by Robin Helm
“I did not share this before,” she said slowly, “as I did not wish to alarm you—”
“—not alarm me?”
“Do be quiet and listen, Mrs. Collins. Your impertinence is most unbecoming. I suspect that Miss Elizabeth has been kidnapped. Yes, kidnapped.”
“That delivery wagon,” cried Mr. Collins.
“What delivery wagon?” snapped Lady Catherine. “There was no delivery wagon.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam raised his voice. “Pray continue, Mr. Collins. What wagon is that?”
“It was black, pulled by a team of four horses. I saw it from my window as it left the estate. Friday morning it was, travelling at a fearful pace. As it rounded the corner into the lane, I was certain that it would overturn.”
“Was it entirely black?” demanded Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Or did it have the name of an establishment emblazoned on the side?”
Mr. Collins was roused to animation. “It was altogether black, and it answers perfectly,” he crowed. “The moon, you see, is new just now. Those who are ardent gardeners, as am I, must attend to the seasons and phases of the moon as described in the Almanac. If the wagon was fitted up to travel on a moonless night—”
Lady Catherine cut him off. “Then that explains it.”
“It most certainly does not,” said Mrs. Collins. “Why would anyone kidnap Elizabeth? Her family is not wealthy.”
“Obviously the kidnappers thought she was Anne,” said Lady Catherine. “We shall know more once the ransom note arrives. To that end, I suggest that you go home and wait.”
“Wait? For how long, ma’am? Within the week Elizabeth’s uncle will send his man to meet them in Bromley, and then what do we say?”
“Mr. Collins, you are to take your wife home. And you are not to contact Mr. Bennet or anyone else regarding this matter. We shall know more in the morning.”
Once Mr. and Mrs. Collins departed, there was Colonel Fitzwilliam to contend with. There he stood, leaning against the mantelpiece, insolent and frowning. “Kidnapped, ma’am?”
“I had to say something.”
“The elopement idea was better. Isn’t it obvious? Darcy has eloped with Miss Bennet.”
“Leaving his coach behind?” she snapped. “Nonsense. Darcy might have gazed at her like a halfwit, but she was not keen to charm him. She was more likely to elope with you than with Darcy.”
“I am not convinced. That letter—”
“What letter?”
He studied her with unbecoming reluctance. “I searched the stable and yard thoroughly, ma’am. I found Darcy’s riding crop and, embedded in the dirt, a silver sleeve button. And also, a letter he had written to Miss Bennet.”
“Indeed! I demand to see it.”
Form an inner pocket of his frock coat he drew a crumpled document.
“Give it me! At once, do you hear?”
Again, she was subjected to his scrutiny. What insolence!
Colonel Fitzwilliam unfolded a clasp knife and proceeded to cut one of the pages. The top half of this he held out to her, but the remaining pages he cast into the fire.
Lady Catherine was beyond horrified. “Stupid boy, what have you done? You are destroying important evidence.”
She made a lunge for the fireplace, but Colonel Fitzwilliam held her back. “There were portions of that letter that were private,” he said grimly. “With information that Darcy would not wish shared with anyone. Not with me and most certainly not with you.”
“Hudson, you are incorrigible!”
“Do not call me by that name! Fitz will do.”
“Hudson Richard Julian Fitzwilliam,” she spat at him, “you have ruined everything.”
“The portion you have is enough.”
Lady Catherine shook herself free and began to read.
Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you.
“Offers?” Lady Catherine fairly screamed. “Do you mean to tell me that Darcy offered for Miss Bennet?”
“It certainly looks that way. And she refused him. Apparently, her refusal was not to his liking.”
“Are you saying that Darcy kidnapped Miss Bennet in order to elope with her? Darcy?”
“No, I am not, for it is entirely out of character. But it certainly looks that way. Desperation will drive a man to actions he would otherwise never consider.”
Lady Catherine felt for a chair—her legs could not hold her. If ever she were tempted to succumb to the vapors, it was now.
Darcy had offered for Elizabeth Bennet.
Never mind that she had refused him, those oafish ruffians had ruined everything! It would not be Anne whom Darcy would be obliged to marry. It would be Elizabeth Bennet.
That secluded house which, by her own instruction, had only one bed! Oh, this was dreadful, simply dreadful! That awful girl had been cast into Darcy’s all-too-willing arms!
Would he seduce her? Would she succumb? Lady Catherine knew better than to ask.
CHAPTER 9
Someone was saying her name. Not missy or dearie, but Elizabeth. She gave a start and discovered that the rim of a cup was at her lips. Not again! She pulled back with a shudder.
The cup was once more presented. “Take a sip, Miss Elizabeth. It will do you good.”
This was a new voice, one that was gentle and did not scold. No rough fingers seized her shoulders; no strong hands shook her. Elizabeth blinked her eyes open. The sudden blaze of light hurt. Was this the sun? No, it was candlelight. She struggled to see a face, but whoever had spoken was concealed in darkness.
Darkness was now especially terrifying to her. “Please,” she rasped, “no more laudanum.”
“This is only water. Have a little swallow.”
