Chapter 4 - Alarm #5
As Elizabeth's outstretched hand inched closer to the vial, the hound suddenly dashed towards her. Darcy noticed Wickham's firearm shifting its aim, no longer aimed at George but poised between the dog or, to his horror, Elizabeth. There was no way he was going to wait to discern Wickham’s intentions. Acting swiftly, he fired a shot toward Wickham’s right hand.
His aim proved true as Wickham's gun clattered to the ground, blood seeping from his injured hand.
The stream of curses Wickham uttered was unlike anything Darcy had heard since his days at Cambridge.
A pang of regret welled within him, knowing that Elizabeth had to hear such foul language.
His mistake was not anticipating that Wickham might carry another weapon.
The prudent course of action would have been to approach the boy directly and remove him from Wickham's grasp. However, he faltered in this regard, and Wickham caught him off guard by extracting a knife from his pocket. With the blade pressed against the boy’s throat, Darcy had no alternative but to await another opportunity.
He kept his firearm aimed at Wickham's head, while Wickham held the knife to the boy’s throat. They remained locked in that tense standoff until the boy suddenly cried out.
“Papa,” George extended his hands in the direction to Darcy's right. Turning, Darcy saw Hurst, who was staring at his son, uncertain of what to do.
Hurst
When Hurst entered the stable, he had nothing to guide him, causing him to head in the wrong direction initially. It wasn't until a gunshot echoed that he quickly retraced his steps, hurrying toward the source of the sound.
When he reached the clearing where everything was happening, he ran into a strange tableau.
George stood before a stranger, covering his ears as if frightened by the gunshot.
Mr. Darcy stood opposite this man, his gun aimed straight at the stranger's head.
Mrs. Goulding, surprisingly and unceremoniously, sat on the floor.
Her eyes were also fixated on the stranger.
It was at that moment Hurst noticed the knife pressed against George's throat. God, no!
He immediately realized his mistake. He should have remained concealed behind the stalls, instead of rushing into the open where he was visible to everyone.
He hadn't even brought a firearm with him.
His impulsive entrance might accomplish nothing more than alarming the scoundrel, possibly placing George in even graver danger.
To his horror, George spotted him and called out, drawing the attention of everyone present.
Wickham
Papa?
Wickham's heart sank as he realized his error. His initial instincts upon hearing the boy’s name were spot-on. The lad was not a Darcy. Confound it!
Unfortunately for him, there were more surprises in store.
"Well, Mr. Wickham, it seems you have erred in identifying your targets.
George is not Mr. Darcy's son. I am sure you remember Mr. Hurst from your time in Hertfordshire.
And, for the record, I am not Mrs. Darcy.
I am Mrs. Goulding. I haven't crossed paths with Mr. Darcy for seven years,” declared the lady, whom he had mistakenly identified as Mrs. Darcy.
"And just to be perfectly clear, there is no Mrs. Darcy. I haven't married," Darcy added for good measure.
Dash it all!
Wickham realized he was trapped with no escape.
Darcy's men would surely have heard the gunshot and be on their way to the stable.
The boy was still in his grasp. But what was the point of harming him if he wasn't a Darcy?
Trying to use the boy as a shield to flee wouldn't work either.
His right hand was still bleeding. He had already lost a lot of blood, and weariness was setting in.
He could barely walk a mile before collapsing.
Yet, he was certain of one thing. Darcy will never shoot me. He will be looking to apprehend me and detain me for trial.
Wickham fully understood the likely outcome of such a trial. He was a deported criminal returning to English soil. He had been fortunate to escape execution seven years ago, but this time, they would surely hang him.
Death by Darcy's hand or death at the hands of the authorities—Wickham knew his preference.
“Darcy, it appears you have finally cornered me.
Allow me to return the favour. I'll give you twenty seconds. After that, if I'm still alive, I'll plunge this knife into this boy’s throat. So, you have twenty seconds to shoot me. Let me see if you possess the fortitude to shoot and kill your father’s favourite godson and your childhood playmate. Can you bear living the rest of your life with my blood on your hands? Darcy, can you endure such a life?”
With those words, Wickham commenced his countdown.
“Twenty… Nineteen…”
Bingley
They say gentlemen of leisure are an indolent lot.
Bingley, born a tradesman but transformed into a gentleman, certainly did not fit that description.
