CHAPTER 11
Elizabeth counted seven nights since her capture.
The pattern of their captivity scarcely varied. Each evening, she was led out to the wagon with a sack drawn over her head and blankets piled heavily around her. Each night, she was placed beside Mr. Darcy for the long journey through the darkness.
At first, the enforced closeness embarrassed her.
To find herself so near a man with whom she had once exchanged little beyond civility, and rather pointed civility at that, was uncomfortable enough under ordinary circumstances.
To endure it while bound, frightened, and entirely at the mercy of their captors was almost unbearable.
However, Elizabeth found that embarrassment soon gave way to gratitude. Mr. Darcy's presence had become an unexpected source of comfort. There was something reassuring in knowing that, whatever else had been taken from her, she was not entirely alone.
More surprising still was the change in his manner.
The proud reserve that had so often irritated her had been replaced by a quiet attentiveness she had never before witnessed.
Instead of reproach, he offered reassurance.
And, instead of silence, he gave her small whispers of comfort as the wagon wheels turned beneath them.
Whenever the road grew rough or the night seemed particularly dark, he would turn his bound hands toward her, lean as close as their restraints allowed, and speak softly near her ear, “You will be safe, Miss Bennet.”
Sometimes those were the only words he said, but they mattered to her.
In a world where nearly everything had become frightening and uncertain, his quiet certainty offered her a small mercy.
She did not know whether he could truly promise her safety, but she found herself believing him all the same.
Indeed, Elizabeth was worn nearly beyond bearing.
She slept little, ate less, and began to wonder whether the long hours of silence were altering her very mind.
With no one to speak to, no familiar voice to interrupt the endless procession of her thoughts, each day seemed to stretch interminably before her, leaving her alone with fears she could neither resolve nor escape.
But, even in her exhaustion, her mind refused to be entirely idle.
More than once, she found herself reflecting upon the surprising method behind her captors' scheme.
Dull-witted as most of the men appeared, with the notable exception of Wickham, they had nevertheless managed their movements with a degree of caution she could not dismiss.
They travelled only by night and rested by day, taking evident pains to remain unseen by any curious traveller who might question the presence of a heavily guarded party upon the road.
They lodged, too, in private houses rather than inns. Elizabeth had initially thought it merely another cruelty of their circumstances, but she now understood the advantage. An inn invited questions. A private residence offered secrecy.
And then there was the road itself. From the constant jolting of the wagon and the unevenness of the ground beneath them, Elizabeth suspected they had rarely, if ever, taken the principal highways.
They kept instead to lesser roads and country lanes, where the rough going was the price of avoiding the traffic and watchful eyes that even the darkness of night might bring upon a main road.
The realization unsettled her. For all their brutishness, her captors were not moving without purpose. Every discomfort, every change of road, every night's journey appeared to serve the same end, which was to keep her and Mr. Darcy hidden.
Someone planned this carefully, she realized. And the longer Elizabeth remained their prisoner, the more convinced she became that their destination, and whatever awaited them there, had been determined long before she was ever taken.
The whole scheme was plainly better ordered than she would have credited such men with contriving, and the thought did nothing to ease her spirits. Each day brought fresh sickness of heart, thinking of her family's distress, and of her own uncertain fate.
She turned over often, in her idle hours, the question of their direction, though the sun offered her no compass by which to judge it.
One night, however, she recalled overhearing one of the men boast of his finest catch, taken in the North Sea, a man with, by his own account, a particular gift for fishing, and no small eagerness to return to his secret spot.
Are we bound northward, then? She wondered to herself through the days that followed, feeling at times as though she moved through some world not quite her own.
Beyond such stray remarks, the men kept remarkably close counsel. Wickham seemed the most good-humoured of the lot, yet even he spoke little. She supposed conversation came hard in the dead of night, and that silence, besides, best served men wishing to pass unnoticed.
On this particular night, Elizabeth had drifted into that uncertain state between waking and sleep, aware still of the horses straining beneath some long, steady incline.
