Page 24 of Midnight at Pemberley

They walked slowly, pausing often to peer into the nearest storefront window. “Do you suppose the militia will be long in Meryton, Sir?”

“I hope not.” He let his smile fade. “I hope the position will lead to a commission with the regulars.” His expression was unreadable.

“I do not know many men who wish for battle.”

Eyes, both hard and bleak, traced her features. “Some may call it irrational, but I live for the action, even the deaths. Obviously, I meant to say the death of England’s enemies.”

Elizabeth despised the useless loss of life. She did not respond. How could she? Marshaling any arguments against the determined curve of his lips appeared fruitless. “May I change the topic, Mr. Wickham?”

“Assuredly. Forgive me for speaking so passionately on such an indelicate subject.”

“Speak to me of your time in Bakewell. I wish to know more of the area in which my Aunt Gardiner resided. She is so dear to me. Anything you could tell me would bring me pleasure.”

“I suppose you realize, Miss Elizabeth, that the terrain in Derbyshire is more rugged—more intense than one would find in Hertfordshire. Your Oakham Mount is nothing to the peaks in Derbyshire. The winters are colder and the summers milder. Therefore, the vegetation is thicker. I am not one to look at things for their natural beauty, but I do enjoy the wildness of the Peak District. It reminds me of Scotland. Other than Northumberland, it is the most pleasing of areas, although the population is growing steadily and taking away the privacy many locals cherish.”

“Ah, yes,” she said with deep regret in her tone, “my aunt speaks of such. She is in London now, but one hears the wistfulness in her voice when she speaks of home.”

“Indeed.”

Elizabeth paused, as if considering her next question. “I could not help but notice, Mr. Wickham, that you and Mr. Darcy hold some sort of acquaintance, yet, you did not speak. I found the exchange, or the lack thereof, quite unusual.”

The gentleman tapped the fingers of his free hand impatiently against his thigh. “I am vaguely familiar with the younger Mr. Darcy. I am more familiar with the elder Mr. Darcy, for my family and the Darcys hold a longstanding connection. We often did business together. Such goes without saying, that was before the current Master of Pemberley assumed control. I am sorry to say I find Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy a cruel man.”

Elizabeth knew she must lie convincingly to keep Wickham talking, but Mr. Darcy ruled her heart, and she worried she would betray her true feelings. “He was very cold and haughty to everyone upon his arrival in Hertfordshire. Many tolerate him only because of his wealth and because Mr. Bingley is his associate.”

Wickham considered what she said for a moment, watching her, before he added, “I once saw him whip a man simply for dropping a tea service. He is a man above the law, and the Darcys permit nothing to stand in their way. If they want land, they take it. If they desire a woman, she holds no choice. The current Mr. Darcy is of the same ilk as many of his society. I apologize for speaking so explicitly, Miss Elizabeth, but I hold no respect for Pemberley’s Mr. Darcy.”

“My!” She pretended to blench at his anger. “I assuredly did not mean to upset you, Mr. Wickham!” Elizabeth noted how the man’s seductive insolence and intense passion were wildly arousing. A woman could easily feel empathy at hearing his words. “Yet I agree.” She had set her trap. If he lied to her, she would return the favor. “Mr. Darcy can be most presumptuous.”

“We will speak no more of the man, Miss Elizabeth.” Wickham took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I am not a reasonable being when I think of his offenses. Let us finish our walk.”

Elizabeth hurried along the road to Longbourn. She had stayed at her Aunt Philips’s only as long as required without raising questions. Now she strode along the familiar path. The sun shone brightly, and it made her feel lighter, even after her emotionally charged discussion with Mr. Wickham. She marveled at her cleverness, but a dark shadow lingering in a copse of trees caught her eye. Is it a wild dog? A man? Elizabeth could not say with assurance, and she did not want to know. Instincts called for caution. The primitive impulses of survival set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. The shadow disappeared, but Elizabeth moved warily to the side of the road, straddled the stile, and came down on the other side of the hedgerow, where she might hide if necessary.

She moved guardedly, given the ground cover. Unconsciously, she held her breath for many long moments before releasing it slowly. Yet, she never permitted her eyes to leave the cluster of trees. Was something there? Unfortunately, a heavy cloud covered the sunshine found only a few moments prior, and suddenly the air chilled with the unknown. Without notice, pure chaos raised its voice. A flock of birds exploded from the woods, sending screams of distress into the shadowy day. A figure burst from the trees coming towards her. Although she did not wait to view it clearly, Elizabeth knew whatever it was, it did not run, but rather glided across the field in a swirling, twisting motion that made her nauseous to observe.

She bolted. Her bonnet dislodged, and her hair draped across her face. Her cloak spread out like wings behind her. She fought to loosen the item, for it choked her and stifled her movement. At length, she pulled the clasp free and permitted the cloak to fall behind her. Then Elizabeth hiked her skirts and ran as if her life depended on it. She did not look back— whatever was behind her remained in pursuit. She felt it. It nipped at her shoulder. Tore at the hem of her day dress. A wind whispered, I am coming for you. A vicious growl reverberated through her.

She jumped over stumps and broken branches, raced against the cruel wind that sent debris flying. Unfortunately, an unexpected turn of her ankle sent her windmilling through the air. She smacked the ground hard, and the impact knocked the air from her lungs. Something shoved her face into the hard soil. Valiantly, she struggled to rise—to run again. Yet her foot remained trapped in muck. Elizabeth pulled frantically to free her half boot.

But the worst of her fears were yet to come. What she thought to be tangled weeds and clumps of fur from a dead animal rolled away from her, and the shriveled face of a brown-skinned woman stared blankly up at the dark sky. Elizabeth heard someone scream hysterically as she pushed herself away from the figure, scrambling backwards on all fours to place distance between her and the brown-skinned woman. The blood-curdling scream continued, and then she realized it came from her.

As Darcy and Bingley rode across the outskirts of Bingley’s property, a scattering of birds attracted their notice, but it was the sound of the whirlwind that Darcy insisted they chase. He knew the sound intimately— it was George Wickham’s calling card—but to hear it in the daylight shook Darcy’s composure. Then, in the distance, he saw her. Elizabeth was running over the crest of the hill.

He could barely breathe, but he dug his heels into the flanks of the horse and rode after her. Urgency drove him. Just as he hit the swell of the hill, a scream—her scream—ripped at his heart. Elizabeth cried out hysterically, and each note of the lament pierced him. Could Wickham have harmed her? Anger coursed through him: He should never have left her yesterday. Some way, somehow, he must kill Wickham!

Then he saw her crawling, scrambling across the rough ground. Horror marked her features. Before the horse stopped, Darcy was on the ground, running to where she was. When he reached her, Elizabeth fought him at first, but Darcy caught her in his embrace, holding her to him and cooing endearments into her ear. He heard Bingley ride up, but he did not turn around. Instead, he stood and scooped Elizabeth into his arms, cradling her to him.

“Darcy, is she well?” Bingley implored.

All he did was shake his head as he turned towards his friend. Her arms clung to Darcy’s neck. “Elizabeth? I have you. I am here,” he whispered to her ear. He wanted to kiss her, but Bingley stood too close.

“The—The woman,” she whimpered.

Darcy adjusted her in his hold. “What woman?”

“The woman.” Her voice held more strength, but she still did not look at anything but him. Elizabeth flung her arm out in the direction of the body.

Darcy followed her motion with his eyes, and then he realized her fear. Lying in a crevice where two hills met rested what appeared to be the mangled body of a woman. Her face and neck displayed the telltale signs of mutilation.