Chapter 16
E lizabeth’s heart clenched with fear as George Wickham stalked a step toward her, his grin growing sharper, more menacing with each passing second. The faint candlelight flickered, casting shadows across his face and highlighting the malice in his eyes.
Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that she could barely hear her own thoughts. He advanced towards her, his steps slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the hunt. Like a waltz. She stepped back as he stepped forward, moving in rhythm with her heartbeat.
“Come now, Miss Elizabeth,” he coaxed, his tone mockingly soft. “Don’t fight me, and I promise to make this quick and painless.”
A cold chill ran down her spine, and she knew instinctively that his promise was a lie. The gleam in his eyes betrayed his words; he intended anything but kindness. When he reached out, his fingers curling toward her arm, she acted on pure instinct.
The years she had spent roaming Hertfordshire with the Lucas and Goulding boys had taught her precisely where to aim. With all the force she could muster, she kicked forward, her foot connecting solidly with the most vulnerable part of his anatomy.
Wickham let out a guttural curse as he collapsed to his knees, his hands clutching his injured anatomy. “You little—” His face twisted in rage, but Elizabeth didn’t wait for him to finish.
She ran.
The drawing room door swung open as she dashed into the hallway, her skirts bunching in her fists as she pumped her legs with all her might. The house was eerily silent, and the absence of servants filled her with a sinking dread. Surely someone should have been there—anyone—but the corridors were empty, as if the entire household had vanished.
Her breathing came in ragged gasps, her chest burning as she pushed herself to go faster. Reaching the front door, Elizabeth yanked it open and stumbled outside into the night. The chilling air hit her face as she flung herself through. She could hear Wickham’s footsteps pounding behind her, accompanied by his furious curses.
"I swear, you stupid chit, you’ll pay for this!" he roared, his voice growing louder with every step.
Elizabeth stumbled down the front steps, her breath coming in frantic gasps. The world outside was cloaked in darkness, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the grounds. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the sound vibrating in her chest. The scent of rain lingered in the air, but for now, the sky held back its deluge.
Her mind raced as she scanned her surroundings. The open path to the stables was too exposed, and the road leading away from the house would leave her vulnerable. To her left, the dense hedgerows offered the only possible refuge: the Netherfield maze.
If only Mama knew . Her wild, humorous thought was at severe odds with the terror in her mind, but it somehow lessened her panic.
Making a split-second decision, Elizabeth veered to the left and plunged into the winding, overgrown paths that she hadn’t explored in years. She sprinted as fast as she could, her skirts twisting around her legs, hampering her progress, her sense of direction completely abandoned in favor of survival. Every turn felt like a gamble, each twist another potential trap.
She could hear Wickham crashing through the hedges behind her, his curses growing louder. “Do you think I can’t follow you in here? I’ll find you, you little chit!”
The darkness around her was broken only by the occasional flash of lightning, illuminating her path just long enough to give her fleeting glimpses of the wild, dense path. Her lungs burned with effort, but she didn’t dare slow down— Wickham’s furious shouts were echoing behind her, driving her forward like the crack of a whip.
Panic surged through her veins as she turned another corner, only to come face-to-face with a solid wall of hedges: a dead end. Wickham’s footsteps grew louder, and she knew she had mere moments before he would catch up.
She spun around, her eyes wild with desperation, and spotted a thin gap in the branches to her left. Without thinking, she threw herself into the thicket, the sharp twigs scraping her skin as she forced her way through to the other side.
The passage she emerged into was narrower, the walls of greenery looming high above her. She hesitated, her chest heaving as she realized she had no idea where she was. The maze’s twists and turns had disoriented her completely, and the sound of Wickham’s pursuit seemed to echo from all directions.
Frantically, she scanned her surroundings, her gaze landing on a hedge that looked slightly thinner than the rest. It was low enough to crawl beneath, and the gap between the branches was just wide enough for her to squeeze into. Without a moment’s hesitation, Elizabeth dropped to her knees and scrambled into the small hollow, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she pressed herself against the cool earth.
