Chapter Thirty-Six
The air bit at Elizabeth’s cheeks as she stepped beyond the garden gate, the cold sinking deep into her bones.
Winter had not yet come in, but its herald was unmistakable.
The sky was leaden, heavy with unfallen snow, and the bare limbs of the trees rattled in the wind like the bones of the earth itself.
The ground, once soft with summer’s bloom, now lay frozen and brittle beneath her boots, the grass dead and grey.
She clutched her shawl tighter about her and pressed forwards into the edge of Longbourn’s woods, hoping to still the thoughts in her mind that had been swirling without ceasing since Tommy disappeared.
The uncertainty, the helplessness, the guilt—it all pressed down upon her like the grey sky above.
Her heart ached with fear, and her soul sagged under the weight of what she had hidden, of what might come to pass if Tommy were lost forever.
She walked without purpose, her steps leading her farther and farther from Longbourn as she followed an old, overgrown trail that the game used more than the family.
No one but her ever came this way. No one knew it was here.
Twigs cracked beneath her feet. The hush of the woods felt eerie, as though the trees themselves waited in breathless silence.
Elizabeth paused, a sudden sound catching her attention—a low murmur, not quite words, but unmistakably human.
Dropping low, she crept forwards, each movement careful and deliberate. The underbrush clawed at her skirts, brambles snagged at her hair, but she did not stop. She parted the bushes carefully, ignoring the sting of a thorn that tore a scratch across her cheek.
There—movement.
Through the dense foliage, she saw him.
Wickham stood in the clearing, his hand twisted tightly in Tommy’s hair, guiding him with no tenderness at all.
The boy’s hands were loosely bound in front, and though his legs were unbound, he stumbled, either from exhaustion or fear.
Elizabeth’s heart pounded so violently that she feared it might give her away.
“Do it now,” Wickham snapped, shoving Tommy towards the base of a tree. “Be quick about it. We cannot be seen.” The boy whimpered but obeyed. Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from crying out.
When the boy was done, Wickham yanked him roughly by the arm.
“Inside. We have a long wait ahead of us. And no more nonsense. You make another sound and I shall toss you in the stream.” He dragged Tommy towards a small, half-collapsed structure obscured with brush—an old hunting shack, long forgotten.
Elizabeth recognised it. Her grandfather had used it in his youth, but it had not been visited in years.
She had believed it little more than a ruin, yet here it stood, barely upright but functional enough to serve Wickham’s cruel purpose.
As the door creaked closed behind them, Elizabeth crept backward, branch by branch, until she was clear of the underbrush. Her hands shook. Her breath came in short, gasping bursts. But she did not stop. She did not hesitate.
She turned and ran.
The cold wind tore at her shawl and made her eyes water, but she ran faster, clutching her skirts to keep from tripping.
She dared not go back to Longbourn—it was too far, and she was closer now to Netherfield.
Her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs as she cleared the wood’s edge and saw the house ahead.
She burst through the front door without ceremony, startling a footman and causing Miss Bingley to shriek from the drawing room. But Elizabeth paid them no heed.
“Darcy! Mr Darcy!” she cried.
Footsteps thundered on the stairs. Darcy appeared with Richard just behind him. Mr Bennet and Mr Bingley emerged from a sitting room at the rear of the hall, where they had congregated to make a new plan of action.
“I found him!” she gasped. “Tommy! He is alive. Wickham has him hidden in the old hunting shack—the one my grandfather used. It is deep in the woods—beyond the deer path. There were brambles and branches and so many obstacles, but it still stands. He is in there.”
Without a word, Darcy sprang into action. He barked orders for weapons and horses. Mr Bennet turned white, but his voice was steady as he asked for lanterns and men.
Richard laid a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “You did well. You did very well.”
Elizabeth nodded, her breath still coming hard. “You must be careful. Wickham… he has nothing to lose.”
Darcy turned back, his expression fierce and resolute. “And I have everything to lose.”
Within minutes, they were ready. An ambush was set, and Elizabeth could only pray for success.
Wickham was cold, hungry, and irritable.
The chill inside the hut sank into his bones, and the boy’s incessant crying, muffled though it was, gnawed at his nerves like a dull blade sawing at flesh.
It had been two days. Two long, freezing days of crouching in shadows, feeding the boy just enough to keep him quiet, and waiting for the right time to send the ransom note.
