11th April 1816
“Mr Darcy!”
Elizabeth opened her eyes again, sitting up on her bed. It had been just a dream, had it not?
Even with the dim light of dawn timidly peeking through the curtains, she saw she was still wearing the same dress from last night.
It had not been a dream. It had been real. All of it.
She closed her eyes and sighed.
Forcing her mind into some distraction, she poured water into the bowl, washed her face and rinsed her mouth in a desperate attempt to remove the bitter taste of their confrontation.
The mirror in front of her reflected someone she could not recognise. Someone cruel and selfish.
The need to be alone prompted her to change her clothes without any help; she would choose a dress that did not have a hundred of those blasted buttons.
Braiding her hair and planning to go for a very long walk before anybody in the house was awake, she left her room.
Mr Darcy’s face, hurt by her abusive words, appeared before her again.
Shaking her head to dissipate that painful memory, Elizabeth hurried downstairs, reaching the kitchen where she grabbed some pastries before leaving. Seeing Cook, she did not stop to chat, but offered instead a quick nod, running through the door before anyone else could ask after her. She decided that after a long walk and with a clearer mind, she would think about the whole situation again.
Once outside, and with a safe distance between her and the house, Elizabeth could not avoid thinking about Mr Darcy and their dreadful confrontation the night before. Still struggling with her conscience after an agonising night, she forced herself to believe that Mr Darcy probably had received what he deserved.
But, then, why this ache in her chest? She remembered the pain in his eyes as she turned from him.
She was still considering those things when the strange sight of somebody, a man lying, no, slumped against a tree, caught her attention. By his clothes it seemed…
She gasped. “Oh, no. Mr Darcy.” Without thinking further, she ran towards him.
What if he had suffered an accident after their argument?
Had he spent the night outside?
Was he… dead?
~ ? ~
Dawn found Darcy still seated in his chair, trying to finish a letter, which he hoped would explain in writing what he had not been able to explain in words.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his painful temples. The battle he had fought against feelings of rage and bitter resentment towards Elizabeth, Richard — somewhere in the middle of the night, Darcy had understood his cousin’s silent warning — and God — for allowing him such deep disappointment when he had finally surrendered himself to his love for Elizabeth — had drained him, physically and emotionally. He would have howled like a wounded animal if only it could have appeased his aching heart .
Yet, good sense prevailed. After many hours of struggle, Darcy had finally been able to understand what her disturbing words meant.
How could she know about his feelings or even believe them after what he had said and done? How could she have known how enchanted he was by her beauty and kindness if he had never said a word? Instead, he had acted like a brute, offending her and giving attention to silly behaviours.
What was really important in life?
What a fool he had been.
And her enquires about Wickham. She had asked about that scoundrel already, at the ball, but Darcy had been too proud to explain himself to her.
If he had answered her questions and behaved like a proper gentleman, none of this would be happening now.
Fool. Fool! No wonder she could think him capable of abandoning her and taking a mistress, quite a common thing among his peers.
But he was not like that; he could never give his body to a relationship while his mind and heart were still engaged to someone else.
It was too late to regret it now. If Elizabeth could not be his wife, at least she should know the truth about him. It was a matter of honour to present her with the facts as they truly were.
Darcy finished the letter, put down his quill and stretched his painful fingers. Then, melting some wax, he sealed it.
He rubbed his head again. A growing headache had been afflicting him since he sat down to write many hours ago.
Weary and defeated, Darcy washed his face in the water left there from the day before and dressed himself in some fresh clothes. He could not face Wilfred and present a plausible excuse for his dreadful appearance.
The clock on the mantel was showing almost six; the sun was about to rise.
Despite the early hour, Darcy planned to leave the house by the same way he had entered it the night before — the servants’ stairs — thus avoiding any possible contact with Richard or his aunt .
Taking another deep breath and arming himself for the task ahead, he left his room.
On his way down, he met one of the upstairs maids and greeted her with a small nod. Downstairs, he could hear the sound of the servants in the kitchen and smelled the delicious aroma of fresh bread and cooked apples with cinnamon. But he could not allow himself the pleasure — not until his letter was delivered. Coming back to his senses, he forced his tired body to walk in the opposite direction, reaching, at last, the back entrance of the house.
The early spring breeze was cold, but not unpleasant. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief moment of contemplation before heading to the path where he usually met Elizabeth on her walks.
On his way, he pondered about the small chance of actually finding Elizabeth after what happened the night before. He knew that if she was as distressed as him, she would not be able to keep herself indoors.
Despite his despondence, he continued walking; after all, this might easily be his last chance to make amends.
As he progressed along the path, he noticed with great sadness that the same daffodils, which had marked one of the most important days of his life — the day he had decided to ask Elizabeth to marry him — were now withering into an unappealing hue of brown.
If this was not enough to make him believe that it was the end, waiting in the same place for more than half an hour with no sign of her certainly was.
