Chapter 8 From Hunsford to the High Seas
by Natasja Rose
Meryton, Hertfordshire
The militia, specifically the Derbyshire regiment, suited George Wickham very well, because many merchants extended credit, and they never stayed in one place long.
As long as he could put off any merchants asking for payment for a few months or charm a convenient young lady into lending him the coin for a partial payment, Wickham marched away from his debts and left the merchants to bear the cost.
Besides, while Wickham could not abandon the regiment without being shot as a deserter, Brighton, their permanent encampment after this brief stop in Meryton, where supplies were cheaper, would be swarming with wealthy widows and young ladies seeking a handsome husband.
Once Wickham was married to a woman of some fortune, no one would question him resigning his commission to manage her property or use her money to buy an estate somewhere far away.
No man could be married to two women at once, and once the girl was paid, she’d be happier with the pretence of widowhood than she would have been married to him and following the Drum.
But not all debts were monetary.
The militia had been in Southport before they decamped to Meryton for the winter.
Wickham had quite liked Southport, close enough to the fashionable city of Bath to enjoy some of the luxuries offered there, and far enough away to be a popular place for smugglers.
Wickham had managed to endear himself by providing patrol schedules, which made it easier for smuggling gangs to avoid them.
Southport had also had an abundance of pretty young ladies, and while none were gentlemen’s daughters, Wickham never lacked for female company.
He’d been wise not to promise his temporary lovers anything—certainly not in writing—and he rarely expected his charming bedfellows to have family to follow after him.
However, one band of brothers, when their sister presented with child, tracked him from Southport to Meryton and ambushed him in the woods on his way to meet the youngest Miss Bennet.
“So, Wickham, this is where you’ve been hiding. ”
Wickham looked for an escape, as several more young men slipped from behind the trees, putting paid to that idea. “The militia moves where we are ordered. I have no say in that.”
One brother brandished a wicked-looking knife. “But you do have a say in asking your colonel for leave to marry your sweetheart and the mother of your child.”
Wickham had left several of his get behind him, with far less care than he’d taken in seducing their mothers.
What was one more? “Colonel Forster will not grant it. We are to move to our next encampment soon, and there is too much for the officers to do. Perhaps once we are settled this summer, I will be able to return for…?” Blast, he couldn’t even remember her name.
Several more knives were produced. “In that case, you’re welcome to pay our sister off. Three thousand pounds, enough to set her up as a respectable young widow. Or we’d be happy to deliver her your body, as her poor departed husband.”
Wickham broke into a cold sweat. “I don’t have that money, but I know someone you can get that sum from with little inconvenience.”
Wickham knew that Darcy always visited Rosings at Easter, playing the dutiful nephew by attending to all those estate matters that the esteemed Lady Catherine de Bourgh thought were beneath her notice.
Darcy had more than enough blunt to pay a ransom to satisfy the smugglers, and why should Wickham not point them Darcy’s way?
Darcy had been cleaning up after Wickham since they were boys.
Even then, he had used Darcy’s name to run up debts at sweet shops.
He could send these thugs to Kent to give Darcy a fright, perhaps rough him up a bit, and be on their way with the cash before the sun set.
Elizabeth had claimed a headache to avoid seeing Mr Darcy (at least until she had her anger under better regulation) or paying homage to Rosings Park and the Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Despite Mr Collins offering her excuses, likely at great length, the gentleman appeared anyway!
Elizabeth called for tea like a dutiful hostess and regretted that there was no polite way to send him away before a quarter of an hour passed.
If her headache had been a lie before, watching Mr Darcy was dizzying enough that it threatened to give her a headache in truth. He sat, he stood, he paced. He looked as if he would speak, then lapsed into his characteristic silence. It was enough to drive any reasonable woman mad!
Finally, he stopped. “Miss Bennet, in vain I have struggled. You must—”
What Elizabeth must do was to remain a mystery, for at that moment the door to the parsonage burst open, and masked brigands rushed in.
Elizabeth had no time to scream before a sack was thrown over her head. There was the sound of punches being thrown, and someone staggered into her, making her fall, and rendering her insensible.
Elizabeth woke to the creaking of wooden boards and the cry of gulls.
Gulls and the smell of saltwater…in Kent?
