Chapter Twenty-five
“What is it?” she asked softly. Lizzy rested her hand on his neck. “Is it a different fox? A badger?”
In spite of her words, Lizzy did not think an animal waited in their orchard. She felt a shiver of fear blanket her neck. Whomever was lurking in their orchard, she had no intention of confronting them.
“Come,” she told Harry in a soft, but firm, voice. “Let us return to the house.”
Harry reluctantly stuck by her side as they turned the corner of the nearest paddock and headed for the stableyard. She thought she heard something behind her. Startled, Lizzy stopped in her tracks to listen to the male voice coming out of the gloom of the orchard.
“You need not be frightened of me,” he said. “I merely went for a walk and became disoriented when darkness fell.”
The voice was cultured, and Lizzy’s fear abated somewhat. “Who are you?”
“You know me, Miss Elizabeth. I recognized your voice immediately. I am Lieutenant Wickham.”
Wickham!
Hoping that someone in the stableyard would hear her, she used a loud voice to ask, “You wish me to believe that you lost your way and ended up in our orchard? Through no design of your own?”
“I do,” he said, his voice sounding nearer.
Harry growled again.
“Nice dog,” he said in a soothing tone.
Lizzy eased backward, continuing to move toward the stableyard where she was sure to find a groom or a lad to assist her if required.
“No, do not leave, please,” Wickham said. “Do not be frightened of me.”
“If you wish women to feel safe around you, Lieutenant, then you must start behaving like a gentleman,” she said in a strident, carrying voice. Quietly, Lizzy said, “Harry, go get help.”
The dog whined, but he obediently raced away toward the stables, barking the entire way.
“I wish you had not done that,” Wickham said. He revealed himself and rushed at her.
Lizzy picked up her skirts and turned to run. Before she had taken three steps, he had hold of her. He twirled her, grabbed her upper arms, and shook her violently.
“I only wanted to talk,” he said through clenched teeth. “To talk, do you hear me?”
“You can have nothing to say to me,” she shouted in his face, hoping help would arrive soon. “Release me, I tell you, and leave our property.”
He shook her again.
“Stop yelling,” he growled.
Lizzy did not reply. Instead, without giving him warning, she stomped on his foot.
He cursed, but did not release her. More furious now than frightened, Lizzy kneed him in the groin.
Wickham gasped and loosened his grip. Lizzy tore herself free, lifted her skirts, and ran down the path toward the stables where voices shouted in alarm.
“Intruder! Intruder!” Lizzy cried. “Intruder in the orchard!”
Three angry males ran out of the stableyard and rushed past her. One stable lad carried a lantern. Their groom carried a pitchfork as well as a lantern, and the head groom carried an ax. Turney, their farm manager, hurried up to her.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, touching his cap. “Are ye all right, miss?”
“I am fine, Mr. Turney. Kindly stay and walk with me to the house,” she said, feeling shakey in spite of her words.
“Harry?” Lizzy called. Her dog barked once from the region of the orchard.
“Come.” Harry galloped back to her, his tongue lolling out, looking for praise.
She patted his heaving sides and said, “Well done.”
“I hear a horse, miss,” Mr. Turney said, looking over her shoulder.
Lizzy turned around and thought she saw the shadow of a horse and rider racing through the gap between paddocks. Her shoulders slumped in relief.
“He is gone,” she told the farm manager. “Thank you for coming so swiftly in answer to Harry’s alarm.”
Mr. Turney tugged on his cap brim again. He nodded toward the orchard. “The others are comin’ back, miss.”
When the grooms and the stable lad reached her, she thanked them profusely.
“Will ‘e be returnin’, miss?” the boy asked.
Lizzy shook her head. “No, I do not think so. I know who he was, and I will tell my father. I will also inform him of how quickly you came to the defence of myself and our home.”
They touched their foreheads. She nodded her dismissal and they left her, except for Mr. Turney, who took one of the lanterns.
“Before we go inside, we must reassure our animals,” Lizzy said. “I can hear Clover snorting and stomping.”
“Aye, miss.”
*
Wickham galloped across the fields until he came to an access point between the hedgerows, his anger and frustration racing along with the speed of his horse’s hooves.
No one will listen to me! I am handsome. I am charming, damn it! It is not normal for people not to listen to me. What is happening here? He had no answer for himself, for he did not have the habit of self-reflection. Whatever mental force controlled that practice had never developed.
With every passing moment, Wickham’s anger increased, instead of subsided.
He galloped down the lane into Meryton, swerving around the occasional carriage, pedestrian, and cart, until he drew up in front of the George Inn where he and his fellow officers stayed.
