Chapter 49
Redbourn Heath, that afternoon
Darcy waited. Wickham’s satisfaction sat too openly upon him; Kerr’s stillness gave nothing away.
“You hear him, Kerr? He has brought stones and calls it bargaining.”
Darcy kept his eyes on Kerr. “Miss Bennet.”
“No,” Kerr said.
The word came without heat. Darcy had expected anger, perhaps alarm. Instead, Kerr considered him with the cool attention of a man revising his accounts.
Wickham’s smile thinned. “No?”
Kerr ignored him. “Why have you come, Mr Darcy?”
Darcy did not move. “Show me that Miss Bennet is here.”
“Empty bag,” Wickham said. “But full command.”
Darcy turned his head a fraction. “You mistake noise for wit.”
The colour rose under Wickham’s skin, but Kerr lifted one hand before he could answer.
“Enough.” Kerr’s gaze returned to Darcy. “You may hear her. Nothing more.”
Darcy measured the ground before him. Wickham stood too near his right hand; Kerr held the doorway; Miss Bennet remained somewhere beyond him. Violence would give Wickham permission and Kerr the advantage. Neither would restore her to her father.
He entered.
The interior narrowed at once. A partition cut the old stable into two chambers.
One held a rough table, a chair with a split cane seat, two saddles, a coil of rope, and a lantern turned low.
The other lay beyond a plank door barred from without.
Darcy’s eye went to it before he could school the movement.
Kerr saw it.
“No farther.”
Darcy stopped.
Something shifted beyond the barred door. Not much: a faint scrape, cloth against boards perhaps, then stillness. Darcy’s fingers closed once against his palm.
Wickham noticed. “There. A touching reunion.”
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, raising his voice. “I come from your father.”
A sharp movement sounded within. Then Kerr crossed the room in three strides and struck the flat of his hand against the plank.
Darcy’s hands closed at his sides.
Kerr turned. “You have heard her.”
“I heard movement, not a voice.”
Kerr faced the inner door, his voice lower, but hard enough to carry. “Miss Bennet, speak one word and no more.”
A pause followed.
Then, from beyond the door, a voice came thin through wood.
“My father sent you?”
Darcy stepped forward before thought could stop him. Kerr’s hand went beneath his coat.
Darcy halted.
“He knows I have come for you,” he said. “You have my word.”
No answer came. Kerr’s stare sharpened.
“That is more than one word,” Wickham said lightly.
Darcy looked at him then, and Wickham’s amusement faltered.
Kerr lowered his hand. “Now we speak.”
“We speak when Miss Bennet stands outside that door.”
“No.”
“Then you have no bargain.”
Kerr came nearer. He had lost some colour, but none of his composure. “You brought stones.”
Darcy let the canvas bag drop upon the table. It struck hard and dull. Wickham flinched before he could hide it.
“I brought what your messenger deserved.”
Kerr’s mouth tightened. “And yet you came.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To acquaint myself with your arrangements.”
For the first time, Kerr’s eyes shifted. The answer had touched something. Darcy saw calculation return and settle colder than before.
“Ten thousand pounds,” Kerr said.
“Yes. For Miss Bennet’s release.”
“That was yesterday,” Kerr said. “For today, it is thirty thousand. Your arrival has altered the account.”
Wickham drew himself straighter, pleasure restored. “A sensible amendment.”
Darcy did not grant him a glance. “My man of business can arrange the sum for only Miss Bennet.”
“And why should I permit that?” Kerr demanded.
“Because confusion delays payment. My name will cause alarm.”
Wickham’s face darkened. “You bluff poorly, Darcy.”
Darcy turned at last. “You should not have brought me here.”
Kerr glared at Wickham. “You changed the plan.”
“For the richer,” Wickham said.
Kerr gave him his back. “Write to your man.”
Darcy remained standing. “See that Miss Bennet has water and food. Then I will write.”
“You set another term?”
“I state what preserves your bargain.”
Kerr’s jaw worked once. Then he looked at Wickham. “Fetch the jug.”
Wickham laughed. “Am I servant now?”
“You are the cause of my needing another lock on this affair. Fetch the jug.”
For a moment Darcy thought Wickham might refuse. Then Wickham turned aside with a muttered oath and crossed to a bucket near the far wall.
Darcy took the chair. He kept the words spare and left Mr Bennet the one liberty Kerr had overlooked.
Mr Harding,
You will place yourself at once in communication with Mr Thomas Bennet of Longbourn and make available, without delay or objection, any sum he requires.
You are authorised to draw upon my accounts as necessary, and to lodge such funds, under proper instruction, with a respectable house at St Albans, should Mr Bennet deem it useful.
The manner of delivery is to rest entirely with him.
F Darcy
Kerr read the letter. He stared at Darcy as if seeking something. He then read the letter again.
