Page 90 of The Shades of Pemberley
“Yes, vengeance. Against your class, against the world itself. It was nothing more than the cruelest chance that I was born the poor steward’s son rather than the son of the wealthy man. You owe me this. Jameson Darcy owed me. The world is indebted to me, and I mean to collect on that debt.”
“Elizabeth, come here,” said Darcy, holding his hand out to his beloved wife. Wickham’s words had convinced Darcy that he was balanced on the knife’s edge of sanity and would do what he said he would. If they did not do what he wished, Darcy suspected they would both die in that room.
With a disgusted glare at the contemptuous man, Elizabeth threw back the blankets and gracefully stood from the bed, clothed only in her nightgown.
Throwing the man a sardonic glance, she took a robe draped over a nearby chair and shrugged it onto her shoulders, cinching it at the waist. Then she accepted Darcy’s hand, and he drew her in close, Wickham watching them, a lascivious gleam in his eyes.
“Do not concern yourself, Mrs. Darcy,” purred he.
“I have no interest in your body, though I commend Darcy for having excellent taste in women. Do as I say, and I will return you to him when he fulfills my demands—I dare say you will not even miss sixty thousand pounds, given my understanding of the Darcy wealth.”
“Should I go with him?” asked Elizabeth in an undertone while Wickham looked on.
“There is little other choice,” said Darcy, knowing he had only an instant. “I will find you.”
Elizabeth turned and looked into his eyes and then pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I know you will. I am not helpless either.”
Before Darcy could respond, Wickham interrupted them, appearing amused at their brief conference. “ Now , Mrs. Darcy. Enter the passage behind me.”
With a final glance at Darcy, Elizabeth stepped away, her hand touching his until she moved beyond his reach.
As she passed Wickham, she tensed, and Darcy thought she might lash out, hoping to knock the weapon from his hands, but she chose the better part of valor instead, moving to the open chasm in the wall.
Wickham smirked and turned back to Darcy.
“If one hair on her head is damaged,” rasped Darcy, “future generations will speak of my vengeance in hushed whispers millennia hence.”
Wickham cocked his head to the side, the light in his eyes a sort of mad and frenetic dance. “Do not be melodramatic, Darcy. It is not in my best interest to harm her, and, as I told you, I have nothing against you. So long as you meet my demands, she will be well.
“Do not follow, Darcy,” continued the libertine as he backed toward the entrance. “You would not wish to... provoke me to do something unfortunate.
“Back away from the entrance!” commanded Wickham over his shoulder.
Elizabeth sent one determined glance at Darcy and moved into the oppressive darkness, Wickham backing behind. He said nothing further, his feral grin all that needed to be said, and when he reached the passage, he pulled the section of the wall closed behind him with an audible click.
The danger of the pistol passed, Darcy flew at the wall, looking for a hidden catch, but there was nothing he could see in the dim light.
Defeated, Darcy turned and rushed from the room, never stopping to think.
Wickham thought he had the upper hand, but Darcy would not allow him to escape with his precious wife; despite Wickham’s so-called assurances, trusting him was impossible.
Perhaps it would create a similar standoff to the one that had just played out in their bedchamber, but to allow them to leave was unthinkable.
ELIZABETH FIRST NOTICED the flickering light in the passage as she stepped within.
Several small torches illuminated the narrow hall that weaved along Pemberley’s outer wall, and though Elizabeth had not understood before, the truth came to her with shocking clarity.
Not only had Mr. Wickham planned this carefully, but it was apparent he knew something about Pemberley that neither Elizabeth nor her husband had ever dreamed.
As the sound of Wickham’s exchange with William continued to spill from the room, she glanced around, taking stock.
The passage continued toward the middle of the house and disappeared into the gloom, either with a wall at the end or the darkness of unlit stone and mortar beyond the torches’ reach.
There, she thought she saw a flicker of further light to the left, and open space, but she could not see far enough.
The notion occurred to her that if she hurried on ahead, she might escape the passage before Mr. Wickham closed the door behind him.
The moment the thought occurred to her, however, the door clicked behind Mr. Wickham, ending any such thought. She had waited too long.
“Come, Mrs. Darcy,” said Wickham, turning to her. “Our chariot awaits.”
Mr. Wickham gestured with his weapon toward the yawning maw of the hall, his eyes staring into her, deadly serious.
“While I would hope your husband is not foolish, I have a healthy respect for the determination of all members of the Darcy family. Let us go now before anything... unfortunate happens.”
