“Forgive me for taking so long! I have ten men…” He stopped, his eyes taking in the scene and turning a questioning look to George, as Darcy refused to relinquish his focus from the shaking, weeping Mrs. Smyth.
“It appears,” George offered, “that Mrs. Smyth has been befriended by George Wickham, alias Geoffrey Wiseman. He has been in the house, according to Mrs. Smyth. Recently?” She feebly nodded at the doctor’s inquiry. “Indeed,” he said, removing the last of Darcy’s white-knuckled fingers from her wrist, the housekeeper collapsing onto the sofa.
“Excellent!” Richard boomed with a satisfied nod. “This is the information we needed. The connection to Orman. Surely Elizabeth and Alexander are in Surrey. We must make haste.”
Darcy inhaled, gathering the frayed edges of his emotions and reining them in. He nodded, stepping away from the cowering woman. “Uncle, I expect you to take care of this.” He waved a hand in Mrs. Smyth’s direction, a steely-eyed George inclining his head in agreement.
“Trust me. You listen to Colonel Fitzwilliam, do you hear me, Son? He knows what to do.”
Darcy glanced to Richard’s grim, commanding face. “Very well. You are in charge, Colonel. I will obey your orders. But once my wife and son are safe, do not think about constraining me.”
Richard grinned evilly. “At that point, Cousin, I will be assisting you.”
***
Lizzy’s memory of the hours and days following her abduction would remain hazy for the whole of her life. There would be some impressions so vivid, yet obviously so fantastical, that she knew they were generated by the drug. And then there were other momentous events described to her later that seemed unfathomable for her to be unaware of when she was front and center to the action. Even years later, when she allowed herself to muse on the experience, she would not be able to say for certain what was real or what was of her drug-induced imagination.
Her first memory, after Wickham overwhelmed her in the garden, was of a dimly lit staircase, seen upside down and moving. Her body felt weightless and disconnected from her eyes as if floating. She noted the individual tattered threads on the carpet runner covering the steps, but could not differentiate between one hand and the other. Both were dangling before her eyes, tied together with a knotted cord wrapped around her wrists, but they looked like a flesh-colored lump with no definition. She knew this was odd, that she should be alarmed or at least curious, but she was apathetic. She closed her eyes and returned to sleep.
Much later—or was it only minutes? she did not know or care—she heard voices. She tried to open her eyes but couldn’t. No matter. She just listened to the voices. They were pleasant. Hollow, almost echoing, with drawn-out syllables. The words were mixed up, no order or sense. She found it humorous and wanted to laugh. Maybe she did laugh, but she never remembered for sure. She drifted off again with the funny voices soothing her.
Again, she was lifted. Her hands hurt, but she could not move them. She heard a name being called close to her ear, yet from miles away. Elizabeth. She was fairly sure that was her name but was uncertain. She opened her eyes to a face near her own. It was a cat! A cat with horrible breath and a massive scar cutting through the fur on its left cheek. How strange. The cat was talking to her. Hissing, really. Silly cat, attempting to speak. She smiled and began to giggle. The cat meowed and growled. A cat growling? How strange and amusing. She continued to giggle until sleep and dreams of talking cats consumed her.
On it went. Bizarre delusions melded with reality an uncountable number of times. Finally she woke to a clearer observance. Her vision was fuzzy and there was a loud ringing in her ears, but she felt the cushions of the sofa she was lying on. Her head was resting on a soft, threadbare pillow. Her hands were still tied, as were her feet, she sluggishly recognized. They were tight and in an awkward position that was uncomfortable but not painful. Her face was sore and both of her cheeks tingled. In fact, she gradually became aware of dozens of gnawing aches and sharp pangs all over her body. Her breasts burned with the need to feed her baby, and the thought, as nebulous as it was, caused milk to leak and wetly soak into the bodice of her dirt-stained gown.
Abruptly she remembered the garden and Wickham, and the panic rose to form a cold knot deep in her abdomen. But surprisingly, she was not as distressed as one would expect. A cold, detached voice within told her this was the drug’s effects acting upon her mind, and she found this interesting, but could not decide if her lassitude was beneficial under the circumstances or a detriment.
