Page 5 of Under Such Circumstances (Desperately Seeking Elizabeth #1)

Elizabeth was not one of the women who would make a scene about it, and he was glad of that.

Women who’d been spoiled and coddled expected everyone to spoil and coddle them, and they pouted when they deemed they had been mistreated.

But women who’d been ignored and slighted most of their lives, they took to it all easier. They were used to it.

“Well, surely,” she said. “He would have come up with some rationalization for it, for that is the way people convince themselves to do villainous things to others. But he must realize, deep down, that there is no excuse.”

“What did he say to you?” Even though it was foolish, because she would not be here with him if she’d heard the accusations that Darcy had to lay at the feet of Wickham. Would she?

“Oh, nothing. He got very red in the face and quit the room,” she said. “Anyway, it wasn’t only what he did to you that was illustrative of his character. I also discovered that he is the one who made the Bingleys leave Netherfield, and that it was specifically to separate Bingley from Jane!”

“Ah,” said Wickham. “Sounds like him.”

“Jane was not good enough for Bingley.”

“Yet, he asked you to marry him,” said Wickham softly. Why had he not thought of that, really? What had driven proper, perfect, do-whatever-is-required-of-me Darcy to ask for the hand of this woman?

“Well, entirely!” said Elizabeth. “This is why we are all agog at it. It makes no sense. Perhaps someone dropped something heavy on his head yesterday.”

Mrs. Collins chortled in agreement from behind Elizabeth. “Perhaps he had gotten quite drunk?”

“Perhaps he was possessed by a mischievous spirit!” said Elizabeth, laughing gaily.

“No, no,” said Wickham, “you mustn’t sell yourself short, Miss Bennet.”

“Oh, he doesn’t even like me,” she said. “And you heard the story about how I was only tolerable.”

“I did,” he said slowly, remembering that. “But he must have changed his mind. Or gotten a better look at you.” He could not decide if this turn of events made things better or worse.

On the one hand, taking Darcy’s woman out from under his nose was rather a lark, was it not?

On the other hand, taking Darcy’s woman out from under his nose was going to antagonize him.

He’d already trifled with Georgiana, and that had gone badly.

Darcy might not let Elizabeth go easily.

This could be more difficult to pull off than he had imagined.

However, Darcy had no use for that inheritance. Wickham did.

And, anyway, she had turned Darcy down.

With any luck, Darcy’s pride would be so wounded that he would hate her now. So, this was what he said, “Well, I suppose he doesn’t like you now, not if you flatly turned down his marriage proposal.”

She laughed. “Oh, yes, I suppose he does not. Well, that is no great loss, I must say. And we all know that his good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.” She laughed a high and bright sound.

And by this time, they had finally gotten to the bridge.

Wickham had not thought of how he was going to make this work, but looking at the bridge, at once, he had it! The idea!

He strode out onto the bridge, holding the picnic basket, and then, halfway over, pretended to become unsure of his footing.

He scrambled this way and that, moving the picnic basket back and forth in his arms, and he called out, “Miss Bennet, would you be so good as to come and take this from me for but a moment?”

“Of course,” said Elizabeth, and she came out onto the bridge at once.

The moment she put her hands on the picnic basket, he kicked the bridge out from beneath them.

The bridge swayed precariously, and he practically tossed himself over. It had to look good.

The gully below didn’t have any water in it. It did sometimes, when the rain had been quite steady, but it was dried out now. However, the sides were very steep and it was a bit of a drop.

As he hurtled downward, he had a moment of worry, for he hadn’t really thought about the notion that he could be actually hurt doing this.

And what of Elizabeth?

But he could not look about him, not while he was only concerned with the bottom of the gully rushing up at him.

He landed with a jolt. The picnic basket landed just next to him. It splintered. He looked up.

Elizabeth was hanging from the rope he had strung across for a handhold!

Hell and damnation, was she going to pull herself up?

She was!

He watched, eyes wide, and then he belatedly remembered that he must be badly injured, so he howled out, “Oh, my leg, my leg, I think it’s broken!”

Elizabeth had her feet up on the bridge, and she looked down at him.

Mrs. Collins was holding the bridge steady for Elizabeth.

Elizabeth pulled herself back onto the bridge and nimbly crossed it, back to the falls side, with Mrs. Collins. Together, the women rushed to the top of the gully to look down on him.

“We’ll come down and drag you right out,” said Elizabeth.

“No, no,” he said. “I can’t be moved like that.” Inwardly, he was swearing. This was not going to work!

He was supposed to be in the gully with Elizabeth. Then it would only make sense for Mrs. Collins to go back for help. He would then have enough time to make a recovery enough to haul them out of the gully and get them throughly lost in the woods.

