Page 35 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

“I will not enter that carriage,” Elizabeth declared, renewing her struggles despite the pain in her wrenched shoulder. “You cannot force me.”

“Oh, but we can,” Wickham countered, his pleasant expression hardening. “Jenkins, Hobbs—the lady requires persuasion.”

Before Elizabeth could react, Hobbs seized her legs while Jenkins lifted her bodily from the ground. She fought with every ounce of strength she possessed, screaming for help though she knew there was no one to hear her.

“Now, now, Miss Bennet,” Wickham chided as they unceremoniously deposited her onto the seat opposite him. “Such behavior is hardly becoming to a lady in your… delicate condition.”

“The only delicate condition I’m in is being sick at the sight of you.”

“A fascinating condition,” Wickham replied with a nasty smirk. “The reason for our hasty departure. Approximately three months along or perhaps four by now? Such a pity that the child’s father refuses to acknowledge it.”

“This is madness,” she gasped. “I am not with child. How dare you suggest such a thing!”

“Denial serves no purpose, my dear.” Wickham’s tone was maddeningly patronizing. “Our mutual benefactor has been most specific about the details. Darcy’s child was conceived during your unfortunate dalliance at Hunsford Parsonage. Most improper, but passion often overwhelms propriety, does it not?”

“This is a lie,” she said, her voice shaking with fury and fear. “A despicable, baseless lie. I have never been compromised by Mr. Darcy or anyone else.”

“The truth matters little,” Wickham replied with a careless shrug. “Once we are wed in Gretna Green, with a child conveniently arriving six months later—or tragically lost due to the rigors of our journey—who will question the narrative?”

“I will never marry you,” Elizabeth declared, though fear knotted her stomach at the realization of how thoroughly her reputation would be compromised by this abduction, regardless of whether a wedding took place. “Not in Gretna Green, not anywhere.”

“You underestimate the persuasiveness of my arguments,” Wickham said, patting the pocket of his coat where the outline of a small pistol was visible.

“Besides, what choice do you have? By the time your absence is discovered, we will be halfway to Scotland. Your reputation will be beyond salvage. Marriage to me will be your only recourse.”

The carriage lurched into motion, Jenkins taking the reins while Hobbs squeezed in beside Elizabeth, his bulk forcing her against the carriage wall. The close quarters amplified her sense of entrapment, the reality of her situation crashing down upon her with crushing weight.

Even if she somehow escaped, even if she made her way back to Longbourn unmolested, the damage would be done.

A young woman who disappeared with George Wickham, only to return days later, claiming abduction?

Who would believe her? And what gentleman would ever consider her for marriage after such a scandal?

The thought of Darcy, his declaration in the garden, and his promise to return stabbed her heart.

Would even he stand by her once her reputation was irreparably tarnished?

Or would his sense of propriety, his concern for Georgiana’s place in society, override whatever feelings he might hold for her?

“You seem distressed, Miss Bennet,” Wickham observed, watching her face with evident enjoyment. “Having second thoughts about your ill-advised attachment to Darcy? Perhaps realizing that his fancy for you was merely a fever-induced delusion?”

Elizabeth fought to master her expression, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her anguish. “Mr. Darcy’s character is beyond your comprehension, Mr. Wickham. As is mine, it seems.”

“On the contrary,” Wickham replied, leaning forward with a predatory smile.

“I understand Darcy all too well. His pride and obsession with family honor are the cornerstones of his character. Once you marry me and the world believes you carry my child rather than his, he will retreat to Pemberley and his duty. He will marry his cousin as planned since infancy, and you will be nothing but an unpleasant memory.”

“And you?” Elizabeth countered, grasping for any information that might later prove useful. “What do you gain from this scheme beyond the obvious financial incentive?”

Wickham’s smile widened. “A comfortable living, for one. Our generous benefactor has arranged a parish for me—quite a step up from a militia lieutenant, wouldn’t you agree? A charming parsonage in Kent, conveniently located near Rosings Park. One, I believe, you are quite familiar with.”

