Chapter 3 #2
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the sound that rose in her throat. She stumbled backward from the window, striking her hip against the edge of the table. The teacup rattled in its saucer.
The sound froze her entirely. She stared at the trembling porcelain, willing it to be still, to be silent. What if someone heard? What if he heard? She reached out with shaking fingers and steadied the cup, holding her breath until it stopped moving.
He was here. At Longbourn. Walking toward the front door as though he had every right to call upon them.
She could not breathe. Her lungs would not work properly. The room tilted, and she grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself.
He would knock. Or perhaps he had already knocked.
Perhaps Hill was opening the door at just this moment.
Would he ask for Mr. Bennet, or would he smile at Hill and charm his way to Mrs. Bennet instead?
He was always so skilled at that, at making people trust him, like him, believe whatever he chose to tell them.
They would admit him. Of course they would admit him. Why should they not? They had no reason to suspect. He would smile and use that warm, reasonable voice, and they would invite him to sit, to take refreshment, to—
What if he asked about their daughters? What if he described her? What if someone mentioned—
She could not think clearly. Her breath came too fast, too shallow. Her chest ached as though something heavy pressed upon it. The room seemed to shrink around her, the walls drawing closer.
She was upstairs. Trapped. Unable to warn anyone, unable to run, unable to do anything but cower in this small room and wait.
Her legs would not hold her. She sank onto the bed, pressing both hands to her mouth to keep any sound from escaping. She wrapped the coverlet over her head. Downstairs, she heard the faint sound of a door opening. Voices, too muffled to distinguish words.
He was inside the house.
A Handsome Stranger
The morning had been ordinary. Elizabeth had come in, red-cheeked after a walk.
Jane worked at her embroidery, her needle moving with a steady rhythm.
Mary had settled into the chair nearest the fire with her volume of sermons.
Kitty sketched in her notebook, and Lydia sat across from their mother, pretending to listen as Mrs. Bennet discoursed upon the proper management of linen closets.
Hill appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. George Wickham to see Mr. Bennet.”
The book slipped from Elizabeth's hands. She caught it against her lap before it could fall, but the movement was sharp enough to draw her mother's attention.
“Wickham?” Mrs. Bennet said brightly. “I do not believe we are acquainted with any Mr. Wickham. Show him to Mr. Bennet's library, Hill.”
“Yes, madam.”
Hill withdrew. The door closed with a soft click.
Elizabeth's eyes met Jane's across the room. Jane had gone perfectly still, her needle poised above the fabric. Mary's knuckles whitened. Kitty's pencil trembled against the page. Lydia sat frozen, all colour draining from her face.
“Lizzy, you look quite pale,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Are you unwell?”
“I am perfectly well, Mamma.” Elizabeth's voice emerged steadier than she had expected. “I merely lost my place.”
Mrs. Bennet returned to her discourse. Elizabeth did not hear a word of it.
Her mind raced. Anne was two floors above them.
Had she heard the knock at the door? Had she looked out the window and seen him arrive?
Was she watching in terror as the man who had hurt her walked freely into the house that sheltered her?
The minutes stretched. Elizabeth counted them by the ticking of the mantel clock. Five minutes. Ten. What was being said in her father's library? What story was Wickham telling? Would Papa believe him?
Fifteen minutes.
The door opened again. Hill's expression was neutral as she addressed Mrs. Bennet.
“Mr. Wickham has asked if he might pay his respects to the ladies of the house, madam. The master has given his permission.”
“Oh! How proper.” Mrs. Bennet set aside her work and smoothed her skirts. “Girls, sit up properly. Jane, arrange the lace on your sleeve. Kitty, put that notebook away—you know I cannot abide sketching in company.”
Elizabeth forced her hands to remain steady as she closed her book and set it aside.
Across from her, Jane laid down her embroidery with movements that were almost mechanical.
Mary kept her volume in her lap, as though it might serve as a shield or anchor.
Kitty's hands shook as she gathered her sketching materials. Lydia did not move at all.
“Lydia,” Mrs. Bennet said sharply. “Sit properly.”
Lydia straightened in her chair, but her face remained bloodless.
Hill stepped aside. The gentleman who entered was just as Anne had described him—handsome, well-dressed, with dark hair and the easy confidence of one accustomed to being welcomed.
He moved with grace, though his right hand was wrapped in bandages, the white linen stark against the dark fabric of his coat.
