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The basilisk eyes grew steadily colder and angrier as she read through the letter from Hertfordshire, and by the time she had finished it, her anger was terrible indeed.

“This is not to be borne,” she said between clenched teeth.

She rang for the footman. “Have the coachman prepare the barouche for a journey to London,” she said. “I leave at noon.”

The following morning, she sat at the escritoire in the small back parlor of her London house drumming her sharp nails on the bare, polished wood.

A closed ledger sat on the desk; an inkstand and writing materials were the only other furnishings.

The disheveled young man was forced to stand before her like a troublesome schoolboy, an insult which he bore with his customary wide eyed, obsequious, half smile.

“This is intolerable.” She picked up a letter and shook it under his nose.

“You have allowed Caroline Bingley to escape, and your bungling fools have killed some hapless footman. You have permitted that chit Lydia Bennet to slip through your fingers. And now, my nephew is engaged to the older girl, just as I had feared. The settlement is being drafted as we speak. This is the outside of enough! And what do you propose to do about it? Pray, what did you have in mind, sir?” Her voice dripped venom.

“Well, ma’am . . .”

She opened a drawer and removed several sheets of paper.

“This,” she spat, shaking one sheaf, “is a list of your creditors in Meryton. And this is a list of your creditors in Brighton.” Her eyes narrowed.

“You are nearly rolled up, Wickham. In the basket, as they say. The vultures are gathering, and they will be merciless. And if you fail again, you may expect no help from me. In fact, I will be leading the vultures. You have but one hope.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want her destroyed. Not killed. I want her ruined, and I want her to live with the certainty of that ruin for the rest of her life. I want her entire family brought down by the enormity of her disgrace. My nephew is to be made to understand that he crosses me at his peril. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She drew out a bank draft and handed it to him.

“Spend this wisely, Wickham. Use it to hire whomever you need and to pay off our mutual acquaintance. I shall expect to be closely informed of your progress. And for God’s sake, bespeak yourself some decent shirts and have someone do something about those disgraceful boots.

You might consider availing yourself of the services of a laundress along with all the other women you pay for. ”

“Thank you, ma’am. I am most exceedingly grateful.” He pocketed the draft, bowed, and left the house.

Longbourn, Hertfordshire - Sunday, August 2, 18__

Elizabeth had observed and admitted to herself that her sleep was troubled.

Apart from the few chaste kisses and embraces she had shared with Darcy, she knew little about the ways of men and women with each other.

In his absence, she found herself awakening from dreams that were both inexpressibly sweet and deeply disturbing.

She was intelligent enough to conclude that this had somehow been caused by her love for him, and his for her, and that it would all turn out right in the end.

After all, she did not notice other women dragging perpetually through their days half-asleep.

Her efforts to fall asleep by extensive reading with her smuggled candles were unavailing.

What did help, she noticed, was exercise.

Always a notable walker, Elizabeth was now out of the house every chance she could get.

Careful to wear a bonnet to preserve her complexion from ruin before her wedding day, she walked and ran up hills and down them, across meadows, down country lanes.

She begged Hill for errands that would take her into Meryton and returned with baskets of marketing or with the post. Her mother, anxious to talk of laces and worked muslins, despaired of her.

Still, Mrs. Bennet was forced to declare that she had never seen her second daughter in greater beauty.

And Elizabeth’s sisters certainly agreed.

Longbourn was sufficiently distant from the main roads, and the girls had always been allowed to wander freely.

Strangers were seldom observed, and the neighborhood had always been entirely safe.

The arrival of August signaled the time for haymaking and for the harvest of wheat, oats, and barley, and farm workers would soon dot the adjoining fields.

After sitting through church and dinner with her family, Elizabeth felt anxious for some exercise and decided to walk to nearby Oakham Mount.

As she passed through the front hall, she encountered Hill and took the time to inform the housekeeper of her destination and to promise faithfully to return in two hours’ time.

“I have a great deal to do today to get ready for Mr. Darcy’s visit tomorrow,” she said with a smile.

