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Chapter Three

E lizabeth reeled with shock and revulsion as Wickham’s tongue pressed for entry into her mouth. Clamping her lips tightly together, she pushed against Wickham’s chest with all her strength, desperate to break free from this nightmare. Black spots began to swirl behind her eyes from lack of air and she felt her strength beginning to fade, but mercifully a piercing scream cut through the air and Wickham lifted his head, ending the horrible kiss.

“Good heavens! What is happening here?” Mrs. Phillips stood in the doorway.

Elizabeth’s blood turned to ice as she saw her aunt frozen in the doorway, her hand clasped to her mouth, eyes wide with horror and disbelief. In that terrible instant, Elizabeth understood with perfect clarity how this must appear to anyone who had not witnessed Wickham’s forceful advances moments before.

“ Lizzy! “ Mrs. Phillips gasped, her voice strangled with shock. “Mr. Wickham! What... what is the meaning of this?”

Elizabeth struggled against Wickham’s grip, which had loosened momentarily at the interruption but now tightened again, his fingers digging painfully into her arm.

The commotion at the doorway grew as Mrs. Phillips’ cry brought others rushing to the scene. Elizabeth caught glimpses of wide eyes and open mouths as people crowded behind her aunt.

With a violent wrench, Elizabeth broke free of Wickham’s grasp and swung her hand toward his smirking face, intent on delivering the slap he so richly deserved. But Wickham was quicker. He caught her wrist mid-air, and in a fluid motion that must have appeared almost dance-like to the onlookers, he pulled her closer, as if in an embrace.

“Let me go,” Elizabeth demanded, her voice rising with desperation.

“Come now, my dear,” Wickham replied loudly enough for all to hear, his tone dripping with false affection. “There is no need for such pretence now that we have been discovered.”

The gathered crowd gasped collectively.

“This is not what it appears,” Elizabeth said firmly, addressing the group at large. “Mr. Wickham has imposed himself upon me without my consent or encouragement.”

But even as she spoke, she could see the disbelief in their expressions. Wickham’s reputation as a charming, honourable officer stood in stark contrast to her flustered appearance and reddened face. Her hair had come loose in their struggle, several pins dislodged, and her normally composed countenance was now flushed with anger and embarrassment.

“My dearest Elizabeth,” Wickham said with a laugh that contained just the right note of indulgent amusement. “That was certainly not what you said a moment ago. There is no need to be shy now that our affection is known.”

“You are a liar, sir,” Elizabeth retorted, her voice shaking with fury. “I have shown you no affection whatsoever.”

But her protest was drowned in the growing murmur of the crowd. Mrs. Phillips had recovered enough to advance into the room, her expression now shifting from shock to a curious mixture of disapproval and excitement.

“Elizabeth Bennet, I never would have thought it of you,” she said, though her tone suggested she was not entirely displeased to be at the centre of such a dramatic scene. “To be caught in such a compromising position with a gentleman.”

“Aunt Phillips, please,” Elizabeth began, desperately searching for words that might salvage the situation, but finding none adequate to the task.

A new commotion at the doorway drew everyone’s attention. Jane had arrived, likely having heard the disturbance from the main drawing room where she had been conversing with Mrs. Phillips’ other guests. Her face, normally so serene and composed, drained of all colour as she took in the scene before her. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound emerged. Instead, her eyes rolled back, and she began to sway alarmingly.

“Jane!” Elizabeth cried, rushing forward as her sister’s knees buckled. Wickham finally, mercifully, let go of her; but it was Mr. Phillips, who had appeared alongside his wife, who moved quickly to catch Jane before she could fall to the floor. The sight of gentle Jane swooning seemed to confirm the seriousness of the situation in everyone’s minds, and the whispers grew louder, more urgent.

“Air, she needs air,” Mrs. Phillips commanded, suddenly practical. “Take her to the settee in the drawing room.”