The implications struck Elizabeth with sickening clarity. “Of course, Lady Catherine. I should have known. And will she remove Mr. Collins from Hunsford?”

“Let’s just say that personnel changes are anticipated,” Wickham replied with obvious satisfaction. “The current occupant has proven… disappointing in certain matters. His wife, particularly, has shown a regrettable tendency toward independent thought.”

“You disgust me,” Elizabeth said quietly, genuine revulsion replacing fear. “To profit from the destruction of innocent lives?—”

“Spare me your moral outrage,” Wickham interrupted. “We all make our choices in this world, Miss Bennet. You chose to entangle yourself with Darcy despite the obvious disparity in your stations. Now you face the consequences.”

The carriage rattled over a rough patch of road. Elizabeth gripped the seat to keep from being thrown against Hobbs, whose malodorous presence made her stomach turn.

“How long is this journey?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her throat.

“Four days, weather permitting,” Wickham replied. “Though we may take a more… circuitous route if pursuit seems likely.”

“Four days,” Elizabeth repeated, her mind racing. If Darcy were to call again at Longbourn, either today or tomorrow, would he discover her absence? The thought provided a flicker of hope amidst her terror.

Darcy would search for her. The man who had faced a bullet to defend her honor would not abandon her to Wickham’s schemes.

“You seem comforted by some private thought, Miss Bennet,” Wickham observed, his eyes narrowing. “I assure you, whatever rescue fantasy occupies your mind is precisely that, a fantasy. By the time anyone realizes your true whereabouts, we shall be safely across the Scottish border.”

Elizabeth met his gaze steadily. “You underestimate Mr. Darcy, just as you always have. And you certainly underestimate me.”

Wickham’s smile faltered for an instant before returning with forced confidence. “Even Mr. Darcy would not stoop to rescue a young woman who has spurned him and will marry another man.”

“He has been known to value honor above propriety,” Elizabeth reminded Wickham. “If he visits Longbourn today or tomorrow and discovers my absence…”

Wickham immediately ordered Jenkins to slow the carriage to a walking pace.

“You bring up a good point, Miss Elizabeth. Always so perceptive and intelligent. We cannot have Mr. Darcy visiting Longbourn and alerting your parents, so perhaps a small letter will suffice? Explaining your decision to elope with me rather than face the scandal of an illegitimate child without a father willing to claim it.”

“I will write no such thing.” Elizabeth knew being contrary would bring better results. Of course, she hated troubling Darcy, but he needed to be alerted to Wickham’s plot. “Mr. Darcy is preparing for his departure to Pemberley. Surely, he cannot be disturbed.”

“Then we’d better deliver the missive today before he calls at Longbourn.

” Wickham reached into his coat and withdrew the small pistol, which he placed casually on the seat beside him.

“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to threats, Miss Bennet, but you leave me little choice.

The letter will be written, or Hobbs here will be forced to demonstrate his persuasive techniques. ”

Hobbs cracked his knuckles with evident relish, his scarred face splitting in a grin that displayed several missing teeth. “Wouldn’t want to hurt a lady in your condition,” he said, his tone belying the sentiment. “But orders is orders.”

“Very well,” she said, feigning resignation. “I will write your letter.”

“A wise decision,” Wickham said, his smug satisfaction making her fingers itch to slap the expression from his face. He produced paper, pen, and a travel inkwell from a small case under the seat. “You will write exactly what I dictate, Miss Bennet. Any deviation will be corrected.”

Elizabeth accepted the writing materials, balancing the paper on a small board Wickham provided. Her hand trembled slightly, whether from fear or rage, she could not tell. How could she alert Darcy to her true situation without Wickham detecting the subterfuge?

Then inspiration struck. The poetry they had read together during his convalescence—the ridiculous verses they had mocked, the lines they had composed jointly. Darcy would recognize immediately that such sentiments could never be hers voluntarily, especially after their conversation in the garden.

