Chapter 34
She had not meant to go so far. The path wound between hedgerows high with late blossom; bees moved heavy among the bramble, and the air was warm with cut hay.
The fields lay quiet in the sun. Longbourn lay behind her, too still in the absence of sisters, callers, and Charlotte’s sensible voice.
A little after noon, the quiet of Longbourn had driven her outdoors, and her father’s cautions seemed almost tenderly absurd.
A quarter hour more, then home.
She stepped over a shallow rut where last week’s rain had gathered, and the leather of her half-boot creaked.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She stopped. Her name fell soft, almost cheerful. Mr Wickham stood where the lane narrowed, hat in his hand, the turn of his mouth easy as ever.
“I thought you were in Brighton,” she said.
“So did half the county,” he answered, with a small laugh. “Nearly gone, I assure you. I remained to help the Colonel with some tedious matters—accounts, horses, lodging bills—nothing romantic at all. I am the least fortunate of men.”
He looked very much himself: neat coat, light step, the practised brightness in his eye. Yet something in the set of his shoulders—too careful—set her on caution. She gave him a civil inclination and kept to the sunlit side of the lane.
“You walk far.”
“Far enough,” she said. “Good afternoon, Mr Wickham.”
She would have gone by him. He shifted, half a pace only, not in her way, yet there. His smile did not alter. Behind him the hedge stood unnaturally still. No cart creaked in the lane beyond, no labourer called from the field, no bird broke cover.
The quiet had weight.
“How fortunate to meet you,” said he, stepping from the shade. “I thought all company had flown to the seaside. Hertfordshire must seem half-empty without its prettiest faces.”
“You are lavish in your compliments, sir,” she said with a faint smile. “I can claim no share in such distinction.”
“You do yourself injustice. One must admire what is before one.”
“Then Hertfordshire must content you entirely,” she replied. “Its fields are full of subjects for admiration.”
“Perhaps. Yet some company is rarer than others.”
“And yet,” she said, “something seems to have detained you. I trust it keeps you well employed.”
“A dull duty indeed—accounts, horses, and a mountain of receipts. I am more clerk than soldier.”
“Then I shall not keep you from such important labours.”
“Only a word—”
The hedgerow breathed; a blackbird scolded somewhere within. She turned to leave and struck a chest as firm as a gatepost.
Arms closed very fast and very sure. One pinned both her elbows, drawing her back to the body behind, the other folded across her middle and fixed her there.
She could not draw breath for an instant.
She tried to stamp, to twist, to find the foot that held her, but the man’s weight at her back held like a band of iron.
“Quiet,” a man’s voice said close to her ear, low and unhurried.
“Hold her,” Wickham said behind the word, the brightness gone from his tone.
She tried to cry out. The hand at her middle tightened; the other slid, hard and dry, up her rib and across her shoulder.
A palm came against her cheek. Fingers found the hinge of her jaw and pressed cruelly until the joint slackened.
The heel of his hand forced between her teeth.
The shock of it made her gasp. Cloth was thrust upon her tongue and driven back.
She choked; her mouth filled, bitter with old soap.
The palm sealed her lips. Sound jammed in her throat.
Breathe through the nose. She fought for air and caught only the scent of male skin, wool, and dust. She kicked for the inside of his knee.
He shifted and took the blow with his shin, the pressure at her middle never easing.
His cheek brushed her temple as he leant.
There was no heat in him, only steadiness.
Wickham came near. “It is done,” he murmured. “Do not struggle, Miss Elizabeth; you will only tire yourself.”
She wrenched her shoulder to no avail. The man’s grip held firm. She made a sound that might have been a plea had the cloth not swallowed it.
“Quickly,” Wickham said. “The lane is empty now, but it will not be so long.”
The man behind her spoke once, and she knew the voice. She knew the name, though the voice struck her first—level and cold as the edge of a coin. “Lift her.”
He moved her a pace, half-carrying, so that her boots dragged. She craned her head to see him and caught a slant of his cheek in the corner of her eye: the same impassive line she had glimpsed at the assembly, the scar pale above his brow. Mr Kerr. His coat smelt faintly of smoke and leather.
Tears came hot and sudden. She fought for breath and found it thin.
Wickham’s voice, nearer now: “No harm if she is still, I said.”
“No harm,” Kerr answered, without inflection. “If she is still.”
