Chapter 25 #2
“Someone is coming,” Mrs. Wells said. “Quick, get as far back into the scullery as you possibly can. The rest of us all know to go to our rooms or to hide; if there is no one in here, then no one can reveal where you are.”
Elizabeth’s blood ran cold. She turned back into the scullery at once, kneeling beside Georgiana. “Mrs. Georgiana,” she whispered urgently, “wake up, ma’am—quietly now.”
The girl stirred, blinking in confusion. “Beth? What is it—?”
Elizabeth pressed her hand gently over the girl’s mouth and shook her head. Then she lifted a finger to her lips. Georgiana’s eyes widened with fear, but she nodded her understanding.
Elizabeth drew her close, pulling the blankets around them both as they crouched against the far wall, doing their best to remain hidden and silent. The scullery was icy; the air smelled of damp stone and ashes, and every sound from the yard beyond seemed to echo against her heart.
The rhythmic drumming of hooves grew louder. Elizabeth held her breath and tightened her hold on Georgiana.
Please let it be Darcy.
∞∞∞
The first pale streaks of dawn were just beginning to silver the horizon when Pemberley’s great house came into view.
The sight, familiar and foreign all at once, stole Darcy’s breath.
The wide expanse of stone was dim in the early light, its windows dark and shuttered, and a thin mist hung low over the fields like a shroud.
The company guided their horses down the road and along the side of the manor house, where the path split go left towards the kitchen door and right in the direction of the stables. The colonel dismounted and surveyed the silent grounds with a frown.
“Looks like it was not a trap after all—at least, not on the way here,” he said grimly. Then turning to Darcy, he added, “I will go in and speak with my cousin. You will remain here until I can verify your story.”
Darcy stared at him in disbelief. “You cannot mean to leave me standing here! Not while my wife is in danger. I must go to her—she was being hidden in the scullery.”
The colonel cut him off with a raised hand. “You will do nothing of the sort. If what you say is true, and my cousin is indeed in peril, we can ill afford chaos. My men will stay with you. I will see to the rest.”
“Sir, please—”
But the colonel was already dismounting, striding across the gravel toward the great front doors. He flung them open and stepped inside, his voice echoing through the silent halls. “Georgiana! Georgiana Wickham!”
Darcy’s heart pounded as he listened. No sound came in answer—no footsteps, no startled cry. Only the dull whisper of the wind across the courtyard.
After several long minutes, Fitzwilliam reappeared, his expression grave. “She is not in her rooms,” he said tersely. “Where is she?”
Darcy’s pulse quickened. “Did you ask Mrs. Reynolds? Surely she would know—”
“I did not see a single soul,” the colonel replied. “The house is empty.”
A cold dread settled in Darcy’s stomach. “Then Wickham has returned,” he said hoarsely. “He must have dismissed the staff—taken her—”
He broke off, spurring his horse toward the side of the house, but the colonel’s men seized his reins before he could reach the corner. “Easy there,” one warned.
“Let me go!” Darcy struggled against them. “Every moment we waste—”
The colonel came round the corner himself, motioning for his men to follow. “We will check the kitchens,” he said curtly. “If anyone remains in the house, we shall find them there.”
They dismounted and crossed the narrow yard. The kitchen door hung slightly ajar, but the rooms beyond were still and dark. The colonel entered first, pistol drawn, his boots loud against the flagstones.
Darcy waited just outside, straining to hear. “There is no one in the kitchens,” the colonel called after a moment. Then, more sharply: “The scullery is locked!”
There was a loud thud, then another shout from Richard. “Jones! Get in here!”
The largest of the footmen obeyed the order immediately, disappearing inside along with his master. A moment later came the sound of wood splintering—then a sharp cry and the crash of broken glass.
Before Darcy could demand what had happened, the remaining men surged forward, weapons drawn. He was pulled along with them through the doorway—and stopped short in horror.
Elizabeth stood at the far end of the room, pressed against the scullery door, her arm raised. In her hand was the jagged neck of a broken wine bottle. At her feet lay Colonel Fitzwilliam, dazed, one hand lifted to back of his head where a thin stream of blood seeped through his fingers.
Every man in the room had turned his sword and gun toward her.
Darcy’s blood ran cold.
“Elizabeth!”
∞∞∞
The seconds passed like hours as Elizabeth pressed her ear to the scullery door. The sounds outside had grown louder—boots, low voices, and then the scrape of something heavy against the flagstones. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
From the other side of the door came a man’s shout, muffled but distinct. “The scullery is locked!”
Georgiana’s fingers tightened around Elizabeth’s sleeve. “Beth,” she whispered, “what do we do? He will find us!”
Before Elizabeth could answer, another voice barked an order—gruff, commanding. “Jones! Get in here!”
A heartbeat later came the splintering crack of wood under force.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. There was no time to think. She darted to the shelves, grasping for anything that might serve as a weapon. Her hand closed around the neck of a wine bottle—heavy and smooth beneath her palm.
“Stay behind me,” she whispered.
Georgiana’s eyes were huge in the dim light, but she obeyed, retreating to the corner.
The pounding at the door came again, louder this time. The wood groaned. Elizabeth scrambled atop a low barrel near the hinges, gripping the bottle tightly. The door shuddered once more, then gave way with a splintering crack, flinging splinters in all directions.
A man burst through, broad-shouldered and shouting, pushing his way past the barrel guarding the entrance.
Elizabeth let out a cry that was half terror, half fury, and swung with all her strength. The bottle came down hard upon his head with a sharp, sickening thud. He staggered backward, crashing into the table before collapsing to the floor.
For one breathless instant there was silence—then the sound of weapons being drawn, and the thunder of boots as others charged towards the broken doorway.
Elizabeth froze in the doorframe, the jagged remains of glass still clutched in her trembling hand, her heart pounding so fiercely she thought it might leap from her chest.
“Do not come any closer,” she warned as menacingly as she could, “else I shall hit him again.”
She raised her makeshift weapon again high in the air.
“For pity’s sake, we are here to help!” shouted the man on the floor. “Stop attacking us, woman!”
“Richard?”