Ruined Forever

by D. L. Carter

  After some time alone in the dark, she might be more welcoming to Wickham's proposals. Five days was a long time to wait, but it would take about that long for Mr. Bennet to become suitably frightened, and then there was the trip to the Doctor’s Commons in London to apply for the Special License.

  Wickham took another swig of brandy, and settled back on his pile of duvets and pillows. It was a good idea. He rather liked the idea of being a man of means, a gentleman. Respected in the community. Walking down the lane with his tenants tugging their caps at him, a beautiful wife on his arm. That, indeed, would be pleasant. A man of property. Finally a member of the gentry!

  Equal – he laughed aloud – equal to that snot, Darcy! The only shame was that Longbourn was small. Smaller than Pemberley, and the income had to stretch to his mother-in-law and those sisters! God save him from the giving out of dowries! Once he was married, it wasn’t as if he could marry another heiress. And then there were children, expensive creatures. But if Mr. Bennet came across with the License and the vicar, then Wickham would do his part. Would wed.

  However, if Darcy came across with the ready, there would be no lack of young ladies to entertain him. An improvement in his wardrobe would make him more appealing to all those heiresses. Money would give him entry into clubs, and soirees, and ah, so many possibilities. No matter. He need not decide yet. In a few days he would visit Elizabeth in her interesting prison. When he’d rested. When she was suitably cowed.

  ***

  Muttering and swearing to herself Lydia packed her valise. Damn them. Damn them all. It was clear to her that there was a conspiracy in motion. Her family, everyone, was jealous of her. Jealous of her dear Wickham. Obviously Wickham felt he had no choice, but to marry Lizzy. She was the heiress. She had the money. That much was clear. But if Lydia married Wickham, she would be the one needing the inheritance. Her father was still alive. He’d change his Will. Lizzy and all the others could whistle.

  “We’ll go away. Far away. And Wickham and I will be happy,” Lydia told herself. Of course, it was not clear in Lydia’s mind how they would accomplish this, and still have Wickham wear his scarlet coat. Perhaps he could keep it, wear it, after he came to live with them. He might be promoted to colonel and lead the militia that just protected Hertfordshire.

  No matter. That was for later. For now, she pulled her casement window open, and threw her valise to the ground below before climbing out onto the sloping roof. From here to the ground was a dangerous climb in the daytime. In winter, with ice on the roof and slippery moss along the edges, Lydia came near to falling twice. All that was forgotten when she reached the ground, caught up her valise, and started running. Netherfield. She needed to be at Netherfield.

  Wickham must not be forced to marry Lizzy!

  ***

  Elizabeth drew her legs up under her skirts, wrapped her pelisse and shawl over her clothing, and hugged herself with her arms.

  She’d explored the limits of her prison as best she could with no candle on the first day of her imprisonment. There was no light. No light at all. The wine store had only one door, no windows. Many, many shelves, and a generous supply of liquor bottles of many types and shapes.

  She did not permit her mind to dwell upon the possibility of rats, mice and spiders. That was not the more important threat. Death by freezing, that was possible.

  Eventually Wickham would have to come and let her out, and she must be awake, alert, and ready. She had made her preparations against that moment and was content, but it would help, if at that moment, she were awake and alert. Therefore she had taken only one small bottle from the many surrounding her, and limited herself to a small sip when the thirst and cold were intense, but she could not, would not, allow herself to be in her cups when rescued.

  She shivered and hugged herself tighter. Soon. He had to come soon. He was a lecher and degenerate. Let him come soon, before she lost all strength to the cold. And let him come drunk to be easier to overcome. And he had to come before the neighborhood heard of these events. If this story got out, there would be no coming back from the scandal. She pressed her eyes closed, trying hard not to think.

  Poor Darcy. A tear leaked down and made its chill path down her cheek. He had stayed with her through so much, but how could she inflict this agony, this additional disgrace upon him? Even if she did come back to him, and he, beyond all sense, still was willing to marry her, all the ton would count on their fingers and look sideways at their children. No matter that they arrived one year, or two years later, always there would be someone, many someones, speculating as to the identity of the father.

