Page 24 of The Bennet Heir
Chapter Twenty-Three
M rs. Bennet returned to her cottage in town with Lydia at her side. Upon arriving home, she hastily penned a note to Miss Bingley at Netherfield, requesting that a carriage be sent so they might meet and discuss their plans. The message was brief, omitting any mention of Mr. Darcy’s unexpected presence at Longbourn. Instead, she vaguely alluded to certain obstacles hindering their efforts, trusting that Miss Bingley would understand the urgency of the matter.
Within an hour, the carriage arrived, and Mrs. Bennet boarded it to make her way to the estate. Once again, she was shown into a sitting room that looked far more like a servant’s room than one that belonged to a grand estate. Mrs. Bennet looked around her in disdain, thinking that there must be many finer rooms at Netherfield and wishing her hostess had the grace to receive her in one of those.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Bennet?” Miss Bingley asked when she entered the room a quarter hour later. While her words were gracious, her tone was not, and it was evident that Miss Bingley took no pleasure in the company of her guest.
“Mr. Darcy has returned, and Mr. Collins is not at Longbourn with Lizzy as he should be,” Mrs. Bennet complained. “How can he compromise the girl if he is not in the house?”
Miss Bingley scowled at this. “How did he receive word so quickly, and what does he think he will do? Where did you see him?”
“Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Bennet asked. “He was at Longbourn sitting next to my stepdaughter. I cannot imagine why he came since he is evidently not involved in the search if he has time to sit and receive visitors.” This last was said petulantly for she had not liked how he responded to her.
Not bothering to speak again, Miss Bingley rang for a servant. When a maid appeared, she asked the girl to locate Mr. Collins, if he was in the house, and send him to them. While they waited, neither lady spoke.
A short time later, Mr. Collins appeared in the doorway, startled to see both women in the room, since they had agreed not to meet again in person.
“Is something amiss?” he asked blandly.
“Yes,” Mrs. Bennet bit out. “Why are you here and not at Longbourn? How can you take charge of the estate if you are not there, making yourself useful?”
“I…they… I was told…” he stammered.
“What is it, Mr. Collins?” Miss Bingley snapped, her patience wearing thin after enduring several moments of his incessant prattle.
“I was not allowed to enter,” he finally managed. “The butler informed me that the family was not receiving visitors, other than those involved in the search for the master. Nothing I said would induce him to allow me to enter.”
“You should have continued to insist,” Miss Bingley said. “Threatened their livelihoods. Informed them that if they did not allow you to enter, you would fire them when you gained control of the estate.”
“Did you tell them that you were the master now that Jonathan is missing?” Mrs. Bennet interjected. “Why did you not merely force your way in if they would not permit it? They lied when they told you that the family was not receiving visitors, for I was there not long ago, and not only were half the ladies in town present, but so was Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Darcy was there?” Mr. Collins asked, stunned that his letter to his patroness had not resulted in her ending the engagement between the two. “Has he defied his aunt further and not gone to Rosings as I am sure his aunt insisted? Oh, I must speak with him at once. Is he staying here?”
“No,” Miss Bingley said bitterly. “He must have only just arrived in the area, which means that Miss Eliza—” she all but spat the name, her voice dripping with venom at the very thought of her rival “—must have written to him. Why did we not think to watch for that?” This last was muttered almost to herself. She should have known that Eliza Bennet would immediately turn to her intended for aid, and, of course, Darcy would come running to assist her. Something about that insipid country girl that appealed to him, even if Miss Bingley could not comprehend it.
For several moments, she tuned out the conversation around her, her thoughts darkening with resentment. How much simpler things would be if it had been Eliza in that carriage instead of her brother. What she would give to be rid of her rival entirely, rather than leaving matters to chance. Her gaze flickered between Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet, and for the first time, she questioned why she had ever listened to either of them. They were both beneath her—both in status and in intelligence—and neither had the capability to see this scheme through. No, if she wanted to secure Darcy, she would have to take matters into her own hands. The fate of Longbourn was of no consequence to her. The true problem standing in her way was Eliza Bennet—and she would find a way to remove her.
