Miss Georgiana had reached the midpoint and paused to gaze downward, lost in the gentle ripple of reflections, when the sound of measured footsteps upon the gravel caused her to turn.
To her astonishment, George Wickham stood a few paces distant, his smile ill-judged and wholly misplaced.
Seeing him there unexpectedly was a shock that coursed through the young lady like ice, yet Miss Georgiana mastered it swiftly, drawing herself up with a composure born of necessity. “You have no right to be upon these grounds, Mr. Wickham,” she said, her voice remarkably steady despite the suddenconstriction in her throat. “This is private property, and your presence here is an intrusion.”
Wickham’s grin—that smooth, insidious smile she remembered all too well—curved his lips as the gentleman stepped nearer, his tone laced with a false gentleness that only heightened her disdain, though a fleeting darkening crossed his features when confronted with her unflinching resolve. “Private once, perhaps, my dear Georgiana. As was Lambton, if memory serves—and as were the promises you once whispered in innocence.”
Miss Georgiana’s fingers tightened upon the stone railing. “Forgive my bluntness, sir. You must leave this place at once,” the young lady commanded, the words firm though her heart beat rapidly within her breast.
“I cannot depart without a word,” Wickham replied, his voice dropping to a persuasive murmur. “Not when I have waited so patiently for the opportunity to speak. My feelings, Georgiana—those feelings you once returned in the fervour of youth—”
“They were never returned,” Miss Georgiana interrupted, her voice rising with quiet vehemence. “What you offered was deception, and what you offer now is nothing less than trespass upon my peace.”
Wickham laughed shortly, the sound forced rather than amused, as though the young lady’s indignation were merely the petulance of youth, a fleeting obstacle to his designs, yet the strain beneath it betrayed his growing unease. “You were younger then, Miss Darcy, less certain of your own heart. Time has matured us both; surely you can see now how advantageously we might—”
“I am certain now,” Miss Georgiana replied with unwavering clarity, her voice steady despite the tremor of emotion thatbetrayed her resolve, turning resolutely to quit the bridge with a composure that belied the turmoil within her heart.
Wickham’s hand closed promptly upon the young lady’s wrist, the sudden, possessive grasp sending a wave of revulsion and fear through Miss Georgiana Darcy that caused her to stiffen in instinctive alarm.
“Unhand me, Wickham,” the young lady demanded, striving to free herself with controlled force, her tone firm and commanding though laced with the quiet dread of one who recognised the danger of his proximity.
“Only listen, Miss Darcy,” Wickham urged in a low, insistent whisper, his grip tightening as his composure frayed, his eyes gleaming with a desperation that only heightened her resolve to escape. “Please, don’t draw attention—we might yet understand one another—”
“No. That would not be,” she refused with absolute conviction, her voice rising slightly in determined refusal as she met his gaze without flinching. “Leave now, Wickham!”
With a surge of determination Miss Darcy wrenched her arm free, the motion abrupt and successful, yet the violence of the effort threw her off balance upon the narrow bridge, her heart pounding with the terror of the moment. Her hand grasped vainly for the rail; and in an instant the world tilted perilously.
A sharp cry escaped the young lady’s lips as she fell, the cold water closing over her with merciless shock, the sudden plunge robbing her of breath and filling her with icy dread.
The young lady barely surfaced gasping, choking and spluttering, the weight of saturated skirts dragging her downward, her limbs hampered by the clinging fabric that threatened to pull her into the depths.
Georgiana cried out again—loudly, urgently, without reserve, her voice carrying across the water in desperate appeal.
“Help!—help me!”
She struck the water desperately with both arms. The bridge towered a few feet above her, its rail far beyond her reach; the stone sides offered no purchase. She flung one arm outward, then the other, forcing herself to remain upright while turning desperately toward the nearer bank.
It was only a few yards away—but the water felt suddenly vast. Each movement required effort; each breath came sharp and fast. She beat the surface hard with her hands, keeping herself afloat by instinct rather than strength, even as fear threatened to undo the order of her motions.
Wickham advanced cautiously and now stood at the edge of the bridge, staring down at the water in stunned agitation, his hands half lifted and yet purposeless. He leaned forward, then recoiled, the cries rising from below seeming only to deepen his confusion. The distance, the depth of the lake, and the sudden realisation of his own incapacity pressed upon him at once.
He took a few steps back. He could not swim, and he knew it. Fear mastered whatever impulse remained, and after one last, helpless glance, he withdrew from the rail, retreating with the instinct of a man more eager to escape consequence than to render aid.
Miss Darcy called again for help, her voice carrying across the nearer stretch of water and along the bank, thin with strain but unmistakable, while she fought not the depth, but exhaustion, distance, and the dreadful knowledge that she could not hold out long unaided.
From the bank that bordered the Hunsford property came a sudden shout—then two voices raised in alarm—followed at once by the sound of hurried footfalls upon gravel and grass.
James Bennet broke first into view, running hard, his coat flung open, his attention fixed upon the bridge with an intensity that left no doubt of what he had seen. Elias was scarcely a step behind him. It was James who recognised the figure standing there—too close, too familiar—the man he had already marked last evening, the one Mr. Darcy had openly rejected when asked to dance with Miss Darcy. He shouted “Hold there, sir!”, the words torn from him by instinct rather than reflection, his voice carrying across the water with the force of a challenge rather than a question. Both brothers saw the scene upon the bridge resolve itself into catastrophe: Miss Darcy’s sudden wrenching movement, the desperate clutch for the rail, and then her fall, her cry breaking sharp and unmistakable as she vanished into the water below.
Wickham turned sharply at the sound, colour draining from his countenance as he realised, he had been observed—not merely present, but caught. The moment held no hesitation. Fear mastered calculation; he wheeled about and fled, abandoning bridge, victim, and pretence alike.
James did not check his stride. His anger, long restrained, lent speed and purpose to every movement as he vaulted the low embankment without breaking pace and set off in pursuit, his single thought fixed upon preventing Wickham’s escape.
Elias did not follow. His course had already altered, his attention seized by the desperate cries rising from the water below.
The sound of Miss Georgiana’s voice reached him like a summons he could not ignore. Without a moment’s hesitation—disregarding all consequence—Elias Bennet cast aside his coat as he ran, letting it fall upon the bridge, and plunged into the lake.
The cold water stole the young gentleman’s breath, yet Elias Bennet pressed forward with powerful strokes, his eyes fixed upon the struggling figure ahead. The young lady was weakening rapidly, her movements growing frantic, her head barely above the surface.
