Chapter 45
Longbourn, the following morning
The lamps swung across shuttered windows as the coach rolled through Meryton’s sleeping square.
Signs creaked above darkened shopfronts, and the echo of hooves rang sharp against the cobbles.
Then the last cottage fell away, the road turned to gravel, and the hedgerows closed in—wet with dew, glimmering under the lamps.
Opposite him, Barty’s hat rested on his thigh. The man’s eyes were half-closed, but not in sleep. He knew the sound of the horses, counted their stride, and marked each rise in the road by the flick of the lamp. The pace had held steady since Barnet.
From above came the sharper note of the boy’s whistle. John Perkins clung to the box rail, cap pulled low, his small shape black against the lamp-glow. James sat between him and the driver. Goliath was tied to the rear bar.
They passed beneath a stand of ash and the horizon opened. Beyond the fields lay a faint grey wash where morning gathered itself. The smell of hay drifted in as the coach window rattled. He drew a breath and steadied it.
The lane narrowed between high hedges, dew on every thorn.
A fox slipped from the ditch and was gone.
Ahead, the wrought-iron trellis of the Longbourn gate came into view—its bars wet with mist, the crest above it faintly silvered by the rising light.
John Perkins swung down, unlatched the catch, and the hinges gave a low groan as the gates parted.
The coach passed through at a measured pace.
Beyond the gate, the drive curved through elms that stood like sentries, their trunks black against the paling sky.
In the distance, the house showed itself by degrees: low, regular, and still.
The fields behind were touched with the first dull gold of dawn, and the gravel under the horses’ hooves gave a sound too loud for the hour.
The coach-lanterns threw its shadow long against the gatepost as they turned in.
Darcy stepped down and looked once at the sky—paler now, touched with rose along the ridge of the fields—and then at the house.
The drive curved wide before it, bordered by low elms and a sweep of gravel newly rolled.
The facade stood plain and square, its brick clean, its sash windows shuttered in even line.
The roof slates glimmered faintly with dew, and the portico, modest in height, bore the look of care rather than fashion.
A gentleman’s house, self-contained, of means steady and still sufficient.
For a moment, he stood still. James dropped from the box and went to Goliath, Darcy’s favourite stallion, taking the reins in hand.
A light passed by the window to the left of the door. The door bolts slid back.
The house had been awake before the bell.
The door opened upon a servant of even height and steady carriage; his countenance gave nothing away. “You are expected, sir.”
Darcy stepped inside. The hall smelt faintly of wax, woodsmoke, and a house too long awake. Hill closed the door behind him, shutting out the grey dawn, the horses, and the waiting road.
A gentleman stood several paces from the stair, one hand upon a cane. He looked not old, precisely, but worn past sleep. His eyes moved over Darcy’s face with a steadiness that made courtesy feel insufficient.
“I am Thomas Bennet,” he said. “Where is Edmund Darcy?”
Darcy stilled. “Sir?”
“I wrote to Mr Edmund Darcy of Pemberley. You are not he.”
“No, sir. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, son of the late George Darcy, and nephew to Edmund Darcy.”
Mr Bennet’s hand tightened upon the head of his cane. “Then where is he?”
“My uncle died two-and-twenty years ago,” Darcy said. “A fall upon the moor above Pemberley. It was sudden.”
For a moment, Mr Bennet said nothing. The lamps in the hall threw his shadow long against the stair.
“Then the world is poorer for it.” His voice had lost none of its control. “My condolences, Mr Darcy.”
Darcy bowed.
“I summoned a dead man,” Mr Bennet said.
“You called upon his honour.”
Mr Bennet’s eyes lifted to his. Something passed across his face, too quickly to name. Then he stepped back from the hall.
“Come in, Mr Darcy. I would not have summoned anyone for a lesser cause.”
Darcy followed him towards the study.
“My daughter Elizabeth was taken yesterday afternoon,” Mr Bennet said. “She is held for ransom.”
The study was already warm. The curtains had been drawn; a tray stood ready—coffee, bread, and cold meat, and a single candle, though early morning light filled the room.
Darcy entered behind Mr Bennet and took in the room in one glance: map upon the desk, papers weighted at the corners, a volume in worn blue calf set beside the inkwell, and chairs drawn near the hearth rather than arranged for comfort.
Mr Bennet had not been waiting. He had been working.
Darcy stopped beside the chair offered him. “When?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Between Oakham Mount and the lower lane.”
“Witnesses?”
“None who saw the taking. One boy saw a covered cart by the mill lane.”
Darcy’s gaze moved to the map. “And the demand?”
Mr Bennet crossed to the desk, took up a folded paper, and held it out. “Ten thousand pounds. To be delivered by my hand.”
Darcy unfolded it. The demand was brief and practical. Whoever had composed it understood both fear and time.
“Who brought this?”
“A militia lieutenant.”
Darcy looked up.
“Mr George Wickham,” Mr Bennet said.
The name struck where no fatigue could dull it. Darcy’s hand closed upon the paper until the edge bit into his glove.
Wickham.
Ramsgate returned entire: the white glare of the sea, Georgiana’s face emptied of colour, Wickham’s smile when deceit could no longer serve him. Darcy folded the paper with care. If his hand betrayed him, Mr Bennet gave no sign of having seen it.
“You know him,” Mr Bennet said.
“Yes.”
“Then I have not summoned the wrong man.”
“No,” Darcy said. “You have not.”
Mr Bennet gestured to the chair. “Then sit, sir, and tell me how much of my daughter’s danger belongs to you.”
That line would have angered another man. Darcy felt only its justice.
He sat. “Wickham was raised at Pemberley. His father served mine honourably, and my father rewarded that service with affection too generous for the son. Wickham had every advantage that could be given him without making him a gentleman.”
“And he spent them?”
“He sold them first.” Darcy laid the ransom note upon the table between them. “Upon my father’s death, he was left a valuable living in Derbyshire. He refused it and asked for money in its stead. I paid him three thousand pounds.”
Mr Bennet’s brows moved slightly. “A handsome sum for scruple.”
“It purchased none. The money was gone within the year. Since then, he has lived by debt, falsehood, and the use of my father’s name.”
“And now by ransom.”
“Now by ransom,” Darcy said. “But Wickham seldom contrives where another man may think for him. He is dangerous when cornered, not patient when required to plan.”
Mr Bennet’s eyes sharpened. “You believe another hand directs him.”
“I believe it possible,” Darcy said. “At Ramsgate last summer, Wickham had a confederate. A man named Kerr.”