People would come to rescue them, certainly, but he’d be alone with her long enough to get her to believe she was quite ruined, something he was certain he could achieve in the course of a long kissing session.

Frightened women were easily led.

The plan should have worked.

But now, with both of them up there, why, what was to stop both of them going after help or what was to stop Mrs. Collins arguing that Elizabeth must go, for she could not be here in a compromising situation with a gentleman.

Hell. And. Damnation.

But Elizabeth, intrepid and determined woman that she was, was climbing down into the gully with him.

He fought a relieved smile. “Miss Bennet,” he said, voice full of put-on agony, “there is no need for both of us to be stuck down here.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “It’s steep, but it’s not that steep. I shall be quite capable of climbing right out, and I shall help you come along as well, Mr. Wickham.” She furrowed her brow. “Though I suppose we should go on the opposite bank, oughtn’t we. You won’t wish to attempt this bridge again.”

“Oh, no, I tell you, it would be impossible for me to attempt such a thing. My leg, truly, it may be broken,” he said. He looked up at Mrs. Collins. “My good woman, would you go for help? Bring back someone to get us out of this predicament?”

Mrs. Collins nodded. “Yes, just so. I shall do exactly that.” She hurried over to the bridge.

“Not necessary,” said Elizabeth, who was arriving next to him on the bank. “I shall pull him right out. I am certain I can do it.”

Mrs. Collins was even now crossing the bridge, holding onto the handhold rope and moving quickly. “Yes, of course, Lizzy, but if Mr. Wickham’s leg is indeed broken, he cannot walk.”

Elizabeth surveyed him. She bit down on her lip. “True enough, I suppose.”

Mrs. Collins had cleared the bridge. “I shall return quickly. You should both simply stay right where you are!”

“Yes, we shan’t move a muscle!” called Wickham after her. Though he had the intention of moving quite a lot, just as soon as she was out of sight.

AN HOUR AFTER delivering the letter to the servant at the rectory, Mr. Darcy thought better of it.

He remembered that Elizabeth had that wretched mother of hers, who could not keep her mouth shut. He expected Elizabeth would not share the letter with her mother. She would be more prudent than that. But what if she left it lying about and her mother found it?

No, that wouldn’t do.

So, he went back to the parsonage, but he did not go to the front door, rather to the back servants’ entrance.

He could not, however, find the servant he’d entrusted the letter to.

“Oh, Peggy leaves in the afternoon,” chattered the cook to him. “She has a sick nephew to see to.”

He couldn’t be sure it was Peggy, he said.

“Must have been,” said the cook. “She’s the maid of all work, and I’m the cook, and then there’s only Mr. Nichols, but he is only here in the evenings, as he is shared between this household at the church building itself.”

Mr. Darcy felt uneasy. Could this Peggy have taken the letter home with her?

No, it was not that way. Obviously, Elizabeth had returned and had been given the letter, and she had it, even now.

He supposed it was done, then. He must let it all go.

He would just be sure, he decided. “I suppose that before Peggy left, then, Miss Bennet and Mrs. Collins returned from their luncheon picnic.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the cook. “No. What’s this about, sir? If you go round front, Mr. Nichols is here now. He can sort you right out, I’m sure.”

“It’s, erm…” He rubbed his forehead. “I left a letter with Peggy for Miss Bennet.”

“Oho!” The cook winked at him. “I see, then. That all makes sense now, why you’re skulking about back here, sir. You wish it back, don’t you? Changed your mind? Thought better of it?”

He was chagrined, but he couldn’t help but smile. “You have exactly the way of it, I’m afraid. Quite mortifying, I must say.”

“Here’s what I know. I saw Peggy with a letter she said she would be leaving on Miss Bennet’s dressing table for her to find. I shall go and in and get it for you, shall I?”

He let out a relieved breath. “Thank you, madam. I should be quite happy to give you a bit of coin for your trouble—“

“Oh, heavens, sir, it is no trouble. Now, you sit tight, and I shall be right back.”

But when she came back, she did not bring his letter, but rather one that had come through the post.

It was from Elizabeth’s father. It had not been opened.

He would have given it back, but the cook scampered off right after, saying there was no need for thanks, and she had a sweetbread to make, if he didn’t mind, and to have a good afternoon.

He should have called after her, corrected it all.

But he got some notion in his mind that he would just come back, call upon Elizabeth later on, and he would give it back then and inquire about his own letter and get her assurances she would destroy it or guard it or… he knew not, but something.

He tucked the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket and walked around the front of the parsonage, where he was greeted by the sight of Mrs. Collins rushing towards him, her face red and gleaming with sweat, her hair tumbling free from where it had been pinned back.

“Whatever is the matter?” he said to her.

“We need assistance,” she cried. “Mr. Wickham has broken his leg!”