Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth blinked open her eyes despite the excruciating pain in her right temple that begged her to keep them closed. She saw nothing. She tried to turn her head but could not move more than an inch either way. Something covered her face. She was sweltering.
Raising her hand did nothing. She could not move whatever blocked her view because both arms were pinned.
Only her feet were free. She scrabbled them back and forth and slid back, her head hitting something, making her wince as the throbbing intensified.
She was on her back, on something hard, and she was wrapped in something.
Breathing heavily, she strained to cry out, but whatever enveloped her drew into her mouth, choking her.
Her heart pounded and she felt hot all over.
Now it was harder to draw air into her lungs, and tears of fright streamed down her face.
She felt dizzy and her throat was dry. The thick cloth all around her was crushing her.
Sometime later, her eyes blinked open and it was still dark. Had she fainted? She was in the same place, still smothered. How did she get here? Elizabeth whimpered but held back tears. She would deprive herself of air if she gave way to panic, and the next time she fainted she might not wake up.
First, air. She breathed calmly and slowly, in through her nose and out through her mouth.
She was surrounded by fixed air and needed fresh air before she fainted again.
Kicking her feet, her head hit what felt like a wall.
Turning her body, she pressed her face against it and, bracing against the ground with her feet, she tried to draw down whatever was wrapped around her face.
It slipped enough on one side to give her right eye a view of a wooden wall and then the sky. And, most importantly, she could breathe a little easier. But how could she see both a wall and the sky? She was in the corner of a short wall, only about two yards high.
She struggled to free her arms, but soon exhausted herself. It felt like she was trapped in a blanket that was tied around her chest and again around her knees. Panting, she rolled onto her back and wondered where she was.
Her mind resisted going over what had happened this morning, but despite her headache, parts of it sluggishly came to her. Lady Metcalfe had struck her? Was she now in the cart that had been next to where Lady Metcalfe overpowered her?
She was the target of violence after all. Darcy had been right, but not entirely. It was not Julia who targeted her, but her mother. She must have also knocked over the vase, and she and Julia must have trapped her behind the door. But why had Lady Metcalfe abducted her?
Her head ached, but she forced herself to think. Lady Metcalfe said she wanted to marry again, but Julia’s potential scandal would make it impossible. And Julia had settled on Darcy. So, in Lady Metcalfe’s mind, Elizabeth had to be out of the way?
Her head hurt so much. Lady Metcalfe was anxious to see Julia wed quickly. Was she a mother desperate to protect her daughter from the shame of a love child? So why did Julia and her mother not demand that Mr Travers marry Julia, if what Darcy saw in the library was true?
Was it not true?
Otherwise, would not Lady Metcalfe demand her friend marry her daughter, even if he was not the father of Julia’s child?
Lady Metcalfe and Mr Travers were lifelong acquaintances, about the same age.
Elizabeth pushed her thoughts past the pain.
Lady Metcalfe was still a handsome woman, with an unlined face and blonde hair with no sign of grey.
Had Darcy seen Lady Metcalfe with Mr Travers, not Julia?
Nothing made sense. She was missing part of the story, but her head pounded. It felt like her brain had rattled inside her skull.
There was a hum of noise all around her. Sometimes it built then faded, but it was ever present. It was the sound of a crowd. Elizabeth used her shoulder against the corner of the cart to sit up, bracing herself with her feet to push herself to sitting. It was a slow process and her neck was sore.
“Come along,” a man’s voice called. “I need to place another bet.”
“It is a one-mile heat,” another voice returned. “Ptolemy will take it, I promise you!”
Her mind cleared a little as she eased herself up. She was at the racecourse. Today was the final day of the Epsom race meeting. If she was amid a crowd, someone would help her.
The blanket loosened a little more around her face, and there was now enough of a gap for her to see more with one eye. And it was slightly easier to breathe. Her arms were too tightly bound to be of use, but she was almost upright.
“Help!” she screamed. The stifling blanket muffled her voice.
A foot stomped on her shoulder and she cried out as she slumped back down.
“Quiet,” said Lady Metcalfe as the cart shifted.