The branches clawed at her dress and hair, tearing fabric and pulling at her curls, but she didn’t stop until she was fully concealed among the leaves. She crouched low, her hands trembling as she rearranged the foliage to shield her further from view.
She crouched low, her bosom heaving as she fought to control her breathing. The sound of Wickham’s boots crunching on the gravel grew closer, and she pressed her hand tightly over her mouth, stifling the urge to gasp for air. Her lungs burned, and her entire body trembled with fear, but she didn’t dare make a sound.
The thunder above grew louder, a sharp crack lighting up the maze for a split second, and she held her breath, praying he wouldn’t find her.
Her heart thundered in her ears as she listened, trying to find the danger. Wickham’s voice, sharp and furious, pierced the air. “Come out, you little fool! There’s no point in hiding. I’ll find you— you can’t hide forever!”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, forcing herself to take shallow, silent breaths. The ache in her chest from holding her breath grew unbearable, but she refused to give herself away. Her muscles locked in place as his shadow passed dangerously close to her shelter.
Wickham’s footsteps slowed, his boots grinding against the gravel as he searched the area. She could hear the frustration in his voice as he muttered curses under his breath. Through the gaps in the leaves, she could see his face twisted in anger, his eyes scanning the grounds for any sign of movement. He shouted her name again, the sound reverberating through the still night.
The footsteps retreated slightly, then paused. Elizabeth’s heart stopped as she heard him double back, moving closer to her hiding spot. She clenched her fists, willing herself to stay still as the branches above her shifted slightly in the breeze.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the landscape, and for one terrifying moment, she saw Wickham’s silhouette mere feet from her hiding place. She bit her lip, tasting blood, as her hands pressed hard against her knees to keep herself from trembling.
Please, God, don’t let him find me.
After what felt like an eternity, Wickham let out a string of curses and turned toward the stables, his heavy steps fading into the distance. She dared to lift her head just enough to peer through the leaves. Her breath caught as she saw him stomping down the path toward the stables, his figure fading into the shadows.
Relief washed over her, but she didn’t dare move. Her muscles began to burn and cramp from being held so tightly, but she remained frozen in place. Minutes passed, and the only noise was the distant rumble of thunder. Slowly, cautiously, Elizabeth began to shift, her limbs stiff from remaining in one position for so long.
Just as she was about to step out of the hedgerow, the sound of a carriage approaching reached her ears. She froze, her eyes darting toward the drive. The faint glow of lanterns appeared, and her breath caught in her throat as she saw Wickham driving her father’s carriage up to the front door. He was alone, his movements frantic and hurried as he pulled the vehicle to a stop.
What is he doing? she thought, panic flooding her veins.
To her horror, Wickham leapt from the driver’s seat and ran back into the house. Elizabeth’s mind raced. What was he doing? Should she risk running to the carriage to seek help, or stay hidden?
Before she could decide, Wickham reemerged, carrying the limp figure of Miss Bingley in his arms, her body hanging like a ragdoll with her head lolling to the side. Elizabeth clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry, tears streaming down her face as she watched Wickham roughly shove the unconscious woman into the carriage before running back to the house.
Should I help her?
Indecision warred with fear inside her, but before she could make a decision, he returned, now wearing a dark coat she recognized as Darcy’s. In his arms, he carried a sack overflowing with silverware, jewels, and a coin purse, which he tossed onto Miss Bingley’s prone form.
Wickham paused, glancing around before pulling a white cloth from his pocket. He tied Miss Bingley’s hands together, his movements quick and efficient, then climbed into the driver’s seat. With a flick of the reins, the carriage jolted forward, disappearing down the road and into the night.
