Chapter 33
North Sitting Room
Netherfield Hall
Netherfield was possessed of many large and comfortable rooms, which had benefited from both Mrs. Bingley's and Miss Bingley’s good taste.
The small northern sitting room, with neither size nor adequate natural light to recommend it, had so far escaped both of their attentions.
It was not precisely uncomfortable, but the furnishings appeared to have last been updated the previous century.
In Darcy’s view, the room was perfect because it had a large window that commanded an excellent view of the road that connected Netherfield to both Meryton and Longbourn.
He stirred in his chair, rendered restless by anticipation.
Miss Bennet knew that he was coming, knew that he had likely arrived.
She would come; surely she would come soon.
After all, it was her desperate missive that had summoned him back into Hertfordshire.
It was hard to wait; his longing to see her was almost overwhelming.
He was tempted to have Phoenix saddled and ride for Longbourn, but that would not be appropriate.
Mr. Bennet, he knew, had been buried today, and the inhabitants of Longbourn were in mourning and hardly wishful of entertaining visitors.
Darcy stirred again, glancing around the room.
Richard had disposed himself in a chair nearby and was absorbed in a book he had brought with him, because Darcy had warned him about the barrenness of Bingley's library.
Darcy appreciated his restraint in not teasing his hopeful cousin.
Darcy was well aware that his lovelorn condition made him ripe for some good-natured ribbing by his nearest and dearest.
Around them, the house was very quiet, with only the distant sounds of competent servants going about their tasks.
The Bingleys were at Longbourn, closeted in consultation with Mr. and Mrs. Collins.
Bingley had gone straight there after Mr. Bennet had been buried to join his wife and brother-in-law and the remainder of the Bennets.
The futures of Mrs. Bennet and her daughters needed to be discussed and decisions made.
Darcy hoped and prayed that he would be deeply involved in the future of at least one of the Bennet daughters, that Elizabeth was indeed ready to accept his offer.
Every fiber of his being longed to take her in his arms, to comfort her, to protect her from the travails of the world.
Her grief and uncertainty must be deep, and Darcy wanted nothing more than to alleviate her pain and offer his support in her mourning.
Movement beyond the window drew his eyes back to the lane.
Darcy stiffened, leaned forward, and squinted.
A solitary figure was approaching the house, the silhouette long and straight and solid, the rounded top conveying the impression of a bonnet.
Was it Elizabeth? Darcy gripped the arms of the chair in his excitement. She often walked alone. Yet…
Something was wrong. He stood abruptly to his feet, precipitated upright by a jolt of alarm, his brow furrowing deeply.
“What is it, Darcy?” Richard demanded.
“Someone is coming, and it looks like a woman, perhaps Elizabeth Bennet, but … is she running?”
His heart was thumping rapidly, and Richard was now at his side, squinting.
“It does look like Miss Bennet,” he said, “and I think…”
“Something is wrong,” Darcy finished, already running out the door. A maid sweeping the floor squeaked in shock at the sight of the master of Pemberley racing through the halls, but Darcy did not have the time to explain anything.
A footman standing near the door managed to get it open, and Darcy darted onto the porch and then hurtled down the stairs toward the slim figure, dressed soberly in black, who was now only twenty feet away.
“Elizabeth!” he exclaimed.
“Mr. Wickham,” she gasped, coming to a halt. “He attacked Miss Bingley, and Lydia shot him in the shoulder with an arrow. Lydia and Caroline are coming, but Wickham … Wickham…”
“Where is he, Miss Bennet?” Richard demanded.
The lady was leaning over now, dragging in deep breaths of air. “At the archery range. I ran for about ten minutes…”
“Does Wickham have a horse?” Richard asked.
“He said something about … about a carriage…”
“We need horses,” Richard said crisply.
Darcy looked at his cousin and then at his beloved Elizabeth. “My darling, I need to help…”
“Go, go,” Elizabeth said, her breast heaving. “I will wait here.”
“That is an excellent plan, Richard,” Darcy said.
“I will get Phoenix and Mercury,” Richard said, and took off at a run for the stables.
Darcy looked down the road toward Wickham, and Miss Bingley and Miss Lydia. He wanted to punch Wickham in the nose. He wanted to stay here with his beloved. He wanted to…
“I am glad you are here,” Elizabeth said having recovered enough to speak without gasping and interrupting his swirling thoughts,.
He looked at her flushed countenance and had to restrain himself from pulling her into his arms. She had not yet officially accepted his offer, after all. It would not be right to show his affection yet, especially so publicly, especially during a crisis like this one.
“It is my honor to be here, my dear Elizabeth,” he said solemnly.
She looked a trifle startled to be addressed by her Christian name, but said, “Thank you, Fitzwilliam.”