Darcy’s hopes of delivering his letter and letting her know the truth suddenly vanished. Perhaps it was that painful thought; or perhaps it was the fact that he had been awake for more than twenty-four hours. At this point it did not matter; his spirit was finally broken.
In this nauseated state, he could not restrain himself anymore and surrendered to despair.
Collapsing on the floor close to one of the big oak trees, from which the place was famous for, Darcy threw his hat on the ground, leant back on the rough surface of the trunk and shut his eyes, squeezing his head in a useless attempt to lessen the excruciating pain engulfing his body and soul.
~ ? ~
Elizabeth knelt at his side, calling his name and timidly touching his shoulder. But Mr Darcy did not respond. She called for him again and, this time, he moved his head towards her. He tried to open his eyes, but the pain caused by the light was unbearable and he moaned.
His reaction panicked her. Without any further consideration, Elizabeth removed her bonnet and gloves, held his head with both of her hands and carefully examined it.
“Mr Darcy,” she called him again.
Darcy struggled to understand what was happening. Perhaps he had finally fallen asleep for he was dreaming about Elizabeth. He could hear his name being called by her sweet voice and could feel the warmth of her soft hands on his face.
The recollection of all the events of the previous night — their strife, their angry exchange of words and accusations, her rejection, his pain, his letter — rushed into Darcy’s mind and he opened his eyes.
Her honey-coloured eyes were there, just in front of him, looking at him intensely, worrying for him. He could even feel her warm breath caressing his face.
Darcy thought better than to allow himself to hope for anything beyond her Christian duty to someone in his present situation, as a wave of shame came over him. Gathering the little strength that was left in his tired body, he forced himself to stand, trying to maintain his last bit of pride.
She helped him up. “Mr Darcy, are you hurt?”
Her caring question pierced his soul. Yes, Elizabeth, I am broken hearted . “No, Miss Elizabeth. I am fine,” he replied instead. “I beg your pardon for causing you any concern.”
She puffed and trembled, finally exploding. “Fine, sir? How is that possible? I have been calling you for some time and you did not respond. How can you say you are fine?”
“I am sorry to have caused you any distress,” he repeated, schooling his face into that aloof expression she absolutely hated. “I did not sleep… much… last night and, after walking for some time, I stopped to rest. My head was plaguing me, and my tiredness must have caught up with me. I believe I had just slept,” he concluded without meeting her eyes.
“Really? Very well, then. If it is as you say, I am sorry for having interrupted your rest. I bid you a good day, sir.”
She began to walk away from him, angry stamped in the way she fetched her gloves and shoved her bonnet back on her head, not even caring to tie the lace.
Swallowing his pride, Darcy ran after her; he would not achieve anything without being honest with her. “Elizabeth, please, wait.”
She stopped and shut her eyes, balling her fists beside her, but did not turn. She could sense the constriction in his voice. He had called her by her Christian name again, as he had done when he declared his love for her and when they had quarrelled.
She shook her head. She did not want to listen to what he had to say.
Darcy took a deep breath at seeing her reaction. He knew that if he really wanted her to receive his letter, he should choose his words carefully.
“I am sorry,” he said in a whisper, brushing his hands over his legs. “In truth, I was hoping to find you.”
“Sir, please.” She did not want to listen to him. She was still too hurt to talk to him; and too proud to make any amends.
“I know how it sounds, but my intention was — aargh!”
The strange noise was enough to make Elizabeth turn. To her horror, two masked men were surrounding Mr Darcy and subduing him, while he offered no resistance. She gasped at the sight of blood trickling down from his head to his collar.
Before she could react to what was happening, a third man came from behind, grabbed her arms and covered her mouth. In her struggle, he seemed to hesitate, allowing her to free one of her hands and rip off his mask.
“Mr Wickham!” Despite his swollen and bruised face, she recognised him at once.
One of Wickham’s companions saw what had happened and, lifting his pistol, he pointed it towards her. “Duck!” the man shouted to Wickham.
Wickham hesitated but let go of Elizabeth, throwing himself on the floor.
At the man’s voice, Elizabeth turned and saw the barrel of the pistol pointed in her direction.
She just had time to close her eyes.
At the loud noise, her bonnet flew in the air and she could not breathe, as the smell of smoke filled the air.
Still holding her breath, she opened her eyes and saw Mr Darcy in front of her, his gaze locked on her, his face strained by pain.
“Eliz…” he started saying but collapsed onto the floor. A growing blur of blood started to stain his white shirt around his neck and chest. In the centre, the burnt hole of a gunshot.
“Mr Darcy. No!” She collapsed, kneeling beside him, blinded by the sudden flood of tears.
Oh, God, no. Please, no.
From her reticule she pulled one of her embroidered handkerchiefs and pressed it against his wound, but the bleeding was too intense and soon the small cloth was completely sodden. She opened his coat and searched in his pockets for his own handkerchief. She saw an envelope first, but then found what she was looking for and pressed it together with the other piece.
Someone seized her by the arm.