Miss Bingley sat up straighter and broke into the conversation taking place around her. “Mr. Collins,” she barked, “before you attempt to approach Mr. Darcy, you need to speak to Mr. Wickham again. I am afraid that we must move forward in our plans to compromise Miss Eliza. You must convince Mr. Wickham to meet with me as soon as possible. He is one of those searching, correct?”
At Collins’ nod, Miss Bingley continued. “Fine, then tell him to meet me near the cottage where Mr. Bennet is being kept in two hours.”
“You will meet him alone?” Mr. Collins protested.
“I will have a groom accompany me on my ride, but I will ensure he keeps his distance,” Miss Bingley instructed. “Once you have spoken to Mr. Wickham, you may do as you please with Mr. Bennet.” Rising to her feet, she added firmly, “This will be our final meeting. Once our plans are set in motion and we each get what we desire, there will be no need to speak of these matters again.”
Ignoring Mrs. Bennet’s protests, Miss Bingley swept from the room, her patience entirely spent. A manservant stood nearby, and she curtly ordered him to see her guests out at once. She paused only long enough to watch Mr. Collins scramble to obey, hurrying towards the door with his usual obsequious eagerness, while Mrs. Bennet lingered, looking thoroughly put out by the abrupt dismissal.
For a moment, Miss Bingley wondered at Mrs. Bennet’s displeasure before recalling the vague promise she had made—to assist in steering Jane Bennet towards a suitable gentleman. It was obvious the woman had meant to push Jane towards her own brother. However, she had not yet decided whether it was a course worth pursuing. What advantage would Jane Bennet bring to her brother or any gentleman of her acquaintance? Yes, she was a gentleman’s daughter, but from all Miss Bingley had gathered, none of the Bennet sisters had a dowry worth mentioning.
Of course, there were many rumours in the little village, and Miss Bingley’s maid had struggled to determine which held any truth. Some claimed that Elizabeth Bennet alone possessed a substantial dowry, while others insisted that Mr. Bennet had made no provision for any of his daughters. Adding to the confusion, Miss Bingley had overheard certain people referring to Jane Bennet by another name though her maid had failed to uncover the meaning behind it. With so many conflicting stories, she began to question whether she ought to follow through with the scheme proposed at that first meeting.
More than two hours later, Miss Bingley finally arrived at the agreed-upon meeting place to find Mr. Wickham waiting. He had clearly been there for some time, his frustration evident—until he caught sight of her. At once, his expression shifted, the easy charm he had worn at their first meeting settling over his features like a mask. Yet this time, there was something else beneath it, something that made Miss Bingley hesitate for the briefest of moments.
She almost turned back. Almost. But she closed her eyes, drew in a steadying breath, and reminded herself of what was at stake. She knew what needed to be done.
“Mr. Wickham,” she said, her voice firm. “There has been a change in plans. It is no longer enough to have taken Mr. Bennet—I do not care what becomes of him now. What matters is Miss Eliza Bennet. She must be eliminated. Kidnap her, ruin her, drag her to Scotland and marry her yourself—I do not care. I simply want her out of my way. Kill her if you must. Mr. Darcy must not wed that chit.”
“What shall I do with Mr. Bennet?” Wickham asked, indicating the cottage a few hundred yards away.
Miss Bingley looked towards it, saw the roof that was nearly collapsed in on itself, noted its general ramshackle appearance.
“Do whatever you must,” she said coldly. “The Bennets are of no concern to me, and I never wish to see or hear of any of them again. Mr. Darcy is at Longbourn, staying under their roof, so you must ensure that when he leaves he wants nothing more to do with that family.
“As I recall, you and Mr. Darcy are known to each other—though you are no longer friends. Surely, if rumours of her association with you were to spread, it would be enough to disgrace her in his eyes. But I want more than her disgrace. Her stepmother may wish for her unhappiness, but I wish for her ruin. Once she is removed from my path, I will see to it that Mr. Darcy has no choice but to marry me instead.”
As Miss Bingley made this final declaration, her lips curled into a cold, satisfied smirk, but her eyes burned with a desperate intensity, betraying the depth of her obsession. She lifted her chin slightly, as though daring the world to defy her will, and her fingers tightened around the folds of her cloak.