Then she was outside in the brilliant summer sunshine. Elizabeth hugged herself with excitement, for a letter had arrived the day before informing her that Darcy would be with her the next day. She had only this one day to get through, and then she would see him.

The turnoff for Oakham Mount led off the same lane that eventually led into Meryton, and Elizabeth was somewhat surprised to see a horse drawn cart and two men on a Sunday afternoon.

They were obviously farm workers, undoubtedly desirous of hiring themselves out to help with the local harvest which most farmers would begin the next day.

Elizabeth ignored them and turned up the path that led up the mountain.

The dappled shade was cool and welcoming, and Elizabeth breathed deeply as she quickened her steps. She intended to walk up the hill as fast as she could so that she could take some time to enjoy the view.

An arm snaked around her neck from behind. “Not a sound, my fine lady-bird. You keep mum, and no harm will come to ye.”

The accent Elizabeth heard was not Hertfordshire but pure urban London. The words were the last she would hear for quite some time.

***

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Hill bobbed a curtsey, entered the library, and closed the door. “I do not mean to disturb you, but I am concerned.”

“What is it, Mrs. Hill?” The housekeeper was one of the few sensible women in his household, and Mr. Bennet appreciated that. He was normally inclined to listen to her, and she did not bother him often.

“It is Miss Elizabeth, sir. She has not returned from her walk.”

“And were we expecting her?” Mr. Bennet knew that his favorite daughter preferred long, solitary walks.

“Yes, sir. She particularly wanted to be home in two hours so that she could make ready for Mr. Darcy’s visit tomorrow. It has been four hours.”

“And did she say where she was going?” The wood-cased clock showed that it wanted only ten minutes of five.

“Yes, sir. A walk up Oakham Mount. “The path is steep, sir. I thought she might have turned an ankle or had a fall.”

“That makes sense, Mrs. Hill. Send two of the boys up there to get her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do not say anything to the rest of the family.”

Mr. Bennet knew that his housekeeper would be as good as her word. Her two sons, James and Timothy, were well-grown, sensible lads who knew the surrounding area and had been familiar since childhood with the odd habits of his daughter, Elizabeth.

***

The weather had been particularly fine, to the benefit of the harvest, and while there was no mud, the Hills did find quite a muddle of footprints in the dust at the turnoff to the path. “What d’you make of it, Tim?”

“Here’s Miss Elizabeth’s little boot, coming in from home.

” Tim pointed. “But there’s been at least two men in rough boots here with a horse and cart, and they came from the direction of the village.

” He frowned. “And here they turned and went back where they came from.” Both knew that the lane, having passed the village, wound eventually to the high road that ran southward to London.

“Aye, you’ve got the right of it.” Jem wiped his forehead and stood up. “Well, let’s see what’s up the path.”

They did not like what they saw. Keeping to the weed-grown sides of the path, they noted that Elizabeth’s small, light footprints made their way up the hill, and so did those of the two men.

But there were only two sets of prints leading back down.

The glove, when they saw it, seemed to mark an area where the footprints were jumbled together.

It was a lady’s glove of sensible York tan, slightly worn, very small, unmistakably Miss Elizabeth’s.

The pair divided their forces, searching the wooded area to either side of the path, up to the top of the hill and then turning to search all the way back down.

When they reached the bottom, the brothers regarded each other hopelessly. “Best run for the constable, Tim. I’ll get back to Longbourn. Make sure you show Constable these tracks and marks on your way back. They’ll not last long in this dry weather.”

The men from Longbourn were the first to be called out, but by supper time, the entire district had joined the search.

Dinners prepared for the harvest next day were instead laid out on trestles for men who paused only long enough to keep hunger and thirst at bay.

Hunting dogs belonging to the gentry and working dogs from the farms were pressed into service, and the moonlit countryside, dotted with lantern and torchlight, resounded all night with the baying of the dogs and the cries of the men calling, “Elizabeth!”

Longbourn, Hertfordshire, Monday, August 3, 18__