Elizabeth’s mind raced. If she could only delay them until Darcy or the Colonel appeared! She glanced back toward the inn, silently willing them to return, but the street remained empty except for the ostler and a baker’s boy.
Desperate, she said, “Miss Darcy, perhaps you’ll let me walk with you at least to the edge of the square? I have news from Pemberley.”
Wickham’s smile wavered. “Miss Darcy has no interest in Pemberley gossip, I assure you.” He steered Georgiana toward the chaise, shielding her from Elizabeth’s reach.
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. If she let them leave now, Georgiana would be lost to her brother’s protection—and to Wickham’s designs. For all her intuition, she did not know whether they would continue on the turnpike to Shefford, or turn off towards Baldock. As so often was the case, her insight had begun to fade—as she had told Darcy and the Colonel—as a dream faded in the morning.
On impulse, she grasped Georgiana’s arm. Startled, the girl’s handkerchief slipped from her fingers. Then, in an instant, she was gone—Wickham had bundled her into the chaise. He called out to the postilion, who snapped the horses into motion, and the carriage sped away.
* * *
The Colonel hurried up the street, followed closely by Darcy. “Miss Bennet, was that Wickham and Georgiana?”
Elizabeth retrieved the handkerchief from the pavement, damp from Georgiana’s tears. “Mr. Darcy, these are your sister’s initials, are they not?”
Darcy took the fine linen cloth, delicately trimmed with lace, and embroidered with the initials G and D. He clenched his fist, crushing the handkerchief in his hand. “Where have they gone?” he cried. “Dear poor Georgiana!”
“I have lost them,” said Elizabeth despondently. “Colonel, they are heading north. Would Wickham continue on the turnpike, or take a lane to return to the Great North Road?”
“The chaise is too light for country lanes; to be safe, he should remain on the turnpike. With luck, he did not see Darcy and me—and he would not expect you to follow them. There is likely a toll-house not far from the town. Let us proceed there, and find whether they passed through.”
The horses were still strong, but Darcy insisted they be given a break to cool down, there being little point in chasing Wickham if the horses themselves were broken in the attempt.
Elizabeth, still needing some exercise, walked to the church accompanied by the Colonel. The church was remarkably large for a town the size of Hitchin, which prospered from the local wool trade. She did not linger, for clouds had crowded the sky, and the first few drops of rain splattered onto the pavement.
“Miss Bennet, please allow me to apologise for Darcy’s behaviour,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam as they hurried to the carriage. “He is often pompous, and often thinks too well of himself. He was an only son, spoilt by his parents, who themselves were all that was benevolent and amiable. He was taught to be selfish and overbearing, being the heir to a great estate and the grandson of an earl. Though, hidden away, he is a good man.”
“Indeed, he has offended me,” said Elizabeth, “but that I can forgive, if he were to apologise himself. To some extent, I understand his scepticism, for he is such a rational creature. Tobelieve that the future, or others’ thoughts, can be known seems charlatanry to a man of science.”
She looked at the Colonel. “Are you a man of science? Do you read philosophy? I suspect, you prefer action to words. But Mr. Darcy is a Cambridge man—study there is almost exclusively logic, classics, and theology. Certainly, he must have read Descartes—that mind and body are separate entities; that our minds may roam wherever they wish—if that be to the future, then it is no different from remembering the past. For surely, it is not possible that memories are written or drawn on some parchment residing in our heads—or our brains, as some anatomists hold. I cannot believe it—and neither should any reasonable man conversant with natural history.”
To this, the Colonel had no answer. It was clear that Miss Bennet had long pondered her talent, and had resolved that it was neither supernatural nor divine, but part of the natural world. That others were blind to it did not concern her.
Shortly, they were on their way, heading north towards the Bedford turnpike.
* * *
Chapter 5
Baldock
Some two miles from Hitchin, they came to the toll-gate at Ickleford, just across the Bedfordshire border. The gatekeeper, a dour man with a battered hat and clay pipe, leaned against the wooden frame and shook his head when asked about any passing post-chaise. Only a couple of laden carts and a lumbering stage-wagon had gone through since dawn, he insisted, his eyes flicking between the travellers and their carriage as if weighing their story. There was a shortcut to Baldock—the old Icknield Way—but he warned it was nearly impassable, especially with Willbury Hill looming ahead and, that the coming storm would turn the clay to treacherous muck. Reluctantly, they turned back and set off along the old Baldock road out of Hitchin, their hopes dwindling with every muddy mile. The road itself soon betrayed them: after just a few miles, the surface gave way to deep ruts and overgrown verges, barely fit for anything but farm carts. It was clear why so few bothered with this stretch—Hitchin and Baldock, both located on busy turnpikes, seemed to have little reason for direct traffic.
“Whoa! Brrrr!” The coach jolted to a sudden stop as the driver cried out, reining in the horses before a battered chaise, half-submerged in mud and tilted at a sorry angle. The Colonel was first to climb down, surveying the wreck with a grim satisfaction.
“Well, I believe we have found our quarry,” he said, his boots sinking into the sodden earth. “Darcy, you see to Georgiana, while I find Wickham.”
Darcy pulled open the door of the cabin; huddled in one corner, he saw Mrs. Younge. Across from her, Georgiana. Startled by the intrusion, she gazed wide-eyed at the intruder.
“William!” She crawled to him, the floor of the cabin steeply tilted. Then, laughing and crying at once, she tumbled into his arms.
Darcy held her tightly, relief flooding his features as he whispered soothing words into her hair. Mrs. Younge, pale and trembling, shrank further into her corner, her eyes never quite meeting his.
“It is over now, Georgiana. You are safe,” Darcy murmured, pressing a gentle hand to her damp cheek. He glanced over his shoulder, the Colonel’s silhouette framed against the grey sky, scanning the roadside.
“Richard, is he—?” Georgiana’s voice faltered, every syllable quivering with dread.
The Colonel’s reply was clipped, but not unkind. “Wickham is no longer your concern, Georgiana. He will answer for what he’s done.”