She scanned the room, clouded eyes adjusting to the half-light. It was evening, dusk settling in the world without. Several lamps were lit and there was a glow emitting from somewhere behind her head that was probably from a fireplace. The chamber, clearly a parlor, was rustic with furniture of hewn wood and beamed ceilings of knotty oak. It was a large room, well-appointed and fine, but layers of dust and scattered cobwebs were observable even to her limited vision. She saw two windows from where she slumped on the sofa, both covered with thick drapes that allowed minimal light to escape or enter.
“She is awake.”
It was George Wickham. She recognized the voice though it was slowed and monotone. He materialized in front of her, kneeling and obscuring her limited range with his smirking face. She blinked several times, but the filmy glaze did not disappear.
“Mrs. Darcy. How delighted I am to see you. Did you sleep well?”
“Alexander?” Her voice, even to her own ears, was grating. The effort to say that one word burned a pathway through her vocal cords and she winced in pain.
“He is nearby, asleep and well. He will stay that way, as long as you cooperate.”
“Cooperate?” she murmured roughly between giggles. “I do believe you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Wickham. I cannot see how I have much choice.”
She was laughing uncontrollably, the ache in her throat increasing, but she could not stop. Does he not see how utterly ridiculous this is? Does he not see the true danger?
Wickham frowned, his face turning red. But this just made Lizzy laugh harder.
“Oh, Mr. Wickham! I would not worry about me. It is my husband who will be killing you.”
The laughter was by then in gales, and the pain to her throat severe. A voice shouted from the background to shut her up, but it was not necessary for anyone to take action as the edges of blackness crept over her eyes. A dark tunnel that grew narrower and narrower until there was no light at all and she remembered no more for a time.
Minutes, hours, days?
Lizzy had no sense of time when she next rallied. Nor did she care. The only concern—in fact what brought her out of her drugged, unconscious state—was the violent pain and upheaval from her stomach. Her previous bouts with nausea and vomiting, even when pregnant, were minor annoyances compared to this affliction. She heaved until her midsection ached, long after the contents were evacuated. Her throat was on fire, but that was paltry compared to the hurt she felt in every muscle and the ague that enveloped her. She had absolutely no control over her body; the chills and shuddering ruled.
A man swore, and Lizzy felt the end of the sofa she was laying on give as he jumped up. It was Wickham, her clearing mind noting that he must have been sitting with her legs on his lap. The image was greatly disturbing, but fresh waves of tremors took over her thoughts. Breathing became increasingly difficult and painful, so she assigned all concentration to the mere act of inhaling and exhaling. However, she did hear another man laughing.
“Fortunate that I insisted on the tub sitting there, eh, Wickham?” Orman laughed, the sight of Elizabeth Darcy suffering highly amusing, as was the disgust on Wickham’s face as he looked at the mess. “How badly do you want her now? Hmmm? Ready to take her this instant?”
Wickham ignored the gibe, crossing instead to a door located on the far wall. “You there!” he bellowed. “Leave the boy and come clean this mess. He will not be going anywhere.”
The girl who entered at Wickham’s biddin
g was dressed in a ragged gown, her emaciated frame unable to keep the neckline from gaping and showing her bony chest. She cowered, dropping an ungainly curtsey in Orman’s direction before setting to the task Wickham ordered.
He stood away, covering his nose with a scented handkerchief until the job was done. “How is the boy?”
“Asleep, milord. Woke and got sick once. Fell ta sleep agin.”
“You keep him breathing, understand girl?” Orman growled from his chair near the fireplace. “Thanks to his incapability in handling an infant, the whelp in there has been dosed with enough sweet vitriol for a grown man.”
“You did not have a miniature ruffian pounding your shoulders and stomach, all while screaming directly into your ears. The monster actually bit me on the neck! It was nearly my life, as the imp thrashed so as I almost fell down the stairs, breaking both our necks. Be thankful I had the ether at hand. Should have known Darcy’s progeny would be the devil’s spawn.”
