Page 12

Chapter Twelve

E lizabeth’s usually measured steps were unsteady as she stumbled through Longbourn’s front door. The familiar hallway seemed somehow altered, as though the horror she had witnessed in the woods had followed her home and changed the very air of the place where she had always felt safest.

Her hands trembled violently as she attempted to remove her bonnet, fingers fumbling with the ribbons until she abandoned the effort entirely. The walking dress that had seemed perfectly appropriate for a morning constitutional now felt like a costume, inappropriate for the ghastly scene she had encountered. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of her reflection in the hall mirror and barely recognised herself. Her face was deathly pale, her dark eyes wide and haunted against the bloodless canvas of her skin. Her gloves were filthy and there was a smear of dirt on her cheek, probably where she had pressed her hands against them in horror.

“Lizzy? Good heavens, what has happened to you?”

Jane’s voice, normally so soothing to Elizabeth’s ears, now seemed to come from a great distance. Her beloved sister stood at the foot of the stairs, concern transforming her serene features as she hurried forward.

“You look positively ill. Are you unwell? Have you had a fall?” Jane reached for Elizabeth’s hands, then drew back slightly at the state of her gloves.

Elizabeth attempted to speak, but her throat constricted around the words. The image that had been seared into her mind returned with brutal clarity: Wickham’s lifeless form sprawled among the fallen leaves, his uniform coat stained dark with blood, his eyes open yet seeing nothing. She swallowed hard against the rising nausea.

“I must see Father,” she finally managed, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Immediately, Jane. There is no time to lose.”

“You are frightening me,” Jane said softly, placing a steadying hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “Let me help you to the sitting room. You can rest while I fetch Father to you.”

Elizabeth shook her head with unexpected vehemence. “No. I cannot... I cannot sit quietly. I must go to him now. This instant.” She took a step toward Mr. Bennet’s study, stumbling slightly. “Please, Jane.”

Jane, ever sensitive to her sister’s distress, did not press further. Instead, she helped Elizabeth to remove her bonnet, pelisse and dirty gloves before slipping her arm around Elizabeth’s waist, offering silent support as they moved together down the hallway. Elizabeth leaned gratefully against her sister’s strength, unsure if her own legs would carry her the short distance to her father’s sanctuary.

They paused before the heavy oak door. Elizabeth drew a shuddering breath, attempting to compose herself enough to convey the terrible news with some semblance of coherence. Jane knocked softly, then more firmly when no response came.

“Father?” she called, her voice carrying her own growing anxiety. “It is Jane and Elizabeth. We must speak with you urgently.”

A muffled reply came from within, followed by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. The door opened to reveal Mr. Bennet, a book in one hand and his spectacles perched upon his nose. His customary look of mild amusement vanished instantly at the sight of his second daughter.

“Good God, Lizzy,” he exclaimed, taking her arm and pulling her gently into the study. “What on earth has befallen you?”

“Jane, close the door,” Elizabeth said, her voice gaining a little strength now that she had achieved her first objective of getting to her father, the familiar surroundings of his study making her feel a little safer. She moved to stand before her father’s desk, her fingers gripping the edge of the polished wood as though it were the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned liquid with uncertainty.

Mr. Bennet pulled up a chair and gently pressed Elizabeth to sit down, his normally detached demeanour replaced by genuine alarm at her state. Jane hovered nearby, her fair complexion now nearly as pale as her sister’s.

“I... I have something terrible to relate,” Elizabeth began, forcing each word past the tightness in her throat. “This morning, I walked out in the woods.”

“Alone?” Mr. Bennet frowned.

Elizabeth shook her head. “I had arranged to meet Mr. Darcy there.”

“Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Bennet blinked, staring at her.

“There is much you do not know,” Elizabeth replied, unable to meet her father’s questioning gaze. “Much I have not told anyone. But that is not the most pressing matter.” She drew a deep breath, steadying herself for what must be said. “Mr. Darcy and I... we found a body in the woods near the path. It was Mr. Wickham, Father. He is dead.”

The words hung in the air, stark and terrible in their simplicity. Elizabeth watched her father’s face transform from concern to disbelief and then to grim comprehension.

“Dead? You are certain it was Wickham?” Mr. Bennet asked, his voice uncommonly serious.