  Wickham would be gone, but that would not count. They would call her a hussy, a degenerate, who had anticipated her marriage with one man then married another. How could anyone expect such a woman to remain faithful to her husband?

  No. No. She would not let these thoughts rule her.

  First, she must survive. She curled up, listening intently. There was nothing, no sound outside. Shivering she closed her eyes. A few moments sleep, and then she would resume her watch.

  ***

  “Darcy,” said Mr. Bennet coming down the stairs, the stairs that had started all this chaos in his household. The young man, dressed in hunting clothes and a dark grey many-caped driving coat turned to watch his approach.

  “Mr. Bennet. May I assist you, sir?”

  “You can ease my mind, Mr. Darcy.”

  “With regards your daughter.” Darcy settled his gloves. “I am faithful, sir. Constant. I have not changed my mind.”

  “I hope she does not change hers.”

  Darcy gave a weak smile. “I will endeavor to change it back again.”

  “Darcy?” Richard appeared at the door. “The colonel and his men are here. Are you prepared?”

  “One moment only, cousin.” Turning to Mr. Bennet, Darcy bowed. “Sir, I left London in a hurry. Would you do me the honor of permitting me to use your hunting rifle? I saw it in the cabinet.”

  “You would shoot that scoundrel with my gun?” demanded Mr. Bennet, straightening. “My boy, I do hope one day to call you son. I will be very proud to have you in the family!”

  Mr. Bennet fetched rifle and shot. Soon enough he was watching the young men and the militia ride away.

  “Will he still marry her, do you think?” said Mrs. Bennet in the softest voice he had heard her use since their courting days.

  “Yes. Yes. He will.”

  “Good.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “And our Lydia. That stupid, stupid girl. What shall be done about her?”

  “Have you spoken to her?” asked Mr. Bennet. “How far did her relationship with Mr. Wickham go?”

  “They have been reduced to sending notes. There was no significant impropriety.”

  Mr. Bennet let out a breath. “Then, if there are no consequences to fear, she shall go to school for a few years. See if she can learn a little sense.”

  Silence was his answer.

  “No protest, Mrs. Bennet? No outcry?”

  “For her? No, Mr. Bennet. I have nothing to say to her. The sooner she goes the better. I can only pray she returns to us a better person.”

  ***

  Just outside the drive to Netherfield, troops of the Militia were waiting. A tall pimply fellow saluted Colonel Forster. “There’s a horse from the Militia stables in there. The one with the jagged stripe on his nose.”

  “Not surprising,” said the Colonel with a nod. “Well, Mr. Darcy, you have the right of it. Wickham did come here. Whether he did so to change horses, or to hide, we shall soon discover.”

  “I know Wickham well enough,” said Darcy. “If he can wait in comfort he will. When the Bingley's departed, the gossip about town was it would be a month complete before their return.”

  “Very well. We shall search. You will, I hope, explain our presence to the servants, and Mr. Bingley when he returns.”

  “That you may count on.”

  “I suggest we start with the
upper floors and proceed down,” said Richard. “And a few men watching the outer doors in case our prey decides to run.”

  “Oh, aye,” Colonel Forster glared at the building. “That’s the problem with the better houses. More doors than walls on the lower floors.”

  “We apologize for the inconvenience,” said Darcy, and Richard laughed.

  “All right,” continued Richard. “We divide and search.”

  ***

  Accustomed to laying his head in fetid rooming houses in the worst quarters of the cities, as well as barracks living, and shared beds in lower class inns, usually one or two footsteps across the floor above his head would not have woken George Wickham.

  Usually.

  But he was not fully asleep. He was, in fact, laying in his nest, praying that the distant throb behind his eyes would not develop into a sincere and devoted hangover. While he lay and debated between searching for another bottle of brandy, or trying to go back to sleep, heavy booted feet crossed overhead. A few moments later another person passed.

