Chapter 12 #2
Elizabeth attended to the mending in her basket and spoke softly to Mary, who could not be blamed for feeling as if everything in her life was upside down and sideways.
After speaking at length about the events, the need for discretion with the community about said events, and their own changing feelings, Mary excused herself.
“I need to practice,” she explained, and it was not long before a plodding version of Handel’s “Dead March” accompanied Elizabeth’s reluctant stitching.
Hill entered the parlour and said, “Miss Elizabeth, the vicar’s daughter is at the back door, asking for you.”
“Abby?” Of course Elizabeth sprang up, and of course she immediately thought of Abigail Raymondson’s connection between Mr Wickham and Lydia. She hastened to meet with the girl and asked her cordially to come in.
“Oh, no, miss. I cannot, but I know that you are the Bennet sister who knows all the tenants, and my father and I came across a young boy, and he is weeping something awful, but he will not tell us what has happened. My father sent me to ask for you; he knows from something that the boy mumbled that the boy thinks the world of you, and we hope he will calm down enough to tell us what is the matter.”
“Of course I will come!” Elizabeth was already pulling her half-boots on, and grabbing her bonnet and pelisse. “Hill, please inform my father that I have gone to help Mr Raymondson, and Abby, with one of our tenants. Where is it exactly, Abby?”
“I cannot explain, I just know how to find my way back. Come quick, Miss Elizabeth!”
Abby seemed almost panicky, and Elizabeth walked so quickly, keeping up with her, she was almost running.
But as they moved off towards Longbourn’s woodland, she began to wonder at the sense of the girl’s story.
Surely Mr Raymondson would just scoop up the boy and come with his daughter to the house.
If Abby could not explain the location, could she have found the house and even now confidently retrace her steps?
Again, the young girl’s connection with Mr Wickham occurred to Elizabeth, although she was not certain…
. Her steps slowed, and Elizabeth considered what to ask to guard herself against a possible trap.
But it was too late; she heard a familiar, hated voice: “Thank you for joining us, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth felt his fingers close onto her wrist in an unbreakable circle.
“Wickham!” she hissed as she tried to kick back at him, she flailed both of her arms, she spun around and attempted to knee his groin, and she screamed.
The only results of her attempts to break free were pain for herself.
Her shoulder ached, her throat felt strained, and she was fairly certain that her foot was in more pain that Wickham experienced, wherever her kicks had landed.
Mr Wickham covered her mouth with his hand, and she tried to bite down on the leather glove he wore while willing herself not to pass out from the unpleasant smells said glove brought to her nostrils.
Thinking quickly, and knowing Longbourn lands better than almost anybody, she wondered if she could manage to get close enough to the ravine to make use of it to rid herself of her attacker.
She also wondered how lost to good sense Abigail Raymondson could be.
Surely an infatuation with a pretty face and golden curls would not make a good person wish to participate in a kidnapping… would it?
She ignored Mr Wickham’s questions and suggestions and scanned the area until she saw Abby standing still with shock on her face.
The girl held her bent arms close to her chest, one hand covering her mouth, and Elizabeth tried to plead with the girl just using her eyes.
The girl spun around and ran, but unfortunately not in the direction of Longbourn’s manor house.
She heard Mr Wickham call out “Abby! I need your help!”
But the girl continued running, and Elizabeth so wished for the freedom to do the same.
Think! she urged herself. She pictured exactly where they were, where the ravine was, and possible ways she could utilise the knowledge.
Her first step was to pretend to faint. She closed her eyes and attempted to fully relax while collapsing to the ground.
It felt delicious to stop straining and fighting, but unfortunately she was not heavy enough to create much of a problem for Mr Wickham’s strength. He cursed but held on well enough.
He seemed to want to drag her in the opposite direction from where she wished to go, so she planted her feet and surged her body towards the ravine.
Sure enough, her unexpected revival did carry them both a few feet closer to the rough edge.
She felt stone under her right foot, and she pictured exactly where the large flat boulder was as she continued to writhe in Wickham’s arms.
“Do you want me to knock you senseless?” Mr Wickham snapped.
He seemed to consider it a good idea, and he let go of her mouth in order to bring his hand up, and Elizabeth screamed again, so loudly that her throat hurt.
She was certain that Mr Wickham was half a second away from hitting her, and she tried to butt his chin with her head.
Again, there was immediately pain for her, but this time she heard an oof of pain from Mr Wickham as well, and she bore to her right again, struggling to inch him towards the spot where his footing would fail him.
Mr Wickham’s oaths gained in volume again, and he spat blood; she assumed that her head butt had resulted in him biting his tongue. She hoped he was good and distracted by that, and she wriggled even more.
As her efforts gained her the feel of stone beneath her left foot as well as her right, Elizabeth considered what she could do to save herself if Mr Wickham did begin to fall.
She set her sights on a scrubby little field maple that looked more bush than tree.
It would be a perfect hold, if she could grasp onto it.
Again, Elizabeth let herself sag, and again she shot up again, trying to strike his chin with her head.
He must have tried to avoid that fate and perhaps over-corrected.
For the first time his hold loosened a bit, and Elizabeth successfully lunged away from him, grasping a branch of the field maple.
She felt unsteady, herself, and she heard Mr Wickham’s cry.
She wished she could be certain where he was—had he fully fallen into the ravine, or was he holding onto a bush or boulder, or was he still inches away from falling?
—but she felt even more compelled to run, and she did so, running towards Longbourn, using her weakened, strained voice to call for help.
Elizabeth had always been a strong walker, and she occasionally loved to run freely—although the opportunities to do so were severely limited now that she was grown and expected to display decorum at all times.
But she loved the feel of her half-boots striking the forest floor and shooting her forward, and she loved the experience of weaving between the trees, confident in her knowledge of this beloved woodland, unerringly heading towards home. Suddenly she saw—“Fitzwilliam?”
“Elizabeth!”
He had been running, too, but towards her, and somehow, despite his disheveled, sweaty appearance, he had never been more attractive.
“Wickham!” she gasped. She pointed in the direction she came from, and she said, “I do not know if he is hurt or running away or…”
Darcy said, “Get to the house; I will look for him.”
Elizabeth stopped running, leaning down to breathe heavily, and she said, “He might have fallen into a ravine. I should show you….”
“Please, please go to safety,” he pleaded. She was startled to see that his eyes were wet, and he passed one arm across his face to clear his vision and asked one more time, “Please….”
So Elizabeth ran home while she heard her beloved run towards resolution…or possibly danger.