Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Twigs grabbed at Elizabeth’s boots as she marched along the path.
Her cloak caught on a small branch, and she pulled it free.
This was by far the most foolish thing she had ever done.
She had no plan, no promise of assistance, and no way of knowing Mr Wickham’s true intentions.
All she had was the lure of money and influence, and the hope that those would be enough.
It is not too late to turn back. She suppressed the thought.
No, Mr Wickham was eager to believe that I might help him.
He thinks I am charmed by him. Let him underestimate me, then I might be of use.
Overhead, through the dark shadows of the branches, grey clouds swirled.
Patterns of rain drummed softly against the bare wood of the leafless trees.
At least I shall not be detained long. Mr Wickham will not want to stay out in a downpour.
The thicket grew less dense and in front of her lay the clearing, the enormous oak tree dominating the space.
It lay on its side like a splintered shipwreck on a beach, its trunk so broad that even fallen, it towered over her.
Her heart in her throat, she saw Mr Wickham, tramping back and forth, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm.
His eyes met hers, and an arrogant smile curved his lips.
She shivered. One conversation and then she would leave, and no one would ever need to know that she had been here.
“Miss Elizabeth! My angel of good fortune has returned!” He hastened towards her, a jubilant smile on his face.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting. I shall not detain you. Do you have the letters?”
Mr Wickham stopped, standing so close she could smell the pomade in his hair. “We do not need the letters.”
“Whatever can you mean?”
He took her hand into his. “Why involve Darcy in any of this? All I wish is for a secure and happy future—what does it matter how it is achieved? You have offered to save me, Miss Elizabeth, and my gratitude is eclipsed only by the admiration I feel for you. Your beauty struck me from the day we met, but after your generous offer, you will have me admit that there can be no other woman for me. Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
A burst of white-hot panic flooded her body. “Forgive me sir, but that was not my motivation for helping you.”
Undeterred, he pressed her fingers to his lips. “You are too modest. You cannot convince me of your indifference.”
“You take a liberty, sir.” Elizabeth turned her face away. “I only offered to help because I believed you to be the wronged party of a great injustice.”
“But what of your godfather?”
“What of him?”
“You spoke of how easily you can persuade him! We could ask for his support. Imagine what a life we might have, if he were to help us.”
“You are mistaken if you think I might ask my godfather for money. Nothing has been secured on me. I have neither fortune nor dowry.”
He squeezed her hand forcefully. Clearly, Mr Wickham was a man unaccustomed to having his wishes refused. “But surely you could ask? Whisper a few suggestions in his ear? Rest assured, I would see to your happiness for the rest of our lives.”
“I-I wish to marry for affection,” she stammered, willing herself to appear unafraid.
A shadow crossed his face, “And could you not love me, more than any other man?”
“You are hurting me, Mr Wickham.” She forced herself to speak louder. “Please release me.”
His eyes narrowed and he grabbed her free arm with his other hand. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Mr Wickham is a danger to young women. Mr Darcy’s warning echoed through her mind, and she tried to twist her arm away.
“Unhand me.” She choked back a sob. “And I shall never speak of this moment again.” Red welts rose on her wrist as she struggled one way then the other, but Mr Wickham’s grip only tightened, his face contorted into a mask of rage.
He reached down and whispered into her ear. His breath was hot against her neck. “Is this not what you want?”
“I only wished to help. I beg you to let me go.” Her plea did not make a difference; he had revealed too much of his cruelty, there could be no going back.
Panic engulfed Elizabeth. Her arms still trapped, Mr Wickham pushed her back up against the rough bark.
She fought against his weight, writhing around to break free.
In one quick motion, he moved his hand from her arm to her neck, pinning her shoulder down with his body.
A scream rose in her throat, but she could hardly breath.
“Let me go,” she rasped. All she could see was his face, that cruel smile, his body charged with a fierce energy.
She shut her eyes and the world went black.
There was nothing else to be done. She was at his mercy.
Suddenly, there were footsteps, a shout, and the sensation of freedom.
Gasping, Elizabeth crumpled. Her legs trembled as she braced her hands against the wet ground, her body shaking violently.
She forced herself to look up, and to her infinite gratitude and relief she saw Mr Wickham sprawled out some distance away on the wet leaves, holding the side of his face and looking up at the two men who had obviously pulled him from her.
Her vision swam. It was Mr Bingley and—her heart nearly stopped—Mr Darcy.
Using the splintered trunk to pull herself to her feet, she rested against it, unable to trust herself to stand unaided.
Mr Wickham attempted to rise, but Mr Bingley shoved him back down.
Mr Wickham’s ankle caught underneath his body, he stumbled back, cursing angrily.
More words were exchanged, but Elizabeth could not make them out.
She attempted a step towards the men; a stab of pain tore through her shoulder, and she gave a sharp inhale of breath.
Mr Darcy turned in an instant and took urgent steps towards her, his hands outstretched. “Miss Elizabeth, are you injured?” His eyes swept across her body. “Did he harm you in any way?”
Everything that happened, and all the evil that might have been, flooded Elizabeth’s mind, and tears ran down her face. “N-no.” She choked back her sobs. “I had a terrible fright, but I am unhurt.”
Mr Darcy frowned. “I cannot believe you.”
With tremendous effort, Elizabeth attempted to keep her voice steady. “It is nothing. It will pass.”
His gaze flickered to her wrists, still marked from Mr Wickham’s attack, and his face paled, his eyes flashing with anger.
A muscle clenched in his jaw. His hand still about her waist, he guided her to rest against the thickest part of the downed tree.
Once he was satisfied that she would not fall, he said, “I must leave you here, but I shall come back as soon as I am able. Do not move.”
She nodded weakly, her back pressed against the oak.
Mr Darcy disappeared for many moments then reappeared, marching to the spot where Mr Bingley stood with Mr Wickham, his body trembling with suppressed rage.
In one fluid motion, he hauled their prisoner to his feet and fixed a length of rope around his wrists.
Mr Wickham winced as Mr Darcy furiously secured the knots.
Elizabeth rubbed her own arms, the sensation of Mr Wickham’s vice-like grip still burning on the surface of her skin.
A dark bruise was forming under Mr Wickham’s eye, and she noted the swelling on Mr Darcy’s knuckles.
Her pulse still racing, Elizabeth took tentative steps towards the men.
Mr Wickham looked from Elizabeth to Mr Darcy. “A convincing game, to pretend there was nothing between you two.”
Quivering with fury, Mr Darcy drew himself up to his full height and pulled the bindings on Mr Wickham’s wrists. “Silence, or you will be gagged.”
Mr Wickham took no notice, his mouth twisted into the arrogant sneer of a man with nothing left to lose. “Although I am surprised, Darcy, that you would send a woman to do a man’s job.”
Elizabeth suspected it was her presence alone that prevented Mr Darcy from striking Mr Wickham again.
To her intense relief, Mr Darcy relinquished control of Mr Wickham to Mr Bingley and returned to Elizabeth’s side.
His mouth taut, he offered his arm. A large raindrop splashed on his coat, and clouds rushed along the grey-soaked sky. “We must leave.”