“The living was never withheld,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his voice hard. “It was offered to Wickham on the condition that he take orders and enter the church. He refused. He demanded money instead—three thousand pounds, which my cousin gave him. Far more than the living was worth. Wickham gambled it away within three years and then had the audacity to return, demanding more.”
“That cannot be true.” Lydia’s voice lacked conviction.
“It is true,” Miss Darcy said. She stepped forward, her young face grave. “Mr. Wickham is a confirmed liar, Miss Lydia. He loves nothing more than to trick impressionable young girls into believing his tales of woe.”
Lydia’s face drained white. “But he was so sincere. So charming. He said?—”
“What else did you tell him? What else did you do?” Mr. Bennet demanded.
“I…” Lydia’s defiance shattered completely. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He asked why Mr. Darcy was spending so much time at Longbourn. I told him it was just Lizzy learning to ride an old horse from his stables. He wanted to know which horse. I said Atlas. And he—he told me how much he loved that horse.”
She pressed her hands to her face. “I thought I was being fair. Helping to correct a wrong. Mr. Wickham promised to repay my kindness someday, so I brought Mr. Wickham and Captain Denny to the stable. Captain Denny put the rope on Atlas. When we came out of the stables, Mr. Wickham had already departed.”
“Oh, Lydia,” Jane said in defeat.
“I did not know he was stealing!” Lydia’s voice broke. “When Captain Denny asked if Mr. Wickham was sure the horse belonged to him, Mr. Wickham swore it to be true. I thought—I do not know what I thought. That he loved the horse. That he would speak to Mr. Darcy, perhaps. Come to some arrangement. Not steal him like a common thief!”
“You stupid girl,” Mrs. Bennet said, her voice thick with horror. “What have you done?”
Lydia sobbed.
Mr. Bennet stood before his youngest daughter, his expression a mixture of disappointment and weary resignation. “You met strangers in the evening alone, away from the protection of your home, Daughter. You heard a charming man tell you a story that convinced you of your own importance, that transformed you into a champion of justice, and you never stopped to think whether it might be a lie. You failed to consider the consequences of your actions.”
“Forgive me.” Lydia wept. “Forgive me, I pray you. I did not mean for this to happen.”
“But it has happened.” Their father turned to Mr. Darcy. “I do not know how to express my regret adequately, sir. My daughter’s actions, however well-intentioned she believed them to be, have enabled this theft. If there is anything I can do…”
Mr. Darcy nodded, his tone softening. “Miss Lydia, I understand your desire for justice to be served. With that said, please share every detail, no matter how small. It may help us find Atlas.”
“And Wickham.” The colonel’s expression was fearsome.
While Lydia recounted the conversation through her tears, Elizabeth’s anguish coursed through her.
“There is more you should know,” Mr. Darcy said when Lydia had finished. His gaze found Elizabeth’s. “Atlas hates Wickham—violently. When Wickham was young, before my father discovered his true nature, he was allowed free run of Pemberley. He often treated the horses poorly—used the whip excessively, rode them too hard, neglected their care. Atlas remembers. On the few occasions Wickham tried to ride him in later years, Atlas refused. Threw him once, nearly trampled him another time. This is why he did not come to the stable. Had Atlas seen him, he would have revolted.”
“Atlas is in danger,” Elizabeth said, her voice shaking.
“Wickham uses animals like he abuses people. Then discards them when they no longer serve his purpose.” Mr. Darcy’s expression was stern. “We must find them. Quickly.”
“I shall send for Colonel Forster and see if we can find Captain Denny,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, already moving toward his horse. “We will need every available man.”
Mr. Darcy approached Lydia. “Which direction did Captain Denny take?”
“Toward Lucas Lodge, I think. Once I realized Mr. Wickham was not waiting for me outside the stable, I had no reason to pay attention. And it was dark.”
“Miss Lydia,” said Mr. Darcy. “Had Wickham not used your kindness, he would have found someone else, I have no doubt.”
Lydia’s whimpers faded, and the men’s urgentplanning became a distant hum. Everything narrowed to a single, screaming thought:Atlas is gone.
Elizabeth pressed her hands against her skirts to still them, but the trembling spread up her arms, to her shoulders, through her entire body until she thought she might shatter. Rage burned in her chest—hot and acidic. Each inhale felt sharp, inadequate, as though her lungs had forgotten how to work.
Atlas was out there with Mr. Wickham. A man who had beaten horses. Who cared not for their suffering. Who would use Atlas until the old horse was broken or dead.
The image of Atlas—steady, gentle Atlas—in pain made Elizabeth’s vision blur. She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting nausea. The horse was tied to Mr. Darcy’s early memories. This had to be heartbreaking for him.
Please.The prayer rose unbidden.Please let them find him. Please let him be safe. Please.
Within the hour, Longbourn’s stable yard was crowded with horses and riders. Colonel Forster had arrived with a dozen militia officers, his face grave as he confirmed that Wickham had been reassigned to a militia stationed in Newcastle. That he deserted instead.
