Chapter 25 #2
“Let us be on our way,” he declared, before climbing back to the box and gathering the reins in his hands.
It was a pity he had no one to drive; he would have preferred the privacy of the carriage to begin to get to know his intended.
Still, that inconvenience might be remedied later.
Surely there would be someone along the route who might be persuaded.
Money, however, posed a difficulty. He lacked the funds to change horses, which meant they must travel slowly.
He had resolved to avoid the Great North Road for a time and keep instead to lesser-used routes.
The journey might stretch to a fortnight, but he was certain any pursuit would favour the more well-travelled road.
It was no matter.
What mattered was the fortune he believed awaited him. Twenty thousand pounds would set him very comfortably indeed.
The sum warmed him far more than the winter air ever could as he began to make his way north.
So certain was he of his success, he did not look back.
A few miles away, another carriage was being prepared.
Jane and Mary Bennet had called at Millwood Cottage, but only very briefly, for all the ladies were expected at tea that afternoon at Netherfield.
Mrs Hurst had invited the residents of Millwood Cottage as well as those of Longbourn; yet Jane and Mary had wished to see Elizabeth for a few moments and had therefore gone first to Millwood before continuing on to Netherfield.
Jane had offered to escort Elizabeth and Georgiana, but Elizabeth had declined, saying that she needed to pay a call to Charlotte Lucas afterward before returning home.
When Elizabeth arrived at Netherfield half an hour later with Georgiana, she was surprised to learn that Jane and Mary had not yet come, nor had any message been received to explain their delay.
Immediately, a note was dispatched to Longbourn to enquire whether the sisters had returned home instead of proceeding as planned.
To the astonishment of all present, a message arrived from Longbourn at nearly the same moment, asking whether Jane and Mary were at Netherfield for the carriage had not returned as it was intended.
The crossing of these notes alarmed everyone.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr Darcy, and Mr Hurst lost no time in ordering their horses. Within minutes they set out, each taking a different direction in the hope that something might be discovered.
The colonel chose the road the carriage ought to have travelled between Millwood Cottage and Netherfield. Riding swiftly, he kept a sharp watch along the verges.
Soon he perceived a dreadful sight: the coachman, bound hand and foot, lay in a ditch beside the lane. There was no wreckage from the carriage; it had not overturned. The very position of the man, left trussed and helpless, spoke of violence far more deliberate.
For one terrible instant, the colonel feared he was too late—that something unspeakable had befallen the Bennet carriage.
He was off his horse in a moment, boots striking the frozen ground as he hurried forward and dropped beside the man. The cords were cruelly tight; he tore at them, scarcely aware of how rough his hands had become.
“Are they alive?” he demanded.
It took only moments to learn the truth of what had happened.
Wickham had spoken in full hearing of the coachman, not troubling to keep his intentions a secret.
Fitzwilliam did not know whether Wickham did not think the coachman would survive or if he simply believed that no one would seek him out when he took what he wanted.
Rage flared hot in the colonel’s chest.
“I shall send someone back for you,” he said quickly, already rising. “I must find the others so we may begin the search at once. Have you any notion which way he may go?”
The coachman struggled upright, wincing as feeling returned to his limbs.
“No, sir. But if it were me, without the money to change horses, I would keep off the great road and take to the smaller ones instead. There are plenty of them, and they all wind north. You would have a devil of a time finding him there, particularly if he knows where he is going and knows how to hide. I believe he thought he would have more of a head start; I daresay he has been gone less than an hour.”
The colonel swore under his breath. “Thank you,” he said, wheeling his horse about and riding hard the way he had come.
He encountered Darcy first. His cousin rode with one of the newly engaged Millwood footmen—the men having been assigned to remain near Elizabeth and Georgiana for their protection—while the others had been left behind with the ladies.
“Wickham attacked the Bennet coachman and carried off Jane and Mary Bennet,” he called without preamble.
