9. The Search Begins

CHAPTER 9

The Search Begins

J ane Bennet could not begin to count the number of times she had walked the hallways of Longbourn or the perimeter of the gardens. Waiting was agony; not knowing what had become of her dear sister was worse. Two days… it had been two days. She longed to leap onto the fastest horse they had to go in search of Elizabeth… but where? Where could she go that the riders from the posting inn had not? Being idle was never Jane's choice, and now, when so much action was needed, it was akin to torture.

And Elizabeth was out there, somewhere, possibly in the direst of circumstances, needing help! She had not returned the day after her disappearance, as she had said she would do, which meant that something had gone terribly amiss. Where was Lizzy? What could she, Jane, do to find her? Not knowing, not being able to do anything, was the worst agony she could imagine. Pain stabbed through Jane's hands, and she released the clenched fists that had driven her fingernails into her palms. She took a shuddering breath and set out to pace the garden once more.

Furthermore, where was Mr Bingley? He had promised to return the previous evening, but there had been no word from him at all. He had seemed sincere in his offer to be of service, but perhaps, like with so many frivolous young men, the intention had died the moment he was out of sight of the house. She must have imagined the depth of feeling in his large brown eyes as he proclaimed his shock at events and his intentions of doing what he could to be of service. As he'd looked at her in a way that, even under the duress of her sister's misadventures, Jane had sensed was beyond mere neighbourliness.

Indeed, her own heart had given a skip at the sight of his open, friendly face and the attentions he had given her. Or, rather, that he had appeared to give her. For after his departure, there was nothing left but the memory of an affable smile and the uncomfortable notion that she really ought not to have been drawn into his gaze when poor Elizabeth was out there…somewhere. Somewhere unknown and almost certainly in peril. She chastised herself for even thinking of Mr Bingley when all her thoughts ought to be focused on dear Lizzy.

No, she had been imagining things, her fancies caught up in the horror of the day and the shock of the moment. It was all nothing.

The garden revealed no secrets, and in time, Jane's anxious steps took her into the family's back parlour for the twentieth time that day. She glared at the clock on the mantel, daring it to chime another hour, which would bring Lizzy closer to returning home, but it stubbornly refused and insisted on still reading half-past ten o'clock in the morning. Where, oh where, was Mr Bingley?

Providence heard her silent plea and, as she passed the window, a flash of movement caught her eye. It was a grand carriage, first turning from the lane onto the drive, and then quickly approaching the house. The matched team came to a stop by the main entrance, and two men emerged. One was Mr Bingley—he had kept his word, after all, thank the heavens— and the other was a man Jane had never seen before. She could not discern his exact features from this distance, but he carried himself like somebody rather important, and curiosity widened her eyes.

Her mother, still in a state of great nervous agitation, lay half-strewn across the chaise, a cup of tea neglected at her side. Beside her, Kitty fidgeted with some needlework, while Mary was attempting to read from some edifying volume.

"A carriage, Mama! It is Mr Bingley, returned, and with another." Kitty's voice broke the stifling air. In a moment, the room was awash in a flurry of activity, preparing for the imminent arrival of these two guests.

Mrs Hill led them into the parlour, with Jane's father on their heels. Introductions were made at once.

The stranger stood tall and proud, and bowed smartly. His garb was mufti, but his bearing all military, and when he was announced to be Colonel Fitzwilliam, nobody was astonished.

The colonel was most gentlemanlike and, if not quite handsome, very appealing. His manners were everything that a man's should be, and he greeted Jane's mother as if she were a countess, immediately endearing himself to that lady as a new favourite. He bowed individually to each sister as she was introduced, and when he turned to Jane, the smile on his face broadened.

"Miss Bennet." His eyes met hers and he bestowed her with a slow blink. "My friend Bingley's praise is not exaggerated. My pleasure." He took her hand in his and kissed the air a fraction of an inch above her skin.

Delicate heat flooded Jane's cheeks, and she lowered her eyes and dipped a curtsey. Whose words affected her the most? Colonel Fitzwilliam's gallantry, or Mr Bingley's comments that the colonel repeated? Then the blush was replaced by the red fire of shame. To be thinking of handsome men now, when Elizabeth was in peril, was unforgivable! She swallowed a lump of gall and replied to the kind greeting.

This, however, was no time for idle chatter and flirtations. The men were here on a mission, and this was the first war counsel. The colonel took charge. He accepted the offered chair, but leaned forwards with his hands on his knees as he spoke in crisp tones.