His boots showed wear and wet that marked him as a man of lower means.
“Mrs. Bennet,” he said, bowing. “I am deeply grateful for your kindness in receiving me.”
His voice was the warm, cultivated, threat Anne had described. Mrs. Bennet rose to greet him, all maternal solicitude.
“Mr. Wickham, you are most welcome. Please, do sit. Hill, bring tea.”
“You are very kind.” Wickham settled into the chair Mrs. Bennet indicated, angling himself so that he could observe all five daughters at once. “I am sorry to intrude upon your morning, but I find myself in the most distressing circumstances.”
“So Mr. Bennet mentioned,” Mrs. Bennet said, leaning forward with interest. “You are searching for someone?”
“My wife.” The words came with a practised catch of emotion.
“She is full young—scarcely more than a girl. We were travelling through Hertfordshire when we stopped to change horses. The weather turned suddenly. When I returned from settling accounts with the innkeeper, she was—” He paused, as though overcome. “She was gone.”
“Gone!” Mrs. Bennet pressed her hand to her chest. “How dreadful! And in this weather! The poor child must have been terrified.”
“She is not always sensible,” Wickham said, his voice dropping to a tone of pained confession. “She suffers from fits of fancy. Confusion. I have tried to be patient with her, but she requires constant supervision.”
Elizabeth studied him. Every word, every gesture, every modulation of his voice had been calculated to evoke sympathy. He was performing and performing well.
“How frightening for you both,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Have you searched the neighbourhood?”
“I have been to every inn and posting house within ten miles,” Wickham replied.
“I have spoken to shopkeepers, innkeepers, anyone who might have seen her. But there has been no trace.” He looked at each of the daughters in turn.
“I thought perhaps—young ladies are often so observant. Perhaps one of you might have noticed something? A young woman alone, in distress?”
When he faced her, Elizabeth saw healing scratches on his face. She forced herself to meet his eyes. “What does she look like, sir?”
“Tall for her age. Fair-haired. When I last saw her she was wearing a blue velvet pelisse—very fine, quite distinctive. You ladies would recognise the quality of the garment.”
Kitty's hand jerked. Her teacup rattled in its saucer. Jane reached across and steadied it with a gentle touch.
“I am sorry,” Elizabeth said, her voice measured. “We have seen no one matching that description.”
Wickham's gaze lingered on her face for a moment longer than was entirely comfortable. “You are certain? Even the smallest detail might help me find her.”
“Quite certain,” Elizabeth replied. “We would surely remember such a distinctive garment.”
“Of course.” Wickham's smile did not falter, but his expression shifted—a hardness around his eyes, a tension in his jaw.
“Forgive me. I am desperate, you understand. I have been searching for three days now. I fear—” He stopped, as though unable to voice the thought.
“The weather has been so cold. If she is lost, without proper shelter—”
“You poor man,” Mrs. Bennet said. “You must be beside yourself with worry.”
“I am.” Wickham's hand—the unbandaged left one—pressed briefly to his chest. “She is everything to me. I would do anything to find her, to bring her safely home. Every moment apart from her is a torment. I cannot bear the thought of her alone and frightened.”
Mary's book slipped from her lap. The sound of it striking the floor made everyone start. She bent to retrieve it, her face hidden, her movements stiff.
“Forgive me,” she murmured. “How clumsy.”
Wickham turned to her with that same calculating attention. “You are well, miss?”
“Perfectly well,” Mary said, not looking up. “The book is heavy. It slipped.”
Hill returned with the tea tray. Mrs. Bennet busied herself with pouring. Wickham accepted his cup with his left hand, a movement that drew attention to the bandaged right.
“Your hand,” Mrs. Bennet said. “You are injured?”
“An accident whilst searching for my wife,” Wickham said.
“I saw a woman resembling my wife disappear into a garden. The gate was rusted shut, but in my madness to reach her, I forced the latch with my bare hand. I tore the flesh. I am desperate to find any trace of her. Foolish, perhaps, but when one is frantic—”
“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Bennet assured him. “I hope it is not serious?”
“It will mend.” Wickham set down his cup and rose.
“I have taken too much of your time already. You have been most gracious.” He drew a card from his pocket with his left hand and offered it to Mrs. Bennet.
“I am staying at the White Hart. If any of you should see or hear anything—anything at all—I beg you to send word immediately. There is a reward for information leading to her safe return.”