Elizabeth took a tentative sip. The water was clean and refreshingly cold. She then discovered that her wrists were no longer bound. She could move! With eager fingers Elizabeth took hold of the cup—a real glass tumbler—and finished every drop of the water.
“Would you care for soup?” the kind voice enquired. “I have some here for you.”
“Oh yes, please.” There was a rustling movement and then came a heavenly scent. “It smells wonderful.”
“It is rather good, surprisingly. Try not to look directly into the candle’s flame, Miss Elizabeth. After being blindfolded for so long, you’ll hurt your eyes. Are you able to sit up?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“You might find it easier to hold the cup if you removed your gloves.”
Elizabeth looked down. “Yes, of course. I …”
“Would you like me to help you?”
She nodded. In the halo of candlelight, a man’s hands appeared. They were clean hands with nicely-pared nails—the hands of a gentleman. “Gracious,” she observed. “My poor gloves are quite filthy.”
“I am glad to see it. Those gloves protected your hands from injury.”
She extended her arms. “But not my poor wrists, alas.”
She heard a deep sigh. “I’ll bring water so that you can wash. Drink your soup—just the broth to begin with. Your stomach might not tolerate more.”
“That wretched laudanum!”
“Was that what it was? I wondered. All things considered; I suppose it was a mercy.”
Elizabeth swallowed some of the soup. It was lovely, the perfect temperature for drinking. Had the man seen to that? “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“You have nothing to thank me for. We are not yet out of the woods, so to speak. But for the moment, take heart. You are safe.”
His face was turned away. “Who are you?” she said.
There was a pause. “Drink your soup, Miss Elizabeth.”
She took another swallow of soup and considered this. “If you will not tell me your name, why, I shall be forced to call you Galahad.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “A misnomer if there ever was one!
I am far from being that, believe me. Finish your soup; I’ll fetch water and towels.”
“You must tell me your name, you know.”
“Some subjects are best broached in the light of day.”
What did he mean by that?
When he returned, it was only to place before her a bowl of warm water, an expensive bar of amber soap, and a towel. He took away her cup to refill it with more soup, or so he said. His long absence gave Elizabeth time to wash not only her hands and wrists, but also her face and neck. This wonderful improvement made her feel much more like herself.
Presently she heard a gentle knocking at the door. “May I come in?”
“Yes, please, for I would like more soup.”
From behind a filled cup, delightfully warm, was put into her hands. As before, he kept his face turned aside, out of the light.
“You are the man from the wagon, I think. You were tied up and unconscious for much of the time.”
“I was.”
“I heard one of the men say—Manny, I think he was called—that you have a punishing right hook, whatever that means.”
When he replied there was a smile in his voice. “It means that I hit him with my right fist, Miss Elizabeth. Rather hard.”
“Oh, thank you! Indeed, you are more like Sir Galahad than you think.”
“Not really. You see, I was aiming for his nose—and missed.”
Elizabeth would have smiled, but it hurt too much. Then she remembered something else. “I—heard the woman say that he marked your face. I am sorry for that.”
“It is nothing; I’ll recover, and so shall you. Bye the bye, this fell out of your shoe.” His hand appeared in the light, holding a folded square of paper.
Elizabeth nearly dropped the cup. Her note to Mr. Darcy!
“Did you—read this?” she asked, a little fearfully. “Not that it was wrong of you to do so, under the circumstances. I quite understand.”
“I did not.” The smile returned to his voice as he added, “Mind, I was tempted. Such a mysterious hiding place, a shoe. I did wonder whether it was a love note.”
“You would have been disappointed. This is a confession of my faults—to God more than anyone else. And also, an apology to—to someone I know.”
She was about to place the note on the table, but stopped. Not that Mr. Darcy would ever see it, but what about this man? Was there someplace she could hide it? Or perhaps she ought to burn it? Yes, that would be best; at the first opportunity she would cast it into the fire. But until then—
An idea presented itself, one that was laughably melodramatic. No doubt the laudanum was to blame! But for all that, it was a useful thought. Elizabeth tucked the note inside the neckline of her gown.
Once her soup was finished, she sat up more fully, pushed back the coverlet, and swung her feet to the floor. “Might I have my shoes, please?”
The hands presented them and even helped put them on. As he knelt, she was able to see the top of his head; he had thick, dark hair.
“Are you strong enough to stand?”
“I certainly hope so, for I must make a little call.”
Mr. Galahad coughed politely. “There is, if you prefer, a chamber pot beneath the bed. There is also a privy not far from the house.”
“I would prefer the latter, thank you.” Elizabeth stood up and took a step. Her feet were miserably awkward, and she stumbled. He put out a hand out to steady her.
“Allow me to fetch a lantern—for it is windy on the moor—and then I shall lend you my arm.”
“Is that where we are? The moor?”
Since he went out before answering, Elizabeth was left to ponder this. That sound, for instance; was it wind? Yes, assuredly. And unless she was mistaken, she could hear rain. When the man returned, she asked about these.