***
Hired Carriage
On the Road to Stevenage
Some Minutes Later
Wickham’s pulse was thundering in his ears, and he fancied he could feel his lifeblood gushing from his body with each beat of his heart. He half sat, half laid across the plush squabs as each bump and jolt of the carriage sent a fresh wave of red-hot agony through his shoulder.
The shoulder that had an arrow sticking out of it.
Wickham shut his eyes tighter and whimpered, holding himself as still as he could. He could not bear the sight of his own person transfixed by the bolt. It somehow made the already excruciating pain even worse to see the shaft emerging from his flesh.
How had it all gone so wrong? His plan had been magnificent in its simplicity. Lie in wait, accost Miss Bingley, bundle her the short way to his waiting carriage and ensure she was thoroughly compromised before anyone could notice her missing and catch up to them.
Curse Miss Bennet! She had foiled him, improbably and diabolically, appearing out of nowhere to cause him problems. She and Miss Bingley detested each other!
Why had she arrived just there, just then?
Why had she brought her foolish, stupid youngest sister with her?
! What blithering sapskull had decided that women were allowed to practice archery, anyway?
Lydia Bennet had shot him. He had been shot. The words made no more sense in his mind than they had since the first firebrand of pain had lanced into his shoulder.
Wickham opened his eyes and peered apprehensively at his shoulder before gagging, hit by a wave of faintness so great he nearly swooned.
Blood glistened darkly on the white linen of his shirt, all around the base of the slender wooden rod that vanished through the rent in his shirt and into his very body.
He swallowed bile and whimpered again, wishing for a brandy.
He wished even more for a doctor. It had taken all his effort and willpower to stagger back to where Hammond waited with the horses attached to the hired carriage. Upon his arrival, the man’s eyebrows had disappeared up under the rim of his disreputable hat.
“What happened to you?” he had demanded.
“I was shot!” Wickham screamed, outraged by the man’s stupidity. “I must go to the apothecary at once!”
He had flung open the carriage door with his good hand and all but collapsed inside.
Hammond had snorted, clambering down from the box to peer in at the wound.
Seeing it was not fatal, he had flatly refused to go into Meryton to see the good Mr. Jones, who, he had pointed out, was bound to go at once to the local magistrate, Sir William Lucas.
The Bennets and Bingleys were on excellent terms with the Lucases, and Sir William would doubtless believe the Bennet girls’ tale, especially as corroborated by Miss Bingley.
It was not at all fair that a woman’s word should be taken over a man’s, but it was an almost certain thing.
“Perhaps you want to take the chance of transportation or hanging,” Hammond had said, “but I do not. No, Wickham, we will drive for Stevenage, which is only a dozen miles away, and I know a doctor there who can keep his mouth shut.”
Even through his agony and distress, Wickham had recognized the sense of that. He would probably not die from an arrow stuck in his shoulder, though his mind shrieked that he needed it removed from his body instantly. But if he were captured, well, abduction was a serious crime.
He prayed that they would arrive in Stevenage quickly.
Suddenly he frowned and tilted his head, trying to hear beyond the sound of his own ragged breathing and the rattling of the carriage.
There seemed to be an unusual number of hoofbeats, and it took a moment for the truth to pierce the fog of pain enveloping his brain; at least one rider was drawing abreast of the carriage, and possibly more.
He was puzzled. Who would be riding so swiftly on this road?
Who had business more urgent than an arrow in the shoulder?
As one of the horses came up beside the window, Wickham shifted just enough to crane his neck at the rider.
For a moment all he could see was a caped greatcoat; then the man turned his head, displaying a familiar and deeply unwelcome profile.
Wickham squealed in terror. Catastrophe upon catastrophe!
Colonel Fitzwilliam would show no consideration for Wickham’s wounded state; no sympathy for a man brought low by the designs of others.
How could it be that he was here anyway?
He was a military colonel. He ought to be on the Peninsula, not persecuting his uncle’s godson!
The carriage lurched, and Wickham cried out, his vision obscured by anguish, his hand clutching spasmodically at the knives of fire stabbing into his damaged flesh.
Outside, Fitzwilliam was shouting at Hammond, who, curse him, was reining in the horses and slowing the carriage.
With another agonizing jolt, the whole conveyance came to a stop.
There was a dreadful pause, the silence oppressive. Wickham crammed himself into the far corner of the squabs, moaning in dismay. What was going on out there?
A dark shape passed before the window in the carriage door, and then the door was flung open so violently it rebounded off its hinges with a grating screech of protest. Barely a second later, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s sturdy form blocked most of the light and any wild hope of escape.
As if this were not bad enough, his cousin Darcy loomed ominously at the colonel’s shoulder, a pistol in his hand, looking as threatening as a May storm.
Fitzwilliam, in contrast, was grinning in a way that promised nothing good.
“Ah, Wickham,” Richard Fitzwilliam said unpleasantly. “How wonderful to see you again!”