Page 36

CHAPTER 36

The Confrontation

25 OCTOBER 1811

T he next few days were tense—at least for those awaiting word on when Wickham might make his move against Elizabeth.

Although there had been some discussion about delaying the wedding, it was ultimately decided that Elizabeth and Darcy would marry on Tuesday of the following week.

Mrs. Bennet would be informed the evening before, but Mrs. Hill had been told that morning so she could begin preparing an intimate wedding breakfast for the couple and their carefully chosen guests.

The previous evening, a dinner was held at Lucas Lodge.

During the gathering, Lieutenant Sanderson discreetly delivered a note to Colonel Fitzwilliam.

It contained the news they had been waiting for: Wickham intended to approach Elizabeth the following morning.

Sanderson would accompany him—ostensibly to assist—but in truth, he hoped to accomplish the opposite.

At the first safe opportunity, he would turn on Wickham and prevent any harm from coming to Elizabeth, without drawing Wickham’s notice.

When Fitzwilliam quietly relayed the contents of the note to Darcy later that evening, Darcy’s jaw tightened.

He had already been reluctant to part from Elizabeth that night—but now, knowing what was planned, it took all of Fitzwilliam’s reasoning to convince him not to act prematurely or to abscond with Elizabeth himself and carry her off to Pemberley.

However, he allowed his cousin to send a note to Mr. Bennet to inform him that their plans would be put into effect the following morning.

Before the sun rose, Darcy and two of his footmen were ensconced in the little parlour of the cottage.

Other of Darcy’s footmen and a few trusted officers were hidden in the edges of the woods, and all were waiting to see what would happen.

It had taken a significant amount of discussion, but Bennet had finally agreed that it was best for him to remain at home and wait for word about the events of the morning.

For Darcy, the morning dawned in what felt like an interminable fashion.

He paced the length of the small parlour, glancing out the window every few steps despite the fact that it was too dark to see anything.

Not long after their arrival, he had tossed his greatcoat and hat haphazardly over a nearby chair, gripping his gloves tightly in his hand while his expression remained grim.

There was no fire, no candles lit, and he did his best to move through the room without crashing into any of the sparse furniture.

If his companions were aggravated by his constant movement, they did not show it, for they were equally anxious.

The air in the room was thick with tension from all three men who waited to see what would happen.

As the sun was peeking over the hills, three short raps on the backdoor—the agreed upon signal with Colonel Fitzwilliam—made them all freeze.

One of the footmen stepped to the door, opening it slowly.

Fitzwilliam entered and spoke quietly.

“Miss Elizabeth is in place as are the guards. The scout reported that Wickham is on his way; he and Sanderson were seen leaving camp not ten minutes ago. Sanderson is keeping their pace slow, giving our people time to adjust as necessary. They all know Miss Elizabeth is not to be harmed, Darcy. You have my word that she will be well.”

Darcy nodded once, sharply.

“I want eyes on her every moment. If he so much as harms a hair on her head?—”

“He will not get the chance,” Fitzwilliam interrupted.

“Stay sharp. It will all be over soon.”

Darcy’s hand tightened around the hilt of the small pistol tucked into his coat pocket.

He prayed it would not be needed, but he was prepared to do whatever it might take to protect Elizabeth.

He watched as Fitzwilliam slipped back out of the cottage and found his hiding place nearby.

The dim morning light provided cover, and Fitzwilliam wore a dark great coat to cover his brightly coloured regimental coat as did the handful of officers who were concealed as they waited for Wickham to act.

Unbidden, images of his sister crying over Wickham entered his mind.

His sister’s image soon shifted to Elizabeth, but in these, she was battered and bruised.

Darcy had to shake his head to clear his mind of these thoughts.

“She will be well,” he muttered to himself.

Both of the men turned briefly to look at him, but apparently, the look on his face made them turn back.

Darcy waited impatiently for several moments longer, and then finally, his patience was rewarded.

Wickham had come.

He could not see Wickham’s face clearly from his position, but Darcy could easily imagine the smug smile that would appear the moment he realized Elizabeth was seemingly alone, or at least, unprotected.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Every instinct urged him to abandon the plan, to charge forward and drag Wickham from his horse—finally delivering the beating he had long dreamt about.

But he forced himself to remain still.

He had to wait.

While the confrontation likely only lasted a minute, for Darcy, it felt as though hours had passed between the moment he first spotted Wickham approaching Elizabeth and when Fitzwilliam led him away in shackles.

Elizabeth paced slowly at the top of the hill, her hands clasped tightly in front of her to still their nervous energy.

The early morning light cast long shadows across the landscape, and though the cottage below was partially obscured by trees and mist, she could still see its outline.

She remained within sight of it, feeling the comfort it provided her.

The knowledge that her intended was one of those watching made her slightly less nervous about what would come next.

A single footman stood at a distance, keeping her in view.

He had been dressed plainly, his youthful appearance meant to seem unthreatening—especially to someone like Wickham.

From her vantage point, she spotted Colonel Fitzwilliam slip through the back door of the cottage.

Before he knocked, he lifted one hand in a subtle signal—Wickham was coming.

Elizabeth took a steadying breath.

Then, trying to appear casual, she turned and began walking slowly towards the path that led past the cottage as though she were simply out for her usual morning walk.

She resisted the urge to look back, forcing her steps into a relaxed rhythm.

She had just passed the cottage when the sound of hooves reached her ears.

Looking up, she saw two men in red coats approaching, their uniforms crisp against the pale light.

One of them, unmistakably, was Wickham.

Her breath caught when she recognized him.

Wickham sat easily in the saddle, his expression relaxed, almost smug as he approached, giving no sign that he knew he was walking into a trap.