Well, parts of Kent bordered the sea. Still, Lady Catherine had been proud of travelling to the seaside when she felt the inclination, and Rosings Park was landlocked.
Wherever she was, it was no longer Hunsford but on a boat.
Smugglers, perhaps? It had all been much less terrifying in the novels she and Jane had giggled over in their schoolroom years.
A coarse sack covered her head, and her hands were bound. Elizabeth groaned.
Strong hands eased her into a seated position and eased the sack from her head. “There you are, miss. If nature calls, you’ll not be going anywhere alone,” said the woman.
The throbbing ache in her head turned to blinding pain when she tried to open her eyes. How could the fading light of evening hurt so much?
At least a woman attended her if Elizabeth required a discreet moment. And it was a necessity; she must have been unconscious for some hours. Elizabeth swallowed her fear, for it would not help her. “Yes, please.”
A deep, masculine groan from nearby alerted her that she was not alone. Mr Darcy? Could he have been the kidnappers’ target? His fortune made him more likely than Elizabeth. She tried to open her eyes again, this time with more success.
A woman about her own age knelt beside her, empty chamber pot in hand.
Her face was thin, her hair swept under a maid’s cap, hiding its colour.
Her eyes seemed kind, though on a ship full of men of unknown intent, what that signified was unknown.
The strange woman set the chamber pot on the deck and lifted Elizabeth above it, arranging her gown around her to create a pretence of dignity and privacy.
Elizabeth was mortified to have to relieve herself so close to a stranger—worse in the same vicinity as Mr Darcy. But needs must.
Once that humiliation was over, Elizabeth returned to her original position on the floor while the woman left to empty the pot.
Heavy footsteps approached. Elizabeth lay still, keeping her eyes closed. There was the sound of impact, and a grunt of pain. A man with a coarse accent spoke. “Wake up, my fine fellow. We sail soon, and where you disembark depends on you.”
Mr Darcy’s tone was grim, an understandable sentiment, given the circumstances. “What do you want?”
The man replied, “Your friend Mr Wickham told us that you’d pay the debt he owes. We would have been happy to collect from his corpse, but you’re rather more substantial than we’d get from the anatomists, if you take my meaning.”
Mr Darcy groaned again. “What the deuce has he done now?”
The man chuckled. “Well, that’s proof enough that you know the bastard who left our sister with child. We figure three thousand pounds will even the score.”
Elizabeth could not help gasping, then immediately groaned. Headaches were no respecters of emotional upheaval. Opening her eyes improved this time, but her bound hands made it difficult to clutch her head.
Mr Darcy reminded her of a beached harbour seal Elizabeth had seen once whilst on a visit to Lyme with her aunt and uncle Gardiner, as he tried to manoeuvre himself into a position to see her properly.
His face was bruised, and he winced whenever he braced himself on his left arm. “Elizabeth! Are you well?”
The impropriety of addressing her by her Christian name paled in comparison to the indelicacies she had already suffered.
Their captor looked at her. “We’ve no quarrel with you, miss. But it doesn’t do to leave witnesses to raise an alarm.”
Mr Darcy exclaimed, “I can swear to you now, you will receive not a ha’penny if you hurt her.”
The declaration was appreciated, but probably unnecessary. The rough man looked almost apologetic, and if Elizabeth were to guess, she doubted that he was a hardened criminal, merely desperate. She, at least, had been offered no violence, despite being felled unconscious in the scuffle.
Elizabeth said, “I pity your sister’s misfortune, but we all must look to our own first.”
Was his sister the woman who had helped her before? That would explain her presence on the boat.
Mr Darcy had managed to right himself into an inelegant position. “Yours is not the first sister that Wickham has ruined, but the desire to protect my own family from his lies has stopped me from exposing him.”
What?
“What do you mean?” the man asked.
Mr Darcy said, “I have a younger sister. Wickham threatened to claim that they were lovers. A rumour is enough to ruin a reputation, even when it is false, and so I could not expose him while she is vulnerable.”
No wonder Mr Darcy had nothing good to say about Mr Wickham, yet never defended himself from Mr Wickham’s claims!
“I can hardly fault you for that, though I might have wished for a warning before I embarrassed myself defending the man,” Elizabeth said.
His smile was genuine this time.
Their captor frowned. “You’ve been the one left to clean up his tangles, then. How?”