Chapter 18
E lizabeth sat in a room she barely recognized, her body limp and unresisting as Mrs. Nicholls and two maids worked around her. The fire in the hearth crackled loudly, its warmth reaching her chilled limbs. Despite the heat, however, she shivered uncontrollably, her teeth chattering, her limbs trembling as if the chill in her bones could not be chased away.
A steaming bath stood near the fire, hastily filled with the boiling water brought up from the kitchen that Mrs. Nicholls had the foresight to order when she first saw Elizabeth. Beside it lay a warm woolen dressing gown with a matching robe, liberated from Mrs. Hurst’s closet, as she was the only woman in residence who did not stand a full head higher than Elizabeth.
The room was alive with the sounds of bustling maids, hurried footsteps, and whispered exclamations, but it all felt distant to Elizabeth, as though she were trapped behind a thick pane of glass. Mrs. Nicholls led Elizabeth over to the fireplace and sat her down on a plain wooden chair.
“Come now, Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Nicholls murmured, her voice steady but tinged with worry. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes. We need to warm you up, my dear. You’re chilled to the bone.”
The housekeeper’s hands worked deftly to unfasten her boots and the buttons on the back of Elizabeth’s sodden gown. The fabric of her dress clung to her bruised skin, peeling away with an unsettling sound that made her flinch, though she remained silent.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Nicholls said gently, drawing her back to the present, “can you lift your arms for me, dear?”
Elizabeth obeyed without thinking, her movements mechanical. She felt the maids slip her tattered gown from her shoulders, their hands careful but firm. The cold air hit her skin, sending another shiver down her spine.
The maids hovered nearby, their faces pale, their eyes darting nervously over the torn fabric and Elizabeth’s battered frame. The rustle of fabric and the occasional whispered gasp were the only sounds in the room.
“She’s shaking so much,” one of the maids whispered, her voice thick with worry. “Is she ill, Mrs. Nicholls?”
“She’s in shock,” Mrs. Nicholls replied grimly. “Stoke the fire, Alice.”
“Oh, look at that bruise,” another one of the maids breathed, her voice quavering. She pointed to a deep purple mark on Elizabeth’s arm, visible now that the sleeve had been peeled away. “That must hurt something awful.”
Elizabeth didn’t react. She felt as though she were floating outside her own body, watching as the maids uncovered scratch after scratch, bruise after bruise. The cuts on her arms were long and jagged, angry red lines crisscrossing her skin from her frantic flight through the hedgerows. A deep scratch on her cheek still oozed blood, and the maids clucked with concern as they dabbed at it with a cloth.
The stalwart housekeeper’s hands trembled slightly as she worked, her jaw tight with suppressed emotion. “Miss Elizabeth doesn’t need your fretting. Go fetch some ointment from the still room. Now.”
The younger maid darted from the room, her footsteps echoing down the hall. Elizabeth sat numbly as Mrs. Nicholls began to unlace her stays, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. As the fabric fell away, revealing bruises forming along Elizabeth’s ribs, the older woman let out a tsk of dismay.
“You poor child,” Mrs. Nicholls murmured, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “What have you been through?”
Elizabeth said nothing. The words were trapped somewhere deep inside her, buried beneath layers of shock and exhaustion. She let herself be guided into the bath, the warm water stinging as it met her raw skin. She flinched slightly as the heat touched her battered skin but made no other protest. Her limbs felt heavy, her mind sluggish, and she moved only when prompted by Mrs. Nicholls or the maid, like a puppet being maneuvered on unseen strings.
The water quickly turned murky as the maids gently washed away the dirt, blood, and grime from her ordeal. The dried blood on her chin, where she had bitten her lip to stifle her cries, came away with soft scrubbing. One of the maids wrung out a cloth, her hands trembling. “It’s like she’s been through a war,” she whispered to her companion.
“Hush,” Mrs. Nicholls said firmly, though there was a tremor in her own voice. She took the cloth and dabbed at a particularly tender-looking bruise on Elizabeth’s temple. “There now, Miss Elizabeth. This ointment will help. Just a bit of sting, but it’ll ease the pain.”
Elizabeth barely registered the words, her thoughts swirling in a chaotic storm, her mind as numb as her frozen limbs. She felt detached from her body, as though she were watching the scene unfold from a great distance.
As the warmth of the bath began to seep into her, the haze of shock slowly lifted, and emotions she’d held at bay began to rise.
