Chapter 3
Elizabeth Bennet pulled her blankets closer to her shaking body.
She had successfully crept into Longbourn through a side door, raced up to the second floor via the servant’s stairs, taken off her outer garments and hid them in her hope chest. She threw on her nightwear and crept under the covers of her bed.
She felt cold – bitterly, dreadfully cold. It was not the cold of a winter morning, but the chill of betrayal and horror. Mr. Wickham, whom she had thought an honorable man, had attacked her and now lay dead on Longbourn land as penalty for his sins.
Elizabeth shuddered in memory of her encounter with Lieutenant Wickham less than an hour previously.
She had been so happy to see him, only to be dismayed by the miasma of alcoholic vapors surrounding him, and that Wickham’s usual charming manners had been replaced with lascivious glances at her form.
She had tried bidding a courteous farewell and retreating toward Longbourn, but he had grabbed her, and kissed her against her will.
When she fought his harsh embrace and screamed, he began pulling at her clothing.
She had been quite in despair as the hour was early, but within a minute of Wickham’s despicable attack, Mr. Darcy had galloped up to them and pulled the villain off of her.
A few hot tears spilled from her eyes onto her sheets. Wickham had tried to murder Mr. Darcy, only to be trampled by the mighty black stallion! And Darcy, not content with saving her virtue, insisted on taking all responsibility for Wickham’s demise.
Elizabeth gulped suddenly and sat up, her breath coming out in great heaving gasps.
She had struck Wickham on the head with a branch and knocked him to the ground.
It was she who was truly responsible for his death!
She did not feel guilty; the man she thought an angel was a devil, and her intervention might well have saved her rescuer from great injury and possible death.
It was entirely wrong that Darcy insisted on taking all responsibility for what had come to pass!
For a frantic moment she considered rushing to her parents to tell them the truth.
Then the moment passed, and she lay back down, breathing deeply to slow her racing heart.
Mr. Darcy was correct; if word escaped into the world of the attack on her person by the vile George Wickham, she and her sisters would be ruined in society.
Elizabeth prayed that Mr. Darcy was correct, that he would not suffer imprisonment or worse for the violent death of George Wickham.
***
“Mr. Darcy!”
Darcy looked up in relief at the sight of the Bennets’ coachman, who stood in the large door which led to the Longbourn stables. His wound was growing more painful by the minute, and Phoenix now limped noticeably.
“Sir, what happened?” Coachman Jack demanded, rushing toward him, his eyes fixed on the horse’s injured leg.
Darcy swayed a little and said, “I apologize for coming in such a state. I ... I was attacked by one of the militia officers on Longbourn land, and the man injured both me and my horse. I am quite concerned about Phoenix. He is bleeding...”
Coachman Jack reached forward and took the reins from Darcy’s suddenly nerveless fingers. “Caleb! Get over here now!” he yelled to his stable boy, who rushed up, his eyes wide with amazement.
“Take the horse into the stables,” the coachman ordered before turning back to his injured guest.
“Mr. Darcy, please come inside, sir, and speak to Mr. Bennet. I will make certain no one enters Longbourn, and I will send a couple of my boys for the magistrate. Do you know the name of your attacker? He must be arrested at once.”
“Yes,” Darcy said, a grim expression on his face. “Lieutenant George Wickham. But you need not worry about his escape; he slashed Phoenix while assaulting me, and Phoenix trampled him. Wickham is dead.”
***
“Lizzy! Lizzy!” screeched Mrs. Bennet, erupting into the room like a minor Mount Vesuvius. “You must arise at once, Lizzy, do you hear? Mr. Collins wants to speak to you! Get up, get up!”
Elizabeth cowered under the covers at her mother’s shrill voice. She knew her face was still streaked with tears, and she suddenly wondered if Wickham had marked her face during their struggle.
“Mama, what is it?” she muttered, trying to sound as if she had just woken from a deep sleep.
“You must get up!” the lady exclaimed even more loudly. “Mr. Collins is asking for you! It is after ten in the morning. It is not like you to be such a sluggard!”
“Mama, I am so tired from last night’s ball, and my head aches...”
“It matters not! Mr. Collins may well ask for your hand in marriage today, and we would be saved from losing our home after your father dies. Lizzy, I insist that you get up!”
Elizabeth clenched her teeth and suppressed a groan.
On an ordinary day, she would depress Mrs. Bennet’s expectation that she would ever accept the hand of her oafish cousin.
Today, with her emotions in turmoil, with the imprint of Wickham’s leering face on the back of her eyelids, she felt quite unfit to argue with her mother.
In any case, it was unlikely Mr. Collins truly meant to make her an offer today.
They had not known each other for even a fortnight, after all!
“I will be down as soon as possible,” she promised her mother, who squealed happily and rushed from the room.
Elizabeth climbed out of bed and approached the mirror above her desk, anxiety pinching her throat.
To her enormous relief, her face and neck were unmarked, though she could already see bruises forming on her upper arms where Wickham had held her so ferociously.
His face, previously so gentle, had been inflamed with lust.
She shuddered again and turned away to find appropriate clothing. Fortunately, since it was autumn, no one would question her decision to wear dresses which covered her arms and shoulders.
A few minutes later, having washed her face to remove the traces of her tears, she stepped outside of her room and walked toward the stairs, only to stop suddenly.
Mr. Darcy looked up from the corridor below, where he was walking alongside Mr. Bennet.
For a moment their eyes met, and Elizabeth found herself short of breath.
She had long thought him a very handsome man, but under the stress of the current situation, his usually haughty expression had given way to concern.
