Page 29 of Wickham Likes 'Em Young
Jane just stared.
“It would be impossible to speak about it in the dining room without someone overhearing,” Elizabeth explained.
“I have no idea where Mr Wickham might be, Lizzy.”
“But you saw him last night. And he offered to take you home, but then he showed his true colours—that he is anything but an honourable gentleman—and you jumped out of the coach or cart or whatever, and you hid in a field until Mr Darcy rescued you.”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “Mr Darcy told you all of that?”
Not believing her ears—was Jane angry with Darcy, rather than praising him to the skies for his efforts on her behalf?—Elizabeth said, “Mr Darcy informed me how and where he finally found you, but we were guessing about the rest of that. But Mr Darcy is out there, trying to find Mr Wickham and finally put him in prison where he cannot continue hurting people.”
“I have no idea where Mr Wickham might be. Truly. None.” Jane swept the shining mass of her beautiful hair into a simple chignon and, several hairpins later, swept from the room with as much dignity as if she were a young woman who had never once fled a rogue nor hidden in a muddy field.
Elizabeth went to her father, hugged the weeping Lydia and the teary Kitty, kissed her father’s forehead, and murmured, “Jane seems to think she will not be explaining herself today.”
Then she went down to keep Jane company in the dining room. She felt…she truly felt, for the first time in her entire life, as if the spot in her heart where once dwelt her love for Jane was empty.
An hour later, Mr Bennet came into the parlour and asked to speak with Jane. He nodded as Elizabeth stayed seated; they both seemed to agree that he should ask his questions in the bookroom, with no other witnesses.
Elizabeth attended to the mending in her basket and spoke softly to Mary, who could not be blamed for feeling as if everything in her life was upside down and sideways. After speaking at length about the events, the need for discretion with the community about said events, and their own changing feelings, Mary excused herself. “I need to practice,” she explained, and it was not long before a plodding version of Handel’s “Dead March” accompanied Elizabeth’s reluctant stitching.
Hill entered the parlour and said, “Miss Elizabeth, the vicar’s daughter is at the back door, asking for you.”
“Abby?” Of course Elizabeth sprang up, and of course she immediately thought of Abigail Raymondson’s connection between Mr Wickham and Lydia. She hastened to meet with the girl and asked her cordially to come in.
“Oh, no, miss. I cannot, but I know that you are the Bennet sister who knows all the tenants, and my father and I came across a young boy, and he is weeping something awful, but he will not tell us what has happened. My father sent me to ask for you; he knows from something that the boy mumbled that the boy thinks the world of you, and we hope he will calm down enough to tell us what is the matter.”
“Of course I will come!” Elizabeth was already pulling her half-boots on, and grabbing her bonnet and pelisse. “Hill, pleaseinform my father that I have gone to help Mr Raymondson, and Abby, with one of our tenants. Where is it exactly, Abby?”
“I cannot explain, I just know how to find my way back. Come quick, Miss Elizabeth!”
Abby seemed almost panicky, and Elizabeth walked so quickly, keeping up with her, she was almost running. But as they moved off towards Longbourn’s woodland, she began to wonder at the sense of the girl’s story. Surely Mr Raymondson would just scoop up the boy and come with his daughter to the house. If Abby could not explain the location, could she have found the house and even now confidently retrace her steps?
Again, the young girl’s connection with Mr Wickham occurred to Elizabeth, although she was not certain…. Her steps slowed, and Elizabeth considered what to ask to guard herself against a possible trap. But it was too late; she heard a familiar, hated voice: “Thank you for joining us, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth felt his fingers close onto her wrist in an unbreakable circle. “Wickham!” she hissed as she tried to kick back at him, she flailed both of her arms, she spun around and attempted to knee his groin, and she screamed. The only results of her attempts to break free were pain for herself. Her shoulder ached, her throat felt strained, and she was fairly certain that her foot was in more pain that Wickham experienced, wherever her kicks had landed. Mr Wickham covered her mouth with his hand, and she tried to bite down on the leather glove he wore while willing herself not to pass out from the unpleasant smells said glove brought to her nostrils.
Thinking quickly, and knowing Longbourn lands better than almost anybody, she wondered if she could manage to get close enough to the ravine to make use of it to rid herself of her attacker. She also wondered how lost to good sense Abigail Raymondson could be. Surely an infatuation with a prettyface and golden curls would not make a good person wish to participate in a kidnapping…would it?
She ignored Mr Wickham’s questions and suggestions and scanned the area until she saw Abby standing still with shock on her face. The girl held her bent arms close to her chest, one hand covering her mouth, and Elizabeth tried to plead with the girl just using her eyes. The girl spun around and ran, but unfortunately not in the direction of Longbourn’s manor house.
She heard Mr Wickham call out “Abby! I need your help!”
But the girl continued running, and Elizabeth so wished for the freedom to do the same.
Think!she urged herself. She pictured exactly where they were, where the ravine was, and possible ways she could utilise the knowledge.
Her first step was to pretend to faint. She closed her eyes and attempted to fully relax while collapsing to the ground. It felt delicious to stop straining and fighting, but unfortunately she was not heavy enough to create much of a problem for Mr Wickham’s strength. He cursed but held on well enough.
He seemed to want to drag her in the opposite direction from where she wished to go, so she planted her feet and surged her body towards the ravine. Sure enough, her unexpected revival did carry them both a few feet closer to the rough edge. She felt stone under her right foot, and she pictured exactly where the large flat boulder was as she continued to writhe in Wickham’s arms.
“Do you want me to knock you senseless?” Mr Wickham snapped. He seemed to consider it a good idea, and he let go of her mouth in order to bring his hand up, and Elizabeth screamed again, so loudly that her throat hurt. She was certain that Mr Wickham was half a second away from hitting her, and she tried to butt his chin with her head. Again, there was immediately pain for her, but this time she heard an oof of pain from MrWickham as well, and she bore to her right again, struggling to inch him towards the spot where his footing would fail him.
Mr Wickham’s oaths gained in volume again, and he spat blood; she assumed that her head butt had resulted in him biting his tongue. She hoped he was good and distracted by that, and she wriggled even more.
As her efforts gained her the feel of stone beneath her left foot as well as her right, Elizabeth considered what she could do to save herself if Mr Wickham did begin to fall. She set her sights on a scrubby little field maple that looked more bush than tree. It would be a perfect hold, if she could grasp onto it.
Again, Elizabeth let herself sag, and again she shot up again, trying to strike his chin with her head. He must have tried to avoid that fate and perhaps over-corrected. For the first time his hold loosened a bit, and Elizabeth successfully lunged away from him, grasping a branch of the field maple.