Elizabeth remained frozen, staring at the now-empty drive, her mind unable to process what she had just witnessed. She bit down on her lip until it bled even more fiercely, the salty fluid mingling with the tears streaming down her face. Miss Bingley—whatever her faults—was being taken somewhere against her will, and Elizabeth could do nothing to stop it.
The first drops of rain began to fall, cold and sharp against her skin, but she didn’t move. It wasn’t until the drizzle turned into a steady downpour, soaking her gown and chilling her to the bone, that she finally broke from her daze.
She stumbled back toward the house, her steps unsteady as the rain plastered her hair to her face. Her shoes squelched with every step, but she hardly noticed. Her only thought was to find help.
The front door banged open as she entered, and her voice echoed through the silent halls. “Hello? Is anyone here? Please, help me!”
The house was eerily quiet, save for the sound of her footsteps and the pounding rain outside. She ran toward the drawing room, her heart sinking as she saw the unconscious figures still sprawled where they had fallen. Darcy, Bingley, Jane—all unmoving, their faces pale.
Elizabeth’s gaze landed on Darcy, noting his missing coat and cravat. She realized with a sinking feeling that Wickham must have used them to bind Miss Bingley. Swallowing hard, she tore her eyes away and continued down the hall.
I must find help .
“Hello? Is anyone here?” she called again, her voice breaking. “Please, somebody help me!”
The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of her footsteps and the pounding of the rain outside. She reached the servants’ staircase and descended quickly, nearly tripping in her haste. At the bottom, she burst into the housekeeper’s office, her face pale and desperate.
"Miss Elizabeth?" Mrs. Nicholls gasped, her eyes widening at the sight of the drenched and disheveled young woman. "What on earth has happened?"
“Please,” Elizabeth panted, clutching the doorframe for support. “You must help me. He’s drugged them all—and kidnapped Miss Bingley!”
∞∞∞
Mrs. Nicholls could only gape at the bedraggled, bleeding figure in front of her. She could hardly recognize the usually poised young lady from Netherfield where her sister-in-law, Matilda Hill, was a lady’s maid. She and Matilda had been steadfast figures in Meryton for longer than most could remember, though her own journey was quite different than her sister’s-by-marriage.
Claire Nicholls had come to Netherfield as a wide-eyed housemaid at the tender age of twelve, scrubbing floors and polishing brass under the watchful eye of the former housekeeper. Over the decades, her hard work and quiet dignity had seen her rise steadily through the ranks until she earned her current position, a role she served with no small measure of pride.
In her years of service, Mrs. Nicholls had witnessed all manner of tenants pass through Netherfield Park. From pompous tradesmen flaunting their newfound wealth to flighty heiresses with a penchant for melodrama, the estate had hosted its fair share of colorful characters. None, however, had been quite so difficult as Miss Caroline Bingley. The young woman’s whims were as fickle as an April breeze, and her imperious nature made her a trial even to the most seasoned staff.
When Miss Bingley had unceremoniously declared a holiday for the majority of the household staff, keeping only Mrs. Nicholls, the butler, and a single maid and footman to oversee the running of the house, Mrs. Nicholls had accepted the decree with quiet resignation. After all, her fellow servants worked tirelessly to endure their mistress’s inconsistent demands. A day of respite for them was hardly something to bemoan. And while Mrs. Nicholls herself remained behind to ensure the household stayed in order, she did so with little complaint. Years of service had taught her to appreciate small mercies where she could find them.
But nothing in her decades of experience had prepared her for the sight that greeted her when Elizabeth Bennet burst into her office, soaked to the skin and trembling like a leaf in the wind. The young woman’s dress clung to her frame, dripping water onto the polished floor, and her face was a ghostly shade of pale. Her wide, frightened eyes held a plea for help that sent a chill through Mrs. Nicholls’s bones, nearly undoing the housekeeper for the first time in her life.
“Miss Elizabeth?” Mrs. Nicholls exclaimed, rising from her chair in alarm. “What on earth has happened?”