The difference made him far more appealing.
Darcy gazed at Miss Elizabeth and then turned his eyes forward again. It seemed that the young lady had successfully crept into her home without anyone the wiser, which was an enormous relief.
“This way, please, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said, pushing the door to the parlor open.
“Sally, build up the fire in here for our guest. Hill! I need you to summon two of the boys to run messages to the apothecary, the veterinarian, and Sir William Lucas. Mr. Darcy, please do sit down and we will have that wound tended to as quickly as possible...”
“Mr. Darcy!” cried out a rather high pitched voice, and Darcy winced at the sight of his aunt’s rector.
“Mr. Collins,” he acknowledged with a weary nod as he lowered himself cautiously onto a well-padded settee near the fire.
“Mr. Darcy, it is such an honor to see you here at Longbourn at this hour!” the clergyman babbled. “It is extremely kind, too, that the nephew of my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, would ... oh, sir, what is this? Are you injured?”
“Mr. Darcy is injured,” Bennet replied more sternly than was his wont, “and I daresay his head is aching. Come, Mr. Collins, I believe what our guest needs most is peace and quiet.”
The rector’s eyes were round with horror. “You must call for a doctor, Mr. Bennet, at once! Lady Catherine would never forgive me if...”
“Mr. Collins,” Darcy interrupted, “would you be so kind as to continue this conversation elsewhere? My head is aching quite dreadfully.”
“Of course, of course,” Collins said, ducking his head obsequiously and retreating from the room. Mr. Bennet followed him out and shut the door quietly, leaving Darcy with Hill in attendance.
Mrs. Bennet bustled up at this inopportune moment and cried out, “Mr. Collins, Mr. Collins, my dear Elizabeth is even now breaking her fast! She will be available to join you in the sitting room within fifteen minutes.”
Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, but he knew his duty.
“Oh, Mrs. Bennet, I fear that I will be quite unavailable to propose to Miss Elizabeth this morning. Lady Catherine de Bourgh would be rightfully outraged if I busied myself with romantic matters, while her favorite nephew, the great master of Pemberley, was bleeding in the house where I will one day be master.”
Mrs. Bennet’s expression had fallen ludicrously at the beginning of this portentous speech, but now she merely looked bewildered. “Mr. Darcy? What about Mr. Darcy?”
Mr. Bennet eyed his wife and guest sternly and said, “Mrs. Bennet, Mr. Collins, I must request that you keep your voices down. Mr. Darcy requires rest.”
“But what has happened?” Mrs. Bennet shrieked.
Her husband’s lips compressed in irritation, and he grasped her arm, though not harshly. “Come, let us go into the breakfast parlor. I believe most of the girls are present, and I need to speak of what has come to pass.”
He strode briskly to the dining room and opened it to find all five of his daughters within.
On the one hand, that was convenient. On the other, there would doubtless be a great deal of screaming once he announced what had occurred.
Of course, he need not tell them everything; Wickham might not be dead, after all.
Inside the dining room, he found a wan Elizabeth drinking hot chocolate while nibbling at a roll, and the rest of his daughters eating pastries and fruit which they were washing down with their particular beverage of choice.
The room was surprisingly quiet save for the sound of munching, and Lydia and Kitty, his two youngest girls, looked exhausted with dark circles under their eyes.
Well, they had both drunk excessive quantities of punch the previous night and danced into the wee hours, so even at eleven o’clock in the morning, they were exhausted.
“Daughters, Mrs. Bennet, Mr. Collins,” he said, “I fear that there has been an accident on our land, and Mr. Darcy is injured. He is currently resting in the parlor, and Mr. Jones will be along shortly to attend to him. I must request that you be quieter than usual.”
To his surprise, his youngest daughter, who could usually be counted on to bombard him with shrill questions, merely nodded and returned to moodily stirring her coffee.
Lydia must be more miserable from her frolicking than he originally guessed.
So much the better – it would make the next few hours easier to bear.
“Is Mr. Darcy much hurt?” his eldest daughter inquired, worry pinching her eyebrows together. Jane was the kindest of all creatures, and Mr. Bennet bestowed a reassuring look on the girl.
“I do not believe it is serious, my dear, but naturally we must provide him with medical attention.”
“Indeed, we must,” burbled Mr. Collins, who had managed to remain silent for a full two minutes. “Indeed, Mr. Bennet, I really feel we must call for a physician from London.”
“We will if Mr. Darcy requests it,” Bennet promised. “For now, may I request that you all retire to the drawing room or your bedchambers after you finish your meals? I believe our guest would find it more comfortable if he was left quite alone.”
“I do not see why we should care about Mr. Darcy’s comfort,” Lydia grumbled. “He was terribly rude to Lizzy when first they met.”
“It is our duty as Christians to provide for those under our roof,” Mary, the third and plainest Bennet daughter, remonstrated.
“Yes, and Mr. Darcy is Mr. Bingley’s friend,” Mrs. Bennet declared. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, we must send a note to Netherfield Park! Mr. Bingley will wish to know his friend is hurt!”
“I believe Mr. Bingley is in London today,” Jane said, blushing a little. “He has some business matters to attend to. Mrs. Hurst, Mr. Hurst, and Miss Bingley are at Netherfield, however. They would no doubt wish to learn of Mr. Darcy’s injury.”
Bennet frowned at this. The situation was complex enough without the haughty Miss Bingley and her relations cluttering up the house.
“We should wait until Mr. Jones can attend to our guest before sending news to Netherfield,” he declared.