Chapter Eighteen #2
“In a moment, you should have more,” Elizabeth said. “And at least some bread.”
He closed his eyes, nodding.
As the sun floated higher, Elizabeth coaxed Mr. Fox into almost a cup more of tea and some small morsels, before he claimed exhaustion.
She then tucked the blanket more securely about him, wishing she’d thought to bring another.
“We really should get you to town. You require more care than I can provide.”
His eyes flew open, wild. “They will be waiting. They will find me. Cannot…cannot trust anyone.” His gaze focused on her, the madness of delirium bright within. “Only you.”
“Yes, certainly.” Elizabeth made her voice as soothing as she could.
He nodded and, as she’d hoped, his eyes slipped back closed.
Moving with care so as not to disturb him, she stepped from the ramshackle structure into the wind, clutched her cloak tighter, and set out for her usual meeting spot with Fitzwilliam.
No matter what Mr. Fox said, he could not stay where he was.
If he was in as much danger as he feared, which the shot to his leg seemed to bear out, the colonel would know what to do.
Recalling Jane’s words of the night before, a pang of guilt went through Elizabeth.
She should tell Mr. Bennet about the man she’d found…
but what answer would she give when he, like Jane, asked why she’d gone first to Colonel Fitzwilliam?
She would never wound her father by admitting her lack of confidence in how he might address Mr. F. ’s predicament.
Elizabeth topped the last low hill before their meeting place to find Fitzwilliam dismounting.
Warmth suffused her. He’d come. Not that she’d doubted he would.
Still, joy filled her at the sight of him.
Her stride lengthening, she rushed down the hill, watching as his expression eased into a smile when he spotted her.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he greeted as she drew near.
“Fitzwilliam.” As always, heat bloomed in her cheeks when she said his surname sans any honorific. “Or must I now refer to you more properly, knowing as I do that your father is an earl?”
“Had I my way, you would call me Fitzwilliam always.”
She smiled, but then thoughts of Mr. Fox intruded. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“You said you require my advice.”
“Yes, on…well, perhaps I may show you?”
Twin lines appeared on Fitzwilliam’s brow, but he nodded.
“It is not far. I daresay you can leave your horse.” Elizabeth led the way back up the hill. As she walked, she said, “This is Farmer Grason’s land. He is one of Netherfield’s tenants, and he is not fond of finding people on his property.”
“Then why do we trespass?”
They crested the hill and started down the other side. “Because I took a short cut across his land yesterday, and found something.”
She could all but feel the unease radiating off Fitzwilliam, but she kept walking. The sun had not inched much higher by the time the cottage came into view.
Elizabeth pointed. “In there. It is a gentleman. He has been shot in the leg.”
“Shot?” Fitzwilliam reiterated sharply.
“I came across him yesterday. He refused any offer of help. He says he was abducted and escaped, but was wounded in the process. He fears going to town will help his attackers locate him, but I worry he is delirious and not in his right mind and that his wishes should be ignored.”
“And you seek my opinion,” Fitzwilliam said with clear understanding.
Elizabeth nodded. “I believe he will die if he is not moved, but I would not want to move him and hasten him into the hands of those who shot him. I hope, with your experience, you might be a better judge than I of what must be done.”
They reached the door to the hut and Fitzwilliam leaned in.
He reared back, a single, sharp, angry word leaving his mouth, “Wickham.”
Elizabeth turned to Fitzwilliam, startled by his recognition and his anger. “You know him?”
“He is the man who ru…who broke my s… He is the source of Georgiana’s sorrow.” Fitzwilliam clamped his teeth closed with an audible click.
Elizabeth stared at the prone figure, stunned.
Mr. Fox…rather, Wickham, opened his eyes. “Fitz?” he breathed. He struggled, trying to sit up. “Fitz, I didn’t do it. I swear I did not. Not that. Not what you must believe I have done.”
“You did,” Fitzwilliam grated out.
“No. Not that. I would not do that. I love her too much to do that.” Tears built in Mr. Wickham’s bloodshot eyes.
Fitzwilliam stared down in disgust. “Would that were true.”
“Maybe he did not leave her,” Elizabeth whispered, the anger radiating from Colonel Fitzwilliam making her fear he would simply turn and leave. “Maybe he was abducted? It could all be a misunderstanding.”
“I was there when he left her. His parting words were that she was a fool for ever believing he could love her.”
Fresh shock went through Elizabeth. “How horrible.”
“Yes,” Fitzwilliam agreed.