Her hat-strings cut at her throat. The rim knocked against the man’s shoulder, slipped, and went. She heard it fall upon the lane. A bird lifted from the hedge with a clap of wings. The sun went in behind a cloud and returned at once; the light seemed too bright.
“Walk,” the man said softly, and moved her in small, sure steps. She stumbled, and he took the weight of it without looseness. They left the beaten centre of the lane for the rough verge. Grass tore under her heels.
“If she sees—” Wickham began.
“She will not.” The words were plain, almost polite.
A rasp of coarse fabric. Something rough slid over her hair, then her face. Jute rasped her cheek. The world dimmed, then vanished. The sack came down to her shoulders. The smell of grain and dust shut out the hedgerow and the sky. The weave scratched her lips where they strained against the linen.
She tried to pull in air and had too much dust for it. Panic rose, sharp and foolish. Through the nose. Slow. Steady. She forced the breath and found a rhythm. Her heart struck hard and high.
“Tie it close,” Wickham said. “Allow air, for God’s sake.”
The arm that held her tightened. Cool fingers found the cloth at the back of her head and drew the sack close at her neck. Not tight enough to choke her, but the darkness held.
Somewhere to her left a wheel creaked. A horse stamped. Leather tugged and metal rang softly against a buckle’s tongue. Canvas stirred in the faint wind, a dry flap and sigh above boards. Not a carriage. A cart—covered, close-drawn to the hedge, waiting.
“Quickly,” Wickham said. “Before someone turns into the lane.”
Kerr’s grip shifted. “Walk.”
Her mind leapt to her father. No. Do not think.
Count. She counted to five and lost the number at three.
Her knees weakened. The man shifted again, got his hand lower, and the ground fell small beneath her.
She tried to mark direction—left, a gate; right, the ditch; the hedgerow smelt of nettle—but the sack and the cloth made all sense slide.
“Take her,” Kerr said.
Hands changed—one pair to another. Wickham’s touch found her wrist, lighter, almost careful; she jerked from it and earned nothing but another settled grip that allowed for the movement and contained it at once.
The other man remained near enough that she felt him before he touched her again: smoke, leather, and that cold, waiting stillness.
“Gently,” Wickham said.
“You are shaking,” Kerr said.
“It is the heat,” Wickham returned, and for a moment his breath was near enough that she felt the word upon the sack. “Go on.”
A step, another, then the ground altered beneath her feet. Wood. The hollow sound of it. A wheel’s faint roll. The smell of old straw and aged leather.
“Up,” said Kerr.
She set herself to fight, drew what breath she could through the linen, and stamped again for the bone of his foot.
The stronger grip returned at once and lifted her clear of the attempt.
For one impossible instant she was held wholly in his arms, the brace of him absolute—no struggle to catch, no gap to slip through.
Weight left her heels; the press at her middle slackened only to gather her under the knees.
The sack whispered at her ear. The light, what little of it remained through the weave, vanished as they turned. The creak of boards sounded closer. The smell of straw rose.
“Careful of her head,” Wickham said, nearly tender.
The man carrying her did not answer. His breath was even, as if this cost him nothing.
She felt the edge of a plank against the back of her calves, then the world dropped from under her.
Straw struck her shoulder. A board caught her hip.
She twisted hard, blindly, and found only rough wood, stale chaff, and the press of the sack against her mouth.
A hand came between her head and the side plank for an instant.
It pulled away and her head lay against wood and straw.
A boot struck the step. The cart dipped. Wickham’s voice came from forward and above, no longer beside her.
“Hold her,” Wickham said.
Kerr settled near her feet. His hand found the cord at her wrists and tested it once. She dragged her knees beneath her, meaning to kick, to roll, to find any purchase at all.
He caught both ankles with infuriating ease.
“No,” he said.
A second cord passed around her half-boots.
She wrenched against it; straw scratched her cheek; the boards knocked beneath her hip.
The cord drew close—not cruelly, not enough to cut, but enough to rob her of distance.
Then another short pull brought wrist and ankle near enough to make standing impossible.
She could bend, twist, and breathe. She could not rise.
Wickham climbed to the box. Leather creaked above her.
“Drive,” Kerr said.
The horse blew once. Leather tightened. Wheels lurched.
Elizabeth rolled against the boards, bound, gagged, blind, and moving farther from home with every turn.