Page 58 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

E lizabeth’s attempt to reach the door failed.

Instead, Wickham pounced on her like a wounded beast, tackling her against the wall.

She twisted, reaching blindly, and her fingers found cold metal—the pistol.

They grappled, her hands slipping against the slick wood of the handle.

He cursed, elbowing her hard, trying to wrench it from her.

“Let go!” he snarled.

“No!” she cried.

She held tightened her grip on the weapon, twisting it away from her body, her heart thundering in her chest. Wickham was stronger, taller, but desperation lent her strength. They stumbled, elbowed, swayed—and then—

A deafening crack split the air.

There was a deafening explosion—a burst of smoke and heat—as the gun fired.

The sound rang through the room like a thunderclap.

Elizabeth flinched, ears ringing. For one stunned moment, she could not breathe. Then she realized the shot had gone wide—into the ceiling. Dust rained down in its wake, and Wickham let out a strangled gasp.

“You—foolish—” he growled, pressing her hard against the wall. His hand found her shoulder, shoved her back, and something tore—her sleeve? Her gown? She did not know. She could feel the cold of the barrel against her cheek.

“Do not,” he growled, “make me do this.”

Her lungs seized.

Her limbs locked.

This was the end.

She closed her eyes.

Darcy, forgive me—

A thunderous pounding at the door made them both flinch.

“Elizabeth!”

Darcy.

Wickham turned instinctively toward the voice.

She moved.

With every ounce of strength, she lashed out with her leg. She meant to injure his shin, but her foot struck higher—brutally higher.

He screamed and crumpled forward, clutching himself. The pistol slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

Without hesitation, she kicked it—hard. It skittered across the carpet and under a low table, out of sight.

Wickham was groaning, rocking back and forth in rage and pain.

Her eyes darted to the hearth. Her hands moved before her mind could catch up.

She grabbed the iron poker from its cradle.

He looked up.

And she swung.

The heavy metal struck his face with a sickening thud, sending him sprawling to the floor, blood already welling from a split across his cheek.

The door burst open behind her. “Elizabeth!”

She sagged, her knees buckling beneath her as Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam surged into the room.

∞∞∞

Darcy gaped in astonishment at the scene before him.

Wickham was on the ground, writhing. Blood had already crusted at the corner of his mouth, one eye swelling rapidly shut, and he cradled himself like a wounded beast. He let out a low groan that gurgled in his throat and rolled to his side, spitting two small teeth onto the rug.

Colonel Fitzwilliam let out a soft, admiring whistle. “Well done, Miss Elizabeth,” he muttered, glancing toward Elizabeth. “I take back every jest I ever made about ladylike fragility.”

He crossed the room and removed a tasseled curtain tie from the window, then began to loop it with quick military efficiency around Wickham’s wrists. “Do keep still, George, or you will make me tie this tighter.”

Pulling the knot with a sharp jerk that elicited another moan, Fitzwilliam gave a feral grin. “You always were slippery, but I think this time we shall keep you fastened down. I daresay your dancing days are over.”

Darcy barely heard him. His eyes were fixed on Elizabeth. She was leaning heavily against the hearth, her hand still clenched around the iron poker, her dress torn at the shoulder, her hair falling down in dark, disordered curls. Her chest was heaving, eyes too wide, lips trembling.

“Elizabeth,” he said gently, taking the poker from her. Her fingers resisted at first, then released it with a shudder. Without hesitation, he drew her into his arms.

She collapsed against him at once.

He wrapped her tightly against his chest and lowered his head to hers. She was trembling—every part of her trembling.

As he held her, her shaking form melted into his. Her hands clutched at his lapel, her forehead pressing into his shoulder. And then—slowly, quietly—she began to cry.

Darcy closed his eyes. “You are safe,” he whispered. “You are safe. I have you now.”

Fitzwilliam glanced over and snorted. “Charming. Truly. I should think we might find this painted on a tea tray one day. But unless your lady has developed the power of telepathy, someone ought to go for help.”

“I will go, sir,” came a voice from the doorway.

They turned. A footman stood just beyond the threshold, pale but resolute.

“I saw the two of you run down the corridor, and then I heard the shot. I came at once.”

Elizabeth stirred in Darcy’s arms and turned toward the door. “Thank you, Peter,” she said quietly. “Please fetch my father.”

“Yes, miss.” He bowed and vanished down the corridor.

He stared at her. “You know his name? I am not certain even I know it, and I have been living here!”

She smiled faintly. “He is the younger brother of Mrs. Crowley.”

“Who?”