As Mr. Phillips carried Jane away, Elizabeth tried to follow, desperate to escape Wickham’s proximity and attend to her sister. But Mrs. Phillips blocked her path.

“Not you, Lizzy,” she said firmly. “We must discuss what has happened here.”

“There is nothing to discuss,” Elizabeth replied, her composure returning somewhat now that Wickham was no longer touching her. “Mr. Wickham forced his attentions on me. I did not welcome or encourage them in any way.”

Wickham stepped forward, his handsome face arranged in an expression of wounded dignity. “I must protest this characterisation, Mrs. Phillips. Miss Elizabeth and I have been enjoying a growing understanding these past months! Since her return from Kent a few days ago, we had no opportunity to be alone, and… well, I’m afraid we may have become a little carried away in the enthusiasm of our reunion.”

Elizabeth felt as though she might be physically ill. The smooth lies fell from his lips with such conviction that even she might have believed him had she not known the truth. She looked around at the faces surrounding them, searching for someone who might believe her version of events, but found only varying degrees of scandal and titillation.

Even Kitty, who should have known her better than to believe such falsehoods, was watching the proceedings with bright eyes and poorly concealed excitement. “Lizzy, you sly thing,” she whispered, loudly enough for those nearby to hear. “You never said a word about Mr. Wickham courting you.”

“Because he is not,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth. “Kitty, surely you cannot believe this nonsense.”

But Kitty merely giggled, not understanding or not caring about the seriousness of the situation.

Mrs. Phillips cleared her throat importantly. “I think it best if you girls return to Longbourn immediately. Mr. Phillips will escort you. I shall remain here with our other guests and... make appropriate explanations.”

The thought of her aunt ‘explaining’ this scene to the assembled neighbourhood gossips made Elizabeth’s stomach turn over. By tomorrow, the story would be all over Meryton, twisted and embellished with each retelling.

“Aunt, please,” Elizabeth tried one last time. “You must believe me. I would never behave in such a manner.”

For a moment, Mrs. Phillips’ expression softened slightly and she spoke more quietly, for Elizabeth’s ears alone. “I should like to believe you, child. But I saw what I saw. And regardless of how it came about, the fact remains that you were discovered in what appeared to be an intimate, private embrace with Mr. Wickham. In society’s eyes, that is all that matters.”

There was no arguing with this cold truth. Elizabeth felt a leaden weight settle in her chest as she realised the full implications of what had occurred. Her reputation, that fragile thing upon which a gentlewoman’s future prospects depended, had been severely compromised, perhaps irreparably so.

Mr. Phillips returned, having settled Jane on a settee with smelling salts and the attention of a concerned matron. “I have called for the carriage,” he announced grimly. “Come downstairs, Elizabeth. I don’t think you should return to the party.”

Elizabeth found herself being led from the room, her sisters following behind in a state of confusion and excitement. As they passed Wickham, who stood to one side with an expression of false contrition, he caught Elizabeth’s eye and smiled. It was a smile of pure triumph, and in that moment, she understood with perfect clarity that to embroil her in scandal had been his intention all along, though his reasons were as yet a mystery to her.

The journey back to Longbourn passed in a blur of misery. Uncle Phillips sat opposite Elizabeth in stony silence, his usual joviality entirely absent. Jane, revived but still pale, held Elizabeth’s hand tightly, though whether in support or shock, Elizabeth could not be certain. Kitty just stared at Elizabeth with a mixture of awe and curiosity. Only Mary seemed unaffected, her expression serene as she gazed out the window, no doubt mentally composing some moral platitude about the dangers of temptation and the fall of the unwary.

As the familiar glow of Longbourn’s windows appeared in the distance, Elizabeth felt a fresh wave of dread wash over her. Soon she would have to face her parents, to see the disappointment in her father’s eyes and bear the hysterics of her mother. The truth would make no difference now. In the eyes of society, she was compromised, and there was only one acceptable resolution to such a situation.

She closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought of what lay ahead. Unbidden, the image of Mr. Darcy’s face came to her mind, his dark eyes filled with the regard she had only recently come to recognise. A regard that would surely turn to disgust when he learned of today’s events. Whatever chance of happiness she might have had with him was now as substantial as morning mist, vanishing in the harsh light of scandal.

Mr. Bennet’s face told Elizabeth everything she needed to know before he had spoken a single word. He sat behind his desk in the study, a room that had always been a sanctuary for both of them, a place of books and wit and understanding. Now it felt like a courtroom, with her father as both judge and disappointed advocate, unable to find any defence for her apparent behaviour.

The household had erupted into chaos upon their return. Mrs. Bennet, initially confused by their early arrival from the Phillips’, had quickly dissolved into hysterics once Mr. Phillips explained the situation in terse, uncomfortable terms. Her wails of “Oh, my poor nerves!” and “Lizzy, how could you!” echoed through the house even now, muffled only slightly by the closed study door. Elizabeth had not been sorry to be ordered directly to her room by Mr. Phillips until her father sent for her, even though the humiliation of such banishment was one more indignity to endure. She had sat quietly on her bed almost an hour before Hill came to the door, sombre-faced, and instructed her that her father awaited her in his study.

Now Elizabeth stood before her father, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her, the knuckles white with tension. She had never before seen him look so aged, so weary. His usual sardonic humour was entirely absent, replaced by a grave solemnity that frightened her more than any lecture could have done.

“Sit down, Lizzy,” he said at last, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.

Elizabeth obeyed, perching on the edge of the seat as if ready to flee at any moment. “Father, please allow me to explain,” she began, the words tumbling out in her eagerness to clear the misunderstanding. “What happened at Aunt Phillips’ was not at all what it appeared to be. Mr. Wickham forced himself upon me. I was attempting to resist him when Aunt Phillips discovered us.”

Mr. Bennet raised a hand to silence her. “I have heard the account from your uncle Phillips. And from your aunt, who sent a note with him. And from Jane, who, once recovered from her shock, gave me her understanding of events.” He sighed heavily. “I have even endured Kitty’s gleeful version, which I suspect contains the least truth of all.”

“None of them know the truth,” Elizabeth insisted. “None of them saw what happened! Mr. Wickham cornered me, Father. He... he forced a kiss upon me. I was trying to escape his grasp when we were discovered.”

For a moment, hope flared in Elizabeth’s chest as her father studied her face intently, as if searching for the truth in her features. But then, Mr. Bennet shrugged his shoulders slowly.

“I believe you, my dear. Indeed, I know your character well enough to be certain you would never willingly engage in such behaviour. But it hardly matters now.”

“How can it not matter?” Elizabeth cried, leaning forward in her chair. “Surely the truth must count for something!”

“In an ideal world, perhaps.” Mr. Bennet removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “But we live in society as it is, not as we might wish it to be. By now, half of Meryton will have heard some version of what occurred. By tomorrow, the other half will know, with the story no doubt embellished with each telling.”

Elizabeth felt cold dread settling in her stomach. She had known this, of course, but hearing her father confirm it made the situation suddenly, terribly real.

“Your Aunt Phillips is a good-hearted woman, but discretion has never been her strongest quality,” Mr. Bennet continued. “And your mother...” He gestured vaguely toward the door, beyond which Mrs. Bennet could still be heard lamenting to anyone who would listen. Jane, probably, bearing the brunt of it as usual despite her own shock and distress.

“I have done nothing wrong,” Elizabeth said firmly, though her voice quavered slightly. “I should not be punished for Mr. Wickham’s actions.”

Mr. Bennet’s expression softened with genuine sympathy. “My dear Lizzy, life has taught me that we are often punished most severely for the crimes of others, particularly when those others are charming rogues with the ability to shape perception to their advantage.”

He rose from his chair and moved to the window, gazing out into the darkness. When he spoke again, his voice was heavy with regret.

“I have always been proud of your intelligence, your wit, your discernment. I never dreamed, of all my daughters, you would be the one to bring this kind of scandal upon our family.”

