Chapter Thirty-Five #2
Wickham sneered. “Pathetic. If I was raising you, I would be ashamed.” He stood abruptly and paced, his boots thudding softly against the dirt-packed floor.
“Whimpering over a little cold and darkness. I would have never lasted a day in the militia if I had been like you.” He turned back to the child, staring down at the small figure with a mix of contempt and detached amusement.
“The Bennets have spoiled you—pampered you like some noble brat. No spine. No grit.”
Outside, the sound of distant shouting and rustling through brush reached his ears. Wickham froze, his breath catching in his throat. Men. Searchers.
He crept to the small slit of a window and peered out through the thick curtain of branches. He saw nothing but shifting shadows in the trees, the flicker of movement far beyond the thicket. The voices were too distant to make out the words, but he could hear them—calling the boy’s name.
“Tommy! Tommy!”
The boy stirred at the sound, lifting his head with wide, tear-filled eyes.
Wickham turned swiftly and crouched beside him. “Do not even think of making a sound,” he growled. “They will not find us. This place is hidden better than any smuggler’s hole. No one will stumble across us unless I allow it.”
He stood again, brushing dirt from his coat. The air was dry and biting. Even he could not deny that the temperature had dropped since the morning. The child’s cheeks were red with cold, and he had begun to shake more visibly.
“You think this is bad?” he said aloud, speaking as much to himself as to the child.
“You ought to be grateful. This will be over soon. Once I receive what I am owed, I will let you go. Do you hear me? I am not a monster. But I will not be cheated again.” He turned and slammed his fist against the side of the stove, the metallic clang echoing through the hut.
“I deserved better. It is I who should have Pemberley. I should have had the respect of society. But the precious, pretentious, priggish Mr Darcy took it all from me.” He paced again, agitated.
“Well, no more. When this is done, I will be wealthy. I will disappear from this godforsaken county, and no one will ever look down their nose at George Wickham again.”
He stopped and looked once more at the boy.
“And you, you little brat—you will be free. But do not think for one moment that you are anything special. Crying like a baby.”
The boy squeezed his eyes shut, trying to disappear into the blanket.
Wickham scoffed and returned to the stool, drawing his coat tighter around himself.
“Sleep if you can,” he muttered. “Tomorrow, everything changes.” He leaned back against the wall, staring into the darkness, listening for the silence to return.
The front door creaked open, and Elizabeth was already in the hallway before the butler could announce her father’s return.
The rest of the family followed in quick succession—Jane, her face pale and taut with worry; Kitty and Lydia, subdued for once; Mary holding a handkerchief tightly in one trembling hand.
Even the servants lingered just beyond the staircase, hopeful and afraid.
Mr Bennet stepped inside slowly. His hat trembled in his grasp.
Elizabeth had never seen him look so diminished, so worn.
His face, usually marked with wry humour or weary patience, was drawn tight and hollow.
His eyes, bloodshot and dark-rimmed, scanned the anxious faces before settling on his daughters.
“Papa?” Jane’s voice cracked on the single word.
“Have you found him?” Elizabeth added quickly, though her breath caught in her throat.
He shook his head. That one motion sent a crushing silence across the entryway.
“There is no sign. We combed the woods. Oakham Mount. The ridgeline. The hedges leading out towards Meryton.” He spoke as though his voice belonged to someone else.
“Our friends joined us. And Darcy and Bingley were with us. Mr Fitzwilliam rode to the next town, but… nothing. Not so much as a broken branch.”
“No one saw anything?” Kitty whispered.
“No,” their father said, his voice hollow. “There are no witnesses—no tracks. He is gone.”
Miss Lane, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy, stepped forwards. Her hands twisted in anguish. “Mr Bennet… sir, I—I turned only a moment. Miss Lydia asked for assistance, and I looked away—only for a moment—”
Mr Bennet raised his hand gently, silencing her. “There is no blame here. No one did anything wrong. Whoever took Tommy planned this well. It could have been any one of us watching him. You are not at fault, Miss Lane.”
“But the note—” Elizabeth began.
“There was no signature,” her father replied grimly. “No proof. And Wickham… well, Wickham has vanished.”
Jane placed a hand on their father’s arm. “Papa, what do we do now?”
“I do not know,” he murmured, looking years older than he had that morning. “I went to Netherfield to speak with Darcy and Bingley. We are organizing a wider search. But for now…we wait.”
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Silence reigned, heavy and unbearable.
Elizabeth could not bear to stay. She turned without excuse or explanation and fled up the stairs.
Her room was dim and cold when she entered.
She stood for a moment by the door, then collapsed onto her bed in a tangle of limbs and grief.
The sobs broke loose before she could even draw breath.
Her fingers clawed at the coverlet as if she could tear away the ache that pressed so tightly in her chest.
Tommy. Her sweet, wild, beloved boy.
Where was he now? Was he cold? Frightened? Was he crying for her?
She imagined his tiny hands reaching out, his voice calling for her in the dark. The image pierced her like a dagger.
This is your fault.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the thought away, but it returned with relentless cruelty.
Elizabeth pressed her face into the pillow to muffle the cries that tore from her throat. Guilt consumed her. Not even her mother’s death had wrought such torment in her heart. She had buried that pain—had been strong for her sisters, for her father, for the boy in their nursery.
And now he was gone. This was her punishment. Not just for hiding the truth, but for daring to love and hope and dream, whilst built on a foundation of lies.
“Tommy,” she whispered into the stillness. “Please be safe. Please hold on.” She promised she would protect him, and though she knew she might never see him again, she could not let herself lose hope. Not yet.
Night fell without ceremony.
Mr Bennet sat alone in the study, the candle long burned low, the chair opposite him conspicuously empty. He had sent the servants away with gentle firmness; he could not bear to see their pity, nor the fear they worked so hard to conceal.
The room felt wrong without Tommy.
Too quiet. Too orderly.
His gaze fell upon the low stool by the hearth, where the boy often sat to build towers from discarded pamphlets or demand explanations for words he overheard but did not yet fully understand.
Tommy asked questions most men avoided. Not foolish ones.
Not childish ones. Questions that struck uncomfortably close to truth.
Mr Bennet pressed his fingers to his brow.
Tommy had always been clever—but not merely quick of mind. There was a depth to his understanding that unsettled him. He noticed injustice without being taught its name. He felt deeply, and worse—he trusted implicitly. Too much. Too easily.
That trust had been his doing.
“I should have been more careful,” Mr Bennet murmured to the empty room. “With you. With all of this.”
He rose abruptly and crossed to the window, staring into the darkness that offered no answers. A boy like Tommy did not simply wander off. He did not forget his lessons. He did not ignore instruction.
Someone had seen him.
Someone had recognised what he was worth.
The thought made his blood run cold.
Mr Bennet closed his eyes and, for the first time since the house had been roused into frantic motion, allowed fear to take root—not for reputation, nor for discovery, but for the small, brilliant soul who trusted him utterly.
“I will find you,” he whispered. “Whatever the cost.” Tommy was more than a solution to the entailment. The lad was his son, and he would not abandon him.