She wondered, are we climbing toward the coast?
Though, she was too tired to attempt to wake Mr. Darcy, as she heard his light snores beside her.
***
The wagon took a bend, and a wheel dropped suddenly into a rut. An oath sounded from the box, and Wickham called sharply for the man they called Chub to look to it. Chub climbed down with a heavy thud and a groan of complaint.
"Stuck fast," he pronounced, after a brief inspection.
Wickham swore again and ordered the rest of the men down to help push. Wood creaked as three of them dismounted and took their places behind the wagon.
"Now, push!" Wickham called, urging the horses forward at the same moment.
The wheel rose partway in the rut, then crashed back into it.
"Again! Harder, damn you!" Wickham yelled, sounding exasperated.
The men strained together, their groans carrying through the night air, muffled only by the rustle of wind through the trees.
"Have you been harmed? Have they laid a hand on you?" Mr. Darcy woke, startled from the sounds of the men at work.
"No, they have not touched me, nor harmed me. I believe we are currently stuck in a rut, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth responded gently.
"Thank goodness for that," he said, relief plain in his voice.
Elizabeth heard their captors redouble their efforts.
The wagon lurched violently as they pushed and strained against its weight, only to slide backward once more, the stubborn wheel refusing to gain purchase.
Each attempt ended in the same miserable fashion, accompanied by a chorus of curses that grew louder with every failure.
Above them, Wickham's temper finally broke. “Push harder!” he snapped, berating the men for their useless efforts. “Have you no strength between you?”
The men answered with another furious shove, but the wagon groaned, shifted scarcely an inch, and settled back into the mud.
It struck Elizabeth, oddly, as very like a birth she had once attended among the tenants, old Mrs. Clark, labouring with her third child, the midwife's voice rising each time: Push.
Push harder. The final effort, though it cost the poor woman the greater share of her pain, had brought a child safely into the world.
This effort, Elizabeth thought grimly, promised only further pain, with no such reward at its end, at least not for the captives.
Another oath drew her from the recollection. The men had returned to their labour with renewed will.
While they worked noisily, Mr. Darcy leaned over and whispered, "I am forming a plan to escape. If I succeed, I will come for you, so be ready."
Elizabeth drew a sharp breath at his daring.
"Are you certain of this, Mr. Darcy?" A hundred thoughts rushed through her mind at once.
The danger was considerable; the consequences of failure, worse still.
And, despite herself, one particular thought occurred to her, whether the confinement and exhaustion had rattled his facilities.
She could hardly hear his response above the cursing and straining that grew too loud for further speech, and some minutes later the wheel at last came free.
***
Darcy went quiet again, not wanting the captors to hear any part of his plans. He had awoken in a fright, worried that Elizabeth had been harmed. And, now, he lay still, listening to the men labor, as he wished his heart to settle its rapid beating.
A quarter-hour's delay will scarcely trouble their progress, Darcy thought, with some frustration, having hoped for a longer stoppage, time enough, perhaps, to be seen by some passing soul in daylight.
Blast these ties. He cursed inwardly at the leather binding his wrists. He might have attempted something against the men while their attention was fixed upon the wagon, however ill-conceived a notion it might have proved; it was, at least, the only scheme that presented itself.
He felt himself growing nearly frantic with confinement, sore from his bonds, prisoner to a man he had once called friend, and powerless to watch over Elizabeth Bennet as he wished.
His wrists, arms, and shoulders ached fiercely, for unlike Elizabeth, he had been kept bound through nearly the whole of his captivity, save for the briefest intervals allowed him for necessity and a plain meal.
He shall not remain in England when this is over. Darcy resolved, whatever else befell them, to see Wickham transported to the colonies once he was free of this business.
The wagon rolled on for several hours more, Darcy turning over, again and again, where they might be bound, and how much longer before they reached whatever destination Wickham had in mind.
***
Not long after, the wagon drew to a halt, and Wickham's voice rang out. "Here we are, lads!" A ragged cheer went up among the men, glad enough to have another long night's travel behind them.