Page 8 of Under Such Circumstances (Desperately Seeking Elizabeth #1)

Inside, the floor was dirt, but the roof kept the rain out, mostly, except for in a few places where it leaked.

There was even a little fireplace. It was all one room and there was what remained of a bed in the back corner.

The mattress had been burrowed into by mice, however, and the moldy straw was overflowing all over the dirt floor.

Mr. Wickham still had his arm around her.

She was discovering that she did not like the way he smelled.

But he did not let go of her, and he whispered things in her ear, things only she could hear. “You are going to be my wife. You haven’t a choice now. I spilled my seed with you, you know.”

Oh. That was what it was, then? The positively foul sticky liquid? That was a man’s seed?

“You could be carrying my child,” he whispered.

She went utterly still in shock and horror.

No, no, no, that could not be right, could it?

How did that make a child in her? Did it seep in through her skin?

She had wiped it all off, she thought. She began to examine her hand now, looking for any trace of him left there, but it had all been washed away in the rain by now.

“So,” he breathed, “you see, it’s no good for you to claim I forced you, do you see that? You’re ruined either way.”

“What are you whispering about over there?” came Mr. Darcy’s voice from the other side of the room.

“Just little sweet nothings between sweethearts,” said Mr. Wickham.

No good for her to claim he forced her?

Had he forced her, then?

She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t liked it, but she also hadn’t stopped doing the things he wanted her to do. She’d kept at him, rubbing his stiff part up and down, of her own accord, even though she hadn’t really liked it. So, she wasn’t sure.

He probably thought she was doing it willingly.

She couldn’t even be sure why she hadn’t stopped. Maybe some part of her had wanted to do it?

She didn’t think so, but then… well, people were always tempted by this sin, and maybe that was why it felt the way it did, the confusing way. Because it was sin, so she didn’t like it, but she also hadn’t been able to stop, or hadn’t known she could, or…

She was doing the same thing now, though, wasn’t she, letting Mr. Wickham put his arm around her, letting him keep her here against him.

Abruptly, she extricated herself from the man, moving away. “Mr. Darcy, someone should see to your face,” she said. “You are bleeding. Have you a handkerchief?”

“You don’t need to see to him,” said Wickham, annoyed.

“Well, you are the one who made him bleed,” said Elizabeth. “And I don’t see why, really, sweetheart .” She put a lot of emphasis on the word.

“Because he was accusing me of being a rapist,” said Mr. Wickham. “And this is the way with him, as I have already told you. He lies about me. He makes it out as if I’ve done the absolute worst things.”

“Have you told me that?” Elizabeth was going through the gloomy shack to Mr. Darcy, who was standing stiffly and not really looking at either of them.

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Wickham, “when I told you of how he claimed I could not be a parson because I had no sense of righteousness.”

“I don’t think you said that to me,” said Elizabeth. “You said that he would not allow you to have that position because he was jealous that his father loved you so, and he did it to be mean-spirited.”

“Well, that was the root of it,” said Wickham, “that was the root of his making up tales about me, saying that I was the least pious man he’d ever met.”

Elizabeth’s nostrils flared. So, then, here it was.

He was a liar, her Mr. Wickham. A liar, a cheat, a schemer, and he had made her put her hand into his trousers—she was sure of that, anyway.

She might have kept touching him after he made her touch him, she had to admit that.

She didn’t know if she’d been forced, but she’d been—at the very least—coerced. “A handkerchief, Mr. Darcy?”

“You’re wearing my jacket,” he said, his voice very, very deep.

She smiled. “Ah, well, so I am.” She reached inside the pockets and she came out with an envelope. She tucked it back away. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to find your private correspondence.”

“Actually, that’s yours,” said Mr. Darcy.

She fixed him with a look. “Why do you have a letter for me in the pocket of your jacket?”

He sighed heavily. “Oh, dash it all, it’s a very long story, Miss Bennet.” He pointed. “Why don’t you get my handkerchief from that pocket, and then you can peruse the letter yourself.”

“Did you read this?”

“No,” he said, affronted. “You can see for yourself the seal isn’t broken. I would not do such a thing.”

She gave him his handkerchief.

He dabbed gingerly at his bloody nose.

She pulled the letter out, and immediately, a drop of water fell onto it. The roof of this shack leaked. The ink ran. She jerked backward and managed to open it.

It was barely readable, however, ink running every which way.

It was dark in the shack, light only coming through one window, and the light outside was not bright due to the storm.

“It’s from my father,” she said. “My Aunt Bennet has died. How terribly sad. There’s…

” She furrowed her brow. “No, I can’t make that out.

” She went over nearer to the window, which had no glass in it anymore.

Rain blew in, peppering the paper with wetness and she jerked back again.

Oh, dear, the letter was entirely ruined. She couldn’t read a thing. She let out a little cry.

“I’m desperately sorry,” said Mr. Darcy. “I should never have had that letter.”

“Well, I got the part about my aunt dying. Certainly that’s why he wrote.

” She folded the letter up again. She had nowhere else to put it, so she put it back in Mr. Darcy’s pocket.

It was all very strange, however. It was unlike her father to write those sorts of letters.

Even though it was his sister who had died, it would have fallen to either her mother or even one of her sisters to pass along that sort of family information.

Her father was unlikely to send her letters at all, really. If he did, they would often be short and as like to be a long and witty summary of the latest book he had read as to have any personal information.

She might have puzzled over this more if she hadn’t been struck again by what Mr. Wickham had whispered to her, that she might be gone with his child.

That crashed through her again, like a thunderclap.

She wanted to sob.