The words struck Elizabeth like physical blows. “Father, please. You cannot think I invited this situation.”

“What I think matters little now,” he replied, turning back to face her. His expression was not unkind, but it was implacable. “What matters is what must be done.”

Elizabeth felt her heart constrict painfully. “What must be done,” she repeated dully.

“For the sake of your sisters, if nothing else.” Mr. Bennet returned to his chair, sitting heavily. “A scandal of this nature could taint them all, making respectable matches impossible.”

“So I am to sacrifice myself for their futures?” Elizabeth asked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

“I would give anything not to ask this of you,” Mr. Bennet said with genuine anguish. “I would duel the man myself if I thought it would resolve the matter. But you must see that there is only one path forward that preserves your reputation and protects your sisters.”

Elizabeth stood abruptly, unable to remain seated as her future collapsed around her. “You wish me to marry him. A man who has deliberately compromised me, who has lied about his character and his intentions, who has shown himself to be utterly without principle.”

“I wish nothing of the sort,” Mr. Bennet replied sharply. “What I wish is for my favourite daughter to be happy, to marry a man worthy of her intelligence and spirit. But wishes are luxuries we cannot presently afford.”

Elizabeth turned away, unwilling to let her father see the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. “Is there truly no alternative?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“If you can think of one, I am all ears,” Mr. Bennet replied, a hint of his usual dry humour momentarily resurfacing. “Short of fleeing to become a governess under an assumed name, which I cannot recommend.”

The attempt at levity fell flat in the gravity of the moment; she well knew it was an impossible situation anyway. It might prove an escape for her, but her sisters would be left behind under a cloud of scandal.

Elizabeth turned back to face him, trying desperately to find some way, any path that would allow her to escape the trap she found herself in. “Could we not simply deny the rumours? Surely our neighbours know me well enough to doubt such tales.”

“Your Aunt Phillips saw what she saw,” Mr. Bennet said gently. “And while you and I might know the context, she does not. Nor does she have reason to doubt the evidence of her own eyes, or the smooth explanations of a man like Wickham.”

“Then there truly is no escape,” Elizabeth said flatly, collapsing back into her chair and burying her face in her hands as she felt a terrible, crushing weight descend upon her.

Mr. Bennet sighed heavily. “I fear not, my dear. I have already sent a note to Mr. Burnley, asking him to call tomorrow.”

“Mr. Burnley? The magistrate?” Elizabeth asked, momentarily confused.

“I thought it best to have legal counsel on how to proceed, perhaps above what your uncle is able to provide.” Mr. Bennet’s expression darkened. “I may be forced to give my consent to this marriage, but I will ensure that every possible protection is built into the settlement. Wickham will not profit from his villainy any more than is absolutely unavoidable.”

The finality in her father’s tone made Elizabeth’s heart sink further. If even he, who had always been her staunchest ally, saw no alternative, then truly none existed.

“May I be excused?” she asked, suddenly desperate to be alone.

Mr. Bennet nodded, his expression softening. “Of course, my dear. Try to rest if you can. Tomorrow will bring its own trials.”

Elizabeth moved toward the door, then paused, turning back. “I am sorry, Father. Sorry to have disappointed you.”

“You have never disappointed me, Elizabeth,” he replied with unexpected firmness. “Not once in your life. The disappointment I feel is in a world that would punish an innocent woman for the actions of an unprincipled man, and in myself for being unable to protect you from it.”

The words were small comfort as Elizabeth made her way upstairs, avoiding the parlour where her mother’s lamentations continued unabated. Jane would be there, attempting to provide comfort and practicality in equal measure. Elizabeth could not face her now, nor any of her sisters.

As she entered her bedroom and closed the door behind her, the full weight of her situation descended upon her. Marriage to George Wickham. A lifetime bound to a man she now knew to be without honour or principle, a man who had deliberately orchestrated her ruin to serve his own ends. It was a fate worse than any she could have imagined.