Though she eyed him, Elizabeth turned and walked ahead as he demanded, hearing the soft sounds of his footsteps following her.
A strange, calm detachment settled over her, though she could not quite determine for herself what she felt.
Perhaps a lack of fear, perhaps terror so pervasive that it pushed her beyond all emotion.
All she knew was to keep moving one foot in front of the other, hoping something would present itself, some small opportunity that would allow her to escape.
“Pemberley is much like other houses of its kind,” said Wickham, his tone conversational as they walked toward the edge of the light, not seeming to recognize the slow pace Elizabeth set.
“If you search under the luxury, there are secrets hidden in its bones. The house is not littered with such passages as this, and it does not lead into every room, but this one was most convenient for my purposes.”
“This was most foolish,” commented Elizabeth. “Your chances of escaping with me are not great.”
“That is where you are wrong,” said Wickham smoothly. “I believe they are better than even. We shall enjoy each other’s company, I am certain.”
White hot anger halted Elizabeth’s steps, and she rounded on him. “Then you are a liar and a disgusting cretin.”
“It would be in your best interests to avoid such comments,” spat Mr. Wickham, his voice changing to a snarl. He surged forward and took her arm in a painful grip, propelling her down the hall much more quickly than before. “I shall do nothing to you unless you give me a reason.”
With Mr. Wickham’s quick strides, provoking Elizabeth to hurry to keep up, he took them to the end of the light in only a few moments, and Elizabeth saw a wall before them.
To the right, however, a landing jutted out from the passage, and a set of stairs descended as if into an abyss parallel to the hall they had just traversed.
“My threats are not idle,” hissed he as he pushed her to the stairs and started down, his hand grasping hers while the other still held the pistol pointed at her.
“I have nothing left to lose and everything to gain. Your gentle upbringing ,” the words were nothing less than a sneer, “cannot teach you anything about what a man in my position must suffer. Whatever it takes, I will have my due, or you and your husband will pay the price.”
As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Elizabeth heard sounds, muffled and distant, like the rumble of thunder across a wide plain, but real, nonetheless.
William had roused the house against Mr. Wickham.
The man beside her seemed to understand it as well, for his finger dug more painfully into her arm, the rictus of a grin appearing on his lips.
“I might have known Darcy would be foolish enough to wake the house. Idiot.”
Mr. Wickham propelled her forward, his movement now becoming a headlong flight while Elizabeth stumbled to match his speed. “The only thing he accomplishes is to make the demise of his pretty wife even more likely.”
“Perhaps he does not believe your assurances of my safety,” panted Elizabeth, struggling to avoid crying out in pain.
“That is more the pity. I neither care about what happens to you nor him—I care for nothing more than the freedom to live as I wish. At this moment, I will sacrifice myself if I must, for my life is not worth returning to as it is. That is what you have both failed to understand.”
The lower passage looked the same as the one above, with a few torches placed at strategic intervals, providing enough light to move with no need to walk slowly.
The end loomed ahead of them, a hint of the summer night illuminated by stars and the sliver of the moon spilling through the open passage.
A moment later, they emerged from the side of the house into a small grove in which Elizabeth had walked several times since arriving at Pemberley.
Around them, the shouts of those awakened to discover them ascended into the night sky.
Nearby, a tall stallion stood waiting, whickering in greeting as Elizabeth staggered into the cool night air.
The road leading to the front drive passed just a short distance away beyond the trees.
“Now, Mrs. Darcy,” said Mr. Wickham, gesturing toward the horse. “It is time for us to depart. I have prepared a place for us to stay while we await your husband’s response to my demands. You had best hope he accedes.”
At that moment, several things happened at once.
Around the corner of the house toward the back gardens, several torches appeared, revealing men searching by the flickering of the light.
While this was far enough away that they could not see Elizabeth yet, it was a peril that distracted Wickham.
Then, along the road just a short distance away, a carriage appeared, traveling at speed, racing toward the entrance.
Mr. Wickham cursed and spun to meet this new threat, and Elizabeth took advantage of the opportunity presented.
With a quick motion, she stepped to the side and brought her hand down on his arm as hard as she could.
The pistol went spinning away into the night, a moment later, discharging when it struck the ground.
Elizabeth did not hesitate for an instant longer. She turned and fled toward the road, the sound of the carriage, and the safety it promised. Mr. Wickham’s muffled curses became angry cries, his footsteps sounding in pursuit.