“You’ll need to bundle up,” he agreed. “But the rain is not pelting down at the moment. There is a nice fire in the front room, so warming yourself after you return will be no trouble. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
Elizabeth took his proffered arm. “The walk will do me good, I think. Gracious, the floor is solid enough, but it feels like the room is moving.”
“I am experiencing the same. It is because we were in that wagon for two days.”
Elizabeth took one tentative step and then another. “Two days! Was it as long as that?”
“I fear so.”
Together they crossed into another room and made for the front door. “You’ll find the privy in good repair and quite clean,” he remarked. “You needn’t bring a stick.”
“Why would I need a stick?”
He kept his face averted. “Well, er, when one uses the privy in a country place, a stick is useful.”
“How so?”
His voice was laced with embarrassment. Or wait, was he holding back laughter? He was!
“One ought to knock down any spiders’ webs that, er, might be built beneath the seat.”
“What?” she cried. “You have got to be joking!”
“I thought everyone knew that trick.”
“Not quite everyone. Now, thanks to you, I shall continually worry about spiders. Are you always so disastrously informative?”
“Is it a crime to be honest? Would you rather remain ignorant and be bit?”
“Oh!” Before she could stop herself, Elizabeth gave the man’s arm a thwack.
He laughed, drew back the bolt, and pulled open the door. The wind threw a spray of raindrops in Elizabeth’s face. She put up her chin. “This should be—enlivening.”
“Would you like your bonnet?”
“I thank you, no, for it smells of the wagon. What about your hat?”
“It went missing during the abduction, along with my riding boots.”
In the darkness she could barely make out his stocking-clad feet. “Then you shouldn’t come out. I can manage on my own.”
“I am fast becoming inured to the pain of stubbed toes. It helps if one walks with a marching gait. Shall we brave the gale?”
“As with everything else about this unhappy—adventure—it appears I have no choice.”
oOo
The journey to the privy was not arduous, but it was enough to sap Elizabeth’s strength—and his. Darcy insisted that she return to bed.
“I am not such a weakling,” she protested.
“Yes, but I am. Off you go now.” She made no further objection, and he heard her open the bedroom door. “Have you need of anything else?”
“Nothing that you can provide. A clean nightdress would be lovely.”
“Alas, your poor Mr. Galahad is ill-equipped to be chivalrous. In future, he shall carry a nightdress for a needy lady.”
He heard a sound—was it a chuckle? “Good night, then,” she said.
“Good night.”
Their captors had been kind enough to provide a stack of blankets and pillows, so Darcy made a bed for himself before the front door. If intruders came, why, Galahad-like, he would fight them off! Or, more probably, be kicked.
Darcy’s glow of noble sacrifice lasted for perhaps five seconds, after which the hardness of the floor took preeminence. However, he had slept in that wagon, so he could certainly sleep here.
He fell asleep to the sound of the relentless wind as it howled across miles of barren moorland.
But later, it was not the wind that awakened him but intense sobbing. Fearful panic was in that sound. Darcy was on his feet at once. Propriety or no, something was very wrong.
Gingerly, he opened the bedroom door. The room was lit only by the fire’s embers. Elizabeth was no longer in the bed, but huddled on the sofa in a heap. Her breathing came in gasps. Clearly, she was terrified.
Darcy came into the room and, from behind the sofa, laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It was only a dream, Elizabeth. Nothing more.”
“No, no it wasn’t.” she cried. “It was real.”
“It was a night terror. Brought on by the laudanum.”
“The noise! The shaking! The voices! They shouted at me. Demonic voices.”
Demonic? Darcy came round from the back of the sofa and knelt before her. Surrendering to impulse, he enveloped her in a hug. She needed to be held by human arms just now, even if they were only his.
Darcy felt her relax against him, but her breathing was rough and uneven. “Bow your head, Elizabeth,” he said softly. He felt her forehead press against the lapel of his coat.
“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want—say it with me, Elizabeth.”
He heard her voice join his. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”
Her breathing became more even, and he sensed the tension easing away. Another gust of wind gave a ghostly shriek, but terror was losing its grip on her. When morning came, she would hate him for this! But did it matter? She hated him already.
“He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil...”
She broke off speaking, but he could sense that she was listening intently as he continued to quote the psalm. However, when he said, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies,” Elizabeth began to cry. These were not tears of fright, but of grief.
“Not that,” he heard her whisper. “Anything but that.”
“Have you an enemy?” he said gently.
“I have become an enemy to-to someone,” she said brokenly. “I did not mean to be so cruel when I refused him, but—”
Darcy’s breath caught in his throat. Was she grief-stricken over him? “Would—you like to tell me about it?”
Her words came out in a rush. “I wrote an apology, but I was too much a coward to give it him. He knows I walk in the grove each day, but I deliberately went to the rose garden instead. And this—this abduction! —is the result.”
“I’m sure it was a fine apology,” said Darcy firmly. “When you see him next, perhaps then you can give it to him.”
“I shall never see him again! Not that I would wish to! Nor would he wish to see me.”
“There is always the post. It is nicely impersonal.”
“Not to mention cowardly.”