  Wickham frowned. The steps were too heavy. Too regular. Servants in a great house wore lightweight indoor shoes that permitted them to move silently from room to room, and limited damage to the expensive floors and carpets. Heavy boots meant only one thing. Men had entered the house. A house that was supposed to be empty.

  Wickham threw off his blanket and came upright, swayed, staggered to the corner and emptied the contents of his stomach into a bucket. After wiping his face, he seized his coat and rummaged through the room for his pistol. He had no certain way of knowing who owned those boots. It might be a set of local thieves come to take advantage of an empty house. It might be servants bringing in the property of the new Mrs. Bingley. But if they came downstairs, Wickham wanted the upper hand. And the best way to have that was to let them see that hand wrapped around the lovely neck of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

  With boots in one hand and the pistol in the other he crept down the corridor. He stopped, breathing shallowly, when he heard the door at the top of the cellars open and a wash of light from a lantern outlined the stairs. Then the silhouette of a militiaman appeared, and another, and another all with rifles held ready.

  Close, too close! How could they have found him? How? No matter. He was prepared. Moving swiftly despite the dark, Wickham hurried to Elizabeth’s prison. If he could get out of here, even with the militia after him, all he need do is get a message to Darcy. He was always good for the ready and he had enough contacts to get Wickham out of the country, Ireland would do, in exchange for his silence. In exchange for Elizabeth.

  The well maintained lock opened without hesitation and Wickham stepped into the darkened room.

  His foot landed on something slippery and hard. His leg shot out from under him and he crashed into… something. Something heavy, hard, and wooden. Screaming Wickham staggered to his feet, or tried to. One leg went down in an odd angle, and another caught the corner of another bottle and Wickham fell face down onto a mass of wood. Somehow all the wine racks had fallen, and in the dark so had he. Pain and light exploded in his head and he slumped across the racks.

  Before he could regain his wits, a light figure moved past him, and ran. Clutching at his head Wickham tried to rise, but something smooth and round moved under his feet, and he crashed down again. Arm, knees, legs tore against wood, his clothing snagged on unseen pegs and nails. Again his feet fell victim to the scattered wine bottles.

  Who would have thought wine would turn against him?

  Distantly he heard Elizabeth cry out to the militiamen.

  “Help. Help. I am Elizabeth Bennet.”

  “Miss Bennet,” came a familiar voice. “I am Colonel Fitzwilliam. Darcy is my cousin. He is here, leading the search. But, tell me, where is the scoundrel?”

  “The cellars. The wine cellar. I pushed the wine racks down and they tripped him.”

  “Good thinking. Now… run out of the house. Wickham is ours.”

  ***

  Elizabeth needed no second urging. Despite the cold and hunger, determination carried her through the house and down, out to the forecourt. Outside she was astonished to find the local constable, resting his shoulder against a heavy cart and smoking a thickly scented pipe. She halted; staring.

  The man stared back, unsmiling. “Not come for you, missy,” he said, showing bent and broken teeth. “Not this time. But I’ll have ‘ee in my jail afore long.”

  Elizabeth shivered with more than cold, and gave the man her back, looking about. It was a cold night and the only shelter was Netherfield. Until she saw Wickham in chains, she would not venture back inside.

  “Lizzy?”

  Elizabeth stiffened. That voice.

  “Lizzy, over here!”

  With a sigh Elizabeth turned and walked toward a decorative stand of trees. “Lydia, what are you doing here?”

  “I had to find you, Lizzy.”

  “No doubt,” said Elizabeth. “But do not think to take me prisoner again. The Militia is here. They shall have Wickham in chains before long.”

  “How cruel you are, Lizzy. It isn’t fair. We only wanted enough money for a life together and you spoiled it.”

  “Excuse me, if I cannot find it in my heart to feel for you. I have this very vivid memory of you betraying me into shameful captivity.”

  “Oh, phoo. Everyone knows he does not like you. You were in no danger. He only loves me.”

  Too tired to summon even righteous anger, Elizabeth turned her back and began walking toward the house. Lydia stomped along behind her, dragging a valise.

  “There is still time,” said Lydia. “I shall tell everyone that Wickham captured me. He will marry me, and all will be well.”

