Chapter Eleven #3
Johnny had been told not to shoot—but he had not been told he could not use the shotgun at all.
In that moment of stillness, he grinned at his own clever notion, and flipped the gun about.
Before Smythe could regain his handhold on the trellis, Johnny leaned out the window and bashed the blackguard's face with the butt of the gun, the tossed the weapon to the attic floor, out of Smythe’s grasp as he pried the officer’s fingers off the trellis.
The brazen brigand’s eyes went wide with surprise as he fumbled for a handhold, and Johnny forcibly pushed him outward, away from the trellis, to the snowy ground twenty feet below.
Elizabeth, Georgiana, and Mr. Darcy only separated from one another long enough to close the doors to the dining room and parlors downstairs, and then they all held fast to one another as they scrambled up the stairs.
Various shouts and shrieks seemed to surround them from elsewhere in the house, and then they could hear Mr. Wickham taunting them from just beyond the front door.
They hurried past the landing and turned the corner, up to the top of the stairs, and then they stopped, leaning against the railing and peering down into the stairwell.
For a moment, the only sound was their panting.
And then, from the front of the manor, a scream cut through the silence, degenerating into a string of vicious oaths and execrations.
“Wickham,” Mr. Darcy breathed. Beyond any consideration for proprietary, Elizabeth laid a hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm the roiling temper that shone in his eyes.
“Georgiana, go up to the attic, now,” Mr. Darcy said stonily.
“But you said -”
“Now,” he growled.
“Gigi, please.” Elizabeth implored the girl. “Listen to your brother. If we do not join you upstairs in ten minutes, flee with Johnny, he will get you to safety.”
Georgiana’s indignation gave way to fear. She threw her arms around Elizabeth, and then stood on her toes to kiss her brother on the cheek before turning to go upstairs to the attic. Left alone, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged a look of high emotion and joined hands.
There was a tremendous, shattering thud, and then a splash.
Mr. Wickham, having burned his hand on the front door after they rigged the handle with smoldering hot horseshoes, had forced his way into the house, only to be met with the next obstacle.
A thin strand of black yarn had been rigged in the doorway, not only to trip the intruders, but to douse them from above with a pail of cold water.
Colonel Forster’s thunderous voice joined Mr. Wickham’s in a chorus of obscenities.
The two men were drenched and exposed to the cold, no doubt shivering already as they were obliged to work their way through the barricade of heavy old furniture that had been brought down from the attic and piled in an arc around the front door.
Wooden crashes and angry curses echoed through the front hall, and Captain Denny urged the other two officers onward, insisting that the other entrances were just as hazardous, but they were very near obtaining their prize now.
That was the signal for the next assault, and Elizabeth crouched down, untying three ropes that been knotted to the railing—each one would send an antiquated chandelier crashing down on the bandits, hot wax raining down on them as the gilded iron did even more damage.
She prayed Captain Denny was able to avoid any harm.
There were more cries of injury and outrage, but their enemies remained determined, and Captain Denny echoed their sentiments, urging them onward.
Once again, Captain Denny’s phrasing was a signal, and at the right moment Mr. Darcy did his part.
He turned about to a small brazier of burning coals, and using a folded over towel to protect his hands, he lifted a kettle that glowed orange with heat.
Like the chandeliers, the kettle was tied to a rope on the railing of the stairwell, and he hurled it downward.
It swung until it connected with someone, and there was a horrible screech just beyond Elizabeth’s line of vision.
Mr. Darcy released two more hot kettles in a similar fashion, both inciting further fury from the invaders below.
Elizabeth retrieved a bucket of snow that had been set aside, and dumped it into the brazier to extinguish the coals, lest they burn down Longbourn or have one of their weapons used against them.
Steam sizzled and smoke clouded the stairwell; her eyes stinging, Elizabeth fanned it away from herself as they began their retreat.
Mr. Wickham, Colonel Forster, and Captain Denny were hastening up the stairs now.
All the bedroom doors had been locked but for one—the door to Lydia and Kitty’s room, which was directly across from the railing that overlooked the stairwell.
Elizabeth pulled it open, effectively blocking the corridor.
They had fastened a thick chain to the knob of the door, which she hastily wrapped around the railing, securing the barrier.
They had also herded five particularly surly goats into her younger sisters’ room just before dinner, and the animals now bleated menacingly at the intruders as they converged at the top of the stairs.
Hand in hand, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy ran for the stairs to the attic, and when they reached the top, Mr. Darcy rushed to his sister’s side. “We have to go now,” he said.
Elizabeth retrieved the last of her weapons, a large bucket of kitchen grease, and poured it down the attic stairs, hoping it would be enough to slow the villains’ pursuit.
Then she hastened to the far end of the attic, where Johnny and Mr. Darcy were bracing Georgiana in the window frame.
A thick braid of rope had been suspended from the top of the window, connecting to the stable ten yards back from the house.
Georgiana turned back to Elizabeth with a look of terror. “I cannot do this,” she breathed and scrambled backward, her chin quivering as if she might burst into tears.
“What if I go first?” Elizabeth climbed up into the window frame, feeling Mr. Darcy’s hands immediately brace her waist as she reached into her pocket and retrieved a thick leather strap.
She steeled herself, determined to give Georgiana courage.
They had tested the rope that afternoon, and it could bear the weight of two people at once.
It would hold. She lifted the leather strap up over the rope and held tightly to it with both hands.
And then she whistled loudly. As she leapt from the window, the stable doors opened and Wilson drove the carriage out, ready to carry them away.
Elizabeth closed her eyes as the cold wind tore at her, but it was over before the sheer insanity of her actions could frighten her too terribly.
She landed on her feet in the snow, and waved up at her friends in the attic window, urging them to make haste.
Georgiana clambered back onto the window ledge, holding fast to a similar leather strap across the rope.
Mr. Darcy and Johnny Hill both spoke words of encouragement that Elizabeth could not make out, and then Georgiana leapt, her skirts swirling around her.
Elizabeth slowed the girl’s descent as soon as she was within reach, and helped her to her feet.
Mrs. Hill came rushing out of the stables, fussing over the two young ladies with relief and affection.
While Mr. Darcy was the next to glide down from the attic to the stable.
He opened the carriage door, revealing Mrs. Annesley already within, and then he helped his sister onto the front-facing seat beside her companion.
Mrs. Hill stood beside Elizabeth, both women watching intently as Johnny made his descent, using the barrel of his shotgun in lieu of the leather strap the others had employed.
Once he was safely on the ground, Mrs. Hill embraced her son and sent him into the stable to join his sister in guarding the prisoners.
“If they follow you down that way, I’ll cut the rope,” Mrs. Hill said, brandishing her cleaver with an eager gleam in her eye.