"Mr Bingley has apprised me of this sad situation in which you find yourselves, and I am moved to offer my assistance. I believe I can help. Darcy, you see, is my cousin and a man I am proud to name as a friend."

"Your cousin!" Mrs Bennet burst out. "Then you believe he could really do such a thing?"

The colonel turned his serious face towards her. "I have learned, Madam, that in the most trying of circumstances, all men are capable of the most unimaginable things. But my cousin is not a man to act rashly, and if he has, indeed, done as your daughter's letter suggests, I can only believe it was under the utmost duress. Darcy is a man given to serious thought and hides his passions, even from himself. He has the finest principles, and I can assure you without hesitation that if your daughter is with him, he will move mountains to keep her safe."

Jane's spine sagged in relief at these words, the first she had heard in two days that offered any hope that her sister would be returned in good health. Until now, it seemed that worry alone had kept her upright. But another dreadful thought soon left her back rigid once more.

"But why would he have done this?" Her voice trembled in her ears. "If he feels such fear that he must steal our carriage and dear Lizzy, is she not in terrible danger as well?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam contemplated her, his dark brown eyes meeting her own blue ones. "What Miss Bennet says has merit. But matters may not be quite as dire as we all fear. I believe I have some notion of the cause of my cousin's alarm. I also believe I know exactly where he is going."

There was an onslaught of sound in the parlour, as everybody called out at once.

"Let me explain," the colonel said when he could be heard. "I cannot divulge the entire story, but allow me to say this. I have heard a rather alarming story from somebody most intimately involved, that a certain person we know from our youth believes my cousin Darcy to have done him out of a great deal of money. He is quite mistaken, but in his misapprehension, he attempted to both steal the money and destroy somebody of great importance to us all. Darcy foiled this scheme, rendering this man furious.

"Wickham is his name, and he has always been something of a scoundrel, but has never been violent. Until now. The… person from whom I had the story recounted hearing him utter threats to my cousin of the most alarming nature."

He stopped as another wave of exclamations swelled and ebbed in the room.

"I made some inquiries in Town yesterday and requested leave from my general until we find your daughter. We also made a stop this morning as we travelled northward from London, hence our delayed arrival."

Jane's alarm grew as the colonel told of Mr Wickham's mounting debts in Town, and of how he had been heard uttering vile threats against Darcy in his usual haunts. Then, Mr Bingley interjected, they had stopped at the inn at Islington where Mr Darcy had said he would stay the night before Lizzy disappeared. The place where Mr Darcy was last seen.

"The innkeeper told us a dreadful story," he blurted. "It was in the small hours of the morning, when the world was still asleep. There came a great noise that drew everybody from their beds, and it transpired that somebody had broken in the door to Darcy's room!"

"But how," Mary asked, "did that somebody know which room was his?" Mary always kept a cool head.

The colonel took up the tale again. "You have a clever daughter, Mrs Bennet. I asked the innkeeper the same question. He told me that a window was broken, allowing somebody access to the property, and the register was discovered and left open. It appears that Wickham, for Wickham it must have been, discovered the room number and made his way up the stairs to attack whoever was inside.

"The room was quite ruined. Whoever had broken in there must have been fuelled by rage, for everything was destroyed. The innkeeper took us to see it; it was terrible. The mirror, the bedding, all shattered and ripped, the walls damaged in places, furniture in pieces. But of Darcy, there was no sign at all. The window was open, and we found some scraps of clothing where he must have ripped his shirt as he climbed out. If he knew Wickham was coming, he was quite right to be afraid."

"And, with these words," Jane's father observed, "we are to forgive your cousin for relieving us of both our carriage and daughter. And what do you propose we do now, sir?"

"Ah, there I can help." Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward again. "May I see the letter from your daughter, Mr Bennet?"

Jane's father pulled the missive from a pocket and handed it over. The colonel read it slowly several times before returning it.

"This gives me hope. Llangollen is exactly where I would expect him to go, rather than Pemberley. That, I ought to explain, is Darcy's estate in Derbyshire. Wickham grew up there; he knows the area intimately. All the back roads and hiding places are an open book to him. It might have been Darcy's first thought, but he would not risk returning there. With Wickham around and seeking him, Darcy would not be safe there. But Wickham has never been to Coed-y-Glyn, our hunting box in Wales. He knows it exists, but knows nothing of its exact location, or the land around it. Darcy is a smart man, and I am certain that is where he is headed. He knows the land, the towns, and where to hide if necessary."