“She was our housemaid before she married one of our tenant farmers. His sister used to walk him to Longbourn when he was little.”

Of course she would know. Of course she would remember such a thing. Even now, she was thinking of others. He held her tighter, and his lips brushed the top of her head. “Why did you go with Wickham alone?” he asked at last.

Her breath hitched. “A maid told me Georgiana and Lydia had arrived—and that one of them was hurt. I told her to fetch you and came immediately.”

“No maid ever found me,” Darcy said grimly.

“Then she must have been one of Wickham’s accomplices,” Fitzwilliam said, straightening from Wickham’s side. “He always had a way with the help. Silver tongue. Could charm a statue into a curtsy and a chambermaid into scandal. Or, in this case, treachery.”

Oh!” Elizabeth gasped, raising her head slightly, her eyes still glistening. “He is the one who has been writing you the notes.”

Darcy froze. “What?”

She nodded. “I realized it earlier. I was going to tell you during the supper set. I saw him watching you—not with hatred, but… longing.”

Fitzwilliam, who was stoking the fireplace for more warmth and light, swore softly under his breath.

Elizabeth looked between them, then went on. “He told me just now. He said he meant to kill me. That I was distracting you… that I would take you away from him.”

Darcy inhaled sharply. The very idea scorched through him like fire. He pulled her close again, his voice unsteady. “I almost lost you.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Mr. Bennet appeared in the doorway, his face looking haggard.

He took in the tableau with a single sweep of his gaze.

“Well,” he said dryly. “I take it you have made your decision about the courtship after all.”

Elizabeth turned to him, the tears still wet on her cheeks. “Papa…”

His eyes flicked to her gown, then to the unconscious man on the floor. His face changed. “What happened?”

Darcy stood. “It is a long story, sir. But he—Wickham—tried to kill her.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes narrowed. He turned to the returning footman. “Send for Sir William Lucas immediately—and Colonel Forster. Tell them only that one of the soldiers is in need of aid.”

“Yes, sir.”

Just as the man turned to go, Wickham stirred with a faint moan.

Without hesitation, Colonel Fitzwilliam gave him a firm kick to the ribs. “Stay down, you devil.”

Then he looked to Elizabeth, his expression chagrined. “My apologies, Miss Bennet. I fear my manners have entirely deserted me. I should not express such violence in front of a lady.”

She gave a weak laugh. “Considering the fact that I also kicked him—and hit him with the poker—you are quite excused.”

Mr. Bennet stared at his daughter as if he had never seen her before. He stepped farther into the room, taking in the broken vase near the wall, the bullet hole in the ceiling, the pistol half-hidden beneath a side table, and Wickham—still groaning and bound—on the floor.

“You caused this damage, my Lizzy?” he asked incredulously, halting before her. “Are you hurt? Somebody needs to tell me what happened. Now.”

Darcy glanced up sharply at the tone. The amiable, thoughtful man he had come to respect—a father full of quiet humor and evident affection for his children—now stood with a gaze like tempered steel.

There was nothing jesting in his manner.

He radiated command so fully that even Colonel Fitzwilliam, a seasoned officer, looked mildly impressed. Or perhaps, faintly intimidated.

Elizabeth’s chin trembled again. Darcy felt it against his chest as she steadied herself.

“Perhaps,” he said gently, “we ought to allow Miss Elizabeth to sit until Sir William and Colonel Forster arrive. Then she need only tell the tale once.”

Mr. Bennet’s gaze snapped to him. His mouth opened to reply—and then, slowly, he nodded. “Yes. Yes, quite right. Lizzy, forgive me.”

He turned and strode to a small cabinet at the side of the room. “Excuse the liberty,” he muttered, pulling open a panel and retrieving a crystal decanter and two glasses.

Darcy helped Elizabeth to a settee, steadying her as she sat. Her torn gown slid down her shoulder, revealing the scarring from his sister’s attack two weeks prior. She blinked hard, clearly trying to school her expression. Her lips were pale.

Mr. Bennet crossed to her and handed her one of the glasses. “A small sip,” he said, pressing it into her hand. “For the nerves. And do not tell your mother.”

Darcy watched, astonished, as Elizabeth obediently lifted the brandy to her lips and took a sip. She winced, coughed once, and handed it back with watering eyes.

Mr. Bennet took a long draught from the second glass. “It is effective,” he said defensively when he caught Darcy’s expression. “Be thankful it was not a cigar as well.”

Darcy gave a dry sound in his throat—half grimace, half chuckle. “Indeed. I am grateful for that small mercy.”

Elizabeth chuckled too, and the sound, faint as it was, loosened something tight in his chest.