Elizabeth clung to the doorframe as if it were the only thing holding her upright. Her voice was hoarse with urgency as she stammered, “Please—you must help me. He’s drugged them all—and kidnapped Miss Bingley!”
For a moment, Mrs. Nicholls could only gape at the girl, the words refusing to settle in her mind. Her head was reeling; she had dealt with many crises in her years of service—fires, unruly guests, broken china—but never anything like this.
Elizabeth Bennet, a young gentlewoman from the neighborhood, had appeared in the her office like a wild animal, with her disheveled hair plastered to her pale face, and her skirts nearly completely torn from her body, clinging to her as the dripped muddy water onto the floor.
As the full weight of Elizabeth’s statement sank in, a jolt of adrenaline coursed through Mrs. Nicholls, and she sprang into action. The housekeeper’s voice, long unused to such volume, thundered through the room as she bellowed, “John! Get in here at once!”
The butler, startled by the uncharacteristic shouting of his first name, appeared in the doorway, his wide eyes darting between the drenched young lady and his normally unflappable counterpart. “Have a stableboy fetch Mr. Jones immediately!” Mrs. Nicholls commanded, pointing a trembling finger toward the door. “Tell him it’s an emergency and he’s needed at once!”
John’s eyes took in the scene as hesitated only a second before bolting down the hall, his boots clattering against the floorboards as he ran.
Turning sharply toward the maid, who had appeared in the doorway with a teapot in hand, Mrs. Nicholls barked, “Forget the tea, Sally! I want you to go to the kitchen and set a large pot of water on the stove to start boiling. Quickly, girl—no dawdling!”
The maid’s eyes widened in alarm, but she hurried to obey, disappearing back into the kitchen with the urgency of a soldier responding to orders.
Mrs. Nicholls turned her attention back to Elizabeth, her voice softening as she placed a steadying hand on the girl’s arm. “Now, Miss Elizabeth, tell me everything. Who has been drugged? And who has taken Miss Bingley?”
Elizabeth shook her head, her wet curls clinging to her face as fresh tears spilled over her cheeks. “It—it was Mr. Wickham. The officer from the regiment,” she choked out. “He… he laced the tea with laudanum. Everyone drank it—Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley, Jane—” Her voice cracked, and she pressed a hand to her trembling lips. “They’re all unconscious in the drawing room.”
“Good Lord,” Mrs. Nicholls whispered, her heart sinking as she imagined the scene upstairs. But she pushed her own alarm aside, her years of experience in crisis management taking hold. “And you say he’s taken Miss Bingley?”
Elizabeth nodded, her body shaking with the effort to remain composed. “He—he’s gone now,” she stammered. “He took her in my father’s carriage. I wanted to stop him, but…” She trailed off, her voice breaking as she stared off into space, falling silent.
Mrs. Nicholls felt a jolt of alarm, but years of experience quelled her panic. “Come now, child,” she said firmly, stepping forward and reaching for Elizabeth’s arm. “You’re in no state to be running about like this. Sit down in the kitchen and let me fetch you something warm. You need to collect yourself.”
Her intent was to guide Elizabeth toward a chair by the desk, but as soon as her hand touched Elizabeth’s arm, the younger woman stiffened. Her wide eyes darted to Mrs. Nicholls, and with a sudden cry, she wrenched herself free.
“No!” Elizabeth shouted, her voice rising with desperation. “I have to see Jane! I have to—” She spun away, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she stumbled toward the door.
“Miss Elizabeth!” Mrs. Nicholls called after her, her own voice laced with concern. “Please, wait! You’re in no condition—”
But Elizabeth was already running, her steps echoing down the corridor as she made for the drawing room. Mrs. Nicholls followed as quickly as her legs would allow, her heart pounding with a mix of worry and frustration.
Whatever had happened, she knew things had changed forever. This was no ordinary scandal; this was something far darker—and it had invaded the very heart of Netherfield Park.