Chapter Twelve The Night Ride
Fitzwilliam Darcy strode along the cobblestones of East Street. The sea air was brisk, carrying the briny scent of the Channel. It was nearing three o’clock in the morning. Brighton was largely silent, the raucous energy of the taverns finally subsiding into the night.
Beside him, Richard walked with a steady, measured pace, fully accustomed to late-night patrols.
They were returning to Mrs Gable’s lodgings after an unsatisfying evening. They had scoured the whole town, visited two tea houses, and walked the perimeter of the Steine twice. They had seen no sign of George Wickham. He had vanished.
“He has gone to ground.” Richard adjusted the collar of his coat. “He knows the creditors are circling. He knows we are watching. I suspect he is hiding under a table in some disreputable alehouse.”
Darcy frowned at the uneven pavement. “I do not like it, Richard. When Wickham goes to ground, he is invariably planning something.”
“Perhaps he has decided to throw himself into the sea,” Richard offered. “It would save us a great deal of trouble.”
Darcy opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat.
A carriage turned the corner at the end of the street.
It was not a sleek, private town carriage. It was a hired hack, looking decidedly worn and slightly lopsided, and it moved at a funereal pace.
The driver sat slumped upon the high wooden bench. The moonlight illuminated the red flash of a militia uniform. The driver held the reins loosely, staring blankly ahead.
“Is that...” Richard stopped walking.
Darcy stopped beside his cousin and stared at the driver.
It was George Wickham.
The man looked defeated. The arrogant posture was gone, his shoulders were hunched forward, and he had the demeanour of someone who had just been sentenced to the gallows and was personally driving himself to the execution.
“What in God’s name is he doing?” Richard whispered. “He appears to be attending a funeral.”
The carriage drew closer, the slow clop-clop of the horses’ hooves echoing loudly in the quiet street.
As it passed beneath the glow of a streetlamp, the leather window shade of the carriage rolled up, and a head poked out of the window.
Winslow.
The elderly, supposedly deaf, former scullery maid of the Bennet household leaned her head out of the carriage window, with an expression of satisfaction. She caught sight of Darcy and the Colonel standing upon the pavement, and she lifted a bony hand, offering a cheerful wave.
Darcy stared at the old woman. He stared at the defeated driver.
His legendary intellect, honed by years of rigorous education and estate management, failed him.
He could not comprehend the sequence of events that would place his sworn enemy in the driver’s seat of a hired hack, driving a fraudulent septuagenarian through the streets of Brighton at three in the morning.
“Darcy.” Richard’s voice was hushed with awe. “Did Wickham attempt to elope with Miss Elizabeth’s maid?”
“I... I have no idea.”
“Because if he did, I must shake his hand. The man has a truly staggering ambition.”
“Do not be absurd.” Darcy recovered his senses, though the confusion remained. “We must follow them.”
They fell into step a discreet distance behind the carriage. The slow procession navigated the streets, eventually turning onto the lane where the Forsters resided.
The carriage rolled to a halt directly before the front door.
Wickham did not move from the bench. He sat there, staring at the brick facade as though it were the gates of perdition.
The carriage door opened from the inside.
Winslow descended to the pavement and shook out her cloak. Then, she turned and rapped her knuckles against the wooden side of the carriage.
“Thank you, young man.” Winslow croaked. “The night ride was good but I’m disappointed we didn’t reach Scotland.”
Wickham let out a muffled sound that resembled a sob.
Before Darcy could intervene, the front door of the townhouse was thrown open.
Colonel Forster stormed out onto the front step, wearing a nightshirt, a dressing gown, and a nightcap. For once, he did not look mild. He was furious.
“Wickham!” Colonel Forster roared. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you driving a carriage to my door at this hour?”
Wickham slowly lifted his head. “Colonel. Sir. There has been a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” Forster marched down the steps. “My wife is in hysterics. Miss Lydia is in hysterics. Miss Elizabeth is demanding a court-martial. I demand an explanation!”
Darcy stepped out of the shadows.
“I believe I can provide the necessary context, Colonel.” Darcy’s voice was calm, but carried the weight of authority.
Forster jumped slightly. “Mr Darcy! Colonel Fitzwilliam! What are you doing here?”
“We were watching a tactical withdrawal.” Richard gestured to the miserable figure on the carriage bench. “It appears Wickham attempted a covert operation and encountered unexpected resistance.”
Darcy approached the commanding officer, but kept his eyes firmly fixed upon Wickham.
“Wickham’s creditors are pressing him, Colonel.
” Darcy spoke with cold, precise clarity.
“He sought a rapid financial solution. We believe he intended to lure a young lady from your household into this carriage, travel a sufficient distance to compromise her reputation, and then demand extortion money from her family to preserve their honour.”
Colonel Forster stared at Wickham.
