The Ruin of Elizabeth Bennet: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Darcie Rochester

  "You tie yer sister up and carry her around?" asked the voice from beyond the door.

  Lizzy had put up a valiant though, in view of Kip and Danny's superior strength, rather pathetic fight in the carriage. She had attacked them both savagely with fists and feet. Neither brother had sustained visible damage. They had decided, however, to tie her up as to avoid any kicks to sensitive areas while transporting her from the carriage into their room.

  "She's mad. Got to tie her up when she goes funny or she'll hurt herself," replied Danny in a show of quickness Lizzy had not thought him capable of.

  "Boys and I'd like to meet this funny sister of yours."

  Danny reached over and picked up a large piece of wood sitting on the floor. Probably his head-bashing instrument. He said, "Can't. 'fraid our Ma wouldn't like her mixing with your sort."

  "Now boys, Jones thinks you've got something going on. Running some side business, he thinks. I told him, they wouldn't do a thing like that. They know better than to cross you, I says. You're good lads. So why don't you just open the door and let us have a look at your sister and then me 'n the boys can go on. We got other things to do," Jack spoke with relish. He obviously knew the brothers were lying. Lizzy would guess Jack enjoyed the head-bashing portion of his work.

  "Well, you just go and do them, Jack. I won't be letting you in."

  Danny turned to Kip, waving his arms madly. Kip understood this gesture apparently for he stood up and grabbed from the corner what could only be described as a mallet. Lizzy's stomach turned as she imagined the weapon coming down on someone's head. She looked around wondering what she might use for a weapon if it came to that.

  And it did seem as if it would come to that. The flimsy lock gave way as one of the men from outside shoved his shoulder into the door. All was silent for a moment as the man who must be Jack surveyed the scene. He looked Lizzy over in a most unpleasant way then said, "No way that's your sister, Danny."

  The fighting began immediately though Lizzy could not say who struck first. Jack had brought four men with him, all of whom were diminutive compared to the brothers, which was to say they were all average sized men as Kip and Danny both appeared quite capable of single-handedly subduing a raging bull by squeezing the breath out of it. Thus, in terms of raw mass, it was an equal fight. However Jack and his associates looked the sort who were not above sticking a knife in wherever it would go.

  One of the men lunged for Lizzy. Reacting instinctively, she picked up the rickety card table by a leg and swung it in a wide arch. It came around and hit the man in the side of the head with a satisfying smack. He blinked slowly and then, to Lizzy's astonishment, his knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor. Holding her newfound weapon at the ready, she raced towards the currently unguarded door.

  Jack caught her by the arm before she could escape. She tried to swing the table at him but he held her too close, too fast. He wrenched her arm backward, twisting so forcefully she feared he would break it. She cried out, releasing her hold on the table leg. A moment later a mallet smashed into Jack's head. His grasp on her slackened.

  And then she was running. Out the door. Down the stairs. Into the street. Running blindly away.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "Really, you don't need to trouble yourself. All I require is some stationary and one of your servants to send a note for me. . . and perhaps something to dry off with," Lizzy added. She did not know how quickly Darcy would come for her and would rather not stand around dripping on the carpets in the interim.

  Lizzy was not at all certain how she had ended up at Lydia's townhouse. She had been racing through the worst slums London had to offer, wandering down a dizzying confusion of filthy avenues and dank alleys in the pouring rain for what felt like hours—in reality it had been a half an hour at most—when suddenly the scenery shifted and she found herself in a part of the city she did not quite know but at least recognized as a place a person of her class belonged—though probably not alone after dark. Having no wish to chance fate any longer—or get any wetter—she had swallowed her pride and begged Lydia for sanctuary.

  Her sister continued to search her armoire as if she had not heard her, fingering her many silk and muslin gowns thoughtfully. "Your dress is soaked through—no amount of toweling will dry you. This. Try this on," said Lydia selecting a deep red gown. She held it up to Lizzy and considered a moment then nodded to herself. "It will do. Kate will help you change."

