Page 10 of Under Such Circumstances (Desperately Seeking Elizabeth #1)

THE RAIN WAS blinding. It was raining much harder than it had been before, and it was pouring off the leaves of the trees as if it were just coming out of pitchers. In moments, Darcy was soaked through, his shirt sticking to his skin, his wet hair falling into his eyes as he pushed it away.

He stabbed blindly at Wickham, who was seemingly no better off, and this sort of wet groping went on for some time.

In the distance, Darcy could vaguely hear Elizabeth crying that this was all ridiculous and that they must stop it this instant.

And then, Darcy slipped on some wet undergrowth, and he slid right into Wickham and Wickham brought up his hand to try to stop it, but it was the hand with the knife, and he pointed the tip of it at his own chest—accidentally, of course—but then Darcy collided with him and pressed on Wickham’s arm, drove the knife into Wickham’s chest, right between his ribs there, and it must have punctured one of Wickham’s lungs, because suddenly, Wickham was on his knees, he was coughing, and blood was sputtering up, spattering Darcy as it came out of Wickham’s mouth.

It was all—choppy—rain, so much rain, the sound of it on the roof—and Elizabeth, yanking on Darcy, pulling at him—and he and Wickham were all entwined, and his body was pushing the knife into Wickham—and then he crawled away, with Elizabeth’s help—he was yelling—Wickham pulled the knife out, shrieking—the shriek was like nothing Darcy had ever heard, it was this animal sound—and then there was a lot of blood—Wickham could not shriek—he was coughing up so much blood—blood everywhere—

It felt like it took him eternities to die, and, yet, that it was over in seconds.

Darcy was screaming, and Elizabeth was sobbing, and Wickham’s eyes were bulging, and everyone was getting spattered with the blood he was coughing up, and there was mud everywhere, and the rain was still coming down …

And then Wickham was still.

ELIZABETH WAS HUGGING herself as the water ran down into her clothes, making rivulets over parts of her body. Her stays were soaked, and the water was dripping off them and running down her thighs, down the crease of her buttocks, and she was numb.

Mr. Darcy was on the ground, shaking Wickham, yelling, and his voice had gone hoarse.

This went on and on for some time.

Until, at some point, she turned and walked back into the shack, and then, in there, everything was humid and the rain was very loud on the roof, and she felt as if she could still hear the echoes of Wickham’s shrieks, each one of them, layered on top of each other, and they all kept echoing in her brain, again and again and again.

Mr. Darcy appeared in the doorway.

She looked up at him.

He came inside. “Well. I suppose that’s what I meant to do.”

“Is it?” She made a noise that was like a laugh, but a mangled laugh. She buried her face in her hands.

He went back outside, into the rain.

Time passed.