A spark ignited in Wickham’s eyes at this. The prospect of causing Darcy pain—of tearing his intended from him, especially when all accounts suggested it was a love match—and forcing him to wed this harridan instead filled Wickham with something dangerously close to glee. He stepped closer to her, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his lips, and he tilted his head as though assessing just how far Miss Bingley was willing to go.
“Well, well,” he murmured, amusement lacing his tone. “I had not expected this ruthlessness from you, Miss Bingley. I must say, it is quite… interesting.” Then, with a casual shrug, he added, “Very well. If you want Miss Elizabeth Bennet out of the way, it could be arranged. But the task comes at a price.” He let the words hang in the air, watching as her expression flickered—whether with hesitation or resolve, he was not yet sure. Either way, he knew one thing: she was a wealthy woman who had just placed herself firmly in his debt. He intended to make full use of it before he was finished with her.
“What do you want?” she asked, hating the idea of being indebted to him.
“A thousand pounds to start,” he demanded. “Once the deed is done, I will have to flee in haste. There will be no time to secure the proper permissions to leave the militia, which means I will be a deserter—forced to go into hiding to avoid punishment. Before I disappear, I will require an additional nine thousand, bringing the total to ten thousand pounds.”
Miss Bingley scoffed. “How, pray, do you expect me to conjure that sum? That is half my dowry!” she exclaimed.
He moved closer and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close to him. “I could claim the whole amount simply by doing to you what you are suggesting I do to this Elizabeth Bennet.”
At her gasp, Wickham’s smirk widened into something far more menacing. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur, rich with dark amusement. “I can have you atop my horse and bound for Gretna Green before you even think to scream,” he drawled, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight. “That footman of yours?” He jerked his head towards the distant figure, who stood too far away to hear their conversation. “He will be useless—too slow, too weak, and far too afraid to stop me. By the time he even thinks to act, you and I would be long gone.”
He let the silence stretch, watching as she stiffened, as the realisation of her own vulnerability dawned on her. Then he leaned in, his breath warm and taunting against her cheek. “One night, Miss Bingley,” he whispered, his tone mockingly intimate. “One night in my company, and there would be no more grand marriage for you—no Mr. Darcy, no wealthy, respectable husband. You would be mine to ruin as I pleased.”
Drawing back just enough to meet her wide-eyed stare, his smirk sharpened into something even crueler. “So, you will give me half your dowry to do as you demand—or I will take all of it. One way or another, Miss Bingley, I always get what I want.”
Miss Bingley shuddered as she felt the press of his body against hers and his hands tightening around her waist. “Very well,” she huffed, her obsession with Darcy almost fading in the light of this threat. For a moment, she thought she should forsake this plan, but then she remembered Pemberley and how much she had always wished to be the mistress there. “I will see what can be done, but it may take a day or two. My brother will have to send a man to London to obtain the funds.”
“What will you tell him?” Wickham demanded.
“I… I do not know,” she stammered. “I will… I will have to think of something.”
“Be sure you do,” he replied, a hint of a threat in his tone. “I will return here tomorrow to get that first payment, and remember, it’ll be that chit’s money I get—or yours.”
He departed, leaving Miss Bingley alone with his words. Of course, they were nothing more than bluster—but she could not know that. Well, not the part about him ruining her. That, he would have done gladly if it suited him. She was pretty enough and had a substantial dowry. Still, she would require far more from him than he was willing to give.
In truth, Wickham had been perplexed as to why Miss Bingley had summoned him in the first place. He had excused himself from a drink with his fellow officers after their morning search and had gone directly to the secluded cottage where he had left Bennet. But when he arrived, his unease grew into a full-blown alarm—Bennet was gone.
The ropes remained behind, but they had been untied, not cut.
Wickham cursed under his breath, his mind racing. Had Bennet somehow escaped? If so, why had there been no outcry in town? They were still searching for the man—surely, if he had returned, the entire militia would have been alerted.
A cold prickle ran down Wickham’s spine. Was Bennet free but injured, unable to raise the alarm? Or worse—had he been found and hidden away, waiting to expose his captors at the opportune moment?
Wickham’s jaw tightened. If Bennet was alive, he would not remain hidden forever. If he was dead? Wickham had no intention of being blamed for a crime he had not meant to commit. Or, at least, one that had not been his idea.