  The maid came forward. Lizzy stepped away.

  "Lydia, I have no intention of staying."

  "Oh?" said Lydia cocking a brow. Her mouth tried to form a sardonic smirk, but her features were too tense to look properly mocking. "Do you have anywhere else to go?"

  That silenced Lizzy. She did not have anywhere else to go. While Darcy House was near, she could not be certain of her reception there. She did not know to what extent Darcy's servants were loyal to Lady Catherine, and if he was out when she arrived . . . . She was not going to risk being returned to captivity.

  "Fine—thank you," Lizzy said, allowing the maid to assist her with the removal of her dress. "I really must write a missive, though."

  "Kate will see about getting you supplies after you have changed. Once you've written your note you should join us for supper. We had just sat down when you arrived."

  Lizzy very much liked the sound of 'supper' but was wary of 'we'. "I shouldn't like to intrude."

  "You wouldn't be intruding at all. I'm sure Wicks would love to hear about whatever secret terror has driven you to my door."

  "Wicks?"

  "George Wickham, of course." Lydia did manage to smirk this time.

  "I have nothing to say to him."

  "Are you certain? You really should come and visit with him. It will be your last chance," said Lydia, her voice growing shrill. She was worried. Lizzy had never known her youngest sister to worry about anything.

  Before Lizzy could inquire about the meaning of Lydia's enigmatic statement she quit the room.

  Kate was most efficient. In no time at all Lizzy's damp hair was restyled into an acceptably neat coif. The gown Lydia had provided was a little long but otherwise fit well enough. The maid offered to pin it up but Lizzy urged her to find her something to write with instead.

  Once she had pen and paper in hand, Lizzy found it challenging to write. She did not know how much she should reveal—what if some servant in Lady Catherine's pay got the letter? At the same time she did not want to worry Darcy further by being vague. In the end she wrote only a few lines explaining where she was and begging him to come for her. She prayed the note would find its way to Darcy.

  "Shall I take you to supper now, Miss?" Kate asked once Lizzy had handed her the missive with instructions for its delivery.

  Lizzy considered. She did not want anyone to know she had been here. Especially someone like Wickham who would use the information to whatever advantage he could. Yet Lydia had no doubt already told him of her arrival and despite Lizzy's earlier assertion that she had nothing to say to Wickham she could now think of several things she would like to tell him. None of them were appropriate topics of dinner conversation, but then this was not an appropriate place. The rumble of her stomach decided the matter.

  Kate took her, not downstairs to the dinning room as she expected, but instead down the hall to a chamber not far from Lydia's private rooms. The door was open and Lizzy's eyes immediately fell on George Wickham. He was propped up in bed with a number of pillows. His complexion was gray and where his eyes ought to have been white they were yellow. If he had not been breathing she would have thought he had been dead for some time.

  Unable to suppress her shock, Lizzy uttered, "My God."

  "It's worse than it looks," said Wickham jovially though he was clearly in great pain. Lizzy studied him intently. He was still dangerously charming, still handsome beneath the death mask.

  Lydia was sitting beside the bed, taking her meal at a little table. Lizzy had never seen her look
so despairing. In a tone that was meant to be cheerful but instead sounded desperate she said,"Come Lizzy, sit down with me and entertain Wickham."

  "Yes, yes. Tell me your story. Your arrival is proof that the Good Lord grants small amusements even to wretches like me."

  "You are dying."

  "Very observant of you. It came on rather suddenly. The world has endured enough of me apparently. But I don't want to talk of that. Lydie says you've had a bit of excitement."

  The hawk-faced butler darted forward from his hidden perch in the corner and pulled out a chair for Lizzy giving her no choice but to take it. When she was seated he produced a plate, seemingly from thin air, and served her what looked suspiciously like pheasant in plum sauce though neither were in season.

  Lizzy used the distraction as an opportunity to make her expression blank for the lie she was about to tell. "I've nothing truly exciting to share. My carriage came to hazard, I thought it safest to seek shelter in the home of the nearest acquaintance."