She moved to the window, looking out at the familiar view of Longbourn’s gardens, now cloaked in darkness. Somewhere beyond those shadows Mr. Darcy was as yet unaware of the disaster that had befallen her. Would he hear of it? Would he believe the rumours, thinking her as foolish and improper as he had once accused her family of being? The thought was almost as painful as the prospect of marrying Wickham.

Elizabeth pressed her forehead against the cool glass, closing her eyes as tears finally escaped, trailing silently down her cheeks. For the first time in her life, she could see no path forward that did not lead to misery.

Sleep eluded Elizabeth entirely as she lay rigid beneath the bedcovers, her mind racing with the terrible thoughts that had plagued her since the disastrous events at her aunt’s house. The household had finally fallen silent; even her mother’s hysterics had eventually succumbed to exhaustion or laudanum. Jane had not come to bed, presumably staying with their mother to ease her distress, so Elizabeth was quite alone.

In the quiet darkness of her bedroom, with only moonlight filtering through the curtains she had neglected to close properly, Elizabeth shivered not from cold, but from the memory of George Wickham’s hands gripping her arms, his lips forced against hers.

She pulled the blankets tighter around herself, as if the thin barrier of wool could somehow shield her from the reality awaiting her in the morning. The physical memory of Wickham’s assault remained vivid, causing her to shudder involuntarily. His breath had smelled of brandy and triumph, his fingers digging into her flesh with bruising force. She had washed before bed, scrubbing her skin with unusual vigour, but still felt unclean, marked by his touch in a way that water could not wash away.

Elizabeth turned onto her side, watching the shadows cast by tree branches dancing across her wall in the moonlight. How quickly one’s fortunes could change. Only yesterday, she had been Elizabeth Bennet, a gentleman’s daughter with reasonable prospects and the luxury of marrying for affection rather than necessity. Now she faced the prospect of becoming Mrs. Wickham, bound for life to a man whose true nature she had glimpsed in its most unvarnished form. This had not been a moment of passion or impulsiveness on Wickham’s part. No, as she mentally retraced the events leading to that fateful moment, she recognised the deliberate calculation behind his actions.

Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to organize her tumultuous thoughts. Wickham had orchestrated the entire scene, perhaps even taking steps to ensure that someone would discover them at the crucial moment. He had known exactly what he was doing, had understood perfectly the social consequences that would follow.

Why? The answer finally came to her, with devastating clarity. She knew too much about him now, and she had let him know it, arrogantly believing there was nothing he could do to her. Perhaps he had feared what she indeed planned; that she would expose his true character to the people of Meryton, to his fellow officers. He had recognised the threat she posed to his reputation. And he had neutralized that threat in the most effective way possible, by creating a situation in which she would become intimately tied to his reputation rather than free to damage it.

“How clever,” Elizabeth whispered bitterly into the darkness. “How perfectly, horribly clever.”

By compromising her, he had not only silenced her but secured himself a respectable marriage with a gentleman’s daughter. Not as wealthy a prize as Mary King might have been, but Elizabeth’s family connections were superior, and the urgency of her situation would likely result in her father providing a decent settlement despite his misgivings.

Elizabeth threw back the covers and rose from her bed, too agitated to remain still. She paced the small confines of her bedroom, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. Her nightgown billowed around her in the slight draft from the window, a ghost-like shape in the moonlight.

Was there truly no escape? She considered each possibility methodically, as she had done repeatedly throughout the evening, searching for some overlooked avenue of deliverance.

She could deny the incident entirely, claim that Mrs. Phillips had misinterpreted what she saw. But multiple witnesses had observed what appeared to be an intimate embrace, and Wickham’s smooth explanations had already shaped their understanding of events. Her aunt, while fond of her, had no reason to disbelieve the evidence of her own eyes.

She could flee, perhaps seek employment as a governess in some distant part of the country. But without references or connections, such a position would be nearly impossible to secure. And even if she managed it, the scandal would remain in her wake, likely ruining her sisters’ prospects for respectable marriages.

