Chapter 9
The Channel
Georgiana Darcy, Elizabeth, and Lydia strolled along Marine Parade.
There was little wind, the sea barely showing a ripple, the sun warm overhead.
Elizabeth walked between her companions, her arm linked with Georgiana’s.
Lydia, beside them, chattered inconsequentially about the shops and the officers she hoped to see at the Assembly that evening.
Georgiana, less talkative, glanced often at the horizon, her eyes drawn to the ships bobbing in the bay.
Elizabeth looked back—Harriet had lingered longer than usual at the circulating library.
The proprietor, Mr. Donaldson, had placed recent copies of La Belle Assemblée in the window, which Harriet intended to be the first to borrow.
Surprisingly, Lydia had not remained with her, content to continue with Elizabeth and Georgiana.
The group came to the top of the steps that led down to the pebbled strand and stood waiting for Harriet to catch them.
Elizabeth noticed a group of men loitering by the railings, their voices low, their eyes following the women’s progress too closely.
There was something in their posture—shoulders hunched, hats pulled low—that set her nerves on edge.
“Lizzy, do look at that one,” Lydia said, lowering her voice for once. “He’s staring dreadfully.”
Elizabeth followed her gaze. The man at the centre of the group had a familiar curve to his mouth and a boldness in his eyes that made her breath catch.
Surely not—George Wickham? The sight of him here—when last seen, mud-stained and desperate outside Baldock—augured very ill. She felt Georgiana stiffen at her side.
“Let us turn back,” Georgiana whispered, her voice barely audible. “Please, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth squeezed Georgiana’s hand reassuringly; she turned to retrace their steps back to Harriet, who was even now hurrying to meet them.
Wickham’s gaze unsettled her; there was a cold edge in his eyes that made her skin tingle with unease.
She glanced around for some sign of an officer or a familiar face, but the traffic on the Parade had thinned, and, apart from Harriet, the nearest group of ladies were far behind them.
They had no chance to retreat. Wickham and his companions moved quickly. One seized Lydia by the arm, another blocked Elizabeth’s path. Wickham himself stood before Georgiana, his expression a mask of civility, his eyes cold.
“Miss Darcy,” he said, bowing with mock courtesy. “How fortunate to meet you here.”
Georgiana shrank back, her face blanching. “Let us pass, sir,” she managed, her voice trembling.
Wickham only smiled. “That would be a pity. We have a little excursion planned, and I insist upon your company.”
Elizabeth stepped forward, anger bristling in her voice. “You will do no such thing. Let us go at once, or I shall call for help.”
Wickham’s lips curled. “I doubt anyone will come, Miss Bennet. Not today. Besides, we shan’t keep you long. Just a little outing, a change of scene.”
His men pressed closer. Lydia struggled, her bravado faltering as she realised the seriousness of their predicament. “Let me go!” she cried, her voice carrying over the empty stretch of Parade.
Wickham’s grip tightened on Georgiana’s wrist. “Enough. Down the steps, if you please. We wouldn’t want to make a scene.”
For a moment, Elizabeth thought to shake herself free, but she was held too tightly. Harriet was now only twenty paces away.
“Run, Harriet! Run for your life!” Elizabeth screamed, before a rough hand clamped over her mouth.
The man’s odour was repulsive. With one last twist of her head, she freed herself, biting the fingers of the ruffian as he tried to stop her shout.
He roared in pain, roughly gripping her arm with his uninjured hand; Elizabeth, in desperation, yelled once more to Harriet.
“Find Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Darcy! Tell them Wickham has taken Georgiana!”
A fist hit the side of her head—dazed, there was little more she could do.
There was no choice but to follow Wickham.
The steps led down to the beach, where a cutter—a shallow boat with dark tarred sides—rocked in the surf, a pair of oarsmen waiting.
Beyond it, farther out, a single-masted sloop rode at anchor, a Red Ensign snapping at her mast.
“Quickly, now,” Wickham urged, shepherding the women to the water’s edge. Lydia stumbled, her face pale. Georgiana walked with head bowed, refusing to look at him, her hands clenched into fists.
Elizabeth’s mind raced. She had read of such things—of abductions and ransom demands, of women spirited away across the Channel to uncertain fates. Dread pressed on her chest, but she would not give Wickham the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
At the boat, the men forced them aboard.
The oarsmen shoved off, and the cutter lurched into the waves.
Elizabeth caught a last glimpse of the Parade above, the empty railings, the innocently gleaming windows of the houses.