The officer beside him—Lieutenant Sanderson, presumably—rode slightly behind, his posture less at ease, eyes scanning the path ahead, looking for the men he knew were hidden there.

Elizabeth forced herself to keep walking.

Her heart pounded, but her face remained composed, even pleasant.

She could not afford to look afraid.

Wickham would see that and press his advantage.

No—if she was to play her part, she must seem unaware, unguarded, a young lady on her morning walk, meeting a recent acquaintance quite by chance.

“Good morning,” Wickham called out.

“It is Miss Elizabeth, is it not?”

“Do I know you, sir?” she asked, pretending to have forgotten him.

“We met in the village a few weeks ago,” he replied smoothly, affecting a look of surprise.

“You have forgotten me already? But then again, Darcy approached shortly after, and I think your attention was firmly fixed upon him, wasn’t it?”

“My father has been careful to protect me and my sisters from men we do not know well, such as militia officers about whose characters and personal histories we know nothing beyond that which they claim,” Elizabeth said.

“Ahh,” Wickham replied.

“That is extraordinarily foresighted of him. My old friend Darcy did not issue any warnings?”

“What if he did? Mr. Darcy and my father have been friends for many years, just as my father was friends with old Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, her chin jutting forward in defiance.

She had been warned not to antagonise Wickham, but she could not seem to help it.

“Do you walk often?” Wickham asked, attempting to turn the conversation to one that would help him charm her.

While he could take her by force, he preferred not to have to and wished to make her willing.

“Not as much anymore,” she replied.

“I ride out daily, but my horse had a slight injury a few days ago and needed rest. Since I often rise early, I find it pleasant to walk in the early morning light, before too many people are about.”

“I could not agree more,” he said, dismounting smoothly.

“However, I would say that quiet mornings are best enjoyed in good company. Might I join you? ”

His tone was friendly, familiar—but his eyes flicked towards the trees beyond her, searching.

He saw the single footman who had come a little closer upon seeing his charge with the officers, but, to Wickham, he appeared weak and easily overcome, particularly since he had Sanderson on his side.

Elizabeth stood still, allowing him to come closer, though every instinct in her screamed to step back.

She was clearly wary, which she thought suited such a chance meeting.

Wickham noticed this and indicated the boy to Sanderson, who began to move in that direction as the two had arranged.

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted in anxiety as she noticed this.

Returning his attention to Elizabeth, he now stood only a few paces away.

His smile had shifted—no longer merely charming but sharpened by something colder.

It was confident, calculated, and appeared almost predatory.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said in what he thought was a seductive tone, “you are looking particularly well this morning. The early morning light suits you, and the exercise has done wonders for your complexion.”

Elizabeth met his gaze, her chin lifting slightly as she attempted to repress the shiver the look in his eyes caused.

He stepped closer still, his voice dropping into a murmur as he offered more hollow compliments.

Rather than softening her, the words only made Elizabeth’s spine stiffen with unease.

Then, without warning, he reached out and seized her arm with a firm grip.

“Won’t you come with me, my dear Lizzy?” he said, his tone falsely sweet, his expression dark with triumph.

He believed the game was his—believed she was now entirely at his mercy.

The idea that she might resist only thrilled him further.

In his mind, it would make her eventual submission all the more satisfying; that and the idea that he was, again, taking something away from Darcy .

But before Elizabeth could respond—before she could twist away or strike him—a sharp whistle cut through the quiet morning air, rising from the trees behind them.

Wickham froze, recognising the signal for what it was.

In that moment, the woods seemed to come alive—footmen and officers emerging from their hiding places, surrounding him before he could even reach for the pistol he had tucked into his coat.

Elizabeth stepped back, breaking Wickham’s hold upon her arm, her heart pounding in her chest, not from fear now, but from sheer relief.

She had expected them but had still felt a moment of fear when he had grasped her arm.

Colonel Fitzwilliam strode forward, his voice clipped and firm.

“George Wickham, you are under arrest for attempted kidnapping and conspiracy to cause harm to a gentlewoman. That will be added to the charges of dereliction of duty and conduct unbecoming an officer.”

Wickham’s expression twisted, the mask of charm falling away in an instant.

Fury contorted his features.

He reached for Elizabeth again, but she had already stepped back.

Darcy was only a few strides away, moving fast—but still, Wickham lunged.

“I will tell everyone I have ruined her!” he shouted, desperation and rage mingling in his voice.

“Silence!” Fitzwilliam commanded, his tone sharp.

“You will have your chance to speak—but not here, and not now. You are under arrest.”

Elizabeth watched, trembling but steady, as Wickham was disarmed and restrained.

Only then did she allow herself a breath—a full breath—her hands still clenched at her sides.

Darcy appeared at her side a heartbeat later, his coat brushing against hers as he stopped.

His expression was unreadable, composed on the surface, but his eyes searched her face with urgency, his focus never straying from her as he examined her carefully.

After a moment, he drew her into his arms without speaking, holding her tightly as if anchoring them both.

Elizabeth did not resist. She let herself lean into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his frame slowly beginning to ease.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to see her face.

“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly, his voice tight with concern.

She shook her head, her voice soft but sure.

“No. I am quite well.”

He exhaled, then released her only to take her hand, gripping it firmly in his own.

“It is finished.”

Elizabeth’s gaze drifted to where Wickham was being led away in shackles, flanked by two officers.

Then she turned back to Darcy, her brows drawing together.

“Yes,” she said, a small smile breaking through for the first time that morning.

“It is.” But then her smile faded.

“At least this part is. We still have Miss Bingley to contend with.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, and he pulled her gently back into his arms. “We will deal with her later this morning,” he said, his voice low.

“I can only hope her brother is willing to acknowledge her part in this and act to ensure she cannot do this again.”