“I await your instruction, Mr. Wickham,” she said, pen poised above the paper.

Wickham dictated, watching her closely as she transcribed his words:

Mr. Darcy,

I write to inform you that I have eloped with Mr. Wickham, the true object of my affection.

Your failure to acknowledge our child has left me no alternative but to seek protection from a gentleman willing to give his name to the innocent.

By the time you receive this letter, I will be Mrs. Wickham, and beyond your reach forever.

Your fortune and position mean nothing to me compared to genuine affection. Mr. Wickham has long possessed my heart, despite the obstacles you placed in our path. Now, we shall have the happiness you sought to deny us.

Do not attempt to follow us. Your interference would only cause further scandal, something I’m certain you wish to avoid.

Elizabeth Bennet

“There,” Wickham said with satisfaction as she completed the final line. “A clear and convincing explanation of your sudden departure. Fold and seal it, if you please.”

“Might I add a postscript?” Elizabeth asked. “A final thought that has just occurred to me?”

Wickham frowned, suspicious. “What sort of postscript?”

“A reference to our last conversation,” Elizabeth improvised. “To ensure Mr. Darcy understands that my decision is final.”

“Very well,” Wickham conceded after a moment’s consideration. “But I shall read it before you seal the letter.”

Elizabeth nodded her agreement, then bent to add her postscript:

P.S. When first I gazed upon thy face divine, my soul was struck as by a thunderbolt!

The gentleman with countenance so stern, matched only by the lady’s sharp discern.

I journey now to thistle’s fair expanse, like petals of the reddest rose.

Remember our poetic exchange, and know that in ourselves are triumph and defeat.

She passed the letter to Wickham, who read it with narrowed eyes. “What nonsense is this? Poetry?”

“Mr. Darcy and I discussed verse during his illness,” Elizabeth explained, careful to keep her tone matter-of-fact. “This passage will remind him of the intensity of emotion that can lead to impulsive decisions.”

Wickham studied her face, clearly searching for signs of deception. Finding none—for he lacked greatly in literary matters—he shrugged and folded the letter.

“It makes little sense to me, but if it satisfies you, so be it.” He sealed the letter, then tucked it into his coat. “We’ll post it at the next village. By the time Darcy receives it, we’ll be well on our way to the border.”

The village in question appeared shortly—a small cluster of buildings surrounding a church, with a coaching inn where fresh horses could be procured. Wickham handed her letter to a servant boy with instructions to post it immediately, along with a coin that ensured prompt compliance.

Elizabeth pressed her face against the window glass, her hand splayed against it. She moved her fingers, hoping the boy would be alerted to her distress.

“Cheer up, Miss Bennet,” Wickham said, noting her expression. “Marriage to me will not be such a hardship. I can be most agreeable when it suits me.”

“I would rather marry a toad,” Elizabeth replied, past caring about the consequences of her defiance. “At least its character would be an improvement upon yours.”

Wickham’s face darkened. “Your wit may amuse Darcy, but I find it tiresome. You would do well to remember that your comfort during this journey depends entirely upon my goodwill.”

“Enough,” Hobbs interrupted unexpectedly. “The lady’s upset, can’t you see? Not good for the baby, all this arguing.”

Elizabeth stared at him in surprise. This rough man, who had threatened her with violence not an hour before, now showed concern for her nonexistent child?

“There is no baby, Mr. Hobbs,” she said quietly. “That is a fiction Mr. Wickham has invented for his own purposes.”

Hobbs looked to Wickham, confusion evident in his scarred face. “But you said?—”

“I said what was necessary,” Wickham snapped. “Keep your concerns to yourself, Hobbs. You’re paid to follow orders, not to think.”

Elizabeth turned her face to the window, watching the familiar landscape of Hertfordshire slip away.

Rest was impossible, but the pretense would allow her to think undisturbed.

There must be some opportunity for escape, some flaw in Wickham’s plan she could exploit.

Until then, she would conserve her strength, observe her captors, and pray Darcy would be more resourceful.