Her face crumpled, though she did not allow herself to cry. Instead, she wrapped her arms tightly around herself and gave a single, determined nod.
“I suppose we should not be surprised,” she said quietly.
Mr Bennet laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We will keep watch. And we will act when the time is right. He may be a step ahead for now, but he won’t stay there long.”
Over the next several days, George Wickham performed his militia duties with mechanical precision—marching, inspecting, saluting—whilst his thoughts danced through darker corridors. His nights were spent walking the wooded paths beyond Meryton, searching for a hiding place. On the third evening, fortune smiled.
Near the edge of a long-abandoned farmstead, nestled in a gnarled copse of hawthorn and elder, Wickham found a crumbling hunting hut. One room, stone walls, a crooked stove rusting in the corner, and a sagging roof that whined in the wind. But it would serve.
He cleared out the worst of the cobwebs and patched the roof with oilcloth stolen from camp supplies. Over the following nights, he smuggled in rugs, dry food, a few tin plates and a battered lantern. He stacked firewood behind the hut and fetched water from a stream a quarter mile away. It was squalid. But for a child? For a few days? It would do.
And so he watched. Day after day, he lingered at the edge of Longbourn’s hedgerows, hidden amongst the brambles and trees like some predatory animal. He noted everything—who walked where, what time the servants changed shifts, and most importantly, the routine of the boy.
Tommy was brought out midmorning nearly every day. The governess would sit on a bench with one of the younger girls whilst the boy played, sometimes with a hoop, sometimes chasing a barn cat. The garden waslarge but unguarded, bordered only by hedge and woods. So easy. So very easy.
Wickham waited until the wind turned cold and grey clouds dimmed the morning sun. A perfect day to disappear.
He was already in position when they came—just past the break in the hedge where the child often ventured close. He crouched behind a thick yew, every muscle tight, heart thudding. A single glance told him today was ideal: the governess had brought a book and was half-distracted reading it aloud to the girl beside her. Tommy ran circles in the grass, laughing and rolling in leaves. Closer. Closer still.
Wickham reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a paper twist of sugar candies. “Tommy,” he called in a soft, coaxing voice. “Tommy! Over here. Would you like a sweet?”
The boy turned, blinking curiously towards the hedge. “Mister?” he called out.
“Shh. Come close, and I’ll give you something special. It is a surprise.”
The child crept towards the opening in the greenery, eyes wide and trusting. Wickham’s heart surged. He rose from his crouch slowly, hands ready.
The governess turned, saying something to the girl beside her—then her voice rose, puzzled. “Tommy?”
Wickham struck.
In one swift motion, he snatched the child, one arm locking tightly around the small torso, the other clapping firmly over his mouth. Tommy kicked and flailed in surprise, but Wickham hoisted him, muscles straining as he twisted into the trees.
Behind him, the governess stood up. “Tommy?” she called again, louder this time. “Tommy!”
“Tommy!” echoed the girl.
Leaves snapped and branches tore as Wickham raced through the brush, ducking and weaving through the undergrowth, the child squirming against his chest. He whispered urgently in the boy’s ear, “Be still or I’ll hurt you.” The boy whimpered but stilled.
Voices rang out behind him. “Tommy!”
“Miss Lane, where is he?”
“Tommy!”
Wickham didn’t stop. He didn’t look back. He ran until his lungs burned, until the voices were gone, until only the pounding of his heart and the rustling of the woods remained. When he reached the hut, he shoved open the warped door and stumbled inside. He dropped the boy onto a pile of blankets and slammed the door shut behind him, bracing it with a fallen branch.
Tommy sat frozen, cheeks wet, trembling.
Wickham bent down, panting hard. “That’s enough crying,” he snapped. “You’re going to be quiet now. If you’re good, nothing bad will happen. But if you scream, if you run, if you disobey—well, we don’t want that, do we?”
He straightened, dusting off his coat and smiling grimly.
Now it begins.
The morning sun had scarcely broken the horizon when Elizabeth stepped out into the brisk December air. Her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, she needed the space and solitude of the countryside. It had been some time since the failed meeting with Wickham on OakhamMount—and since anyone had seen or heard from the man. The unease in her chest had grown steadily, fanned by Colonel Forster’s reluctant admission that Wickham had taken an unexpected leave of absence. He had not said where he was going, only that it was “personal.”
Darcy had gone pale when he heard.
