Chapter 26
Wickham paced behind the carriage house. Would Darcy never leave? His call stretched far beyond the limits of propriety.
Figures moved on the other side of the window, and the entrance door squeaked as it swung open. Finally!
Pressing himself against the side of the outbuilding, waiting with bated breath, Wickham watched Bingley emerge with his bride, followed by the colonel. They walked to their waiting carriage, the colonel entering last and closing the door behind him.
No Darcy.
The carriage jolted forward, leaving without its fourth passenger.
Wickham smacked his fist against the brick. He would have to adjust his plans yet again. He would set the accident into motion when the household was asleep.
At dawn.
Thus decided, he waited until the stables were empty and the servants otherwise employed to grab an empty feed sack from an abandoned stall. He located the ladder, which he would return to retrieve once darkness fell.
Just an accident. Of the sort that befell people every day.
Too stimulated for sleep, Wickham set out an easy hour before dawn, the lace tablecloth he had snagged from the line draped over his shoulder and the thick leather gloves from the gardening shed covering his hands.
Excitement heightened his senses better than the finest snuff. Every sound was crisp, clear; his vision was that of a cat, discerning shapes and shadows in the darkness.
Cautiously, he crept into the shed, the hoe balanced on top of the ladder hefted over his shoulder, and returned to the edge of the orchard, where the apple trees met the grove. The hive was quiet … for now.
Leaning the ladder against the tree Mr. Bennet had so conveniently led him to yesterday, Wickham draped the tablecloth over himself in imitation of Mr. Bennet’s veiled hat and began climbing. One hand on the rung, the other holding the empty feed sack and hoe.
He would have to be quick. And precise.
Positioning the burlap under the bottom of the buzzing orb, Wickham leaned against the ladder, wielding the hoe like a sword. He could not afford to miss. Lifting his arm, his attention concentrated on his target.
Whack! Thump! The hive buzzed to life, and Wickham struggled not to lose his balance on the upper rungs of the ladder while closing the sack.
Flinging the hoe to the ground, he grabbed the burlap with both hands, ignoring the angry, displaced insects hovering between the tablecloth and his exposed skin.
Heart racing, he swatted at his face before grabbing his tools and sprinting back to Longbourn.
Flinging the hoe into the garden, he blinked past his swelling eyes and burning cheeks to the side of the house.
Almost there. Almost done.
He leaned the ladder under the window and climbed. Forcing himself to calm down, he shoved his fingers under the framed glass and lifted slowly. Up up up it slid until the opening was large enough.
In one swift motion, Wickham hurled the contents of the sack inside the room and slammed the window shut. Too loud. He had to run.
Gripping the sides of the ladder, he slid down, hurling the tablecloth off him once his feet hit the ground and shoving it under a pile of hay in the shed. Flinging the ladder on top of the mound, he spun on his heel and fled to the fields, arms flailing around him until he entered the hovel.
Stings prickled his leather gloves. His hands shook so violently, it took several attempts to remove them. He could hardly believe what had happened. What was bound to happen.
Gently, he pressed his cold fingers against his eyes and cheeks, cooling the burn and soothing the swelling. He had not escaped without injury, but such was the way of an accident. A few stings would not kill him. He imagined how hundreds more of them would feel pierced into a lady’s delicate skin.
Such a tragic accident.