He embarked on daily rides astride his horse, traversed the expanse of Netherfield on foot almost every day.
He was a man of action, perfectly capable of covering the quarter-mile distance from the sick chamber to the stable in respectable time.
Yet, he was overtaken within the initial hundred yards by Mr. Archer, who had to backtrack first to retrieve something from his imposing wooden case.
Bingley had never witnessed anyone running at that speed.
By the time he reached the entrance to the stable, Mr. Archer was already inside, turning right into the long corridor.
When they reached the clearing where everything was happening, Mr. Archer signalled Bingley to maintain silence.
They concealed themselves behind a stall, their vantage point affording them a view of the standoff between Darcy and his adversary.
To Bingley's astonishment, Mr. Archer extracted a firearm from his pocket, training it on the man who confronted Darcy. Thus they remained until Mr. Archer turned and whispered in Bingley’s ear.
"Mr. Bingley, trust me when I say this, for I have encountered many similar situations in the past. That man is not armed with a firearm. He possesses only a knife, and he has no inclination to use it on the boy. Mr. Darcy is armed, and I, too, have a weapon at my disposal. The situation is firmly under control. He won’t harm the boy as long as he is not panicked.
So, our primary aim is to ensure that the scoundrel remains unruffled.
To achieve this, could you kindly return to the entrance and prevent any other men from entering?
Simply inform them that Mr. Darcy has everything well in hand.
If further reinforcement becomes necessary, I shall whistle.
Rest assured that my whistling will be loud enough to be heard outside. "
Bingley had never seen this man before, but something in his demeanour left no doubt that he was well-versed in such situations. Without raising any objection, Bingley retreated to the entrance and waited for any of the Darcy men to arrive.
Elizabeth
What a scoundrel! To exploit a six-year-old boy for his vindictive schemes? To think that I once favoured him over Mr. Darcy?
She cast a quick glance at Mr. Darcy, discerning his efforts to devise a plan that would circumvent a deadly confrontation. He had no intention of taking Mr. Wickham's life in her and George's presence. He was too much of a gentleman for such an act.
Elizabeth reminisced about the first time she witnessed Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham together.
On that day, Mr. Darcy had chosen to distance himself from Mr. Wickham, evidently attempting to avoid a confrontation in the presence of ladies.
Unfortunately, she had misconstrued it as his endeavour to evade Mr. Wickham, thinking he was ashamed to face the man he had wronged.
How naive I was? Why did I ever consider myself an intelligent person?
Darcy
“Twelve… Eleven…Ten…”
Darcy knew that Wickham had no genuine intention of harming George. All this theatrics with the countdown was a mere ploy to incite panic and provoke an otherwise unlikely response from him.
He stole a glance at the lady seated on the floor to his left, a mere four feet away. Darcy couldn't help but wonder what Elizabeth might have done had her ankle not been injured. She was known for her resourcefulness, after all.
Shifting his gaze away from her, he observed another firearm aimed at Wickham from behind the stall. Mr. Archer's wide eyes were fixed upon Wickham.
“Five… Four… Three…”
“Enough, Wickham,” Darcy snapped, “It's time for us to have a conversation.”
Wickham
Conversation?
Wickham immediately ceased his countdown. He had seen Darcy's gaze upon Mrs. Goulding; it was a look of unmistakable admiration. This only deepened the perplexity he felt concerning the lady's presence at Pemberley.
I can’t believe Darcy invited Mrs. Goulding to Pemberley. How can he bear to witness his beloved lady as the spouse of another man? Or has she, perhaps, become a widow? Oh dear, was Sophia right? Is Mrs. Goulding Darcy's mistress?
“Wickham, there are only two possible outcomes for you today. I can end your life here and now, or you will be delivered into the hands of the authorities, who will undoubtedly opt for your execution. I serve as the magistrate in these parts, and I will have a significant say in the punishment you are going to receive. Your blood will be on my hands either way,” Darcy declared.
Of course, he has to be the magistrate here. Why am I not surprised?
“So, this marks your final opportunity to settle matters with me.
It has always been about me, hasn't it? You were obsessed with me. I am also aware you have no intention of causing harm to George. So, why persist in tormenting that poor boy? Allow me to extend to you an opportunity to seek retribution.”