Elizabeth nodded, the memory flashing unbidden before her eyes. “There can be no mistake. His face was... quite visible. He was dressed in his militia uniform.”

Mr. Bennet removed his spectacles, polishing them absently on his waistcoat as he processed this information. “How did he appear to have died? Was it an accident? A fall, perhaps?”

Elizabeth felt a chill run through her body. “No, Father. He had been... there was blood. A great deal of it. Around his... his chest.” Her voice faltered at the recollection. “Mr. Darcy believed he had been… killed.”

Jane made a small, distressed sound from where she stood. Elizabeth glanced toward her sister and was alarmed to see that all colour had drained from Jane’s face, her lips parted slightly as though struggling for air.

“Killed? You mean to say murdered ?“ Mr. Bennet’s voice had grown sharper, focused in a way Elizabeth had rarely ever witnessed.

“Yes, the blood on his coat…” She broke off as Jane swayed slightly where she stood, one hand reaching blindly for support that was not there.

“Jane!” Elizabeth called, rising from her chair, but she was too late.

Jane’s eyes rolled upward, her knees buckling beneath her as consciousness fled. She collapsed to the floor with a soft, terrible finality, fair hair spilling across the carpet like scattered gold. The shock of Wickham’s death had proven too much for her gentle sensibilities.

“Jane!” Elizabeth cried again, rushing to her sister’s side, all thoughts of Wickham and Darcy momentarily banished by this new crisis closer to home.

Mr. Bennet wasted no time with useless exclamations. With an efficiency Elizabeth had rarely seen in her father, he helped her lift Jane’s unconscious form onto the worn leather settee that stood against the study wall. His fingers pressed against Jane’s wrist, seeking the reassurance of a steady pulse, while his other hand gently patted her pale cheek. Only when he had assured himself of Jane’s continued well-being did he turn his uncommonly serious gaze upon Elizabeth.

“She breathes normally,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “It is merely a faint. The shock was too sudden.”

Elizabeth nodded, her own breath coming in shallow gasps as the terrible morning’s events continued to swirl through her mind.

“Ring for Hill,” Mr. Bennet instructed. “We should have cold compresses prepared.”

“No,” Elizabeth said, surprising herself with the vehemence of her refusal. “No servants, Father. Not yet. What I have to tell you... what we discovered... it cannot become common knowledge until you have decided how to proceed.”

Mr. Bennet regarded her with an intensity that was wholly unlike his customary indolent amusement. For perhaps the first time in her life, Elizabeth saw her father fully engaged with the world beyond his books and his private ironies. The transformation was unsettling.

“Very well,” he agreed after a momentary hesitation. “But you will tell me everything, Elizabeth. Beginning with why you were meeting Mr. Darcy in secret this morning.”

Jane stirred slightly on the settee, a faint moan escaping her lips. Elizabeth pressed a gentle hand to her sister’s forehead, which felt cool and clammy beneath her touch. “Rest, dearest,” she murmured. “You are safe in Father’s study.”

With Jane settled as comfortably as circumstances allowed, Elizabeth rose to face her father. He had taken up position behind his desk, hands planted firmly on its surface, his shrewd eyes fixed upon her with unaccustomed gravity.

“I was not meeting Mr. Darcy in secret,” Elizabeth began, though the protest sounded hollow even to her own ears. “That is, it was not intended as a clandestine meeting. He called yesterday while you were in Meryton. I… was not feeling well and did not come down, but he asked Jane to pass on a request to meet with me privately.”

“And you agreed to this arrangement without consulting me or your mother?” Mr. Bennet’s tone carried no accusation, merely a pointed inquiry that demanded truth.

Elizabeth felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “Yes. I did not think... that is, I believed the matter to be of a personal nature. One that might be resolved more easily without...”

“Without your family’s knowledge or interference,” Mr. Bennet finished for her, his eyebrow arching slightly. “What matter of such delicacy could exist between you and Mr. Darcy? You have always despised him!”

The flush deepened on Elizabeth’s face. “Much of my opinions of Mr. Darcy were formed by Mr. Wickham, who we now know to be… have been… an untruthful man. On learning more, my opinion… altered.”