Orman grunted. “Be that as it may, you are lucky you did not kill him. Keep him tied down and gagged, girl. I do not want the brat waking up and screaming for his mother. But keep him breathing or it will be your hide, understand?”
She performed her clumsy bob again, departing into the room where a trussed and muzzled Alexander lay on a narrow bed. Wickham closed the door firmly on the sight, turning to see Orman staring at him with derision.
“Do not make me retch,” the Marquis said scornfully. “Does seeing the brat in such a state injure your tender heart?”
“Hardly. I am more concerned over him dying too soon, that is all.”
Orman cackled. “He will recover enough to be conscious and crying out to his papa when we slit his throat. Ah, the look on Darcy’s face while he watches his precious son and wife die! The joy, Wickham, the incredible joy!”
“Well,” Wickham interrupted what he knew could easily bloom into a full-fledged manic tirade, “I shall allow you that task. I will take care of Mrs. Darcy in the way that best satisfies me. We shall both have our revenge before he dies.”
“You are a fool,” Lizzy rasped through clattering teeth, “if you truly believe you will get away with any of this. Fitzwilliam will not fall for your pathetic ruse or be taken so easily. He is stronger than you, Wickham, and always has been. This you know and you are afraid.”
Wickham smiled confidently, only a glimmer of nervousness showing in the depths of his eyes. “How touching,” he drawled. “The faith you have. All the more reason why taking you while your hero watches powerless to intervene will be so extremely pleasurable, for me anyway.” He leered, one hand rubbing vulgarly over his crotch while lecherously scanning over her body.
He sat again onto the sofa, pulling Lizzy’s lower legs and feet onto his lap and commencing a lazy caress over her bare shins.
Lizzy jerked her legs from his offensive touch, kicked powerfully with every ounce of her strength into his jaw, and watched his head snap backward as blood spurt from between split lips in a gushing stream along with teeth.
At least that was what she imagined doing. That was what her mind desired to happen. But her muscles and nerves betrayed her, refusing to obey the brain’s command. Instead she cringed and quailed, her stomach threatening to again disgorge, and her weeps of anguish caught in her chest.
Wickham and Orman talked on, with glee, about the plans they had laid. How Darcy would be, even at that moment, collecting the funds to retrieve his wife and child, funds that they would enjoy, but were only a diversion. How he was probably agonizing over the loss to his fortune while also agonizing over the fate of his loved ones. How he would suffer all through the long night and all the next day before he received his instructions. How they would drop vague hints of Lizzy and Alexander’s torment designed to torture him. How they would lure him with promises of a safe return, only to capture him when he played to their directives like a marionette. How they would follow through with the final monstrous assaults to Lizzy and an innocent child, ending their heinous campaign with Orman killing Darcy.
The declarations and fits of laughter blended in her weary, stupefied mind. Lizzy sensed the tendrils of oblivion creeping over her and she reached for them eagerly. She hurt, physically and emotionally, and yearned for the relative peace that sleep would bring her. Her last memory was of a loud bang and muted scream from somewhere far away, but she could not muster the curiosity needed to maintain a grip on her reason. Blackness again consumed her.
***
The ride from Grosvenor Square to the remote hunting lodge in Surrey, near the village of Oxshott, was uneventful. The twelve men on horseback drove their mounts hard, not bothering to talk, and crossed the distance in record time. Nonetheless, to Darcy it felt like an eternity. Only a few hours had passed since the suspected time of the kidnapping, fewer still since he had been interrupted with the news at Angelo’s, but it was more than enough time for any number of gruesome punishments to have befallen his wife and child. No matter how hard he tried to squelch the visions, they occurred with alarming frequency. It was only the driving will to rescue them that preserved his sanity.
The calm, military proficiency of Colonel Fitzwilliam was a soothing balm at this time. Even in the midst of his turmoil, Darcy was consciously appreciative that he had such a man on his side. It would not be until much later, however, that he would be able to think back on his cousin’s sapient leadership with the full amount of pride and awe it deserved. For the present, he could only focus on holding his wife and son in his arms, and putting this nightmare behind them. Luckily, he did have enough clarity and good sense to hearken to Richard’s decrees.
