Not a quarter of an hour later, a company of men set out from the servants’ entrance and spread out around the grounds to search for Elizabeth and Wickham. They searched in pairs, both for safety’s sake and out of the hope that what one overlooked, the other might notice. Darcy’s partner was a groom by the name of Davies, a keen-eyed young man who had a reputation for handling even the most difficult horses.
“I never liked that Wickham,” Davies muttered as they strode rapidly over the icy ground, “but I never thought he would do something like this. If we find him, sir, I’d be much obliged if you would let me show him what I think of him with my fists.”
“I understand the sentiment,” Darcy told him, “but I confess myself surprised that you knew much of Wickham. I should have thought he would have left the house before your time.”
Davies shook his head. “I remember him from back when I was a stable boy, sir. He was never good to the horses. Treated ‘em like animals.”
To anyone else, it might have seemed a strange phrase. Horses were animals, but Darcy quickly caught the boy’s meaning. Wickham’s cruel streak was not only expressed towards human beings.
“Yes, he did,” Darcy agreed, his heart heavy. He hated to think what Wickham might be capable of, backed into a corner as he now was. And Darcy had let him into his home, despite knowing he was not to be trusted. If any harm had come to Elizabeth, he would never forgive himself.
As they called and searched, it became clear that no one had been in their section of the garden. Their tracks were the only ones in the crunchy, frozen blanket of snow that still covered the ground. “We had best get back to the terrace and see if anyone has found anything,” Darcy said at last.
When they arrived back at the terrace, most of the others had already returned. The lanterns cast an eerie orange glow around the patio. Some searchers were stomping their feet to keep warm, while others were accepting steaming mugs of tea from Mrs Reynolds.
Colonel Fitzwilliam joined him on the bottom step, pulling him aside for a moment. “Anything?” he asked.
“No. And I assume you’ve had the same luck as I?” Darcy asked.
“Yes.” Fitzwilliam’s brow was knit into a deep frown. “I cannot understand it. It’s as if they’ve just vanished.” He shook his head, but Darcy could see that the wheels of his mind were still spinning. He was a military man, trained to handle moments of crisis.
Darcy looked up at the sky as tiny flecks of snow began to fall. The sun had set almost an hour before. It would only grow colder as the night went on; Elizabeth could not survive long without shelter. The question was, where would Wickham have taken her?
Fitzwilliam looked into the distance, his eyes unfocused. “Wickham grew up at Pemberley,” he said thoughtfully. “There is something in that, is there not? He must know all the old hiding places. Would he have taken her to one of them for safekeeping until he could figure out a plan?”
Darcy nodded, feeling a sudden light of hope. It was an idea, at least, where they had previously had none. They could not check every inch of the woods, but if they might guess where Wickham had taken her…
There.It was possible; it was even likely. Without another word, Darcy turned and snatched up a lantern. Before Fitzwilliam could ask him where he was going, he was off, running through the freezing night.
The path Darcy was looking for had once been well-worn, but was now thickly overgrown with holly, saplings, and long grasses. When he had travelled into the thick underbrush about twenty paces, he stopped abruptly.
There, almost covered again by falling snow, were two sets of footprints. Darcy knelt and examined them. One looked as if it had been made by a pair of large boots, the other by someone in slippers. The boots moved steadily, while the steps of the slippers were sliding and uneven, as though they were not walking easily. As though, perhaps, they were being dragged along against their will.
He hurried down the path, careful to keep his eyes peeled for Wickham, should he be lying in wait for someone to come along the path. Only then did it occur to him that this might have been Wickham’s plan all along: to steal away his wife and use her as bait to get Darcy away from any witnesses. Then he could try to overpower him and dispose of him and Elizabeth in one fell swoop, leaving Georgiana the sole heiress to the Darcy fortune.
Darcy grimaced, realising he did not have so much as a penknife on him. Like a fool, he had left any weapon with which to defend himself at the house. In years past, he would neverhave dreamed Wickham would stoop to violence. Now, Darcy was certain he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
Finally, he made it to the end of the path. Memories of his boyhood came thick and fast. At the end of the path was a copse of trees. Long ago, when they had still been friends, he and Wickham had bent them into the shape of a dome. Over the years, the trees had grown into a small cave-like hideaway, invisible from only paces away. Once, it had been a boy’s hideout and fort, a place to be pirates or Robin Hood’s men. Now, he hoped Wickham had sought to use it once more for outlawry of a very different nature.
“Elizabeth,” he called, barely above a whisper. His heart leapt with hope and dread all at once as he hurried toward the old haunt. His breath came out in frozen wisps. Darcy made his way through the brush, moving branches and fallen saplings out of his way until he reached the mouth of the “cave.”
He knelt and crawled into the little structure, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the deeper shade of gloom that surrounded him. He lifted the lantern once inside, and he let out a sigh of relief when he saw a figure huddled on the other side of the structure, almost completely obscured by overgrown branches.
“Elizabeth?” he scrambled toward her, hurrying to reach her through the mass of brambles.
She had been tied to a tree with her hands behind her back, her head leaning to the side.
She tried to say something, but a cloth over her mouth obscured her words. He removed the gag as gently as he could, despising Wickham all over again for the tightness of the knot. He touched her face, moving the hair from her eyes. Her skinwas ice cold. “Please, please let me not be too late,” Darcy murmured. He worked as quickly as his frozen fingers could manage to untie her bonds.
Elizabeth fell into his arms, her head falling back as if she no longer had the strength to hold it up. Shifting her to rest on his lap, Darcy quickly took off his coat. He wrapped it around her and held her close, desperately trying to warm her.
Elizabeth clung to him, shivering uncontrollably. “Wickham —” she tried to say, her teeth chattering almost too much for speech.
“He did this to you,” Darcy said gently. “You need not talk; I know. And by God, I will see him punished for it.”
“Georgiana,” Elizabeth murmured. She could not seem to say more, but she pulled on the front of his vest, as if willing him to understand.
“Georgiana is safe. Do not worry about anything else but staying alive,” he said. He had to get her back to the house, and fast. “Are you able to stand?” he asked.
