Georgiana had indeed grown paler, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the table. “He will hurt her,” she said. “You must stop him.”
Darcy crossed to his sister, kneeling despite the pain to meet her eyes. “Georgie, listen to me. Wickham will not succeed in this scheme. I will find Elizabeth and bring her home safely. I promise you.”
“I’ll see to maps and provisions,” Bingley assured him, pulling the bell rope to summon Patterson. “We can be on the road within the hour.”
Another rumble of thunder, closer now, underscored the urgency of their preparations. Rain began to patter against the windows, light at first but rapidly increasing in intensity.
“The weather,” Caroline observed with vindictive satisfaction. “You’ll make no progress in this downpour. The roads will be impassable.”
“Then we shall swim,” Darcy replied coldly, his patience for Caroline’s interruptions exhausted.
Within the hour, as promised, Darcy sat in Bingley’s fastest traveling carriage. Colonel Fitzwilliam had already departed for Meryton, while Georgiana remained at Netherfield under Mrs. Annesley’s care, Caroline having sulked off to her chambers in high dudgeon.
The rain fell in sheets now, drumming against the carriage roof and reducing visibility to mere yards. Mud splashed beneath the wheels as the horses struggled against the increasingly treacherous conditions. Darcy’s shoulder throbbed. Each jolt threatened to reopen the healing wound, but Darcy scarcely noticed. His concern for Elizabeth eclipsed every other pain.
Wickham. Always Wickham, lurking at the edges of his life like a shadow, ready to strike at those he held dear. First Georgiana, now Elizabeth. The parallel sickened him. Both women were targeted for their connection to him, both valued by Wickham only as instruments of revenge.
The hours passed with excruciating slowness.
Darcy consulted his pocket watch for the dozenth time. They had traveled less than ten miles in three hours. His frustration mounted with each plodding mile, each cautious ford of a swollen stream. Elizabeth’s face haunted him—her courage, herspirit, her vulnerability in Wickham’s hands. Had she attempted escape? Had she been harmed for her defiance? The possibilities tormented him.
“Darcy.” Bingley’s voice broke into his dark reverie. “Look ahead.”
Darcy leaned forward, peering through the rain-streaked window. In the distance, a jumble of carriages and wagons had formed haphazardly, motionless despite the weather. As their carriage drew closer, the cause became apparent: a small stone bridge spanning what should have been a modest stream had been overswept by raging floodwaters.
All around them, carriages attempted to jostle ahead of others, their drivers shouting out the importance of their occupants. Other drivers resisted while horses stamped and pawed.
Darcy’s impatience drove him from the relative comfort of the carriage into the punishing rain, Bingley close at his heels.
“What news?” Darcy demanded of a sodden ostler who seemed to be directing the impromptu assembly.
“Bridge ain’t safe, sir,” the man replied. “Waters too high, and rising still. We’re waiting on word from the far side—talk is there’s a team of men bringing materials to shore up the crossing, but they’re delayed by the same flood that’s stopped us here.”
“How long?” Darcy pressed, rain streaming down his face and soaking through his coat to the bandages beneath. The cold aggravated his wound, sending sharp pains through his shoulder and down his arm.
“Can’t say for certain, sir. Hours, at least. Maybe till morning if the rain don’t let up.”
Morning. Every hour of delay was an hour Wickham drew further away and an hour Elizabeth remained in peril.
“There must be another crossing,” he insisted.
“None that won’t take you ten miles out of your way, sir,” the ostler replied with an apologetic shrug. “And those roads’ll be worse than this one, with less traffic to keep ’em passable.”
Darcy turned away, frustration and fear warring within him. The storm had thwarted his pursuit before it had properly begun. Every instinct screamed for action, for movement, for progress toward Elizabeth—yet here he stood, as impotent against nature’s fury as he had been against fever’s grip.
A commotion from the cluster of carriages drew their attention. Raised voices and the splashing of horses pushed through rushing water. An elegant black carriage attempted to jostle its way to the flooded bridge. The de Bourgh crest gleamed on its door panel, unmistakable even through the downpour.
“Is that not your aunt’s carriage?” Bingley asked, clearly bewildered.
Darcy’s brow furrowed in confusion. “It appears to be, though I cannot imagine what business Lady Catherine would have in this part of the country. Kent lies in the opposite direction.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied the vehicle more carefully. The carriage was indeed his aunt’s, but something about the driver seemed unfamiliar—his posture was wrong, lacking the perfect rigid formality of Lady Catherine’s longtime coachman.
“How strange,” Darcy murmured, more to himself than Bingley. “I wonder if my aunt is truly inside.”
“Shall we inquire?” Bingley suggested.
Darcy had to work his way around several stranded carriages, but the carriage door opened before he could get close. A slender woman in an oversized gentleman’s coat dropped into the mud-soaked road. Her hair was bound with what appeared to be a grimy neckerchief, and her dress—what was visible beneath the coat—seemed torn and muddied. Despite this disheveled appearance, she carried herself with an authoritativeair that seemed at odds with her apparent station as she addressed the footman of another carriage.