“I see.” Mr. Bennet’s tone suggested he saw rather more than Elizabeth might wish. “And this alteration occurred during your visit to Kent, I presume?”

“In part,” Elizabeth admitted. “But that is not what is important now. What matters is that while Mr. Darcy and I were walking, we discovered... we found...” Her voice faltered as the image of Wickham’s body rose again in her mind.

“Yes, yes, you found Wickham’s body,” Mr. Bennet said impatiently. “But where did you find it, Elizabeth? And what is going on? This entire situation seems most peculiar. Mr. Darcy, whom you have shown nothing but disdain for, suddenly appears at Longbourn requesting private meetings. You agree, apparently without a moment’s hesitation. And then, by extraordinary coincidence, you both stumble upon the murdered body of the very man who had poisoned you against Darcy in the first place.”

Elizabeth stared at her father, momentarily speechless at his summary of events. Presented thus, the morning’s occurrences did indeed seem suspiciously convenient. “You cannot think that Mr. Darcy had anything to do with Wickham’s death,” she said, horrified at the mere suggestion.

“I think nothing at present,” Mr. Bennet replied, his voice carefully neutral. “I am merely attempting to understand a situation that grows more bewildering with each passing moment. What brought you and Mr. Darcy to precisely the location where Mr. Wickham’s body lay?”

Elizabeth sank into a chair, her legs suddenly unable to support her weight. “We met at the stile not far from the bridge,” she said, knowing that her father would understand which location she meant. “From there, we began walking along the path through the woods. Mr. Darcy was... explaining certain matters to me. We passed by the turning that leads to Netherfield, and went a little further… there is a ditch that runs with water when it rains, draining into the river, and that is where we... where we found him.”

“And what time was this?”

“Just after seven o’clock, I believe. The sun had been up a half-hour, or a little more.”

Mr. Bennet drummed his fingers upon the desk, his expression thoughtful. “The condition of the body? You mentioned blood. Was there much?”

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly against the memory. “Yes. A great deal. Around his chest. His coat was... saturated with it, the red looked darker...”

“And how long had he been dead, in Mr. Darcy’s estimation?”

“I… I have no idea. Mr. Darcy did not speculate.” Elizabeth swallowed hard. “He sent me home in his carriage while he went to alert Colonel Forster and Mr. Burnley and show them where… where Wickham is.”

Jane moaned softly from the settee, drawing Elizabeth’s attention momentarily. Her sister’s eyelids fluttered but did not open, her breathing remained steady if shallow. Elizabeth reached for a cushion, gently placing it beneath Jane’s head.

“There is something you are not telling me,” Mr. Bennet said when Elizabeth turned back to him. His voice was soft but insistent. “Something about Darcy and Wickham that I do not understand. I need the whole truth, Elizabeth, if I am to make sense of this calamity.”

Elizabeth hesitated, the weight of secrets long kept pressing upon her conscience. With sudden resolution, she fished in the pocket of her gown and withdrew a folded packet of papers, the creases worn with repeated handling.

“After I refused Mr. Darcy’s proposal of marriage in Kent,” she began, her voice hardly above a whisper.

“His what ?“ Mr. Bennet interrupted, genuine astonishment breaking through his composed facade.

“His proposal of marriage,” Elizabeth repeated, unable to meet her father’s startled gaze. “Which I refused most decisively, believing him to be... well, believing many things that I later discovered to be false. The day after my refusal, he delivered this letter to me.”

She placed the missive in her father’s outstretched hand. “It explains the true nature of his history with Mr. Wickham. I should have shown it to you upon my return from Kent, but I was... ashamed of my own blindness. And the matters it contains are of such a personal and delicate nature that I felt bound to keep them private. It altered my understanding of both men completely. I have read it so many times that I nearly know it by heart, yet I still struggled to reconcile the Wickham I thought I knew with the man described in those pages, or at least I did until he compromised me.”

Jane stirred again on the settee, her eyes opening briefly before closing once more. Elizabeth moved to her side, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. “Rest, dearest,” she said again. “All will be well.”

A hollow reassurance, she thought, yet what else could she offer?

