Chapter 1
Longbourn
Hertfordshire
Elizabeth curled up in her bed with her covers pulled over her head, her mind swirling with anguished images.
How could she have been so wrong about George Wickham?
He had seemed so charming, so kind, so gentle; how could he attack her like he did?
As tears streamed down her cheeks, she recalled how the horrifying events of the morning had unfolded. ..
***
Two hours earlier
Elizabeth Bennet crept down the stairs and, after ascertaining that the front hall was empty, hurried out the front door of her family home of Longbourn; it was early in the morning, and only the night previously the entire Bennet family had been up very late at the ball at Netherfield Hall.
Thus, the Bennets, along with their guest, the irritating Mr. William Collins, were planning to sleep late.
Elizabeth, however, had woken early and found herself entirely unable to fall back to sleep. After tossing and turning for twenty minutes, she had decided to rise and take a brisk walk along the familiar paths of the estate of Longbourn.
Two minutes later, she had reached a trail leading toward the west, towards Netherfield Park.
She felt herself relax as she slowed her pace, confident that no one would call her back.
If Mrs. Bennet had seen her, she would have ordered Elizabeth to stay within the house.
The mistress of Longbourn had never understood the active temperament and quick mind of her second daughter.
Furthermore, Mr. Collins was doubtless intending to hover over Elizabeth at breakfast, harassing her with pompous and ponderous compliments.
Elizabeth’s face twisted in disgust, and she huffed aloud.
Mr. Collins, a clergyman, was her distant cousin and, regrettably, heir to Longbourn, as Mr. Bennet’s father had entailed the estate away from the female line.
The Bennets had never met him before, and Elizabeth heartily wished that Mr. Collins had chosen to avoid the estate until her father had passed on to his reward.
It was not, of course, that she disliked clergymen. Mr. Allen, who held the living at the church near Meryton, was a sensible, well bred, generous man who had done much good for those under his spiritual care.
“But Mr. Collins is entirely absurd!” Elizabeth suddenly exclaimed aloud, causing a squirrel on a nearby tree to freeze in surprise. She smiled at the sight and shook her head. “I apologize for my outburst,” she said to the little creature. “It is merely that...”
She trailed off, aware that talking out loud to a forest animal was ridiculous.
She found Mr. Collins tedious and annoying, but the worst aspect of his presence was that he had obviously chosen her to be his bride.
On the one hand, it was a kind plan; the five Bennet daughters would be effectively rendered impecunious when their father died.
Mr. Collins’s stated desire to ameliorate the pain of losing the estate by marrying one of the Bennet daughters was actually quite generous, given that Elizabeth and her sisters were poorly dowered.
On the other hand, Elizabeth knew that in all of England, there were few men whom she despised more than Mr. Collins.
He was an odd mixture of subservience and self-conceit, talked incessantly, and spent most of his waking hours driveling on about the glories of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, his patroness in Kent.
Elizabeth would be miserable if she married the man and was resolved not to do so; better the hedgerows than to wed and share a bed and children with a man whom she could not respect at all.
No, she would never marry Mr. Collins, and having the man staying in her very house was exasperating.
Her pace picked up as her mind reverted unwillingly to yet another unpleasant experience from the Netherfield Ball, when she had danced with Mr. Darcy.
The man was master of a large estate in Derbyshire and was handsome, tall, and the nephew of an earl.
Naturally, Mr. Darcy considered himself far superior to mere mortals and had been a thorn in Elizabeth’s side since the first night she laid eyes on the man.
That notable moment had been at a public assembly at Meryton, where the master of Pemberley had announced in penetrating tones that she, Elizabeth Bennet, was not handsome enough to dance with.
Their relationship ever since had been one of veiled antagonism.
It was really quite odd that the gentleman had asked her to dance last night; perhaps he felt some compunction at overtly disdaining her at the Meryton assembly?
Darcy’s closest friend, Mr. Charles Bingley, was in love with Jane, Elizabeth’s elder sister; perhaps Darcy thought it wise to present a more courteous face to the Bennet family?
If so – and at this thought Elizabeth’s lips curved into a satisfied smile – Darcy was no doubt quite surprised at their conversation during the dance.
Elizabeth disliked Mr. Darcy for his arrogance and pride, but she loathed him for his treatment of Mr. George Wickham, a lieutenant in the militia regiment currently stationed in Meryton.
Mr. Wickham was as handsome as Darcy, but far more congenial and charming; the man was godson to Mr. Darcy’s father, and the elder Darcy had sought to provide for Mr. Wickham by setting aside a good church living for the man.
The younger Mr. Darcy, fueled by jealousy, had cruelly refused to give Mr. Wickham the living.
Now the lieutenant was forced to earn his bread in whatever way he could find.
It was unconscionable, and Elizabeth, while she could not bluntly tax Darcy on his treatment toward the man, had made enough subtle comments to render the master of Pemberley uncomfortable indeed.
Elizabeth sighed unhappily as she considered poor Mr. Wickham, who was quite alone in the world.
She wished she could do more than be a sympathetic friend, but alas, it was not in her power to provide any true assistance.
She was attracted to Mr. Wickham, and she was confident he was attracted to her, but there could be no happy union between an impoverished steward’s son and the poorly dowered second daughter of a country gentleman.
The path she was taking met another, and Elizabeth turned toward home; the other end of the trail led to Meryton, and while she would enjoy visiting her Uncle and Aunt Philips, it would not do.
She really must return to Longbourn, and soon, or her mother would be upset.
More than that, her dearest Jane would worry, and Elizabeth did not want that.
She glanced at her watch and noted it was later than she realized. She picked up her pace and turned a bend, only to stop in delighted surprise.
“Mr. Wickham!” she exclaimed.
***
George Wickham grimaced and lifted his gloved hands to cover his cold ears. He had long been prone to ear pain when he was in frigid environments, and today, in particular, he wished that his military hat came down lower on his head.
He grumbled as he strode down the path which led to Meryton.
He had intended to take the stage to the little town where his militia regiment was currently stationed, but one of the carriage wheels had failed on the road from London.
The passengers had, depending on their character and personality, clucked, cried, or cursed, but the coachman had merely climbed down and said he would go for help, while advising all to stay within until he returned with another conveyance.
Wickham, with no desire to spend any more time with the other passengers, several of whom were rather smelly, had decided to walk the five miles to Meryton along the northern path of the Longbourn estate.
He did not truly regret that decision, but he was now hungry and quite fatigued.
At least his body felt warm enough. He lifted a flask from his hip pocket and poured another few ounces of gin down his throat.
The flask had been full when he departed this morning from London, and he had not intended to drink so much so quickly, but the alcohol relieved the cold.
Indeed, he felt very pleasant except for his overly chilled ears, though perhaps a trifle bosky.
He had been nine years old when he had run away from his home near the great estate of Pemberley, angry at his father for refusing to purchase his only son a pair of fine linen breeches.
It had been a cold day, and he had wandered too far, only to be caught in a snowstorm.
Mr. George Darcy, alerted by the elder Mr. Wickham, had sent numerous servants out to search for his godson.
Young George had been found before any serious damage was done, but ever since then, his ears chilled especially quickly in frigid conditions.