Page 33 of The Fire at Longbourn (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Longbourn

The Next Night

Lydia sat staring at the soporific shapes contorting in the fire.

It was deliciously warm, with sufficient firewood, and Lydia was dressed in her warmest frock, a thick woolen piece from Mary.

Her eyes drifted shut once more. She was still used to a life of leisure and ease and rising late.

It was only during the past weeks that she had been getting up early, helping her elder sisters adjust the hand-me-down dresses in size and fit, adding bits of lace and ribbon to better match their new owners.

Now that they were being frugal with their candles, it was necessary to use every bit of daylight for their work, and they did not stay up long after the sun set.

Lydia jerked awake and pinched her own arm sharply.

She could not afford to sleep now; it was almost time for her to go.

Lizzy and Jane had come up to bed almost an hour ago, and the household would be settling down for the night very soon.

She turned her attention away from the fire, stood up and moved over to the bed.

Her hat, gloves, and pelisse were still laid out there, as she had placed them earlier.

She ran her hand over her pelisse and paused, listening.

Out in the hall, the clock was striking the time.

She listened as it counted eleven, and then waited, ears pricked.

There was no sound of movement from the house, as her family and the servants were all fast asleep with the weariness of hard work.

Lydia rushed over to the fire, ensuring it was well-banked – she had learned well to respect fire and the horrifying results of a careless attitude – before hurrying back to the bed, donning her outdoor clothes and snatching up a scarf to wind about her neck as she inched her door open.

Once in the hall, she paused again, straining her ears for the slightest sound of another soul being up and about.

Satisfied that she was the only one awake, she took up a candle, igniting it from the oil lamp turned down low on the table in its nook, and crept down the hall to the stairs.

She found herself grateful for her mother’s fastidious dislike of mud trekked through the house, and the resultant cabinet set beside the door.

The whole family’s warm boots had thus survived the fire, and she could put on her own boots in the vestibule without anyone being any the wiser.

She gasped sharply in pain as she rounded a corner and smacked her foot sharply into a misplaced footstool, which screeched across the floor.

Lydia froze, biting her lip hard and listening anxiously to see if she had woken anyone.

After a long moment of unchanging silence, she blew out her breath in relief, grimaced at the throbbing in her toe, and dashed down the hall to the boot cupboard.

It was but the work of a moment to lace on her boots and blow out the candle.

She cracked the door open and stepped out into the frosty night.

Her breath billowed in front of her face, but it was not as cold as it could be, and for that she was grateful.

It had been cloudy this morning, with snow flurries throughout the day, but it was clear now, and she was grateful for that as well.

The three-quarter moon shone down silver, lighting up the snow-dusted landscape.

The path beneath her feet crunched as she picked her way carefully out to the lane.

The silver moonlight cast claw-like shadows stretching out from the bases of the leafless trees.

A distorted blob of shadow hunkered like a goblin on one bare branch, and Lydia skirted it warily – only to jump and crouch in startled fright as it hooted at her and swooped low overhead.

The owl ghosted over into the fields on her other side before diving, and some small animal shrieked.

Lydia shivered, and it had nothing to do with the nip in the air.

Her plan was to act the part of the owl tonight, but there was a growing anxiety inside her.

“I know this road,” she said aloud, trying to bolster her confidence with the familiar sound of her own voice.

The quaver did not help. “I walk it almost every day…” She trailed off and stepped forward with grim determination, clutching her pelisse closer around her shoulders.

It did not matter that she had known this road almost from babyhood.

She knew it by day, and it was so very different at night!

It was spooky, she thought as she crunched through a snowdrift; that was the word. Spooky. Like the novels Lizzy loved so much. Sometimes the heroines in those novels were very brave. And sometimes they were as frightened as Lydia felt right now.

Something cracked sharply off to her left, and she flinched. “Only a branch breaking,” she whispered to herself. “Just a branch.” She considered turning around and going home, but... no. She had to be brave. Heroines were brave, and she had to be one, so that Mamma would smile at her again.

She tromped on, reassuring herself with the thought that it would be easier once she reached town. She knew Meryton even better than the road, and the familiarity of the town would be a comfort. Already it was looming up before her.