Mr. Bennet unfolded the letter and began to read, his expression growing more severe with each paragraph. Elizabeth watched him, measuring the progress of his reading by the changing set of his mouth and the deepening furrow between his brows. When he reached the account of Wickham’s attempted elopement with Georgiana Darcy, an audible intake of breath escaped him.

“Good God,” he murmured, glancing up at Elizabeth. “This cannot be invention.”

“That was my assessment too,” Elizabeth affirmed quietly. “Mr. Darcy would never fabricate such a tale involving his own sister.”

Silence fell again as Mr. Bennet continued reading, his mouth creasing as he read those parts of the letter that had caused Elizabeth most pain; the agonisingly honest assessments of the Bennet family and Darcy’s reasoning for separating Jane and Bingley. Mr. Bennet glanced at her once or twice over his glasses, shaking his head, but Elizabeth saw more discomfort than denial in his expression.

“Well,” Mr. Bennet said at last, carefully refolding the pages along their worn creases. “This puts matters in a rather different light. Wickham was not merely a spendthrift scoundrel with a charming tongue, as I had supposed, but a dangerous predator capable of truly reprehensible acts.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed, relieved that her father had reached the same conclusion that had taken her many hours of painful self-examination to accept.

“And Mr. Darcy, far from being the proud, disagreeable man we believed him to be...”

“Is a man of principle and honour,” Elizabeth finished, her voice soft but certain. “Though not without his flaws.”

Mr. Bennet regarded his daughter thoughtfully. “You care for him.”

It was not a question, yet Elizabeth felt compelled to answer. “I... have come to respect him greatly.”

“I see.” Mr. Bennet set the letter aside and rose from his chair with sudden determination. “Elizabeth, you and Jane are to remain here in my study. Say nothing of this matter to anyone, not even to your mother or sisters. Indeed, especially not to them.”

“What are you going to do?” Elizabeth asked, alarmed by her father’s uncharacteristic decisiveness.

“I am going to ensure that the proper authorities are notified, and procedures followed.” He moved to a cabinet in the corner of the room, unlocking it before withdrawing a small pistol which he checked and then tucked into his coat pocket.

“The weapon is merely a precaution,” he explained, noting Elizabeth’s widened eyes. “If Wickham was indeed murdered, his killer may still be in the vicinity. I have no intention of becoming the second victim.”

He crossed to the door, then paused with his hand on the latch. “Lock this door behind me. Open it for no one but myself or Mr. Burnley. Is that understood?”

Elizabeth nodded, rising to follow him to the threshold. “Be careful, Father.”

“I fully intend to be.” He placed a brief, gentle hand on her cheek, a rare gesture of affection from a man who typically expressed his paternal love through wit rather than touch. “Look after Jane. And remember, not a word to anyone.”

Elizabeth stood at the door as Mr. Bennet strode down the hallway with unaccustomed energy. She heard him summon Hill, their housekeeper, with a sharp call that brought the woman hurrying from the kitchen quarters.

“No one is to leave this house,” Mr. Bennet instructed, his voice carrying clearly back to where Elizabeth lingered. “And no visitors are to be admitted until I return. Is that perfectly clear, Hill?”

“Yes, sir,” came the bewildered reply. “But Mrs. Bennet was hoping to go to Lucas Lodge this morning…”

“Mrs. Bennet’s plans must wait,” Mr. Bennet cut in firmly. “This is a matter of utmost importance. The household is confined to Longbourn until further notice.”

Elizabeth heard the front door open and then close with a decisive click, and her father’s footsteps marching away towards the stables, where he would not doubt have the carriage expeditiously prepared. With a deep sigh, Elizabeth turned the key in the study door, locking herself and Jane inside as instructed.

The sound of the carriage wheels faded into the distance, leaving a strange stillness in the study that seemed to emphasize rather than diminish the gravity of the morning’s events. Elizabeth leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door, listening to the familiar sounds of Longbourn continuing around her, horribly, impossibly unchanged. Upstairs, entirely unaware of the calamity unfolding beneath her roof, Mrs. Bennet had begun to protest her confinement.

“What can Mr. Bennet be thinking?” Her mother’s voice carried clearly down the staircase, high and querulous with indignation. “To forbid us from leaving the house when we are expected at Lucas Lodge this very morning! It is beyond comprehension! Hill! Hill, I must speak with Mr. Bennet at once!”