Lady Metcalfe must have climbed over the back into the cart from the driver’s seat. Elizabeth saw enough to know she wore trousers and men’s shoes. Had she changed into men’s clothes after she attacked her? And why bring her to Epsom?
A sickening lurch in her stomach made her breath catch.
Did Lady Metcalfe dress as a man on Thursday to knock her off the carriage roof?
First the vase, then the carriage, the jib-door, and now this?
Darcy had the wrong woman, but he had been right that someone was set on harming her.
Where was Darcy now? He must be beside himself with worry.
If she called out, would he hear her? Darcy was looking for her. It was impossible to believe otherwise.
She tried to sit up again and gave another loud shriek for help, calling Darcy by name.
Lady Metcalfe put a foot to her throat, and she choked, the rest of her scream cut off.
The pressure was not enough to crush her, but the threat of it was apparent.
“Stay silent. Although I doubt anyone will hear you.”
The noise of the crowd swelled, but the clamour of thudding hoofbeats roaring past deafened it. From the sound and reverberation coursing through her, it felt as though they were right next to the turf.
“Why are you doing this?” Lady Metcalfe made no answer.
It was possible she could not hear, with the blanket covering her mouth and the roar of the energetic crowd.
Or perhaps Lady Metcalfe ignored her. Whatever it was, she must be mad.
And that would not make her safer, more reasonable, or predictable.
Bone-deep terror mingled with the slightest bit of courage.
Darcy must be looking for her, but how would he find her among thousands at the race meeting?
Would anyone see her lying here under Lady Metcalfe’s foot and realise it was a person?
Could she get away or be rescued before Lady Metcalfe followed through on whatever terrible reason she brought her to the racecourse?
Darcy galloped up to the edge of the crowd around Epsom’s turf with a frantic energy. As he looked over the multitude, the rest of the men from Woodcote came up behind him.
An all-consuming power drove him like a man possessed. Some part of his mind knew his throat burned, his stinging hands struggled to hold the reins, his stomach revolted with his horse’s every step. But how could that matter when someone intended to murder Elizabeth?
“Lady Metcalfe drove here in a cart, dressed in men’s clothes,” he shouted to the others. “Miss Bennet is in grave danger.”
They split up in different directions, nudging their way through the crowd.
There were eight of them, including himself, but that was not nearly enough people.
He needed an entire company of men, maybe even a battalion, to search for Elizabeth.
Although the crowd was lessened on this final day of the meeting, there were still ten thousand people at the course.
Darcy brought his horse to a trot along the outskirts of the crowd, looking over them and straining to see Lady Metcalfe.
How would he find her amid so many people?
He felt sick, and not because of the arsenic.
What happened to the body and the mind when panic overwhelms?
This was a different twisting sensation in his stomach, a different weight on his chest that made it hard to breathe.
He had lost all control, and he was one terrified thought away from letting fear consume him.
There were many things to catch the eye: cockfighting, prize-fighting, gaming tents, jugglers, ballad singers, ladies on stilts.
Gambling tables, publican booths, prostitutes.
And most entertainers and vendors had a cart.
Darcy cursed to himself as he rode along.
How was he to find one woman, dressed as a man, in a crowd of thousands?
A roar built up as one of the lesser heats began.
The racecourse was not a circuit but U-shaped, with chutes for the start for sprint races.
He watched the horses make the wide sweeping left turn at Tattenham Corner as the horses descended toward the straight.
Although he was several rows back, the roaring hooves and shouts of the crowd vibrated through his chest as the horses thundered past.
Why had Lady Metcalfe brought Elizabeth here?
“Well met, Darcy!” He turned to see Sir John touch his hat. “Do you have anything on this race?”
“Have you seen Lady Metcalfe?” he demanded.
“No, but perhaps Mrs Tessier has.” Sir John pointed. “I was just going—”
Darcy rode past him and saw Mrs Tessier’s landau about twenty yards away.
He had not even noticed her in the crowd.
How was he to find Elizabeth here? He forced himself through the masses to see her carriage right before the turf.
Mrs Tessier and her son were in the open landau, and Mr Travers was atop his horse.
“Lady Metcalfe has taken Elizabeth!” he cried once he was in shouting distance.
They all stared at him as if he had lost his mind.
“What are you saying?” Mrs Tessier asked.