But it was dark and silent. Almost all of the windows were black, without so much as a single candle to lighten the way, and the streets that bustled so busily with life during the day were deserted.

A yowling cat ran across her path, and Lydia swallowed a shriek and then a whimper.

This was, somehow, even worse than the road.

The stark loneliness in a place that she had only ever known as busy made her flesh crawl in a way that the oft-deserted lane had not.

The dark store fronts gaped at her like the eyes of a skull, and she picked up her pace, hurrying past them.

A few more steps and she paused before the alley that led behind the library. It was so very dark, and she wished she had not left her candle at home. Or perhaps that she had stayed at home herself.

But no. She had to become a heroine. She had to earn back her mother’s favor and the approval of the townsfolk.

Lydia braced herself with a deep breath and stepped into the darkness of the alley.

/

Wickham pulled the wrapped heated brick closer to his body, relishing the heat. He had precious little money, but it was sensible to spend what he had to keep his bride comfortable, and he might as well enjoy the warmth until she arrived.

If she arrived. That was not a complete certainty, he knew. Mary King was undoubtedly in love with him, but if she had confided in Miss Dodd, or a friend, she might well be prevented from running away.

If she failed to arrive in the next few hours – and yes, he would wait, for Mary King was, because of her wealth, his salvation – he would need to go to London without her.

His time with the militia was at an end, thanks to the ill behavior of the dice and the cards.

Moreover, he could no longer even purchase food and drink thanks to Darcy.

He actually gnashed his teeth at the memory of that gentleman. Why must Darcy persecute him so?

“Mr. Wickham?” a familiar voice inquired from outside.

Wickham hurriedly put the hot brick down and rapidly descended from the carriage to find Mary King waiting for him, her expression anxious in the dim glow of the carriage lights.

“Mary!” he exclaimed, reaching out to clasp her gloved hands in his own. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” the girl answered, and then looked around nervously. “It is so very strange at night, is it not? So dark and lonely.”

“You are not lonely now,” he answered tenderly. “Indeed, I promise that you will never be lonely again, my darling.”

He bent down to kiss the girl on the lips, and Mary returned the kiss inexpertly but enthusiastically.

“Oh, Mr. Wickham,” she cried out. “How can it be that I have been so blessed by God to win your heart?”

“My dear Mary,” he returned promptly, “it is not you who are blessed, but I. You are the most beautiful, fascinating, remarkable lady in all of Meryton, and I am privileged to call you mine!”

“How odd,” an unexpected, feminine voice commented from behind them. “You said exactly the same thing about me not too long ago, Mr. Wickham.”

The couple spun around, and Mary pressed closer to Wickham, while the man demanded harshly, “Who is there?”

A cloaked form approached the twosome, feminine in shape, but with her face hidden by the hood over her head, and a voice from within said, “Miss Lydia Bennet.”

Mary, who had been quivering in terror, took a step forward and blurted, “Miss Lydia? What are you doing here?”

Lydia moved a few feet further, sufficiently that her face could be seen in the carriage lamps, and said, “I am here to save you from a most unpleasant marriage, Miss King. Mr. Wickham is not in love with you. He is marrying you for your money.”

Mary gasped, and Wickham took one pace forward and wrapped his arm around his intended bride. “You have no right to say such a thing!”

“Do I not?” Lydia demanded, now angry. “You have said similar things to me, and you know it, that I am the most beautiful, not just of my sisters, but of all the ladies in Meryton. You know you have! You only wish to marry Miss King because her grandfather is failing and she will be his heiress!”

Mary King stared at Lydia, and then she turned toward Wickham. Could it be true?

Wickham bent his handsome head toward her and whispered, “My dear Mary, I do apologize for this unfortunate scene. The poor girl has had such a difficult time of life lately with the fire at Longbourn. She is jealous of our love!”

“But how did she know we would be here?” Mary asked, loudly enough that Lydia could make out the words.

“I heard you talking at the library yesterday,” Lydia declared. “Miss King, I truly do not know you well, but I beg you not to be taken in by this rake who is only interested in your wealth!”