The events of the day played in disjointed fragments—Wickham’s sneering face, the maze’s twisting passages, the terror that had gripped her chest as she crouched in the hedge, listening to his shouts. She had run, hidden, and fought to survive, but now, in the relative safety of Netherfield, the enormity of it all began to settle upon her.
I was so close to…
She couldn’t finish the thought. Her breath hitched, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memories to dissipate. Yet they remained, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to pounce.
The maids worked in silence now, their movements gentle as they washed away the dirt and blood. Elizabeth felt their hands on her arms, her shoulders, her hair, but her thoughts were elsewhere. At first, fear dominated—sharp, visceral fear.
What if Wickham had caught me? What if I hadn’t been able to run? The thought made her chest tighten, her breath coming in shallow gasps until she thought she would drown.
But as the minutes passed, fear gave way to something else: anger. It started as a faint flicker, like the embers of the fire beside her, which grew with each passing moment. How dare they? How dare Wickham and Caroline conspire to harm everyone she loved? To use her family and friends as pawns in their twisted game?
Her hands curled into fists beneath the water, her nails digging into her palms. The heat of the bath seemed to fuel her fury, melting away the numbness that had paralyzed her. She had been terrified, yes—more terrified than she had ever been in her life, but she had faced that fear and lived. She had outsmarted Wickham, escaped his clutches, and survived to tell the tale.
Running didn’t make me weak, she thought fiercely. It made me brave. I lived to expose the truth.
The maids’ whispers pulled her from her thoughts. “Her lip’s split,” one of them murmured, her voice filled with concern. “Must’ve bitten it in fright.”
“Hold still, Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Nicholls said as she dabbed a clean cloth over Elizabeth’s chin, wiping away the dried blood. “There now. We’ll have you patched up soon enough.”
Elizabeth obeyed, her body yielding to their ministrations, but her mind continued to churn. The shock was wearing off, replaced by a steely determination that hardened her resolve. She thought of Jane, lying unconscious downstairs, her serene face marred by the knowledge of how close she had come to ruin. She thought of Darcy, his strong frame crumpled on the floor, vulnerable in a way she had never imagined. And she thought of Wickham, his cruel smile etched into her memory like a brand.
I will not let them win, she vowed silently. I will not let them destroy what matters most.
“Miss Elizabeth?” Mrs. Nicholls’s voice broke through her thoughts, and Elizabeth blinked, realizing the housekeeper was holding out a towel.
She nodded, and the maids lifted her from the bath, wrapping her in soft towels warmed by the fire. They rubbed ointment into her cuts and bruises, their hands careful but efficient. The dressing gown and robe were brought forward, their fabric rich and soft against her battered skin. Elizabeth allowed herself to be dressed, the warmth of the layers cocooning her like a shield against the cold.
Her gaze drifted to the fire, its flames crackling and dancing with a kind of wild energy. She saw herself in those flames—burning, unyielding, determined. She would not let fear silence her. She would speak the truth, no matter the cost.
By the time the maids had finished dressing her, Elizabeth’s shivering had lessened, though her teeth still chattered faintly. They wrapped her in warm blankets and placed hot bricks at her feet, their hands quick and efficient.
“She’s still trembling,” one of the maids whispered, her brow furrowed.
“She’ll be all right,” Mrs. Nicholls said firmly, though her eyes lingered on Elizabeth with concern. “The worst is over now.”
But for Elizabeth, the worst was not over. The fight was just beginning. She would face the others downstairs—Darcy, Jane, the apothecary—and she would tell them everything. She would expose Wickham and Caroline for the villains they were.
Mrs. Nicholls knelt before her, adjusting the folds of the blankets wrapped around Elizabeth’s legs. “There now,” she said with a small nod of satisfaction. “You’ll warm up soon enough. The shivering is just the shock wearing off.”
Elizabeth met the housekeeper’s gaze, her own eyes clear and determined. “Thank you, Mrs. Nicholls,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. “But I am not done yet.”
“You’re a strong one, Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Nicholls said softly, a note of admiration in her voice as she tied the robe’s sash. “Stronger than most.”
A knock at the door interrupted the moment, and the butler’s voice called from the hallway. “Mrs. Nicholls? Miss Elizabeth? The young lady’s presence is requested downstairs.”
Mrs. Nicholls glanced at Elizabeth, her brow furrowed in concern. “Are you certain you’re ready, child? You’ve been through so much—”
“I am ready,” Elizabeth said firmly, standing without hesitation. Her legs trembled slightly beneath her, but she held her head high. “I must tell them what happened.”
