Drawn by the unusual haste of their approach, Janet, the Hunsford maid, had already informed her mistress, and so Mrs. Collins herself appeared at the door almost at once, her maid close behind her. One look at the scene—the drenched young lady in Elias Bennet’s arms, her pallor, the state of the gentlemen, and the captive brought unwillingly behind—was enough to silence every exclamation she might otherwise have offered, her practical mind leaping at once to comprehension and action.
“Bring Miss Darcy in at once, Mr. Bennet,” Charlotte said without hesitation, her voice steady and her manner decisive as she stepped aside with a composure that concealed whatever surprise she must have felt at the extraordinary sight before her.
Janet remained at her mistress’s shoulder, silent and alert, awaiting instruction.
James drew Wickham farther inside and closed the door with deliberate care, the latch settling with a finality that admitted no misunderstanding. He kept his hand firm at Wickham’s back, guiding him to the side of the hall where the light was steady and the passage narrow, leaving neither space nor opportunityfor sudden movement. Wickham stood there in constrained silence, his shoulders tight, his eyes lowered; and James, planted squarely beside him, made it plain—by posture alone—that whatever had begun in the open air would not be concluded by flight indoors.
As expected, Mrs. Collins offered neither question nor exclamation; she did not gasp or falter. Instead, she acted with the calm efficiency that had ever marked her character, providing a soothing balm amid the disarray of the moment.
Elias carried Miss Darcy inside and halted only when Charlotte indicated the small parlour to the left. Assessing the situation in a single, practised glance, Mrs. Collins decided at once what must be done.
“Miss Georgiana, do you feel alright?”
“Yes, Mrs. Collins. A glass of water might help,” Georgiana said, her voice feeble yet steadied by the warmth of Charlotte’s presence.
A glance from her mistress was enough for the servant to disappear and return moments later with a tray. Charlotte helped Georgiana drink, her movements careful and sisterly, then addressed the maid.
“Janet,” she said, “you are to assist Miss Darcy upstairs. Dry clothes, warm water, and discretion. My blue gown should suit her slender figure well. Nothing is to be spoken of beyond this house—not a word, do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied instantly, sobered by the tone and the gravity of Charlotte’s gaze, hurrying forward to lend her support.
Miss Darcy stirred, lifting her head just enough to meet Elias’s eyes, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound cameat first, only a look of profound gratitude that lingered between them like an unspoken vow. He inclined his head to her—not formally, only with a gravity that acknowledged more than rescue, a silent assurance that stirred her to murmur, faintly, “Thank you, Mr. Bennet.”
Elias Bennet smiled and bowed slowly.
The maid guided her gently from her chair, drawing her away with a sisterly firmness that made the transition feel natural rather than abrupt, her touch steadying Miss Darcy as they moved toward the stairs. Within moments, Georgiana was led upstairs, her wet garments trailing faint marks upon the floor.
Charlotte turned back to Elias, her expression thoughtful but unalarmed, a faint nod conveying her approval of his actions. “Now you must explain to me what occurred, Mr. Bennet.” Her voice held quiet command, yet beneath it lay a note of genuine solicitude that invited trust.
Elias answered without ornament, his manner plain and exact, as though precision were the only form of respect the moment permitted. He told Mrs. Collins that he and his brother had been walking along the Hunsford side of the lake when they heard raised voices and saw Miss Darcy upon the bridge, plainly distressed, with a gentleman standing far nearer to her than propriety allowed. Words had passed—of their substance Elias could not speak with certainty—but the urgency of Miss Darcy’s manner left no doubt that the encounter was unwanted. He described how the man seized her wrist; how she resisted; and how, in freeing herself, she lost her balance and fell into the water below.
He added, his voice steady but firm, that the gentleman neither called for help nor attempted assistance, but retreated at once and fled when observed.
“There was no accident in it,” Elias concluded, meeting Charlotte’s gaze without hesitation. “Only an intrusion, resistance, and the consequences of refusing submission.”
“You have done everything that could be done, Mr. Bennet,” she said quietly, her words carrying a warmth that eased the tension in his shoulders. “I will take the matter from here. Come to the servants’ room. I have some older clothes of Mr. Collins that, although shorter, will serve you for the present.”
James, meanwhile, brought Wickham forward into the entry, his grip still unrelaxed, the captive’s protests now muted by fatigue and fear. Charlotte glanced at him briefly, her composure unshaken.
“Secure him, Mr. Bennet,” Charlotte said briefly, not looking at the man herself but indicating the study with a nod. “The study will do. He is not to leave until Mr. Darcy arrives.”
James did so without ceremony, his face set in grim satisfaction as he complied, acknowledging Charlotte’s command with a grateful glance that spoke of relief at her unflinching allyship.
Only then did Charlotte allow herself a breath, her posture relaxing by a fraction as the immediate demands were met.
She walked out and made her way to the stables, and addressed herself sharply to the groom, who hovered uncertainly by the door, his eyes wide with the unfolding drama. “Saddle a horse at once, Phillip,” she directed, her voice calm yet urgent. “You are to go to Rosings and request Mr. Darcy’s immediate presence—privately. Say only that his sister is safe but requires him. No explanation beyond that. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man replied, hastening to obey with a nod that betrayed his eagerness to escape the tension within.
“And hurry,” Charlotte added, her tone brooking no delay, watching until he vanished into the stable yard.
As the man departed, Charlotte returned to the cottage, closed the door with care, and stood for a moment in the quiet that followed—the house, so often arranged for convenience and propriety, having become something else entirely: a shelter against the storm of scandal.
***
The carriage from Rosings drew up before Hunsford Parsonage with a measured restraint that spoke of urgency carefully governed, its wheels scarcely disturbing the gravel as it halted beneath the modest portico. Mr. Darcy descended at once, his manner composed, his expression grave rather than betraying alarm. He knocked twice and was admitted by the maid without the least delay, the door closing softly behind him as though the house itself understood the need for discretion.
Mrs. Collins came out to meet him in the passage, her posture steady, her countenance reflecting neither undue agitation nor curiosity.