“I’m sorry, Fitz.” A sob shook Mr. Wickham. “I did not mean for any of this. I did not think. I didn’t mean it.”
Fitzwilliam studied Mr. Wickham with cold disdain. “You never do.”
“What should we do?” Elizabeth asked.
“I will fetch my cousin and we will take him…somewhere safe. Where he can be cared for, and protected from whoever shot him.”
“Not to Netherfield Park, then?”
Lips pressed hard together, Fitzwilliam contemplated the man slumped against the shack’s wall. “No. I will not have him under the same roof as Georgiana.” He slanted a look at Elizabeth and reiterated, “He will be cared for, and safe.”
Elizabeth nodded, but Fitzwilliam’s words would reassure her more if he did not appear so much as if he wanted to shoot Mr. Wickham a second time, and do a better job of it.
Not that she could blame him. She had witnessed Miss Darcy’s sorrow.
“I will wait with him for so long as I can, but soon I must return to Longbourn. I cannot be absent at breakfast. Especially after what Mr. Collins overheard.”
Fitzwilliam’s countenance darkened further. “You should not wait here at all. I would not have you alone with Wickham. He is not to be trusted, especially with the fairer sex.”
Elizabeth cast Fitzwilliam an incredulous look. “I have already been alone with him, and remain unscathed. He is hardly able to move, let alone accost anyone.”
Fitzwilliam’s jaws worked, his teeth grinding. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, but stay wary.”
“I will,” she agreed, more to reassure him than because she felt there to be any need.
Pivoting, every movement stiff with anger for the man sprawled on the floor of the shed, Fitzwilliam departed.
Elizabeth watched him go, then turned back to Mr. Wickham. “I believe you have behaved very badly, sir.”
He chuckled, a weak, grating sound. “Yes. I seem destined to.”
How could he find amusement in that? “I am familiar with Miss Darcy. She has suffered greatly over your defection.”
His features collapsed downward, all traces of mirth departing. “Georgiana.”
“You do not have the right to refer to her thus,” Elizabeth said stiffly, offended on Miss Darcy’s behalf.
Mr. Wickham fumbled at his coat, trying to get a hand into his pocket. “You must give her this for me.”
“I will not.” Elizabeth was surprised he would dare to ask.
He pulled free a necklace, a little heart on a chain.
The audacity of the man. “You seek to rekindle her affection?”
Mr. Wickham shook his head. “It is hers. I gave it to her long ago, and then I took it back, but it is hers.” He clutched his hand around the locket.
“I daresay she would prefer you to keep it.”
He shook his head again, sweat building on his brow.
“No, she must know the truth. She must know…I love her. I…I told her I did not in order to free her. From me.” He thrust out his clenched hand, his arm trembling with the effort.
“I told her I would sell it. I could not.” His eyes pleaded with Elizabeth.
With a sigh, she moved closer, and reached to accept the locket.
Mr. Wickham dropped it into her hand, but then caught her fingers in a hot, hard grip, sending fear shooting through her.
“I did not do it,” he cried. “I could not. I love her too much. Not the way…not that way. I watched her grow from a child.” He shook his head, delirious and frantic. “I could not do it.”
Elizabeth wrenched her hand away. “You did leave her, and you are speaking nonsense.”
Wide, half-mad eyes blinked up at her. “Please give Georgie the locket. I beg you.”
Elizabeth sighed, pity robbing her of much of the fear inspired by his grip, and of her indignation on Miss Darcy’s behalf. “I will think about giving this to her, but you must rest. You are not well. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy will be here soon, to take you someplace safe.”
“Fitzwilliam and Darcy?” A ragged cackle left Mr. Wickham. “They will arrive with shovels.”
“Shovels?”
“For a shallow grave. They would sooner aid Napoleon himself than me.”
“They are decent men.” Which she now knew the man before her was not. “They will help you.”
“That Darcy pride,” Mr. Wickham said, snideness in his tone.
“Yes, well, at least Mr. Darcy’s pride might see you well again, rather than dead from a gunshot and a fever.”
He shrugged, slumping low against the wall, and squeezed his eyes closed. “I do not deserve to live.” Tears slid from under his lids.
Disgusted, Elizabeth backed from the shed. What a monster, to break a young woman’s heart so, and then wallow in pity. She could not blame Fitzwilliam for his hatred.
He would return soon with his cousin, and while Elizabeth did not fear their discretion, she doubted Mr. Collins would afford her any.
