The carriage lurched into motion, Jenkins taking the reins while Hobbs squeezed in beside Elizabeth, his bulk forcing her against the carriage wall. The close quarters amplified her sense of entrapment, the reality of her situation crashing down upon her with crushing weight.
Even if she somehow escaped, even if she made her way back to Longbourn unmolested, the damage would be done. A young woman who disappeared with George Wickham, only to return days later, claiming abduction? Who would believe her? And what gentleman would ever consider her for marriage after such a scandal?
The thought of Darcy, his declaration in the garden, and his promise to return stabbed her heart. Would even he stand by her once her reputation was irreparably tarnished? Or would his sense of propriety, his concern for Georgiana’s place in society, override whatever feelings he might hold for her?
“You seem distressed, Miss Bennet,” Wickham observed, watching her face with evident enjoyment. “Having second thoughts about your ill-advised attachment to Darcy? Perhaps realizing that his fancy for you was merely a fever-induced delusion?”
Elizabeth fought to master her expression, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her anguish. “Mr. Darcy’s character is beyond your comprehension, Mr. Wickham. As is mine, it seems.”
“On the contrary,” Wickham replied, leaning forward with a predatory smile. “I understand Darcy all too well. His prideand obsession with family honor are the cornerstones of his character. Once you marry me and the world believes you carry my child rather than his, he will retreat to Pemberley and his duty. He will marry his cousin as planned since infancy, and you will be nothing but an unpleasant memory.”
“And you?” Elizabeth countered, grasping for any information that might later prove useful. “What do you gain from this scheme beyond the obvious financial incentive?”
Wickham’s smile widened. “A comfortable living, for one. Our generous benefactor has arranged a parish for me—quite a step up from a militia lieutenant, wouldn’t you agree? A charming parsonage in Kent, conveniently located near Rosings Park. One, I believe, you are quite familiar with.”
The implications struck Elizabeth with sickening clarity. “Of course, Lady Catherine. I should have known. And will she remove Mr. Collins from Hunsford?”
“Let’s just say that personnel changes are anticipated,” Wickham replied with obvious satisfaction. “The current occupant has proven… disappointing in certain matters. His wife, particularly, has shown a regrettable tendency toward independent thought.”
“You disgust me,” Elizabeth said quietly, genuine revulsion replacing fear. “To profit from the destruction of innocent lives?—”
“Spare me your moral outrage,” Wickham interrupted. “We all make our choices in this world, Miss Bennet. You chose to entangle yourself with Darcy despite the obvious disparity in your stations. Now you face the consequences.”
The carriage rattled over a rough patch of road. Elizabeth gripped the seat to keep from being thrown against Hobbs, whose malodorous presence made her stomach turn.
“How long is this journey?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her throat.
“Four days, weather permitting,” Wickham replied. “Though we may take a more… circuitous route if pursuit seems likely.”
“Four days,” Elizabeth repeated, her mind racing. If Darcy were to call again at Longbourn, either today or tomorrow, would he discover her absence? The thought provided a flicker of hope amidst her terror.
Darcy would search for her. The man who had faced a bullet to defend her honor would not abandon her to Wickham’s schemes.
“You seem comforted by some private thought, Miss Bennet,” Wickham observed, his eyes narrowing. “I assure you, whatever rescue fantasy occupies your mind is precisely that, a fantasy. By the time anyone realizes your true whereabouts, we shall be safely across the Scottish border.”
Elizabeth met his gaze steadily. “You underestimate Mr. Darcy, just as you always have. And you certainly underestimate me.”
Wickham’s smile faltered for an instant before returning with forced confidence. “Even Mr. Darcy would not stoop to rescue a young woman who has spurned him and will marry another man.”
“He has been known to value honor above propriety,” Elizabeth reminded Wickham. “If he visits Longbourn today or tomorrow and discovers my absence…”
Wickham immediately ordered Jenkins to slow the carriage to a walking pace.
“You bring up a good point, Miss Elizabeth. Always so perceptive and intelligent. We cannot have Mr. Darcy visiting Longbourn and alerting your parents, so perhaps a small letter will suffice? Explaining your decision to elope with me rather than face the scandal of an illegitimate child without a father willing to claim it.”
“I will write no such thing.” Elizabeth knew being contrary would bring better results. Of course, she hated troubling Darcy, but he needed to be alerted to Wickham’s plot. “Mr. Darcy is preparing for his departure to Pemberley. Surely, he cannot be disturbed.”
“Then we’d better deliver the missive today before he calls at Longbourn.” Wickham reached into his coat and withdrew the small pistol, which he placed casually on the seat beside him. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to threats, Miss Bennet, but you leave me little choice. The letter will be written, or Hobbs here will be forced to demonstrate his persuasive techniques.”
Hobbs cracked his knuckles with evident relish, his scarred face splitting in a grin that displayed several missing teeth. “Wouldn’t want to hurt a lady in your condition,” he said, his tone belying the sentiment. “But orders is orders.”
“Very well,” she said, feigning resignation. “I will write your letter.”
“A wise decision,” Wickham said, his smug satisfaction making her fingers itch to slap the expression from his face. He produced paper, pen, and a travel inkwell from a small case under the seat. “You will write exactly what I dictate, Miss Bennet. Any deviation will be corrected.”
Elizabeth accepted the writing materials, balancing the paper on a small board Wickham provided. Her hand trembled slightly, whether from fear or rage, she could not tell. How could she alert Darcy to her true situation without Wickham detecting the subterfuge?
Then inspiration struck. The poetry they had read together during his convalescence—the ridiculous verses they had mocked, the lines they had composed jointly. Darcy would recognize immediately that such sentiments could never be hers voluntarily, especially after their conversation in the garden.