Mrs. Nicholls studied her for a moment before nodding. “Very well, then. But lean on me if you feel unsteady.”
Elizabeth didn’t need the offer. With each step toward the door, her resolve solidified. The fear that had gripped her earlier was gone, replaced by a fierce determination. She had endured more than she thought possible, but she had survived. And now, she would speak the truth.
Nothing would stop her.
∞∞∞
Making her way down the stairs, she was led by the butler to the music room, relieved that the parlor had been abandoned in favor of a more comfortable environment. A footman pulled the door open, giving her a look that seemed to be a mix of pity and horror.
She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. You survived, Elizabeth. You escaped, and now you must tell the truth. With that thought as her anchor, she straightened her back and walked through the door, her head held high.
The gentlemen stood as she entered the room. She paused in the doorway, conscious of the worried eyes upon her. The maids had done an admirable job making her presentable, but no amount of warm baths or woolen dressing gowns could chase away the weariness that clung to her like a second skin.
Darcy sat stiffly near the fire, his posture as rigid as the stone mantle behind him. Bingley hovered protectively beside Jane. Her pale face was framed by wisps of hair that had escaped her hastily arranged coiffure, her large eyes filled with lingering confusion.
Sir William Lucas, who served as the magistrate, occupied a commanding position near the fireplace, his expression one of grave concern. Mr. Jones stood beside him, his weathered face solemn. Near the window sat Mr. Bennet, his usual air of sardonic detachment replaced with a grim determination that set Elizabeth on edge. Reclining on a settee was Mrs. Hurst, her face pale.
The air was thick with tension, broken only by the soft clink of cups as the servants circulated with trays of coffee, chocolate, and lemonade. Another tray of tea and sandwiches was offered, which no-one touched. Elizabeth hesitated in the doorway, unsure if she had the strength to endure what was coming.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Sir William called gently, breaking the silence. “Please, join us.”
She stepped forward, the weight of their gazes pressing down on her like a physical force. Every step felt heavier than the last as she crossed the room and took the empty seat Sir William had indicated.
“Where is Miss Darcy?” she asked urgently.
“My sister is resting in her rooms,” Darcy answered, his face softening. “Other than being quite fatigued, she is well.”
“And Andrew?” She held her breath.
“Perfectly safe and unharmed,” Darcy assured her. “He and his nurse had retired for the evening, and they had absolutely no idea of what was occurring.”
She exhaled and looked around the room. “But where is Mr. Hurst?”
Elizabeth’s question hung in the air, the tension in the room thickening as she scanned the faces of those gathered. A shadow passed over Mrs. Hurst’s features, and she lowered her gaze to her lap, where her hands rested protectively over the small yet noticeable bulge at her midline.
Mr. Jones cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Miss Elizabeth,” he began delicately, his tone measured, “I am afraid Mr. Hurst… did not survive the events of the afternoon.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Her eyes widened as the weight of the words settled over her. “What—what do you mean?” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Darcy, seated a few feet away, shifted uncomfortably, his brows drawing together in a tight line. “Mr. Jones believes that the laudanum in the tea, combined with the alcohol Mr. Hurst consumed earlier, proved fatal,” he said, his voice low and controlled, though his hands were clenched tightly on the arms of his chair.
Elizabeth turned to Mrs. Hurst, whose pale face betrayed her grief despite the stoic mask she tried to maintain. “I… I am so sorry,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice trembling. “I did not realize…”
Mrs. Hurst looked up briefly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” she said quietly, her voice raspy, “but I would rather not dwell on it any longer.”
At this point, Sir William cleared his throat. “Miss Elizabeth, there is some confusion over what occurred this evening, and you are the only one with answers. Can you explain what happened? Mr. Jones has informed us that you said Mr. Wickham was involved and Miss Bingley is missing.”
Elizabeth nodded, swallowing hard. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap to stop them from trembling. “Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse but steady. “I will tell you everything.”
She began her account slowly, carefully choosing her words. She described the tea, the strange, bitter flavor, and the moments when everything had begun to unravel. As she recounted Wickham’s pursuit and her frantic escape through the hedgerows, her voice faltered, but she pressed on.
When she reached the part where Wickham had carried an unconscious Miss Bingley to the carriage, binding her wrists before fleeing, a collective gasp swept through the room.
“We must recover her at once!” Bingley cried, leaping to his feet. His eyes darted to Darcy, pleading for direction.
