Bingley hesitated, glancing at the assembled company, but at Darcy’s insistent nod, he began to read.
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
A stunned silence followed. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood, his military bearing in full evidence despite his civilian clothes. “There is more,” he observed, indicating the postscript that Bingley had not yet read.
Bingley cleared his throat uncomfortably.
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.
“What nonsense is this?” Caroline exclaimed. “Poetry at such a moment? The girl has lost her wits entirely.”
“Or she never had them to begin with,” Colonel Fitzwilliam muttered, studying Darcy’s face with concern.
But Darcy’s mind had seized upon the postscript like a drowning man grasping at flotsam. Those lines—he recognized them instantly. They were fragments of the poems he and Elizabeth had concocted during his fever, verses they had mocked for their overwrought sentiment, lines they had composed jointly in an hour of shared laughter.
And then, the revelation struck him. “Thistle’s fair expanse.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bingley asked.
“Scotland,” Darcy said, the fog of confusion clearing from his mind. “The thistle is Scotland’s emblem. She’s telling me they’re headed to Gretna Green.”
“But surely you don’t believe—” Georgiana began, only to be interrupted by her brother.
“This letter is not what it appears,” Darcy declared, his voice steadying as certainty replaced doubt. “Elizabeth has been taken against her will. The body of the letter was dictated to her, but the postscript is her own—a message she knew only I would understand.”
“Taken?” Georgiana gasped, her face paling. “By Wickham?”
She swayed in her chair, and Colonel Fitzwilliam moved swiftly to her side, steadying her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Yes,” Darcy confirmed grimly. “And we must act immediately. Charles, I need your fastest horses. Richard, can you ride to Meryton and alert Colonel Forster? Wickham is still technically under his command, a deserter now.”
“Of course,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied without hesitation. “But Darcy, in your condition?—”
“My condition is irrelevant. I will not remain here while Elizabeth is in danger.”
A distant rumble of thunder punctuated his words, as if nature itself acknowledged the gravity of the situation.
“This is absurd,” Caroline declared. “You mean to chase halfway to Scotland for a woman who has spurned you? Madness. You are in no condition to ride.”
“I will take a carriage,” Darcy countered, already moving toward the door. “Bingley, will you accompany me?”
“Without question,” Bingley replied, rising from his seat.
“Charles!” Caroline protested. “You cannot seriously intend to chase after that girl based on some fanciful interpretation of bad poetry.”
“That’s enough, Caroline,” Bingley said, his normally genial countenance hardening. “Miss Elizabeth is in danger, and I will not stand by and do nothing.”
“But the scandal! The impropriety!” Caroline sputtered, her face flushing with indignation. “Miss Elizabeth may well have meant to marry this handsome lieutenant. Why would you interfere?”
“If you cannot be useful, Caroline, at least be silent,” Bingley replied with uncharacteristic sharpness. “Better yet, make yourself useful by staying here with Miss Darcy. She needs comfort, not your speculation about scandal.”
