Chapter 48 Mr. Wickham
He stood and stretched. His back had stiffened from crouching for so many hours.
Moving to a hedge, he sought a different vantage of the house.
Darcy still remained indoors. Wickham grunted.
The man went out far less than he had hoped.
He had been chained to the alter and he no longer frequented the salle d’armes or Jackson’s Saloon.
Wickham had been unable to gain access to the house or get near that little chit. His vision reddened. Had matters been left to that wench, he would have been transported. She was no more than fifteen years old. How had she nearly bested him?
He stood concealed within the thick brambles of a little park across the street from Darcy House. For two weeks, he surveilled the comings and goings of the household before finally marking a young servant girl who ventured to market each day.
That morning, he spoke to her. His manner was humble and imploring.
“Miss, I have only recently arrived in London and have not yet found a post. Is there an opening for a servant in the house where you are employed, or perhaps in one of the neighboring houses?”
The girl looked him up and down. He saw her eyes soften. She liked what she saw.
“Sir, we have no open positions at present,” she replied kindly. “But if you register at the intelligence offices near Charing Cross or along the Strand, I am certain you shall soon find employment. With your good looks, sir, I daresay someone would hire you as a footman.”
Wickham bowed to the servant girl, please, call me Peters. When she resumed walking, he fell into step beside her and struck up a conversation.
“And which house do you serve, ma’am? Perhaps I may apply at a neighboring residence, and then we might see one another.”
The girl giggled and preened beneath his attention as she described her position at Darcy House. He remained at her side and did not leave her until she had completed her shopping and taken her leave of him.
He bowed low. “When I have secured a position, I shall call upon you to let you know how I go on. Would you permit, ma’am?”
The servant beamed. “Yes, Mr. Peters. I should like that very much.”
She hurried away, and he stood watching her.
His plan was beginning to take shape. It would not be long now.
Soon, he would be part of the family, and he would secure a considerable dowry.
His eyes narrowed. The child was not ill-favored either.
When she was a little older and had acquired a little more figure, he imagined she would become a handsome woman.
Wickham watched the house for three more days before he saw his opportunity. He observed Darcy hand his wife into the carriage before entering it himself. Both were in full ball dress. Georgiana would be alone in the house.
He crept around the back and scaled the stone wall, dropping into the garden below.
Remaining crouched where he landed, he listened.
There was no sound. He had alerted no servant.
He moved along the thick hedges until he reached the shadowed side yard.
Crossing the lawn, he kept close to the deep shadows cast by the house.
At last, he came to the library doors. Unlocked. He would not need to gain entrance through the kitchens or make use of the little servant girl he had cultivated.
He slipped into the darkened room and waited for his eyes to adjust. Then he moved carefully toward the door, taking care not to overturn anything. When he reached it, he opened it slightly and listened for the movement of servants.
The hall stood empty. At this hour, most of the servants would be below stairs in the kitchens taking their meal.
He found the servants’ stair and crept up to the second floor, wondering which chamber belonged to the child. She would soon come down for dinner unless it was being served upon a tray in her room. He was in a quandary. How was he to find Georgiana?
Still, he was not pressed for time. The Darcys would remain at the ball long past midnight. He had ample time to search for the girl and take her.
He crept to the first door and turned the brass knob. The latch yielded easily. He opened the door just wide enough to peer inside and survey the room. A guest chamber. He could tell by the lack of personal effects.
He moved quickly then, passing from room to room along the corridor. All stood unused by the family. He searched another wing of the house, and upon entering the second bedchamber there, he realized he had found the girl’s room. A connecting door stood ajar. Her private parlor.
The bedchamber was empty. She must be in the parlor, preparing to take her dinner there.
Her personal maid would be below stairs with the other servants at dinner. He would take the girl only after the dinner tray had been brought up, lest the servant notice her absence and sound the alarm.
He would throttle the child, and when she had swooned, he would carry her down the servants’ stair. His eyes gleamed. Soon, he would command a tidy fortune of forty thousand pounds. His days of living hand to mouth would be over.
For several minutes, he surveyed the room. As his eyes adjusted to the deep darkness of the bedchamber, he distinguished the large four-poster bed, the pair of chairs beside the hearth, and the small writing desk near the window.
He crossed to the window and drew back the heavy drape. The embrasure was deep, and the cushion thick. He settled himself upon it to wait.
