Page 61 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“I am Charles Bingley, madam, of Netherfield Park. We are looking for Mr. Wilkins urgently. Did you see him this morning?”

“Aye, I caught sight of his back, running from my garden around ten o’clock, coward that he is.

Heading for the back path toward the Matthews’ land.

If I got my hands on him, he would not be walking upright, the blackguard.

” She paused, her anger suddenly crumbling into distress.

“But what am I to do now? Without the money from those pasties, I cannot send Katy away, and she’s already beginning to show.

She cannot stay here, not with her condition becoming known. ”

Bingley’s expression softened with understanding. “You are a tenant on the Matthews estate, are you not?”

“Aye, sir. These three years past.”

“And your daughter—Wilkins is responsible for her situation?”

The woman’s face crumpled. “She is a good girl! She had her head turned by the scoundrel. He promised her marriage, filled her head with pretty words about being a gentleman’s wife. Now she’s ruined, and he’s stealing the very food meant to pay her passage to my sister in Yorkshire.”

Bingley reached into his coat and withdrew his purse. “She requires fare to Yorkshire, madam?”

“Yes, sir, but I could have paid—”

“Nonsense.” Bingley pressed several coins into her hand—enough for the fare and more besides. “This should cover your daughter’s journey and her keep until she is settled. Consider it a gift in honour of Miss Jane Bennet, whose kindness I hope to emulate.”

The woman stared at the coins in disbelief. “Sir, this is too much—”

“It is precisely enough for your daughter’s safety,” Bingley said firmly. “But we must ask—do you have any idea of what Wilkins is about?”

“He was talking before. Something about ‘showing them all’ and a lady at Longbourn. Made my blood run cold, it did, the way he said it.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “The Matthews’ land borders Longbourn to the west. Colonel. He may be nearer to the vicarage that we are. We must make haste.”

The Colonel nodded curtly. “Madam, you have been most helpful. Return home and bar your doors. If Wilkins returns, do not confront him—send word to Netherfield if you can.”

As the woman hurried away, clutching the coins and calling blessings upon Mr. Bingley, the three gentlemen exchanged grim looks.

“He may be making for the vicarage,” Darcy said quietly. “We have not a moment to lose.”

The weekly sewing circle in the vicarage parlour had ended, with the ladies trickling out in pairs. Elizabeth remained, setting the room aright whilst Mrs. Whitmore stepped into the kitchen to speak with her cook.

She set a workbasket atop the bolts and re-wound a bolt of muslin. The afternoon light was fading to dusk as she gathered her things, calling a farewell to Mrs. Whitmore through the kitchen door.

“Thank you for your help, dear,” came the reply. “Do take care walking home—the days grow so short now.”

Elizabeth stepped out through the front door, her workbasket over her arm and reticule secure at her wrist. The lane toward Longbourn was quiet, most of the village already settling for the evening.

She had walked perhaps a few hundred yards from the vicarage when she heard sounds behind her. Then an approach, measured, deliberate.

“Miss Bennet. What a fortunate surprise.”

She turned. George Wickham stood in the gathering gloom. His smile seemed pleasant but something in his eyes made her mouth go dry. The lane was empty in both directions, the nearest cottage some distance away.

“Is there some urgent business that brings you here, Mr. Wickham?” She kept her voice steady, though her fingers tightened on the handle of her basket.

“No parish business, I am afraid. I ought to have been a vicar, but alas I was robbed of my living.” He stepped closer, blocking her path forward. “You have formed certain impressions of me, Miss Bennet—and taken quite an interest in my affairs. I thought it only fair to return the courtesy.”

“You overstate my interest, sir,” she replied, taking a step backward. “It is the truth that concerns me, not your affairs.”

Wickham advanced, forcing her to retreat toward the hedgerow that lined the lane.

“I have often wondered what mischief is stitched together by ladies in the vicarage parlours. No doubt a great many secrets unravel over stitches.” His voice carried a silken menace. “Secrets about poor scullery maids, for instance. Girls who find themselves in compromising positions.”

Elizabeth stood very still, every sense alert. The hedge pressed against her back—there was nowhere to retreat.

“You and Darcy have been quite busy asking questions. Following trails best left covered. Naturally, Darcy’s inquiry led him to the one he has abused since the death of my godfather.” He paused, studying her with an insolent expression. “I should like that to stop.”

