Since then, he had taken up near-daily residence at Longbourn. He arrived midmorning and often lingered until dusk, under the guise of keeping Bingley company or discussing horseflesh with Mr Bennet. But Elizabeth knew the truth. He was waiting. Watching. Planning.
Miss Bingley’s sharp glances and stifled sighs were a near-constant accompaniment—she came with her brother to ‘discuss wedding details.’ Elizabeth had begun to pity the woman in some small measure. Bingley, of course, was blissfully oblivious, entirely wrapped up in Jane, and Jane equally so in him. Their joy was a balm in the midst of uncertainty—but Elizabeth could not help but feel that it made the rest of them seem like actors on a stage, performing a polite comedy whilst something terrible brewed just offstage.
That morning, Elizabeth had excused herself before breakfast and wandered along the well-worn path towards Oakham Mount. Her boots crunched over frost-covered leaves, and her breath hung in the air before her, a ghostly wisp that disappeared before she could catch it.
The climb was not difficult, but her chest ached as she reached the summit. How often this place had meant something to her—solace when the guilt of her actions was unbearable, clarity when her thoughts were too tangled. It had been here that she and Darcy first truly connected. And it had been here that Wickham shattered her peace with threats of extortion.
She stood quietly, staring in the direction of the bend in the road where the carriage had crashed five years before. Where a life had ended and another had begun. She could see it clearly in her mind.
Tommy...
A chill swept through her, far colder than the morning air. Something was wrong. She felt it in her bones.
She descended the hill quickly, nearly slipping once on a patch of ice, but catching herself before she fell. As she approached the house, the chaos was immediately apparent—maids running back and forth, Lydia sobbing noisily near the front steps, and Mary pacing in the garden, white-faced.
“Elizabeth!” Jane called out, rushing to meet her. “Tommy—he is gone!”
Her heart stopped. “Gone?”
“He was playing in the wilderness near the orchard,” Jane said breathlessly, eyes wide with panic. “They were reading—Miss Lane turned away for a moment. When she looked back, he was not there.”
Elizabeth’s mind went blank. She barely registered her own movements as she ran into the house, calling for the boy. “Tommy? Tommy!” Her voice cracked. She searched the hallways, the nursery, behind curtains, and under beds—anywhere a small child might hide. Nothing.
Servants had already been sent into the fields and woods. Mr Bennet was outside speaking with Mr Hill when Elizabeth returned, her hands shaking.
She joined the search without hesitation. They scoured the little wilderness, calling Tommy’s name over and over until their throats were hoarse. They sent a note to Netherfield, begging for aid. In reply, Bingley sent a note indicating they would search around his estate.
Hours passed. The sun rose higher, but offered no warmth. Everyone fanned out across the grounds. Still, there was no sign of the boy.
Then, as the cold shadows lengthened towards afternoon, Mr Hill galloped up the drive on horseback, his coat flapping in the wind. He slid to a stop and thrust a folded sheet of paper into Mr Bennet’s hand.
Mr Bennet opened it. His face drained of all colour as his eyes scanned the page.
“No,” Elizabeth whispered.
He looked at her, jaw tight. “Saddle my horse,” he called over his shoulder. Then he handed her the note.
With trembling fingers, Elizabeth unfolded the paper. There were only a few words, written in a hand she now loathed.
You were warned. The price has now doubled. I am sure you can find a way to acquire the full amount. Deliver it or you will never see the boy again. Further instructions are forthcoming.
No signature. Just that cruel, taunting threat.
The note fluttered in her hand like a leaf caught in the wind. And in that moment, standing in the courtyard of her childhood home, Elizabeth Bennet felt the full weight of fear settle on her heart.
Tommy was gone. And Wickham was responsible.
Devastated, Elizabeth dropped to her knees, the note still clutched in her trembling hands. Her breath caught in her throat, and then came the sob—raw, aching, and uncontrollable. Her body folded in on itself as though by doing so she could make it all go away, as though curling into the earth could reverse time and erase the last few hours.
Tommy. Taken.
The very wordtakenechoed in her mind like a cruel drumbeat, pulsing in rhythm with her racing heart. Her vision blurred as tears spilled freely down her cheeks, splashing silently onto her gown. Her fingers clenched the paper so tightly that it tore in places, the jagged edge biting into her palm.
A soft voice broke through her grief. “Lizzy?”
Jane.
A moment later, arms wrapped around her—gentle, warm, trembling slightly. Jane knelt beside her and pulled her close, rocking her as one would a frightened child.