Georgiana sat beside the hearth in her private parlor with a book resting upon her lap. Fitzwilliam and Lizzy were not expected home before three. She would hear all about the ball tomorrow. And about Lord Dunwich.
A gentle tap sounded at the door, and then her maid entered with the dinner tray. Jenny set the table and then asked, “Is there anything further, Miss Darcy?”
“No, Jenny. You may go to your dinner. I shall retire early tonight. Return to me at nine.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Georgiana sat down to eat. She was halfway through her meal when she heard the connecting door open. Turning, she started, and the fork slipped from her fingers and clattered against the plate.
George Wickham was standing at the threshold.
He smirked. “Well, well, my girl. At last, I have you in my power. Your brother is gone. The servants are below stairs. There is no one to save you this time.”
Georgiana stared at him, paralyzed. Fear held her pinned to the chair as she watched him draw nearer.
He spoke again. “This time, my pretty, you shall not escape me. I am going to throttle you until you swoon, and then I shall carry you away. Once you are thoroughly ruined, your brother will beg me to marry you. I shall command your dowry. We will live upon one of the lesser estates, and at last I shall be one of the family.”
She heard his voice. She saw his mouth moving, yet his words clashed within her mind. Her vision blurred. She could scarcely comprehend what he was saying as her sight narrowed into a dark tunnel. All she could think was no, no, no. How could this be happening to her?
Several moments passed before one dreadful truth emerged through the confusion and terror: he intended to throttle her.
But her mind continued to scream, no, no, no.
She battled the rising panic and the swoon that threatened to overtake her.
At last, she regained command of her senses.
Her vision began to clear. She could hear him distinctly again. Now she understood every word he said.
“What? Has fear stolen your voice? Are you frightened because Darcy is not here to protect you?”
She heard him laugh. He drew nearer, and something devilish gleamed within his eyes as his gaze swept slowly down her figure.
He meant to assault her unless she could save herself.
But what could she do? He was larger, heavier, stronger.
There was nothing she could do. Then she remembered.
Her thoughts sharpened into focus. The little dagger was concealed within her chignon.
Could she use it? Could she draw it quickly enough, or would he wrench it from her hand?
He had said he meant to throttle her. He would need both hands for that. If she drew the dagger and struck at his neck, perhaps she might have a chance. She would have to try. There was nothing else she could do to save herself.
She waited. Beside himself with triumph, he continued describing all the pleasures that awaited him once he commanded her fortune. Closer and closer he came. He seemed to relish her terror and advanced slowly, savoring her fear.
Georgiana rose to meet him. She waited trembling.
Then he lifted his hands and closed them around her throat. His face looked monstrous in the candlelight.
“You belong to me now, little girl.”
She thrust her hand into her hair, tore the dagger free, and struck at his neck. Then she twisted the blade before wrenching it free and flinging it across the room.
He released her throat and clapped a hand to his neck, screaming in pain.
Georgiana feared he would pursue her despite his injury. She did not stop to look back.
She fled. She darted around the table and through the connecting door. She slammed it shut and locked it behind her, then pulled back a heavy tapestry and opened the hidden door concealed behind it. Stepping into the darkened stair, she closed and locked the entrance behind her.
She descended the hidden passage one stair at a time. The darkness was so complete she could see nothing. She felt her way downward with both hands pressed against the walls. Down, down, down, until at last she reached the library.
Faint moonlight streamed through the open French doors.
This was how Wickham had entered the house.
She did not pause to shut them. Instead, she hurried to the far side of the library and felt along the bookcase hidden within the shadows until her fingers found the concealed lever.
She worked it, pushed open the secret door, slipped inside, and locked it behind her.
She was safe. Safe from that fiend.
Had he followed her downstairs, or had she killed him?
With tears streaming down her cheeks, she turned and felt her way along the wall until she collided with a dresser. There she found a candle and the tinderbox. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. It took several attempts, but at last she managed to light the three candles.
Then she looked around her. She would be trapped for hours, alone in this dark room. But at least she was safe. Would Fitzwilliam remember where to find her? If he did not come for her, how would she know when it was safe to emerge? She had not brought her watch.
She decided to unfold the cot and make up the bed. When the bed was prepared, she removed her stays and then drew her gown back on. She was more comfortable now.
She crawled into the cot and fell into a deep sleep. The sleep of utter exhaustion. The sleep of nerves shattered by terror.