They did not slow their galloping pace until they neared the narrow weald bordering the unkempt expanse surrounding the house. The colonel signaled a halt amongst the concealing woods. Each of the ten men he had circumspectly chosen for this mission dismounted in complete silence. They tied their horses to the trees, gathering around their commander in hunkering positions without crunching a single dried leaf. With a combination of gestures and pointed words spoken in hushed tones that were nevertheless crisp and comprehendible, their plan of attack was laid out.
Richard signaled Darcy, the only nonmilitary man in their company, to stay close to his side. Darcy nodded, knowing that this was as much to be sure the emotionally charged man did not do something stupid as it was to be sure he was front-and-center to the final rescue.
The other men fanned out in a rough semicircle between the trunks of oak, wild cherry, and birch. They crept silently, low to the ground, eyes scanning through the faint illumination of dusk, edging ever closer to the boundary of the concealing forest. Once the house was within easy sight, they halted again. More faint whispers and gestured commands were given. Darcy only understood about half of the communication, but then, his eyes were riveted to the lodge beyond the weedy, dilapidated yard.
It was not large, strictly being a temporary resting place for menfolk to lay their heads in relative comfort while hunting the plentiful game that inhabited the surrounding woodland. Fashioned from roughly carved logs and timber, it almost reminded Darcy of drawings he had seen of cabins in the American frontier. Although the current pressing point was to spy the land and collect necessary intelligence, Darcy did spare a moment’s curious inventory of the architecture, grudgingly admitting that the rustic design was appealing. Moreover, on a practical level, it made this venture easy to delineate.
The land in between where they hid among the underbrush and the house was level, only some thirty yards wide, and conveniently dotted with wildly overgrown hazel, green hound’s-tongue, herb Paris, and a number of other bushes and small trees. The house was dark with glimmers of light showing from one first floor window on the far corner and a group of windows on the second story. They waited, watching, unbelievably coming to suspect that there were no guards or servants in the vicinity, when an armed man walked around the corner.
Richard snorted in disgust, nudging Darcy with his elbow,
and leaning for a murmured commentary. “Look at how he is holding his shotgun. Pathetic. Not looking around or alert. Oh, this is almost no fun at all.” He signaled to one of his associates, Colonel Roland Artois, older brother to Kitty’s husband Randall Artois, who nodded curtly, rose, and almost instantly seemed to disappear!
Darcy blinked in astonishment, as he would several times in the next few minutes, finally espying the enormous soldier with bulging muscles that looked to burst through the strained fabric of his lightweight jacket. He was melting into the darkness cast by the foliage, his hulking body appearing to magically fade as he furtively grew closer and closer to the unsuspecting sentry. The man stood nonchalantly by the wall, puffing on a glowing pipe, the shotgun negligently slung over his shoulder.
It was a thing of beauty. One moment he was there, in full view, and the next he was dropped to the ground. It happened so fast that if their angle did not allow the scene to play before his eyes, Darcy may have thought the man evaporated! In one smooth motion, the brawny warrior emerged behind the watchman, his arms and hands circling with a knifing twist and jerking clasp. The unfortunate man instantly went limp, Colonel Artois lowering them both gracefully to the ground amid the concealing bushes and shadows.
Darcy gasped. Richard grinned, delivering a wink to his cousin. “Do not fear. All the men have been instructed not to kill unless absolutely necessary.” He shrugged. “Generally it is not necessary. There are ways to subdue and leave for future questioning. Can help when you need information, keeps down the mess and boring questions later, and gives the courts and lawyers something to prove their worth in this world.”
Richard delivered another wink before growing serious and motioning to more of his assistants. Four more slunk away, two in each direction. “They will approach the house from the back and side, take care of any other guards,” he emphasized with derision, “and stand watch around the perimeter. Ah, there is the signal.”
The bulky figure of Roland Artois came into view from amid the brush, nodding at the colonel.
The Trouble with Mr. Darcy Page 32