The housekeeper’s muffled reply was inaudible, but Mrs. Bennet’s response came in a wail of frustration. “This is intolerable! My poor nerves cannot bear such treatment! Lydia! Kitty! Where are you girls? You shall not believe what your father has done now!”

The sound of hurrying footsteps overhead followed, accompanied by the excited chatter of her younger sisters responding to their mother’s summons. In any other circumstance, Elizabeth might have found wry amusement in the predictable patterns of her family’s behaviour. Now, she felt only a profound weariness, as though the events of the morning had drained her of all capacity for emotion.

She pushed away from the door and crossed back to where Jane lay on the settee, her sister’s face still unnaturally pale but her breathing deep and regular. The steady rise and fall of Jane’s chest provided Elizabeth with an anchor amidst the chaos of her thoughts. She sank down onto the carpet beside the settee, no longer caring about the propriety of her position or the damage to her already soiled dress.

Taking Jane’s limp hand between her own, Elizabeth finally allowed her rigid self-control to crumble. The tears came silently at first, hot tracks down her cold cheeks, then with increasing force until her shoulders shook with the effort of suppressing audible sobs. She bowed her head over their clasped hands, letting the grief and shock wash through her like a purifying tide.

How long she remained thus, she could not have said. The morning had taken on a strange, dreamlike quality, time stretching and compressing in bewildering patterns. It might have been minutes or an hour before she felt Jane’s fingers tighten slightly around her own.

“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice was faint but clear. “What has happened? Why are we in Father’s study?”

Elizabeth raised her tear-stained face, relief flooding through her at the sight of Jane’s open eyes. “You fainted,” she explained, attempting to compose herself. “We brought you to the settee to recover.”

Jane struggled to sit up, and Elizabeth immediately moved to assist her, arranging cushions behind her back for support. “I remember now,” Jane said slowly, one hand rising to her temple. “You told Father that Mr. Wickham is... that he has been...”

“Yes,” Elizabeth confirmed quietly, unwilling to force her sister to articulate the terrible reality. “Father has gone to fetch Mr. Burnley.”

“And Mr. Darcy?” Jane asked, her gaze sharpening with concern.

“Mr. Darcy went to Colonel Forster,” Elizabeth assured her. “Mr. Darcy insisted that I must come home, and straight to Father. He was... most concerned for my well-being.”

A fresh tear escaped down Elizabeth’s cheek at the memory of Darcy’s kindness to her that morning, from the moment they met by the stile to his consideration after their grim discovery. How different he was from the man she had once believed him to be. How utterly wrong she had been in her judgment.

“Oh, Lizzy,” Jane murmured, reaching out to brush away the tear with tender fingers. “How terrible for you to have witnessed such a thing. No wonder you look so exhausted.”

It was so characteristically Jane to think of others’ suffering even while recovering from her own shock that Elizabeth felt her heart constrict with love for her sister. “I am well enough,” she protested, though the tremor in her voice belied the claim. “It is you I worry for. The shock of such news...”

“Was considerable,” Jane admitted with a small smile. “But I am recovered now, truly.” She glanced toward the locked door. “We are confined here, I take it?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Father’s instructions. No one is to know what has happened until he returns with Mr. Burnley. The entire household is under orders to remain at Longbourn.”

“Mama will not be pleased,” Jane observed, a hint of her usual gentle humour surfacing briefly before she sobered again. “What do you think will happen now, Lizzy?”

It was the question Elizabeth had been avoiding in her own mind, one that opened onto a vista of terrible possibilities. “There will be an inquiry, I suppose. Mr. Burnley will need to determine how Wickham died and... who might have wished him harm.”

“Surely it was an accident,” Jane suggested, her inherent goodness making her reluctant to consider any darker explanation. “Perhaps a hunter mistook him for game.”

“In a red coat?” Elizabeth shook her head doubtfully.

Jane’s fingers tightened around Elizabeth’s. “How awful. Poor Mr. Wickham, whatever his faults.”

Elizabeth could not bring herself to echo the sentiment, not after what Darcy’s letter had revealed about the man’s character. Yet there was something unsettling in the circumstances of his death that she could not quite dismiss.