“You attempted to extort a guest in my house?” Forster’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “The ladies told me, but I could not believe it. Wickham, did you attempt to abduct a sixteen-year-old girl?”
“It was a mistake!” Wickham scrambled backward on the bench, his voice pitching high with panic. “I swear it! I merely offered the old woman a ride!”
“You offered the old woman a ride to Scotland.” Winslow corrected helpfully.
Colonel Forster did not hesitate. He lunged forward and grabbed the lapels of Wickham’s red coat with both hands, hauling the younger man bodily down from the driver’s bench with a shocking display of physical strength.
“You are a disgrace to the uniform.” Forster shook Wickham. “You are returning to the camp. You will be placed under guard. By God, I shall see you stripped of your commission by morning.”
Forster did not wait for a response. He shoved Wickham to the hands of Richard, and marched inside to change his nightclothes. Not five minutes later, he was dragging the scoundrel down the street by the collar. Wickham stumbled behind him, offering no resistance, a thoroughly broken man.
The street fell silent.
Darcy turned his attention back to the townhouse.
The front door opened wider.
Miss Elizabeth stepped out onto the threshold, fully dressed, radiant and exhausted.
Miss Lydia stood behind her, bouncing on her toes with feverish excitement. Harriet Forster hovered behind Lydia, clutching a shawl and looking bewildered by the entire sequence of events.
Miss Elizabeth met Darcy’s gaze, and the shared relief passing between them was a physical, tangible force.
“Mr Darcy. Colonel.” Miss Elizabeth offered a polite curtsy, though her eyes danced with unabashed joy. “I believe we owe you our thanks. The streets of Brighton appear significantly safer this evening.”
“The victory belongs to your command, Miss Elizabeth.” Richard bowed deeply. “I have never witnessed a more flawless ambush.”
“Please, come inside.” She stepped back, holding the door open. “It is late, but Mrs Forster has requested tea, and I believe we all require a moment to recover our equilibrium.”
They entered the small, cluttered parlour.
“Please, sit with us, Winslow.” Miss Elizabeth guided the elderly woman to the most comfortable armchair in the room. “You are the heroine of the hour.”
Winslow settled into the chair with a contented sigh. “It was fine, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Tell us what happened!” Lydia knelt and held the maid’s hands in her own. “What did his face look like when he opened the door?”
Miss Lydia did not seem distressed at all. She seemed vindicated, Darcy noted.
“As if he’d swallowed a lemon!” Winslow chuckled, shaking her head. “And then he sat in the dirt and wept. It was a pitiful sight.”
Lydia let out a shriek of laughter. “He wept! The great Mr Wickham sat in the dirt and cried like a baby!”
Mrs Forster shook her head slowly. “I cannot understand it. He seemed such a gentleman. A dashing soldier, clever, elegant, dancing so well. What is the world coming to?”
Darcy stood near the fireplace, following Miss Elizabeth with his eyes.
She was moving through the room, pouring tea, soothing Mrs Forster, containing Lydia’s energy, caring for the elderly maid.
She was the calm, steady centre of the storm.
She had orchestrated the humiliation of their worst enemy without compromising her sister’s reputation or resorting to public scandal.
She was extraordinary.
He caught her eye over the rim of a teacup, and offered a small, private smile. She returned it instantly, a soft, genuine expression that settled a deep warmth into his chest.
An hour later, the tea was consumed, the excitement had faded, and the exhaustion of the late hour finally claimed the household. Lydia had yawned herself to sleep on the settee, Mrs Forster was nodding off in her chair, and Winslow was preparing to retire to the servants’ quarters.
Darcy set his empty teacup upon the mantelpiece.
“We must take our leave.” He spoke softly, not wishing to wake the sleeping girls. “It has been an eventful evening.”
Miss Elizabeth rose from her chair and turned to walk them to the hallway.
“Thank you.” She looked up at him, the teasing banter gone. “For explaining everything to Colonel Forster, and... for everything.”
“I require no thanks.” Darcy’s voice was low, rough with emotion. “I am grateful the plan succeeded.”
Richard stepped forward and executed a flawless bow to the elderly woman sitting in the armchair.
“Winslow.” Richard spoke with genuine respect. “You are a credit to the tactical arts. If the War Office had half your strategic brilliance, Napoleon would have surrendered years ago.”
Winslow beamed. “You’re very kind, Colonel.”
Darcy offered a bow of his own.
“I shall inform Horlicks of your triumph.” Darcy looked at the former scullery maid. “I am certain he will not be surprised at all, because he views you as a hero of the highest order already.”
Winslow’s single-toothed smile widened significantly. “He’s an excellent young man. You’re lucky to have him.”
Darcy and Richard stepped out and they walked back to their lodgings in silence.
Darcy looked up at the stars, the ache in his chest gone, replaced by an enduring certainty: he was going to marry Elizabeth Bennet. He simply needed to find the proper moment to ask her again.