  “I do not understand how you can be so willfully blind and foolish, Lydia. Who Wickham marries is no longer anyone's concern.” Elizabeth turned to face her sister. “He has broken the law, Lydia. The law. Kidnapping is illegal. Sergeant McHween, instruct my sister. What is the punishment for kidnapping?”

  “I dunna no about no kidnapping. The Colonel of the militia has asked me to stand ready to hold a deserter until he can be taken to London to be hung.”

  “Hung?” shrieked Lydia. “No. No. Not my Wickham.”

  “Lydia, calm yourself!”

  “You cannot have him.” Lydia threw herself at the Sargent, beating at him with her small fists.

  The Sergeant lifted her easily, and held the girl at a distance while he looked deeply into her eyes. “Yah love this criminal? Yah wanna know how to help him?”

  “Yes. Yes. I must save him! I love him. I must marry him!”

  “Well, now,” said the Sergeant. “That there’s a horse of a different color. Naw if that fellow has friend who loves ‘im, that friend could write to tha’ War Office then appeal for mercy.”

  “Yes. Yes. He has friends. I am his friend and the other officers admire him.”

  “Do they now? And they gotta be friends with influence.”

  “Yes. Yes,” cried Lydia.

  “And money. Gotta have pots and pots of money.”

  “Yes. Yes. Lizzy, Mr. Darcy owes Wickham a debt. He must stand buff for any money as is needed.”

  “He shall not,” said Elizabeth. “I assure you, he shall not!”

  “You must. You must ask him.”

  “I shall not.”

  “An’ if they get them Generals on a good day and they’re feeling merciful…” The Sergeant cackled. “Then he’ll be shot insteada hung!”

  “No,” wailed Lydia and collapsed on the stone pathway in a faint.

  “Was that really necessary?” said Elizabeth.

  “Nah, but it were fun, tho.”

  Elizabeth made a note to discuss assigning the duty of constable to another man, one with a more appropriate sense of humor, then bent down to attend to her sister.

  Lydia moaned, then burst into tears, curling up on the rough road. After a few moments Elizabeth abandoned her attempts to persuade Lydia to rise, and turn
ed to watch the house.

  ***

  In the basement, the capture of Wickham was anti-climatic. Richard and his share of the militia entered the wine cellar to find Wickham barely conscious beneath a pile of broken wood. Richard kicked aside the pistol that had fallen from Wickham’s hand, and stood looking down at the man who had been his enemy for so many years.

  “Justice at last, Wickham,” said Richard, smiling. “Wine and women have finally seen you brought low.”

  “Save your jokes, Richard,” said Wickham bracing his hands against his aching head. “I see Darcy is still unwilling to face me.”

  “No. Fortunately for you I have found you first. Today, given Darcy’s state of mind, I fear you have finally gone too far. The last thing Darcy said to me was that he never wanted to be bothered by you again in this life.” Richard’s lips curved. “You are mine now, you scoundrel. Mine … and the General Rules Governing the Army!”

  Wickham stiffened and stared. “What?”

  “You should have read that book they gave you, Laddie,” said Colonel Forster entering the cellar. “Instead of leaving it to keep company with your dirty linens and pawn tickets. As the commanding officer of the Militia I hereby arrest you, Lt. Wickham, for desertion, theft of army property and conduct unbecoming an officer.”

  “For which crimes the penalty,” continued Richard, “I am delighted to inform you, is death!”

  “No. No. You cannot,” cried Wickham. “You would not dare. You cannot trust that I will remain silent through a court case. You know what I will say. Your family should rightly fear the power of my tongue!”

  “Wickham. Wickham.” Richard shook his head. “You really should read more. A court-martial is not a public trial. You may say what you will. The only ones who will hear you will not gossip. All our private family disagreements will follow you to the grave.”

  When they put the chains on Wickham, and Richard escorted him gently outside, Richard patted Wickham on the back and said: “I want to thank you, for finally committing a crime for which I can safely prosecute you. My family will finally be free of you.”