  "There must be more to it than that," Wickham pressed, "Lydia told me you came alone. Why? Surely you had a maid with you—the coachman at the very least should have escorted you here."

  "He stayed with the horses," Lizzy said.

  "He has his priorities all wrong. The Earl of Matlock should fire him. He was the Earl's man, wasn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "I was shocked when I heard you were being shepherded about town by Lady Matlock. Such a lofty connection, Eliza—well done. Of course there is some interesting gossip about how that connection was formed."

  "I don't doubt it," Lizzy replied. She was not going to let him upset her. She took a delicate bite of fowl though she would have very much liked to attack her food like a wild animal. The sauce was bramble berry, not plum and the poultry was most likely duck.

  "Come now, how can you be so tight-lipped? Give me some delectable bit of chatter. I know you have it. You would not deny a dying man his last wish."

  "When that dying man is you, yes, I would."

  Wickham turned to Lydia and said theatrically, "If your sister is going to deny me my last chance at amusement I might as well end it all now. Get me some arsenic, woman, and let's have done with it."

  Lydia set down her cutlery with the air of someone who has been doing her best to be patient but has finally had enough. "Arsenic a horrible way to go, idiot. You are forever trying to find the easy way out of everything and instead choosing the cruelest way possible."

  "Tis true. How well you know me, Lydie," Wickham said, his tone suddenly serious. He gazed at Lydia with eyes full of regret and longing. Lizzy felt the urge to beg their pardon and leave the room.

  Lydia gasped, choking back her sorrow.

  "No bawling—you promised me," said Wickham, returning to his previous gaiety. "I'll have none of that melancholy nonsense. If you're not going to be sensible about it I'll go somewhere else. There are plenty of other people who would enjoy watching me die."

  Lydia opened her mouth with the obvious intention of scolding him, but was interrupted by a burst of noise from downstairs. It sounded rather like someone was taking a battering ram to the front door. Lizzy tensed. Could she have been followed? Or had her letter to Darcy already fallen into the wrong hands?

  "Fisk, see to the door," said Lydia to the butler who immediately attended to her orders.

  Wickham continued making cheerful remarks about his impending doom, but Lizzy did not hear him she was too focused on the ruckus downstairs. The noise quieted for a moment as Fisk opened the door and then disturbance began anew, this time it was shouting instead of banging.

  "Lydia! Lydia! Let me through, man—I will see her!"

  Lizzy was ashamed by how relieved she was to hear the enraged voice calling for her sister.

  "Bancroft—damn him. I told him—excuse me," Lydia said as she stood. The look on her face as she quit the room made Lizzy feel almost sorry for Lord Bancroft.

  Taking advantage of her sisters absence, Lizzy attended to her meal with more gusto than perhaps a well-bred lady should. Wickham watched her in fascination.

  "My, you're certainly laying into that," he observed.

  "I hadn't the opportunity to eat properly since midday."

  "Your carriage has been giving you trouble since midday?"

  Lizzy continued to gorge herself as if she had not heard him.

  "Why don't you just say what you need to say and have done with it?"

  "I have nothing to say, Mr. Wickham," replied Lizzy through a mouthful of fowl.

  "You think I'm getting what I deserve, I'll wager."

  Again Lizzy said nothing. She was really in no mood to have a moral debate with a dying man no matter how much he seemed to want one.

  "Lydia has forgiven my trespasses against her so I do not know why you should harbor all this rage against me."

  "I have voiced no rage."

  "You don't need to voice it. You have very expressive eyes."

  Still Lizzy made no comment.

  "What can you have to accuse me of?"

  "I think that rather obvious," said Lizzy before she could stop herself.

  "Ruining your sister?"

  "Ruining us all."

  "How am I responsible? Blame Lydia if you need to blame someone."

  "How very gallant of you. I do blame Lydia, of course. But I think a greater share of the blame must rest on you."

  "Why? She was the one with sisters to think of, not me. She made her choice."

  "She was fifteen."

  "Sixteen."