The silence was broken only by the distant bark of a dog and her own thundering pulse.

“I daresay he thinks himself terribly clever, connecting a frightened girl’s tears to the mushrooms that made him ill. But I wonder, has he told you everything? Does he admit that he stole from me? That he turned his back on his obligations. That he left me penniless. Your Mr. Darcy is no angel.”

Wickham eased toward her again, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Do not pretend he is so noble—it is plain enough where your loyalties lie.” His smile thinned. “Do you mean to stand in his defence now?”

He gave a low, scornful laugh. “So loyal to a man who would not soil his gloves to touch you. You will never be anything to the mighty Darcy. Oh, he may burn for you—may want a tumble. What man would not? But marriage?” Wickham’s lip curled.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy would sooner choke on his own consequence.”

Elizabeth forced herself to think. This large, wild-eyed man had her backed against the hedge, thorns catching at her pelisse.

There was no escape in that direction. The lane remained deserted, the vicarage now too far to reach if she ran.

She must end the encounter on her own terms. She drew a slow breath and shifted her weight, lowering her gaze, as if abandoning resistance.

Wickham reached over and put his finger under her chin.

She resisted his effort to force her to look at him.

“Perhaps I could offer you a bit of fun. Would you not prefer a true man? One who knows how to please a woman? You might help me out. I am the real victim here. It would be a simple matter to change your tale. I am sure you were mistaken in what you heard. Allow me to show you how easily you might abandon this inquiry?”

Elizabeth’s hand moved almost unconsciously toward her pocket, her palm damp with perspiration.

He caught the movement, his smile sharpening.

“Ah—reaching for what? A handkerchief to dry your tears?”

When she did not reply, he lunged forward and seized her arm, his grip like iron. The mingled scent of sweat and stale cologne filled her nostrils, cloying and oppressive. Her workbasket tumbled to the ground, spilling thread and fabric into the dirt.

“You ought not have meddled. Darcy may play magistrate if he likes, but a slip of a girl like you—” he broke off, his breath coming faster.

There was dampness at his brow now, despite the evening chill.

His coat was travel-stained, his hair uncombed, and the faint reek of stale stable hay clung to his person.

The false gloss of good breeding had worn away entirely.

His eyes darted to the reticule on her wrist, then back to her face.

“I cannot walk down the high street without men asking questions—about my name, about debts—debts they dare to insist I incurred, men who will not be satisfied with pleasantries. I have been sleeping in barns, bribing ostlers, selling cufflinks to pay for silence.”

He stepped closer, pressing her harder against the hedge and reaching for her reticule.

“A few coins from a gentleman’s daughter—such a small thing, and it might spare you greater trouble. Or is your purse kept as tightly shut as the rest of you?”

He sneered. “Darcy has turned you loose to sniff out what he is determined to lay at my door. He needs someone to blame, and I suit the role too well. No one need have known, had you kept your place.”

In a single motion, Elizabeth twisted her body away, her free hand slipping into her pocket. The handle of the small folding knife met her fingers. She grasped it and forced the blade open with a flick, whilst hiding her movements in the folds of her skirt.

She pulled the blade free and slashed downward across the inside of his wrist—just above the glove, where the coat gave no protection. The cry it drew was instant and harsh, echoing down the empty lane.

Wickham staggered back, clutching his arm. Blood welled between his fingers, bright against his stained white gloves.

“You vicious little wretch!”

She cried out—shrill and sudden. Wickham’s eyes went wild, darting between her and the knife, calculating whether to advance or flee. Before he could decide, the thunder of running feet filled the air. Darcy burst around the bend in the lane, his face a mask of fury.

Darcy seized Wickham bodily, driving him back against the opposite hedge with a crash that sent birds fleeing from the branches.

The two struggled—briefly, violently—Wickham’s boots scraped against the packed earth, his breathing ragged.

Then Darcy’s greater strength told, and Wickham fell hard beneath him.

Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared and moved swiftly to secure Wickham’s arms whilst Bingley rushed to Elizabeth’s side.

“Miss Bennet, are you injured?” Bingley asked, his face pale with concern.

She shook her head and bent to gather the scattered contents of her workbasket. “Quite well, Mr. Bingley. I—”