“He believes one of them to be ‘Miss Grant’ and must have heard enough to suppose she possesses a fortune worth the risk. He cannot know who stands behind her. Most likely he never imagined a Darcy or a Fitzwilliam would be in the neighbourhood. He must have assumed the coachman would not be found—or that the alarm would not be raised so quickly. I left the man upon the road and sent another back for assistance.”
The warmth left Darcy’s countenance in an instant.
“I do not expect Colonel Forster will prove more effective now than he has before,” Darcy said curtly, turning to the footman.
“Peter, ride to Netherfield. Inform Hurst of what we have discovered, and ask him to inform Mr Bennet of what we have learnt. Then, he can communicate with Grant. Between them, they may rouse the neighbouring tenants to assist in the search. The men of Longbourn and Netherfield can help us scour the roads.”
He turned back to Richard.
“In the meantime, we ride north. If the scoundrel has left a trace, we shall find it.”
A muscle worked in his jaw.
“At least the ladies are together. That may preserve them from the worst consequences, should we fail to overtake them at once.”
Fitzwilliam gave a single tight nod.
“North, then.”
Darcy looked once more to the footman. “Assume he will favour the smaller roads. Search where you may, and if you find sign of Wickham, follow and then send word back as soon as you can. With luck, we shall soon have the blaggard in hand and the ladies safely returned.”
They set their heels to their horses and surged forward, the animals leaping eagerly into a hard canter while the footman wheeled his mount and rode back towards Netherfield.
Darcy kept the colonel close beside him as they turned their horses on the main carriage roads towards Luton—not the great turnpike, but those routes sufficiently travelled to bear a heavy carriage without attracting undue notice.
Wickham would avoid the narrow byways that scarcely deserved the name of road, yet he would be equally wary of the most conspicuous thoroughfares.
“They may think us fools for this,” Richard called across the short distance between them. “The others will likely press northeast towards Stevenage.”
“They may,” Darcy replied, “yet I cannot believe Wickham would risk the Great North Road. He has not the funds to change horses often. He will prefer the quieter way and expect us to hunt for him where traffic is thickest, supposing he may lose himself in the press. He will not expect us to pursue him here.”
Richard swore under his breath. “The damnable fool is trying to be clever.”
“He has ever thought to outwit those who pursue him,” Darcy replied. “Unfortunately, I know too well how his mind works.”
So little time had elapsed between Wickham’s departure with the ladies in their coach and Richard’s discovery of the coachman that Darcy refused to think him already safe within the village or beyond.
“We may yet come upon him,” he said. “If he has reached Luton, the horses will require rest, and he will be obliged to remain there for some time.”
Richard nodded sharply. “Then we look to the inns at the edge of the town.”
“That is our best course,” Darcy answered, still holding out hope they might come upon the carriage before they were compelled to search so far afield.
Hope that the ordeal might soon be ended—for Elizabeth’s sake, if nothing else—rose, sharp and unwelcome, in his chest, but he did not attempt to quell it.
His gelding, Hector, was fresh beneath him and could carry him to Luton in less than an hour, if need demanded it, which it did at this moment.
Nor would Richard be delayed; his mare Vixen was spirited and eager for the run, pressing against her rider’s hand as though she, too, understood what was at stake.
Richard was as tense as Darcy had ever seen him, and he recognised in him the man who rode into battle.
“If he has misjudged,” Darcy said at last, “if he has trusted more to confusion than to speed, we may still have him before the village lies behind him.”
For some time, they rode in silence, their eyes casting around them looking for anything that might give them a clue as to where the Bennet carriage may have gone.
They had travelled nearly five miles before a carriage came into view ahead of them.
It appeared vaguely familiar, and Darcy’s breath tightened as he recognised the pale green panels and the pair of chestnuts harnessed before it—horses he had seen more than once in the stables at Millwood during their frequent visits.
The carriage moved slowly, almost dragging upon the road, and both men instinctively checked their own mounts.
Darcy narrowed his eyes towards the box. He thought he could distinguish Wickham’s figure seated there; at this distance he could not be entirely certain.