Perhaps Mr. Darcy might somehow intervene? But this was the most foolish fantasy of all. He was in London, or perhaps even Derbyshire, unaware of her plight, and any communication from her would be highly improper. Even if he were inclined to help, what could he possibly do? The damage to her reputation was already done.

Elizabeth paused at the window, pressing her palm against the cool glass. The grounds of Longbourn lay peaceful in the moonlight, the familiar landscape offering no answers, no escape. Beyond the fields and hedgerows lay the wider world, now seemingly closed to her.

What would marriage to Wickham truly mean? The question sent another shiver through her body. He would have legal rights over her person, her property, any children they might have. The thought of bearing Wickham’s children made her stomach turn. He would control her movements, her household, her very existence. And given what she knew of his character, he would likely continue his philandering ways, perhaps squandering whatever settlement her father provided, leaving them in financial difficulties.

She would be tied to a man who had deliberately orchestrated her ruin, who had shown himself capable of calculated cruelty. A man who had no genuine affection for her, who had pursued her merely as a means of self-preservation and advancement.

Elizabeth returned to her bed, sitting on the edge with her head in her hands. She had always prided herself on her discernment, her ability to read character. How ironic that she should end up bound to the very man whose true nature she had eventually seen more clearly than most.

A wild thought suddenly seized her. Perhaps she could turn the tables somehow, use her knowledge of Wickham’s past against him. If she threatened to expose his attempted elopement with Georgiana Darcy...

But no. Such a scandal would damage the Darcy family as much as Wickham, exposing Miss Darcy to precisely the kind of public scrutiny her brother had worked so hard to prevent. Elizabeth could not bring herself to repay Mr. Darcy’s trust with such betrayal, not when he had shared that information with her in strictest confidence.

Besides, any attempt to discredit her future husband would only reflect poorly on herself. Society would view her as a bitter, vindictive woman attempting to slander a respectable man. Wickham’s charm and ability to ingratiate himself with others would ensure he appeared the injured party.

Elizabeth lay back on her pillows, staring at the ceiling. The trap was perfect in its construction, with no visible means of escape that did not lead to further disaster for herself or those she loved.

For a brief, desperate moment, she considered whether death might not be preferable to such a fate. But almost immediately she rejected the thought. She was not so melodramatic as to believe that even marriage to Wickham justified such a final escape. Life, even a difficult one, contained possibilities that death did not. And she would not give him the satisfaction of destroying her so completely.

No, she would endure. She would marry George Wickham because society and her family’s welfare demanded it. But she would not surrender her essential self to him, would not allow his victory to be complete. Somehow, she would preserve her dignity, her intelligence, her inner life.

Perhaps, in time, she might even find some small measure of freedom within the prison of this marriage. Many wives managed their husbands rather than being managed by them, after all; she need look only at Charlotte Collins for an example. Elizabeth had never lacked for strength or resourcefulness.

But as she lay in the darkness, listening to the night sounds of the house and countryside, such thoughts provided little comfort. The future stretched before her, bleak and confined, a life tied to a man she despised, separated forever from the man she had only recently realised she could perhaps come to love.

The irony was not lost on her. She had refused Mr. Darcy with scorn and indignation, believing him to be proud and unfeeling, only to discover too late how very wrong she had been in her assessment of his character. Now, when she would give anything for the chance to reconsider that refusal, circumstances had placed him forever beyond her reach.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, exhaustion finally beginning to overcome her racing thoughts. Tomorrow would bring Mr. Burnley the magistrate, formal discussions of settlements, perhaps even a confrontation with Wickham himself. She would need all her strength and composure to face what was to come.

But for now, in the quiet sanctuary of the night, she allowed herself one final, private moment of grief for the future that might have been, before resolution hardened within her like winter ice. George Wickham had won this battle through cunning and cruelty, but Elizabeth Bennet would not surrender the war. Not yet. Not ever.