He leapt from the lathered horse and threw the reins to an ostler.
Denny and Chamberlayne stood next to a cart where their batmen supervised the loading of their traps into the cart.
“What is my trunk doing on a cart?” Wickham demanded, glaring at the younger men.
Chamberlayne held up a hand. “I can see you are angry—though I do not know why. Try to be calm.”
Wickham’s eyes widened in incredulity. Sweat trickled down his spin and swiped at droplets spotting his upper lip.
“Very well,” Chamberlayne said with forced coolness. “We have been ordered back to our regiment.”
“By whom?” Wickham snapped, taken aback. “We have not finished our assignment.”
“By me,” an authoritative voice said from behind him.
Wickham recognised the voice and swung around to face Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You!”
“Be careful, Lieutenant,” Fitzwilliam cautioned, frowning. “Mind yourself.”
“Wickham,” Chamberlayne said, putting a hand on his arm, “we are packed and ready to leave—your traps, too. I checked over your room myself. Let us depart. We will let our colonel and Colonel Fitzwilliam sort out this situation.”
Wickham yanked his arm away from the tall, younger man and took an angry step toward Fitzwilliam. His eyes burned with fury. Through a clenched jaw, he said, “I will not be ordered about by one of Darcy’s puppets. You are not my idea of a real officer. You disgust me!”
“Wickham!” Denny gasped, taking a hasty step forward. “No!”
“Do not say anything you cannot take back,” Chamberlayne urged. “Let us retire from the field. There is a coach waiting for our arrival. It will not wait long. We must leave now.”
Rage flowed through Wickham at the temperature of burning lava. He shouted back, his hands tight fists. “I will not submit to this…this…”
Colonel Fitzwilliam closed the distance between them and grimly said, “This, what? Can you find no words to describe me? Are you afraid to say what you mean? Have you no control over your temper? But then, you are no gentleman, are you, George Wickham? The son of an estate manager?” His gaze roved over Wickham’s countenance.
“You have always been sly. I do not know why anyone believes you to be charming.”
“I am charming!” Wickham snarled. His fury spiked. Without thought to the consequences, he drew back his right arm and punched Fitzwilliam in the jaw. He shouted, “And I am not a coward!”
The force of Wickham’s strike flung the colonel to the cobblestones. Wickham pounced, but before he could fall onto Fitzwilliam and give him the beating of his life, Denny and Chamberlayne clasped him about his upper arms and dragged him away.
“You struck a superior officer!” Denny panted. “A superior officer! What were you thinking?”
“He was not thinking,” Chamberlayne said grimly.
“Let me go,” Wickham quietly growled as he struggled in their grips. “I will not punch him again,” he lied, knowing full well he meant to thrash the man the minute they released him.
“Not until you have control of yourself,” Chamberlayne replied. He stared around them. “We have drawn quite a crowd. There will be no hushing this up.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir,” a man said, hurrying through the crowd to the colonel’s side. A corporal, he reached a hand down. Fitzwilliam grasped it and regained his footing.
“Thank you, Corporal Laman,” Fitzwilliam said.
He tugged his coat back into place but ignored the dirt on his clothing.
He lifted his chin and stared stonily at Wickham.
“I am placing you under charge, Mr. Wickham. Corporal Laman and these two militia corporals—your batmen I presume—will escort you to the local lock-up where you will be confined until your court-martial.”
Denny and Chamberlayne both breathed in sharply.
“Sir, leniency, I beg of you,” Chamberlayne petitioned. “A court-martial will likely mean that Wickham will be cashiered out of the militia. He will not be allowed to sell his commission. He will be destitute.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam stared at him, then at Denny, and lastly at Wickham, whose blood had run cold at the threat of court-martial.
“Sir,” Wickham said woodenly, straightening.
His friends did not release him. He bowed his shoulders and said, “I most humbly apologize for my insubordination and throw myself on your mercy. If you will allow it, I will sell out and join the regulars.” He waited several long minutes while Fitzwilliam gazed at him so directly that Wickham dared not look away.
Finally, Fitzwilliam spoke. “A northern regiment will be acceptable. If you do not follow through with your promise, I will file charges against you.” He waved at Denny and Chamberlayne, and then at the two batmen. “I have more than enough witnesses to your ungentlemanly conduct.”
Wickham swallowed. “I will return to Brighton at once and speak to my colonel.”
“See that you do,” Fitzwilliam ordered. “I will look for your name on the regular’s lists.”
Wickham saluted. “Sir.”