  "Barely," Lizzy conceded.

  "People must think sixteen year olds responsible enough. Girls marry at that age."

  "She didn't."

  "Fortunately for her."

  Lizzy used her fork to point at him accusingly. "She may pretend now that she never intended to marry you but you know marriage is what she expected when she agreed to go away with you."

  "Yes, I did know that, which is why I have sought her forgiveness."

  Lizzy returned her attention to her plate, violently cutting up the last of her meal.

  "Let me ask you this: Would you want her to be married to me? What would she have now that I am on my deathbed? Debt? Some brats she couldn't afford to feed? Instead she has this house, a means to support herself—"

  "A means to support herself indeed!"

  "Don't give me that outrage. Most women earn their bread on their backs one way or another. The righteous ones call it 'wifely duties' but it's whoring all the same."

  "If that is your view of marriage perhaps it is fortunate Lydia remains a Bennet."

  "My point is, if I had married her it might have been good for your reputation, but do not pretend your anger is for her sake."

  "I will concede that my anger is selfish. Oddly I do not find I am any less angry with you."

  "I did not think you would be. I just thought I should explain why I am not begging your forgiveness."

  Lizzy let out a single humorless bark of laughter and shook her head as if to clear it of frustration.

  "I've heard you are doing quite well. Your engagement to my old friend Darcy is expected to be announced any day now."

  "I suppose you have no intention for apologizing for the lies you told me about him either?"

  "You believed them. What does that say about you?"

  "Nothing good."

  Lizzy stared down at her empty plate. She wished dearly she could leave but did not know if Lydia was entertaining Lord Bancroft and had no desire to stumble upon such a scene. She also felt an odd sort of pity for Wickham. His end was very near. Even someone as reprehensible as he did not deserve to die alone.

  "You are as unforgiving as Darcy. You are the perfect woman for him," Wickham said into the silence. He looked pensive rather than taunting.

  Lizzy thought it would be futile to point out to Wickham that since he was specifically not asking for forgiveness, he could hardly hope to receive it. Instead she simply said,"I know."


  "Sometimes I miss the arrogant bastard. We were friends as children, you know.

  "Sometimes I regret . . . . I don't regret running off with Lydia. We made a good time of it and she was low-hanging fruit in desperate need of plucking, if it hadn't been me it would have been someone else. You can shake your head all you like, it won't make it any less true.

  "I did her a favor. Little Georgie however—a nasty thing to do to a girl like her. Betraying her trust when she was so skittish in the first place. But I guess in the end she betrayed me to that brother of hers."

  "I wouldn't call it a betrayal. A triumph of rationality perhaps."

  "It's all to say, I do have regrets."

  "I'm glad."

  "Absolutely cold-hearted. Yes, you will make a fine Mrs. Darcy." He studied her carefully. There was something else he wanted to say, but he would die before his pride let him say it.

  Unable to hold his gaze any longer Lizzy looked down at her plate again. She smeared the remainder of the purplish sauce across the fine china with her fork having nothing else to do.

  "Have mine," Wickham said pushing the untouched tray on his lap towards her, "Don't tell Lydia. It would make her happy to think I had eaten. She wants to believe I might recover."

  Lizzy shook her head.

  "My illness is not catching the doctor assures me."

  "My appetite is satisfied, thank you."

  "Be kind to Lydia. She was so good as to shield you from the danger of . . . faulty carriages. I hope now you can see to forgive her for her sins. She really couldn't help it. People like her and me . . . we have a hard time staying on the side of the angels. Perhaps you understand now."

  His words hung there, heavy as the moist summer air. Had she been unfair to Lydia? Lizzy pondered this. Lydia had ruined herself without thought of what would happen to her sisters. That was certainly true. But hers had been a sin of thoughtlessness rather than malice. Now, having so recently experienced malice, Lizzy understood the importance of intent.

  Shouting broke out once more, this time growing closer to where they dined.

  "I will not be treated thusly!" said a male voice, presumably Lord Bancroft.