Chapter 37
Darcy dove out of the trajectory of Wickham’s boots just in time. Had he looked as ridiculous as Wickham did, flying through the air, limp and stunned?
With a loud huff, Wickham landed on his back on the grass.
Elizabeth looked every bit as triumphant—more so—and charming as she had their last night on the Fancy.
Darcy’s chest inflated. She did not suffer fools.
Wickham would never place his hand on her again.
In fact, he would likely think twice before approaching her at all. Now that was a pleasant thought.
The group of drunken soldiers watched nearby, cackling and hooting. “Overthrown by a miss!” “Toppled by a lady!” “Hefted over like a sack of rubbish!” They smacked their thighs and guffawed.
Wickham sputtered and tried to stand, but Elizabeth had knocked the wind out of his sails thoroughly, and Darcy knew from experience that it would take a moment to gain his breath.
So, Wickham squirmed and stammered, his face as red as his coat, providing a ridiculous spectacle at which his so-called friends laughed freely.
Darcy leaned over him and Nick followed suit, both of them watching over his prostrate figure and neither of them offering a hand up. “Who’s this ninnyhammer?” Nick asked.
Wickham blinked several times, gasping, “My eyes! Something’s wrong with my eyes.” He tried to crawl back, and Darcy pitied the batman who would have to scrub the grass stains out of the posterior of Wickham’s breeches.
Alex wedged herself between Darcy and Nick. “Who’s this dunderhead who’d lay a hand on me best friend?” Quicker than a flash, she flicked her hand up to her hair, removing a thin dagger.
Nick grabbed her hand. Darcy saw her flinch with her other hand, and he clasped it before she could reach for another hidden weapon. There were too many folds and creases of lace in her gown to trust. “Not here,” Darcy warned in a low tone. “There are too many witnesses.”
Wickham’s eyes doubled in size and, had Richard and Miss Rothschild not been blocking his way, he might have continued crawling away on his elbows and heels.
Alex pouted. “I saw an alley over yonder that’ll do.” Her hands restrained, she jutted her chin in the direction from which they had come. “Ye three strong men could drag him over there, and I’ll guarantee he never lays a hand on anyone ever again.”
“Alex,” Nick warned.
“Come on, Nick! It’s only a hand.”
Wickham tucked his hands under his back.
Deepening her pout and blinking up at Nick, Alex pleaded, “Please, Nick? He’ll be perfectly fine without one.”
Darcy hoped she was teasing or merely trying to scare Wickham with fright. But Nick’s grip around her hand showed no sign of loosening, so Darcy followed his lead and tightened his hold on Alex’s other wrist.
Wickham’s friends were no longer laughing. They watched from a safer distance, too cowardly to assist their brother-in-arms but too curious to leave.
Elizabeth plucked the knife from Alex’s hand and flipped it over in her palm to grip the handle.
What other tricks had she learned from Alex?
He watched the woman he loved flip the blade in her palm, then from one hand to the other like an expert.
He was mesmerized, as was Wickham, who stared at the blade with his jaw open and a drained complexion.
“I would love nothing more than to practice my new skills on a man whose welfare means nothing to me.” Toss-toss-flick. “However, he is my sister’s husband, and for that reason—and that reason alone—we must spare him.”
Alex made to argue, but Elizabeth cut her off.
“If he has any regard for his own self, he shall remember this moment. Every time he throws the dice or holds his cards or grips a tankard or pinches a barmaid … he shall recall how my sister—his wife—is the reason why he yet possesses his hand. And he shall behave more decently toward her out of sheer gratitude for what she spared him, for it is certainly not due to any goodwill or mercy on my part.”
Wickham sat stupidly, wordlessly, at their feet. Darcy waited for the moment when Wickham’s senses would catch up with his breath and he would try to wiggle his way out of the predicament he was in.
But Elizabeth’s patience was worn thin. Pinching the blade, she squinted her eyes and took aim. “My aim is not as good as my friend’s, but I shall be happy for the practice.”
“You would not dare!” Wickham scampered back until he bumped into Richard’s legs.
Elizabeth smiled slowly, impishly, until a flicker of doubt entered Darcy’s consciousness and he wondered about the danger of their constant association with Alex.
“You are not certain I shall not do it, are you? After all, you are still sitting on the ground where I put you…” Elizabeth adjusted her trajectory, her tongue peeking between her lips as she calculated.
Darcy was making calculations of his own. Could he prevent her from doing something she was certain to regret without loosening his hold on Alex, who would not hesitate to maim a man merely because Elizabeth had made known her disdain for him?
Relaxing her pose and her expression, Elizabeth held the knife in front of Alex’s outstretched hand. “Very well, if you are unwilling to promise to be a better husband to Lydia, then maybe, I shall give this dagger back to my friend.”
“Who is she that I should fear her?” Wickham scoffed. He always had been rather stupid.
Nick mumbled, “Steady, woman.”
Alex strained against their hold. “I’ll tell ye exactly who I am, ye thick-headed numbskull. I’m Cap’n Alexandra Lafitte, and I’ll make ye wish ye’d never crossed me mates.”
“Lafitte? La Femme Lafitte?” Wickham choked, his skin ash white.
Darcy groaned. So did Nick.