That time was now. He needed food, warmth, and clarity to draft his demands.
After all, this was not a game—it was his future.
Fifty thousand pounds could buy comfort.
Peace. Power. He would disappear with the funds and reemerge as a gentleman of means.
Darcy would be disgraced, Bennet humiliated, and the little boy… well, he was just collateral.
Wickham crouched near the corner where the child lay on a mound of musty blankets.
The boy’s hands were tied before him, and his ankles bound loosely to allow minimal movement.
His eyes were red from crying, his face streaked with tears and grime.
Wickham scowled as he shoved a stale crust of bread into the boy’s bound hands. He tugged the gag down.
“Eat it,” he snapped. “That is your supper.”
The boy whimpered, but obeyed, gnawing weakly at the bread.
Wickham donned his coat and hat, then dragged a thin blanket over the child. He would not freeze, not with the layers of wool and his thick coat. Besides, Wickham reasoned, he would only be gone a couple of hours.
He slipped through the bramble-thickened door, his careful camouflage of branches and dead leaves concealing the entrance well. No one had found them. No one would.
He made his way into Meryton by back roads and deer trails, entering the inn’s kitchen through the back entrance. The familiar smell of ale, mutton stew, and wood smoke greeted him like an old friend.
“Back again, Mr Wickham?” cooed the barmaid, her apron smudged and her cheeks rosy. “You look half-frozen!”
“I am half-frozen,” he said, flashing her a tired smile. “Fetch me something warm, will you, love? And maybe a nip of something stronger?”
She smiled, her eyelashes fluttering as she disappeared into the storage room, beckoning him to follow.
He obliged her, and they sat for a while in the storeroom behind the inn.
She brought stew and bread, a half-pint of ale, and a sweet tart for after.
He ate ravenously, trading flirtatious remarks with the girl, feeding her just enough lies to keep her entertained and ignorant.
By the time he left, the sun had long since set.
The sky was an inkblot smeared with stars, and the air had turned knife-sharp.
He took the long route back to the shack, humming a half-remembered tavern tune.
The boy would be crying again—he always was—but it no longer stirred guilt.
Only annoyance. No one would hear him, anyway.
He stepped inside, brushing the hanging brambles aside. Sure enough, muffled sobs reached his ears.
“For heaven’s sake, cease your incessant wailing!” he snarled.
The boy’s thin frame quivered. Wickham stomped across the room and, in a surge of frustration, kicked him in the side—not hard enough to harm, but enough to frighten. “You keep that up and I will stop feeding you, do you understand?” He tugged the gag up and back in place.
The child’s only response was a soft, stifled cry behind the gag. Wickham sighed and rubbed his face. No use getting worked up again. This would all be over soon. He would write the ransom demand tonight and send it in the morning. Then it would all be out of his hands.
He dropped into the battered old chair beside the stove, pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat, and reached for paper and pencil. The stove remained cold—smoke was too dangerous—but he could write in the dark well enough.
He had just begun scrawling “To Mr Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy—” when the door crashed open with a thunderous bang.
“Wickham!” came a voice like gunfire.
He spun around.
Darcy and Fitzwilliam stood in the doorway, pistols trained on him, faces like carved stone. Darcy’s jaw clenched so tight it looked liable to crack. Fitzwilliam’s gaze was colder than the wind outside.
Wickham jumped to his feet and stumbled backward, knocking over the rickety table. He reached for the pistol tucked into his waistband. But just as his hand brushed the handle—
THUD.
Pain exploded in the back of his knees. He buckled, and his hands flew out, grasping at nothing. The child—he had kicked him. That weak, pampered little brat had kicked him.
Before Wickham could recover, Richard Fitzwilliam was on him, a knee planted firmly between his shoulder blades, one arm wrenched behind his back.
“You always were a clumsy lout,” Fitzwilliam growled, snapping iron cuffs around his wrists. “Well, that was a disappointing anticlimax.”
Darcy rushed to the boy, slicing through the ropes with a hunting knife. He ripped off the gag and gathered the child into his arms.
“You are safe now, lad,” he said softly. “You are safe.”
Wickham, panting and livid, lay pinned to the floor. His plans, his schemes, his escape—all shattered in an instant.
“You will pay for this,” he hissed.
Darcy turned slowly, fire in his eyes.
“No. I think it is quite the opposite. You are finished.”