“This will go.” Kerr folded the paper. “And you, Mr Darcy, will remain.”
* * *
“My father sent you?”
The question left Elizabeth before prudence could amend it. Mr Kerr had commanded one word. She had given him four.
A stranger had come.
“He knows I have come for you,” he said. “You have my word.”
Her hands closed at her waist.
Her father knew.
Longbourn rushed upon her with such force that she had to set one hand against the wall. Her father in his study. The ledger open. His cane beside the chair.
Her father knew. He had not been left to count supper, candles, and absence until absence became certainty.
She checked her hope.
Any man might say he came from her father. Mr Wickham had once looked injured by injustice while he arranged ruin with both hands. Mr Kerr spoke of old debts and called cruelty an accounting. A voice through wood could not become truth because she longed for it.
Beyond the door, she heard Mr Wickham. “That is more than one word.”
Elizabeth’s jaw tightened. He had delivered her into darkness, and yet counted words as if manners still governed the room.
A pause followed; then Mr Kerr’s voice came nearer. “Now we speak.”
The stranger answered at once. “We speak when Miss Bennet stands outside that door.”
Elizabeth drew a breath.
He had asked for her liberty first. Not money. Not terms. Not his own safety. Hers.
“No,” Mr Kerr said.
“Then you have no bargain.”
Mr Kerr moved; she knew his tread now. “You brought stones.”
A heavy sound hit the table.
Mr Wickham made some small sound; she could not tell whether alarm or anger.
The stranger said, “I brought what your messenger deserved.”
Her anger rose so swiftly that it steadied her better than hope had done. Mr Wickham deserved more than stones.
He deserved irons, plain and public.
Mr Kerr’s voice lowered. “And yet you came.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To acquaint myself with your arrangements.”
Elizabeth shut her eyes. She did not know this man. She had never heard his name before.
Mr Wickham had fallen quiet. Mr Kerr’s answer came a beat too late. Whoever this stranger was, he had not entered the room as they had expected.
“Ten thousand pounds,” Mr Kerr said.
“Yes. For Miss Bennet’s release.”
Elizabeth’s stomach turned. The sum stood beyond reason.
“That was yesterday,” Mr Kerr said. “To-day it is thirty thousand. Your arrival has altered the account.”
Thirty thousand.
Ten thousand pounds would break Longbourn. Thirty thousand was not ransom, but malice dressed as arithmetic.
“A sensible amendment,” Mr Wickham said.
Elizabeth stared at the door as if she could strike him through it.
“My man of business can arrange the sum for only Miss Bennet,” the stranger said.
Only Miss Bennet.
The phrase should have comforted her. Instead, it chilled her. If he must distinguish her price from his own, then Mr Kerr meant to keep him too.
“And why should I permit that?” Mr Kerr demanded.
“Because confusion delays payment. My name will cause alarm.”
His name. She had not yet caught it. A man whose name would cause alarm must possess more than courage.
Mr Wickham said, “You bluff poorly, Darcy.”
Darcy.
The name meant nothing to her. It had no place in Longbourn’s ordinary talk, no history in Meryton, no face attached to it. Yet Mr Wickham spoke it with old resentment, and that gave it weight.
Mr Darcy answered, “You should not have brought me here.”
Elizabeth went still.
Not I should not have come.
You should not have brought me here.
He did not sound trapped. He sounded informed.
Mr Kerr’s voice cut across the room. “You changed the plan.”
“For the richer,” Mr Wickham said.
There it lay. Not rumour. Not suspicion. Greed, spoken aloud and pleased with itself.
Mr Wickham had not merely carried a message. He had enlarged the snare.
A chair scraped.
“Write to your man,” Mr Kerr said.
“See that Miss Bennet has water and food,” Mr Darcy said. “Then I will write.”
A small thing. A jug. Bread. Water. Yet he had spent his next command upon her needs.
Mr Kerr said, “You set another term?”
“I state what preserves your bargain.”
A silence followed. Then Mr Kerr’s voice, clipped with displeasure: “Fetch the jug.”
Mr Wickham laughed. “Am I servant now?”
“You are the cause of my needing another lock on this affair. Fetch the jug.”
In the outer room, Mr Wickham muttered something she could not catch. A chair scraped the floor.
She put her ear to the door. She discerned no more, then jerked back at Mr Kerr’s voice.
“This will go.” Mr Kerr said.
Paper rasped. A step crossed the boards.
Mr Wickham voice sharpened. “I am messenger again?”
“You brought him. You may carry what follows.” Kerr’s voice shifted. “And you, Mr Darcy, may remain here.”
Elizabeth sat back upon her heels.
Mr Darcy.
The name gave her nothing, but his presence had given her one thing: Mr Kerr and Mr Wickham had ceased, for a moment, to move together.