Without speaking, he inclined his head towards the carriage.
Richard understood the unspoken message at once.
“The coachman said he was armed,” Richard murmured, careful that his voice did not carry.
“He was always a terrible shot,” Darcy replied. “I should be more concerned that we might strike someone unintended if we fired on him, even as a warning. There is also no guarantee that the horses would not react badly to the sound of a shot.”
“Then we should plan an ambush,” Richard said thoughtfully.
“We could ride through the fields there, so he would not see who approached, and stop him just before he reaches the village. If we rode quickly enough, we might find a few men to help us secure him. Once he is delivered to the magistrate, he may answer not only for kidnapping, but for desertion from the militia as well. Charges of that sort are not treated lightly.”
Darcy’s brow darkened. As little as he liked what his former friend had become, he could not relish the thought that Wickham might come to such an end.
“Approaching him from the front may be wiser,” Darcy acknowledged after a moment.
“If he hears riders coming up behind him, he might whip up the horses and wreck the carriage. That would endanger its occupants and might allow him to escape. But what if we waited until he stopped at an inn? I have passed through Luton once before, and I can imagine the sort of place he would prefer.”
Wickham was exasperated. After two hours upon the box, even the horses had begun to flag, their pace dulling in spite of every touch of the reins or the whip.
They were not the only ones flagging.
He had handled a gig often enough in his youth, and with style too, but a heavy post-chaise demanded a different sort of strength.
His shoulders throbbed, his palms were raw within his worn gloves, and the dusty air scraped his throat each time he drew breath through the cloud the horses kicked up.
The work was far more fatiguing than he had anticipated, and he was far more uncomfortable than he liked.
How he wished he had the funds to hire a coachman, for it would not do to continue as they were.
Soon he must contrive to rest the horses—and himself.
A pint or two at some wayside inn would be very welcome indeed, yet the difficulty lay in achieving it without inviting further trouble.
He had scarcely a coin to his name, certainly not enough to command assistance by honest means.
Nor could he risk allowing either lady the smallest opportunity to flee, which meant he must remain constantly on guard.
He would need help before long. He had not considered how impossible such an undertaking would prove without another man or two to assist him. At the very least he required someone to drive, for he could not keep to the box for the days and weeks necessary to reach Scotland.
When he next stopped, he would have to see if he could find a fellow willing to be bribed with promises of future payment—or frightened into obedience.
Although he was not wearing the militia’s red coat, it lay in his bag, and there were many who might be impressed by it and persuaded to come to his aid, if he proved convincing enough.
As for the women, they had been gratifyingly quiet. He had not heard so much as a whisper from within the carriage, and he looked forward to making better acquaintance with his future wife before long. They had seemed properly cowed earlier; he trusted fear would continue to serve him.
Still, he could not leave them unguarded forever, particularly not at an inn or any busy stopping place.
Once they halted, he must secure them more thoroughly than at present.
A rope might answer, if he could obtain one, and certainly a threat or two would ensure continued obedience.
They were far enough from home now. Rescue would not come.
He shifted on the narrow seat and urged the team onward. Surely they would reach an inn soon. He would choose one at the edge of a town, or just beyond it.
They would not think to look for him in this direction in any case.
His thoughts drifted as he glanced across the fields—and there he noticed two riders galloping parallel to the road.
The sight startled him into a momentary lapse. The horses felt the slack in his grip and surged unevenly, and he swore loudly as he hauled sharply upon the reins, forcing them back into line.
It was far too soon for anyone to be searching for him. The alarm could not yet have spread so quickly, and even if it had, those riders were too distant to distinguish either him or his carriage.
That he could not identify them did not trouble him. From their seat and bearing they appeared young—decidedly so. Mr Grant, by all accounts, was elderly—sixty at least, perhaps older—and the two gentlemen who had lately resided at Millwood had already departed the neighbourhood.
No—these were merely two young men taking exercise. The countryside was full of such idle riders.
Satisfied, Wickham fixed his attention once more upon the road ahead.