“I await your instruction, Mr. Wickham,” she said, pen poised above the paper.
Wickham dictated, watching her closely as she transcribed his words:
Mr. Darcy,
I write to inform you that I have eloped with Mr. Wickham, the true object of my affection. Your failure to acknowledge our child has left me no alternative but to seek protection from a gentleman willing to give his name to the innocent. By the time you receive this letter, I will be Mrs. Wickham, and beyond your reach forever.
Your fortune and position mean nothing to me compared to genuine affection. Mr. Wickham has long possessed my heart, despite the obstacles you placed in our path. Now, we shall have the happiness you sought to deny us.
Do not attempt to follow us. Your interference would only cause further scandal, something I’m certain you wish to avoid.
Elizabeth Bennet
“There,” Wickham said with satisfaction as she completed the final line. “A clear and convincing explanation of your sudden departure. Fold and seal it, if you please.”
“Might I add a postscript?” Elizabeth asked. “A final thought that has just occurred to me?”
Wickham frowned, suspicious. “What sort of postscript?”
“A reference to our last conversation,” Elizabeth improvised. “To ensure Mr. Darcy understands that my decision is final.”
“Very well,” Wickham conceded after a moment’s consideration. “But I shall read it before you seal the letter.”
Elizabeth nodded her agreement, then bent to add her postscript:
P.S. When first I gazed upon thy face divine, my soul was struck as by a thunderbolt! The gentleman with countenance so stern, matched only by the lady’s sharp discern. I journey now to thistle’s fair expanse, like petals of the reddest rose. Remember our poetic exchange, and know that in ourselves are triumph and defeat.
She passed the letter to Wickham, who read it with narrowed eyes. “What nonsense is this? Poetry?”
“Mr. Darcy and I discussed verse during his illness,” Elizabeth explained, careful to keep her tone matter-of-fact. “This passage will remind him of the intensity of emotion that can lead to impulsive decisions.”
Wickham studied her face, clearly searching for signs of deception. Finding none—for he lacked greatly in literary matters—he shrugged and folded the letter.
“It makes little sense to me, but if it satisfies you, so be it.” He sealed the letter, then tucked it into his coat. “We’ll post it at the next village. By the time Darcy receives it, we’ll be well on our way to the border.”
The village in question appeared shortly—a small cluster of buildings surrounding a church, with a coaching inn where fresh horses could be procured. Wickham handed her letter to a servant boy with instructions to post it immediately, along with a coin that ensured prompt compliance.
Elizabeth pressed her face against the window glass, her hand splayed against it. She moved her fingers, hoping the boy would be alerted to her distress.
“Cheer up, Miss Bennet,” Wickham said, noting her expression. “Marriage to me will not be such a hardship. I can be most agreeable when it suits me.”
“I would rather marry a toad,” Elizabeth replied, past caring about the consequences of her defiance. “At least its character would be an improvement upon yours.”
Wickham’s face darkened. “Your wit may amuse Darcy, but I find it tiresome. You would do well to remember that your comfort during this journey depends entirely upon my goodwill.”
“Enough,” Hobbs interrupted unexpectedly. “The lady’s upset, can’t you see? Not good for the baby, all this arguing.”
Elizabeth stared at him in surprise. This rough man, who had threatened her with violence not an hour before, now showed concern for her nonexistent child?
“There is no baby, Mr. Hobbs,” she said quietly. “That is a fiction Mr. Wickham has invented for his own purposes.”
Hobbs looked to Wickham, confusion evident in his scarred face. “But you said?—”
“I said what was necessary,” Wickham snapped. “Keep your concerns to yourself, Hobbs. You’re paid to follow orders, not to think.”
Elizabeth turned her face to the window, watching the familiar landscape of Hertfordshire slip away. Rest was impossible, but the pretense would allow her to think undisturbed. There must be some opportunity for escape, some flaw in Wickham’s plan she could exploit. Until then, she would conserve her strength, observe her captors, and pray Darcy would be more resourceful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