Harriet had disappeared—their only hope now lay in her finding the Colonel or Mr. Darcy.
Wickham sat beside Georgiana, his posture relaxed, as if he were chaperoning her to a dance rather than dragging her toward a waiting ship. “You ought not to look so distressed, Miss Darcy,” he said, his voice oily with false concern. “A little salt air will do you good.”
Georgiana turned her face away. Elizabeth leaned forward, catching her eye. “Courage, dearest, we will get out of this,” she whispered fiercely. “I promise you.”
The cutter bobbed and pitched as it neared the sloop, whose crew now bustled about, readying lines and lowering a bosun’s chair. The Red Ensign fluttered overhead, a mockery of safety. Elizabeth’s heart pounded. She knew that Wickham had to be desperate—why abduct her and Georgiana?
As the boat drew alongside the sloop, Lydia began to sob. “Why are you doing this?” she whimpered. “What have we done?”
Wickham regarded her with barely disguised contempt. “Wrong place, wrong time, Miss Lydia. That is all.”
The sailors hauled them up, unceremoniously, onto the deck of the sloop. The air was thick with tar and salt, and the shouted orders of the captain—a swarthy man with a scar down one cheek—who barked at his men in a mixture of English and French.
The women were herded towards a storage locker at the bow of the vessel; the door slammed shut behind them.
For a moment, all was silent save for the creak of the ship and the slap of waves against the hull.
Outside, the anchor was hauled up, the sails unfurled.
The sloop turned her bow to the open sea.
* * *
She waited only long enough to see the sloop push off, the sails flapping uselessly as they sought to catch the wind. Then she ran, skirts gathered, feet pounding the cobbles as she came to the Steyne. She needed help—someone who would act, not merely wring their hands and weep.
She spotted them walking down South Parade: Colonel Fitzwilliam, tall and straight-backed in his regimentals, and Mr. Darcy, his eyes narrowed in concern as he spoke forcefully to his cousin. Harriet did not hesitate. She burst into their midst, breathless, her words tumbling out in a torrent.
“They’ve taken them—Lydia, Elizabeth, and Georgiana! Wickham and a band of men—down to the beach, they’ve rowed out to a sloop. Please, you must help!”
Darcy’s face drained of colour. Fitzwilliam’s jaw set like iron. “How long ago?” he demanded, already striding toward the water.
“Moments only,” Harriet gasped, falling in step beside them. “The wind is poor—they are not far.”
They reached Marine Parade, breathless with urgency. The sloop was still visible, its crew labouring against the tide, sails slack. On the water nearby, a British brig rode at anchor, its White Ensign billowing.
“Mrs. Forster, can you find your husband? He must be told what has happened. We’ll make pursuit, as best we can.”
“Of course, I will run to the Barracks. But there’s something more afoot, for I heard some of the men speaking French. Oh, I do fear for them!” With that, Harriet lifted her skirts and hurried up the Parade towards Marlborough Place.
“Dammit! You persuaded me it was safe to allow Georgiana in Miss Bennet’s company.
And now Wickham is here—I’m awfully tired of these coincidences.
” Darcy banged his fists against the railing in frustration.
“Cannot you see it, Richard, that the lady—if she is such—must be in league with the dastard!”
“Enough, Darcy!” roared the Colonel. “She is one of the finest ladies of my acquaintance. You understand nothing of what has happened—yet you stand ready to accuse her. Of what? That she rescued Georgiana from Wickham’s clutches before—when you had left her in the company of a companion with forged references.
If I recall, it was you who let him go, after we caught up with him out of Baldock.
If it were not for Georgiana—and Miss Bennet and Miss Lydia—I would plant a facer on you!
Get a grip, man, there’s still a chance we can catch them. ”
They watched as the six oarsmen in the cutter began to slowly pull the sloop toward a ripple on the water, where a slight breeze had come up. There was no sign of the ladies, presumably confined below decks.
“Gentlemen, you are taking a great interest in that sloop. As am I… It flies a Red Ensign, which is most strange—the Red Squadron left for Bermuda several months past.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam turned towards the man, a lieutenant in the navy, who was peering at the vessel with some curiosity.
“Lieutenant… Colonel Fitzwilliam. You may be of great service. That sloop is crewed by French-speaking sailors, and three gentlewomen have been taken forcibly aboard. We know not why, but their leader—Wickham, an Englishman—an accursed man well known to us.”