The soldiers’ backs retreated down Gay Street as quickly as their polished boots could carry them. Wickham, too, looked ready to bolt.
Elizabeth repeated, “You shall not leave here without a promise.” The last time Darcy had seen that degree of determination fixed on her expression was when she had refused his offer of marriage.
Wickham relented. “I swear I shall be a good husband to Lydia.”
“If I hear of you being unfaithful or preying on another unsuspecting maiden or appealing to any of us to spare you from the consequences of your choices, then—”
“I’ll take great pleasure in carvin’ out yer heart,” interrupted Alex, “and eatin’ it for breakfast.”
Dear Lord.
A hard swallow, and Darcy could see it took a great deal of effort for Wickham to stand on his shaking legs. “I swear, I swear,” he groveled, backing around Richard and continuing until he turned and ran.
Elizabeth turned to Alex. “That was unnecessarily dramatic. I was going to say that we would refuse to cover his debts and allow him to fend for himself lest he end up in prison.” She blushed, turning to Darcy and adding, “That is, assuming you agree, of course.”
Darcy shrugged. Any threat he or anyone else could have made would pale in comparison to Alex’s. “I have already assured Wickham he shall not see another penny from me. My dealings with him are done.”
She deflated. “Oh. Well then, maybe Alexandra’s threat was just the thing.”
Alex puffed up until she noticed Elizabeth’s continued agitation. “D’ye think he’ll keep his promise?” she asked.
“For my sister’s sake, I hope so.”
Darcy gave him a week, though he prayed he was wrong.
Elizabeth sighed. “He is too lazy to hurt Lydia—thankfully—but I fear he is already bored with her. Indifference is just another form of cruelty.” She blinked several times, and Darcy knew she thought of her own father and mother.
Miss Rothschild, who had every right to be offended at the shocking company she kept, finally spoke.
“People forget promises, and words are often fickle. But that young man shall not likely forget the terror you two ladies inspired within him. You did what you could; the rest is up to him.” She brushed her hands as though to rid them of dust. “Now, I was wondering if perhaps you could teach me to do that trick? It seems to be a useful skill for a lady to know.”
Richard grinned from ear to ear.
Miss Rothschild seemed to mistake his display of pride for humor.
Her eyes flashed, and her skin darkened.
“It is not reasonable to expect a young lady to always rely on gentlemen—some of whom are more treacherous than the worst ruffians—for our welfare and protection. We must learn to be more self-sufficient.”
“I could not agree with you more.” Turning to Alex, Richard added, “I hope you will teach my sisters, and Georgie, as well.”
“I’d be honored to show ye a few things,” Alex agreed with a grin.
The abbey bells rang.
Elizabeth sidled closer to Darcy’s side. “I have heard that the stained glass and stonework of the abbey are second to none.”
Ready to pick up where he had left off before Wickham’s interruption, Darcy held out his arm. “Shall we see?”
Doubts soon encroached on his bravery. Every step made Darcy increasingly aware that he had yet to ask, and knowing that she was aware of it only increased his nerves. What if he bumbled the whole thing again? What if he did not meet her expectations?
By the time they reached the abbey, he was more nervous than when he had spoken with Mr. Bennet earlier.
He had used his library as a buffer, knowing that the well-stocked shelves and original printings guaranteed a more favorable conversation.
Darcy was not above using the manipulative arts when it came to his future with Elizabeth. He needed every advantage.
He had Mr. Bennet’s approval and blessing, but by the time they had admired the windows and the bell tower, Darcy had received no strike of romantic inspiration.
But he had to say it. He could not go another day holding in his heartfelt desire.
Miss Rothschild suggested a walk through Guildhall Market, and Darcy seized the opportunity to part from their company in favor of the River Avon. They would meet at Pulteney Bridge.
The bridge offered a beautiful backdrop of the river with its crescent-shaped weirs forming rings into the running water. As loud as the rushing river was, Darcy’s heartbeat was louder.
He had survived kidnapping, keelhauling, sword fights, and cannon blasts, but all of these combined paled in significance compared to the task before him. He would propose—again—to Elizabeth Bennet.
Pulling the bit of rope from his pocket, wishing it was his mother’s sapphire and diamond ring, he dropped to his knee before he lost his nerve.
Clearing his throat, he said the words he had been practicing since Elizabeth had given him the first glimpse of hope that starry night on the foretop. “Will you marry me, Elizabeth?”
That was it. His throat dried, and he looked up, unable to speak another word. He shoved the rope he had woven into a ring in front of him.
He felt her hands on his cheeks, pulling him up. “You made this for me?” she asked, sliding her slender finger into the circle, then wrapping her arm back around his neck. “It fits perfectly.”
She was kind to praise his simple ring, but as he looked at the roughness of the rope against her soft skin, his embarrassment grew. “As soon as we return to London, I shall replace it with one more worthy—”
She covered his lips with her fingers. “This is my favorite ring, and no fancy jewels you can give me shall convince me otherwise.”
Darcy let out his breath. He ought to have known she would not demand fineries. Not his Elizabeth. He tightened his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. More confidently, he asked, “Will you please marry me?”
“Aye,” she answered, rising to her toes and keeping his lips too busy for any more speech.