Before Darcy could respond, a venomous voice cut through the room. “Must we?” Mrs. Hurst sneered from her corner, her hand resting protectively over her slightly swollen belly.
Normally so poised and unflappable, the new widow was now a shadow of her former self, her eyes red-rimmed and weary. She had been largely silent since awakening to the news of her husband’s death, but now her voice carried a steely edge. “I say, she has made her bed. Let her lie in it.”
Jane let out a soft gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. “Surely there’s been some kind of misunderstanding,” she said faintly, her voice trembling.
Elizabeth pressed her lips into a thin line and shook her head. “No, Jane,” she said firmly. “There is no misunderstanding. Miss Bingley and Mr. Wickham entered into this scheme knowingly. They are directly responsible for the chaos here tonight, including the death of Mr. Hurst.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
“He wasn’t always like this,” Mrs. Hurst spat, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “He only drank because of Caroline. She drove him mad. He would say it was the only way to endure her company. And now, she has taken him from me entirely.”
Bingley went pale, his face a mask of disbelief. “Will they be arrested for murder?”
Sir William cleared his throat awkwardly, the weight of authority settling uncomfortably on his shoulders. “Intent is a significant factor in such matters. They will need to be questioned thoroughly before we proceed with any charges.”
“That may be,” Darcy said, his voice cutting through the room, “but Wickham should certainly be arrested for kidnapping. Regardless of intent, he forcibly took an unconscious woman against her will.” His jaw tightened, his eyes blazing. “They’re likely halfway to Gretna Green by now. Marriage would ensure Wickham’s access to her dowry and protect him from immediate consequences.”
“Do you truly think he’d marry her?” Bingley asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Darcy said flatly. “This is not the first time he has attempted such a scheme with a wealthy young woman. When his plans with… a wealthy young woman of my acquaintance failed, he likely saw Miss Bingley as a new opportunity.”
Elizabeth shot him a sharp look. Does he mean….No, surely not! The poor girl; no wonder she is so timid.
Bingley slumped back into his chair, shaking his head. “If that is the case,” he said, “there is no use chasing them now. They have hours on us. And given what the servants have seen…”
The words hung in the air, unfinished but understood by all. The damage to Caroline’s reputation—and by extension, the Bingley name—was irreversible.
Mr. Bennet cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him. “And it is precisely that damage which brings me here tonight,” he said gravely.
Elizabeth tensed, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. “What do you mean, Papa?” she asked warily.
He looked at her, his expression softening for a moment before hardening again. “The rumors are already spreading through Meryton,” he said. “Your Aunt Philips arrived at Longbourn with tales of a sordid tea party mere minutes after I received Mr. Bingley’s note.”
Elizabeth groaned softly, dread pooling in her stomach. “Dare I ask what she said?”
Mr. Bennet’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The story is that Mr. Bingley seduced Jane on the settee,” he said bluntly. “And when you tried to intervene, Mr. Darcy assaulted you, causing your injuries.” He paused, his gaze resting on Darcy. “The loss of your jacket, sir, has only added fuel to the fire.”
Elizabeth felt as though the ground had dropped out from beneath her. “No,” she whispered. “Surely not—”
“I’m afraid it’s true,” Mr. Bennet said, his voice heavy with regret. “You and Jane are both ruined.”
Jane burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. Elizabeth reached for her, wrapping an arm around her trembling shoulders. “What happens now?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“That,” Mr. Bennet said heavily, “depends entirely on Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”
All eyes turned to the two men. Darcy’s expression was unreadable, his features carved in stone, but Bingley’s face lit up with determination. He rose to his feet and turned to Jane. “Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion, “while this is not how I envisioned things, I must confess that I find you to be the most angelic, kind, and extraordinary woman I have ever known. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Jane looked up, her tear-streaked face filled with shock and uncertainty. She glanced at Elizabeth, who gave her a small, encouraging nod. “Yes,” Jane whispered. “Yes, Mr. Bingley, I will marry you.”
The room erupted in murmurs, but Elizabeth’s attention was fixed on her father, who had turned his gaze to Darcy.
“And you, Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Bennet said, his voice steady but unyielding.
Darcy stiffened, his dark eyes narrowing. “What are you asking of me, sir?”
Mr. Bennet met his gaze without flinching. “I am asking you to marry my daughter, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth’s heart stopped. The room seemed to fall away, the voices around her fading into silence. She turned to Darcy, her wide eyes locking with his.
For a moment, it was as though time itself had ceased to exist.