Page 58 of Attempted Compromises
Elizabeth blinked, her vision momentarily blurring. “I… I believe so,” she replied, though her heart raced with unease. “But Jane—something is wrong!”
As she turned her focus back to her sister, she realized Darcy’s grip on her arm had slackened. Glancing back, she was horrified to see him collapse onto the floor, his tall frame crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut.
“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth dropped to her knees beside him, her hand hovering over his shoulder. His breathing was slow but steady, his face unnaturally pale.
The room descended into chaos. Bingley had slumped forward, his head resting against Jane’s shoulder, while Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley lay sprawled in their chairs, their tea cups shattered on the floor. Hurst, who had been half-asleep when they arrived, was now fully unconscious, his snores rattling through the silence.
Elizabeth’s mind raced.Have we been poisoned? Are they all… dead?
The thought was terrifying, yet the symptoms seemed more like an unnatural sleep than anything lethal. Her own slight dizziness had all but faded, leaving her alert but shaken. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she scanned the room for help. The bell—she needed to summon a servant.
There are no servants.
At that horrifying thought, Elizabeth turned around again to try to revive someone—anyone.
Just then, a door creaked open behind her.
Elizabeth spun around, her heart leaping with hope. Instead of livery, however, the figure standing in the doorway was dressed in the red coat of an officer, the coloring striking against the subdued tones of the room.
She recognized him as the handsome officer she had met in the street the day they had taken Mr. Collins to Meryton. He had called once or twice at Longbourn as well, but she was not all that acquainted with him.
What was his name again?She fought against the light fog that seemed to cover her mind, and it finally came to her.
“Mr. Wickham!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her relief momentarily overpowering her confusion. “Thank heavens you’re here!”
∞∞∞
George Wickham smirked to himself as he stepped into the stillness of Netherfield's drawing room. His satisfaction with Caroline Bingley’s foolhardy scheme had grown with every step he’d taken toward the house, though he had to admit that working with such an overly dramatic accomplice could be tiresome. Yet, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room, he paused. Something was amiss.
Elizabeth Bennet stood at the center of the chaos, her small figure framed by the elegance of the room, her expression frantic. Around her, bodies lay slumped in various positions—Darcy on the floor, Bingley draped awkwardly over his beloved Miss Bennet, and the Netherfield ladies sprawled in unbecoming heaps.
Her voice pulled him from his observations. “I have never been so relieved to see anyone in my life!” she cried, her voice trembling with desperation. “Something dreadful has happened.”
He cursed.Why the devil is she not asleep?
For all his planning, he hadn’t expected anyone to be standing upright, let alone coherent. He took in her pale face, relief etched into her features, and then back to the scattered bodies of the unconscious party. Miss Bingley had assured him this would be simple, an easy charade, but now…
“I should say something has,” he remarked, his gaze sweeping the room. “But tell me, Miss Elizabeth—” He turned his piercing eyes back to her, his tone hardening. “Did you not drink the tea?”
Her response was immediate, though hesitant. She gasped softly, shrinking back from the sharp edge in his voice. “Th-th-the tea?” she stammered, her brows furrowing in confusion.
He took another step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, the tea. Miss Bingley laced it heavily with laudanum. Did you drink it?”
Her expression twisted into shock, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly as if she couldn’t comprehend the question. Wickham’s patience, always thin, began to fray.
“Well?” he demanded, anger beginning to creep through his voice.
Elizabeth’s voice trembled as she finally answered. “I—well, yes, I did. But why would that—” Her words faltered, confusion and a growing sense of dread coloring her tone.
“Because,” Wickham interrupted sharply, his irritation bubbling to the surface, “your hostess intended to ensure everyone was unconscious for the little compromise she planned to arrange. How on earth are you still standing?”
Her hand went to her temple; the very act of thinking through the fog required great effort. “Laudanum has… never worked properly on me,” she said. “Even when I broke my arm as a child, the apothecary—”
He cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand. “Never worked? Never?” His mind whirred. What an inconvenient, irritating detail to have overlooked. Of all the ridiculous twists.
“No,” Elizabeth said, her voice growing firmer despite her confusion. “It takes an unusual amount to have any effect.”
Wickham stared at her, his disbelief quickly morphing into irritation. He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Well, that certainly complicates matters,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