Mary stared at the youngest Miss Bennet, then at Wickham, who was smiling lovingly down at her. Miss Lydia had a reputation for being rather wild. No doubt her beloved was correct; Lydia was merely jealous of their love.

“My dear, I beg you to enter the carriage,” Wickham murmured into her ear. “I will speak with Miss Lydia and help her see reason, and then we will be away.”

Mary hesitated for a moment, and then, guided by the pressure of Wickham’s hand, turned and climbed into the carriage.

Lydia, who was now feeling the chill even through her warm clothing, watched in confusion. What was Miss King doing? Was she cold and wishing to warm herself? Surely she was not going to marry Mr. Wickham, not after being warned!

“Driver,” Wickham said to the coachman, a phlegmatic individual by the name of Joe, who had been observing the interactions with studious disinterest, “drive the carriage around the corner, and I will join you there in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied, and he clicked at the job horses, which obediently shifted into a walk.

Lydia stared in confusion, turned her attention on Wickham, and demanded angrily, “What are you doing?”

“I am warning you to keep your mouth shut,” Wickham said, taking another step closer.

Lydia glared up toward the man’s face, now dark in the moonlight, and felt a twinge of unease. “I will not be quiet! You are trying to ruin Miss King’s life!”

“Has it not occurred to you that I truly love her?” he returned, though he did not bother to use a charming tone.

Lydia huffed and said, “Of course you do not! You are a spendthrift and leave debts everywhere, and everyone knows it.”

“Fortunately for me,” Wickham said nastily, “Miss King does not know that.”

Lydia stared a moment and then cried out, “So you admit it! You are marrying her for her money!”

“Indeed I am, but there is nothing you can do about that!”

Lydia took another step forward and exclaimed, “How dare you! Miss King deserves better than that! I will tell everyone…”

“Once we are married, it does not matter what you say,” Wickham interrupted, and now he was looming over her. “But I promise you this, Miss Lydia. If you make a fuss now, if you wake anyone up and try to stop us, I promise that I will hunt you down and kill you.”

Lydia gasped in shock and retreated backwards.

Wickham held his pose for another menacing moment and then, satisfied the girl was sufficiently intimidated, spun around and began walking toward the carriage, a satisfied smile on his face.

The whole situation had been unexpected and alarming, but he had handled it with his usual skill.

He had proceeded twenty feet when Lydia suddenly screamed. “Help! Help! Mr. Wickham is running away with Miss King! Help, help!!”

Wickham whirled around and raced toward the girl, filled with a fury beyond what he had ever known. That stupid, stupid girl!

“Help!” Lydia screamed again, and then, at the sight of Wickham barreling toward her, turned and began running toward the alley which led to the street. “Help, help, hel…”

Her last cry was cut short as Wickham crashed into her. She was knocked to the ground, and the breath was driven out of her lungs. Mr. Wickham, teeth bared with fury, rose up on his knees and rolled his victim over just as Lydia recovered sufficiently to cry out frantically, “Help!”

“No one is near enough to help, you fool,” Wickham snarled, his hands reaching out to throttle the girl’s slender neck. “I warned you what would happen if you tried to stop me!”

Visceral panic washed through Lydia’s veins as his fingers closed across her windpipe and squeezed.

She thrashed, legs flailing, and clawed at his hands with her nails, snapping and trying to bite his arms. He cursed under his breath and slid his hands a little ways away from her mouth.

Sweat or saliva dripped onto her cheek, and she gave up on his hands to scratch at his face, scarcely able to think through the pounding in her head.

One hand tangled in his hair, and she yanked spasmodically, and the back of her hand smacked into his hat and sent it flying.

His head jerked, and for a single blessed half-second, his grip eased enough that she could drag in a desperate half-breath, but then he snarled and his hands went tighter still. Lydia bucked weakly, but she was failing; she could no longer even hear his harsh panting over the roaring in her ears.

She reached up, and she tugged at her assailant’s arms, frantic to breathe, her heart beating desperately. A red mist formed in her eyes, and her struggles weakened until suddenly, blessedly, the cruel grip ceased and her lungs were suddenly filled with divine, life giving air.