"And?" Mr Bennet asked, bushy eyebrows raised.

"And thither we go, at first light, in Mr Bingley's carriage. Do you join us, sir?"

"I shall call now for my belongings to be packed!" He leapt from his chair and called for Mrs Hill.

This was too much for Jane to take in. From aching idleness to this sudden surge of action, how could she contemplate it all? And although she knew she had done nothing wrong, the guilt of having somehow caused her sister's plight only added to her agitation. If only she had convinced Lizzy to join them inside… if only she had stayed with her sister… if only they had come out of the inn a few moments earlier…

She had abandoned Elizabeth once.

She would not do it again.

"I am coming with you," Jane announced. It was not a question, but a statement. She was firm. All eyes turned to her.

"No," she continued as she rose to her feet, "I shall not be put off, not this time. I know I am more often the one to rush to the bidding of others, but now I know my mind and shall act on it. Lizzy needs me, and I need her, and I am coming. Is there room in the carriage? Else I shall ride on the rumble outside. But I will come."

"There you have it, Mrs Bennet," her father shook his head at her mother's stifled gasps. "Your eldest daughter has something of Lizzy's spirit, after all. Well then, Jane, you had better speak to Hill as well."

After two days of pleasant weather, Elizabeth woke up to the sound of heavy rain hitting the window. Will was still asleep, or feigning such, and she took the opportunity to dress quickly and step out of the room so he, too, could rise and prepare for the day. He joined her under an overhang in the stable yard a few minutes later, his face freshly scrubbed and his hair damp from where he had tried to coax it into some sort of order. He had no shaving kit, and now sported another night's worth of beard. It somehow made him look gentler than that stern man who had first alarmed her by absconding with the carriage.

They checked on Dobbin and dodged the raindrops to return to the inn for some food to start the day.

The damp weather did little to brighten their spirits, and they fell into an argument before even leaving the inn. Will insisted upon Elizabeth riding in the cart under the tarpaulin, and she refused.

"You are a lady, and it is my obligation as a gentleman to keep you from harm." He pulled himself to his full, rather impressive, height, and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at her. She, in turn, straightened to her full and much less impressive height, and glared right back, craning her neck to do so.

"I am not some delicate flower that can withstand neither heat nor rain, Will. The weather is wet, not cold, and I am as able to survive it as are you."

"No." His face went cold and stony. "I will not have it. You must ride under the canopy. You will take ill."

"And I will not be treated like a helpless incompetent. Coachmen and servants sit out in the rain all the time."

"You are neither a coachman nor a servant."

"And neither are you. Do we spend another night here and wait until the sun shines once more? Your Mr Wickham is unlikely to look this far from his estimation of our route."

The icy scowl turned angry. "The longer we remain in one place, the greater the danger. We must ride, and in the wrong direction, at that."

He was stubborn, this strange and proud man. Elizabeth felt a thread of pity for him, being forced into such a dire position as this. "Will…" She softened her voice and reached for his arm.

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and he let out a sigh. "Are you always this determined to have your own way?"

"Only when I am told what I should do for my own good."

In the end, they reached a compromise, where Elizabeth sat right beside him on the bench, holding her umbrella over both of them. They draped an extra length of the tarpaulin over their shoulders for more protection and managed to stay relatively dry. If Dobbin objected to being the only one of the party fully exposed to the rain, he said not a word in complaint.

The roads grew narrower and rougher as they travelled, and villages fewer and fewer as the terrain became more and more hilly. It would become even worse once they found the tracks through central Wales, Will explained. At times, Dobbin slowed to a pace that a moderate walker could match with ease, and sometimes patches of mud almost brought the cart to a complete stop. They ate the last of the buns they had purchased at the inn under the canopy of the tarpaulin, and stopped only long enough for the horse to take rests when necessary.

Although they had departed the inn shortly after dawn, it was almost full night when they arrived at Abergavenny, both in low spirits and wanting nothing more than a hot meal and a quiet bed, without even the pretence of dismay at having to share a single room.

In another lifetime, Elizabeth would have loved to spend some time in the small Welsh town. It was a charming place, gifted with beautiful scenery and friendly people, but now she could not wait to leave. The pretty high street with its interesting shops, the Mediaeval priory, and the old ruined castle would have to wait for another time.