stopped. Just let Miss Bennet free and give yourself up. I might arrange for a lenient judge."

"Never!" Wickham shouted back. "Darcy will be my ticket out. I might decide to let him live, after I've had my fun with him. But if you raise one hand against me, I'll kill him. Is that the cart? Fine. Now bind his hands. Let me see."

"Are you certain?" Richard whispered in Darcy's ear. "We can try…"

"No. He will harm her, just to spite me. This is the only way. I am ready."

He held his hands out before him, waiting for someone to find and bring a rope.

Was this what a calf felt like, being bound and trussed before the slaughter? Darcy thought he might never eat meat again. He was to be offered as a sacrifice, and unlike the biblical Isaac at the thorn bush, there would be no convenient ram to take his place. Wickham would see justice; of that, there was no doubt. But would he, Darcy, live to see it? The rope was rough against his wrists, not as tight as it might be, but no easy matter to twist free from.

"Now to the cart. Bring another rope. Good. Get in, but keep his hands bound, and tie his feet down. I won't have him running once I've let the girl go."

This was it. Darcy began the march to the scaffold, head held high. He would not let Wickham see him so much as blink. He scrambled into the cart, which was several yards from the doorway, positioning himself as far away from his odious foe as possible.

"I am waiting, George," Richard stated in a calm voice. "Let Miss Bennet go. I shall step back five paces."

In a moment, it was done. Wickham dropped his blade and pushed Jane away from him. She staggered and looked about to swoon, but she righted herself and ran. Richard stepped forward and caught her in his arms, holding her against him. Darcy could see her sobbing into his chest.

"Where is Lizzy? My father?" They were close enough that Darcy could hear their conversation.

"Your father is waiting around the corner in a carriage," Richard murmured to her. "Mr Bingley was injured and rests at the lodge, and Elizabeth is quite safe. She reminds you of the song you were singing."

"The song?" Will heard confusion in Jane's voice. Then, with some clarity, she repeated, "Yes, the song."

"Sing it to me," Darcy called out. "Miss Bennet, sing me that melody we heard last night. It will bolster my spirits and remind me of happier times. You are free, and I shall rejoice in that. Sing me that melody."

"Have you gone mad? You are all mad!" Wickham shouted. "You want a song? You may sing all you wish once we are gone from here, but only a funeral march will do for Darcy. Now, let us be gone. I shall untie your hands and you will drive the carriage. My pistol will keep you on the right road, I dare say." He pulled a large weapon from some pocket. "These things are quite inaccurate, but at the distance of a few inches, I doubt that will be a problem. You will take me where I wish to go, and these good men will let us through."

It was pandemonium. Jane was sobbing, Hawarden was singing, the makeshift army was humming and clapping their hands, Richard was shouting, and Wickham began his approach. He began to raise his hand holding the pistol to aim at Darcy and?—

A whistle, a scream, and the sound of an explosion rent the air. And then, suddenly, all was silent.