“What troubles you, Lizzy?” Jane asked, reading her expression with the accuracy born of long intimacy. “There is something more, is there not?”

Elizabeth hesitated, reluctant to voice the uncomfortable thought that had begun to form at the edges of her consciousness. “It is only... the timing of it all seems so strange. That Mr. Darcy should appear at Longbourn, request a private audience with me, and then we should stumble across Wickham’s body, so close to the place I suggested for our meeting!”

“You cannot think Mr. Darcy had anything to do with Mr. Wickham’s death,” Jane said, her voice reflecting the same horror Elizabeth had felt when her father had hinted at a similar suspicion.

“No, of course not,” Elizabeth replied quickly, yet the seed of doubt had been planted and would not be easily uprooted. “And yet... when did Wickham die? There are so many questions I cannot answer.”

“But surely Mr. Darcy would never... he could not...” Jane faltered, unable to complete the terrible suggestion.

Elizabeth rose from the floor and began to pace the small confines of the study, her agitation requiring physical outlet. “No, he could not,” she agreed firmly, pushing back against her own momentary doubt. “Whatever Mr. Darcy’s feelings toward Wickham, he is a man of honour and principle. He would never resort to violence, no matter the provocation.”

And yet the memory of Darcy’s face when he had spoken of Wickham in the past, the cold fury that had animated his features when Elizabeth explained what Wickham had done to her, gave her pause. She had seen the depth of his anger, the intensity of his protective instincts. Was it truly impossible to imagine those feelings culminating in a moment of fatal action?

“No,” she said aloud, more forcefully this time. “I will not believe it. Mr. Darcy is not a murderer.”

“Of course he is not,” Jane agreed, watching her sister with concern. “You are overwrought, Lizzy, and thinking of possibilities that have no foundation in reality. Mr. Darcy may have had reason to dislike Mr. Wickham, but so have many others. From what you have told me of that letter, Mr. Wickham seems to have made a habit of creating enemies.”

Elizabeth nodded, grateful for her sister’s steadying influence. “You are right, as always, Jane. My imagination has run wild in the aftermath of such a shock. Mr. Darcy deserves better than my groundless suspicions, especially after he has behaved with such care and propriety this morning.”

She returned to Jane’s side, sitting down again on the edge of the settee. “Forgive me. I am not myself.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Jane assured her, taking her hand once more. “We have all received a terrible shock today. It is only natural that your thoughts should be confused.”

They sat in silence for some moments, each lost in her own contemplation of the morning’s events. The sounds of the household continued around them, Mrs. Bennet’s lamentations having subsided into a more moderate complaint that still occasionally penetrated the study walls. It seemed inconceivable that life could proceed in such ordinary fashion when their world had been so profoundly altered.

“What did Mr. Darcy want to say to you?” Jane asked at last. “Did you have the opportunity to converse, before you found…”

Before we stumbled upon the scene of a murder. Yet again, Elizabeth pushed away the memory of Wickham’s sightless eyes staring up at the sky. “He proposed. Again. Better, this time.” Her lips twisted wryly. “So much better.”

“But…!” Jane’s eyebrows flew up.

“Yes.” Elizabeth half-laughed, shaking her head. “Yes, I was engaged to be wed to Mr. Wickham, and Mr. Darcy still proposed. He suggested a special license. I half-expected him to tell me his carriage was readied to take us to Gretna Green, and we would leave on the instant if I agreed. He came to Hertfordshire to save me, Jane.”

And as she said it, Elizabeth knew, with utter certainty, that Darcy could not possibly have murdered Wickham. It made no sense for him to have done so before proposing to Elizabeth. If she had refused him again, perhaps… but that was mere speculation.

“And what did you say?” Jane asked, interrupting Elizabeth’s thoughts.

“I did not have a chance to give him my answer. I was considering it when we…” She trailed off.

Would he ask again? Or, now that she was safe from Wickham, would he very sensibly wash his hands of the whole business and walk away from a family enmired in such scandal? She could hardly bear the idea. Madness, considering that not two weeks earlier, she had told Mr. Darcy to his face that he was the last man in the world she would ever marry. And now? She could not imagine ever wanting to marry anyone else.