“No!” she shouted again, flouncing and kicking, trying to fight against her captor, but with a precise blow to the side of her face, she was knocked out and everything turned into darkness.
~ ? ~
Wickham was horrified by the scene before him. His plan had been very simple: kidnap Darcy, pay off his debts — and live. After his frustrated attempt to seduce Georgiana, Darcy’s younger sister, he had tried, and failed, to attach himself to another rich heiress. He was penniless, burdened with an enormous debt, which had almost cost his life, and, because of that, he had been forced into a life of crime.
As he stood up, he saw Brown violently striking Miss Elizabeth on the face, knocking her out.
The man then turned his murderous eyes towards him. “Wickham. Your useless idiot. What was that?” Brown’s strong accent, typical in the streets of the dirty Seven Dials area in London, echoed in the air. “Can’t you even hold a woman? Come ’ere and help us with this,” he roared, pointing to the immobile couple at his feet. “You carry the girl, Ned an’ I will carry the gent.”
The idea of kidnapping Darcy had come to Wickham after being severely beaten and left hanging by his left foot by those same criminals, while Brown pointed a gun to his manly parts, threatening to send him to hell.
Wickham knew about Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s annual visit to their aunt. He told Brown and Ned about this wealthy gentleman and that Kent would be the best place to carry out their scheme. Mr Darcy would be far away from home in a place where the servants and villagers were not as loyal to him as they were in Derbyshire.
“It cannot be that difficult,” Wickham had shouted, while still receiving punches from the men. “He usually walks or rides alone in the morning.” Wickham hoped his old acquaintance was still keeping his old habits. “He is good with his sword and pistols, but the three of us should be enough to catch him by surprise. We just need to be sure that his bear of a cousin is not nearby.”
“I hope you’re right. I’m not as forgiving as my cousin. I’ll finish what I’ve started…” Brown had barked back at him.
How was Wickham to know that his companion in the militia — the one to whom he had lost a handsome amount of money after a dreadful card game — had a cousin in the underbelly of London and would sell Wickham’s debt to him?
“I’ll take care of ’im,” Brown had promised his cousin. “I’ve got somethin’ he can do for me.”
It had been a stroke of luck that as soon as they arrived that morning, they had seen Darcy walking alone and sitting by a tree, with no sign of the colonel.
Then, a lady reached Darcy before them. She could not be more than a nuisance, they decided. But Wickham was not counting on the fact that the lady in question was actually Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the same lady who had caught his attention in Hertfordshire. Due to the swelling around his eyes, he had not been able to recognise her from afar. Then, while grabbing her, in his momentary distraction as he recognised her, Miss Elizabeth had removed his mask, revealing his identity, something Brown had said he would not tolerate.
“Put both of them in the carriage and let’s go,” Brown barked again. “Someone must have heard the shot. Hurry.”
There was nothing Wickham could do, so he obeyed. Kidnapping was a crime punishable by hanging — deportation at best. He was not a murderer, but he would not swap his life for Miss Elizabeth’s. He knew he could run from the law, but not from these merciless criminals.
While carrying Miss Elizabeth to her uncertain fate, he could not fathom why Brown had suddenly changed his mind, taking her with them after trying to kill her. Wickham saw the bleeding bruise on her split lip and was filled with remorse. At that moment, his left foot faltered and he wobbled. The pain just reminded him of that horrible day he had been captured and tortured by Brown.
Why did Miss Elizabeth, of all the women in the kingdom, have to be the one there at that moment?
Ned took his place as the driver with Brown beside him. Wickham laid Miss Elizabeth beside the man who had ruined his life and closed the door of the old carriage.
He mounted his horse. “I am going ahead to buy some supplies for our trip. Our man there,” Wickham said, with a pang of guilt, pointing to the carriage, “will not survive if we do not stop that bleeding.”
“And who said I care? Nobody will know if he’s dead or alive,” Brown spat.
“That would be a mistake,” said Wickham, regaining part of his courage. “He is a gentleman and the nephew of an earl, you fool, and I know his family. We will never escape the hangman if you let Mr Darcy die. Not today, and not in a hundred years.”
Brown seemed to consider his words and then nodded. “Right. Just remember to come back. We’re not stopping. Reach us along the way.”
“What about the girl, Brown?” Ned asked while urging the horse to move. “She wasn’t part of the plan. Why spare her?”
“No, she wasn’t,” said Brown rubbing his chin. “But now that we’ve got ’er, I’ve an idea about what we can do with ’er.” He looked at Ned with mischief in his eyes. “Besides, we’ll need someone to look after the dandy during our journey.”
Wickham shivered and tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he saw the dust rising behind the moving carriage. He took a deep breath and, feeling a great disgust towards himself, shook his head. He cursed his luck and urged his horse forward. He would burn in hell for eternity for he could not bear to think of what those ruffians were planning for Miss Elizabeth. Unfortunately, he had his own neck to save now.
Not too far from there, a small pair of eyes had witnessed everything. The little boy was now running away as if his life was depending on it.