She must depart while she still had time to sneak back in and appear at breakfast as usual.
Mr. Wickham would be well enough. He had already survived several nights hidden in the shed. He would last an hour more.
She slipped the necklace into her pocket, then, grimacing at the need to go near Mr. Wickham again, inched into the shed to collect her mother’s teapot and cup.
Fortunately, Mr. Wickham didn’t move. His eyes remained closed, tears leaking out.
Elizabeth had no notion if he was even awake any longer. Nor did she care.
She breathed out in relief as soon as she was once again in the fresh autumn air.
Deeming the horse blanket a loss, she clutched the teapot and cup close, and started for Longbourn.
She could enter through the scullery and leave the pot and cup there.
No one in her family would realize she’d set foot outside their home, and the staff wouldn’t consider it their place to tell on her, unless she ran into Mrs. Hill.
By the time the back of the manor house loomed before her, the hour remained reassuringly early.
Her father would be awake, and likely Jane, but if Elizabeth joined them at breakfast now, Papa would never know that she hadn’t come from her room.
Not unless Jane said as much, which she would not.
She would, however, certainly demand an explanation from Elizabeth later.
Juggling both pot and cup, Elizabeth pulled open the scullery door.
To the grim faces of Mary and Mr. Collins.
With a sigh, Elizabeth turned to deposit the teapot and cup, so she could remove her cloak.
“I have no notion why she has a teapot, but I told you she would sneak back in this way.” Mary’s voice was smug enough to hurt.
“You are very wise, Cousin Mary,” Mr. Collins said. “Wiser by far than your sister, who has doomed herself and besmirched your entire family.”
Untying her bonnet with as much nonchalance as she could muster, Elizabeth said lightly, “By taking a morning walk?”
“By fraternizing with the Honorable Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam,” Mr. Collins said stiffly.
Mary’s eyes went wide. “Is that who you were with? Mr. Collins would not elaborate on his suspicions.” She gasped then, a hand going to her mouth. “Mr. F. Not a fox. Fitzwilliam.”
“Precisely.” Mr. Collins’ eyes glowed with self-righteous condemnation as he looked down from his scarecrow height at Elizabeth.
“But you said Mr. F had been shot.” Mary cast a quick look at Mr. Collins. “Elizabeth does not usually lie.”
“I did not lie.”
“To be certain you did not.” Mr. Collins shook his large, ponderous head. “The colonel is a military man. Likely he has been wounded in his time.”
“But Elizabeth said she must tend him,” Mary protested, a frown of confusion creasing her brow. “If he has been shot, it was not recently. He appears perfectly hale and in no need of tending.”
“I will not sully your pure soul with an explanation for how your sister must have tended the colonel.”
Anger sparked in Elizabeth, scorching off any guilt. “You go too far, sir. I have had no assignations. If, and I repeat if, I spoke with anyone on my walk, it would have been for good reason and without a hint of scandalous behavior.”
Mr. Collins let out a long, sad sigh. “I cannot accept the word of a fallen woman. I can only be pleased that your unsuitability came to light before I asked for your hand.”
“For Elizabeth’s hand?” Mary cut in angrily.
Mr. Collins turned to her. “Yes. Your mother made it clear that I may not offer for Cousin Jane, so I shifted the honor.”
Elizabeth let out a harsh laugh. “I would sooner be the fallen woman you accuse me of being than ever accept an offer from you.”
“I will not add such words to your tally of offenses, cousin, as I know you utter them merely to soothe your wounded pride, now that you know my offer will not be forthcoming.”
Elizabeth could only be relieved that she’d already set down her mother’s teapot, or she would have thrown it at his condescending, pitying face.
“I am afraid, however, that I will be forced to add this morning’s transgression to my next report for my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She has already been informed of your prior misconduct. She will know the proper steps to take.”
Elizabeth cared less about what his esteemed Lady Catherine did or did not know than she did about Mr. Collins’ opinion, which was to say less than not at all.
“And I will have to tell Mama,” Mary added, rallying to a disdainful look of her own.
“To whom I will explain that you are both daft.” With that, Elizabeth marched right at them.
As she expected, they stepped back, moving aside rather than collide with her.
Her chin high, she strode down the hall, but worry filled her.
Her only hope now was to explain things to her father, so he could curtail whatever madness Mrs. Bennet might contrive from Mary and Mr. Collins’ accusations.
That was, were he willing to do so once he learned all that Elizabeth had failed to confide ere now.