by Jennifer Joy
Darcy detested the scoundrel for using Georgiana as he had. He despised Wickham’s ability to charm otherwise intelligent females such as Georgie … and even Miss Elizabeth. Oh yes, Darcy had seen her smiles when she was in Wickham’s company. He had seen her eyes sparkle in interest, watched her lean forward in eagerness to hear Wickham’s lies.
Miss Elizabeth would not smile if she knew the truth.
Did she believe Wickham? Darcy would have thought the idea preposterous. Who would give more consequence to a man such as Wickham when it was his word against Fitzwilliam Darcy’s?
And yet, Darcy sensed Miss Elizabeth’s disapproval toward himself.
A dark mood settled over Darcy.
Miss Elizabeth abandoned all attempts at polite conversation, and Darcy wished Bingley would do the same.
However, silence did not come easily to Bingley. At least he abandoned his efforts to include Darcy in his conversation. Bingley and Miss Bennet talked contentedly of nothing of import while Mrs. Holton pretended to sleep. Intelligent woman.
Miss Elizabeth occupied herself with a book she pulled out of her reticule. He read the title, surprised to find it was the same novel he had recently bought for Georgiana. The newest edition of Belinda by Maria Edgeworth. How ironic Miss Elizabeth should choose a novel wherein the heroine’s problems were complicated by her belief in malicious gossip.
What had Wickham said against him? Darcy was convinced he was the target of Wickham's newest sympathy-inspiring tale. It was how he got what he wanted. Why change old habits when they proved effective?
Darcy’s legs grew numb under the weight of the hamper, but there was not room enough between himself and Bingley for the bulky burden. He was tempted to toss the loathsome thing out of the carriage.
His temper worsened, and he hated himself for it.
Bingley and Miss Bennet’s conversation grew quieter as the tension mounted inside the coach. He wished they would ignore him as Miss Elizabeth did. She was engrossed in another world, turning the pages rapidly as she chewed on her bottom lip. It was an engrossing story.
Darcy leaned against the side of the carriage, shifting the basket on his knees. Rubbing the glass clear with the sleeve of his greatcoat, he saw the first fat snowflakes drift from the low clouds. It was good they had departed early. Unless they were delayed, they would arrive in London before the roads became too difficult to travel.
The landscape became a sea of rolling hills dusted with powdery snow. Soon, there would be clumps of white dotting the muddy road. Darcy did not need to see the time to know where they were or to estimate when they would arrive in town. The next village was about an hour away, and London was another hour beyond that. He would see the Bennets to their uncle’s house safely, and then he was free to go to his town house. Bingley could come or go as he wished.
Pulling out his pocket watch, Darcy rubbed his thumb against his surname engraved on the casing. Only two hours until he set foot in his domain where a fine cognac awaited him in his study. He could allow himself to feel his insufficiency in isolation, and he would finally discover the source of the trouble preventing him from returning to Pemberley. If only he knew, he could mend everything Wickham had broken.
Assured Bingley was in no danger of declaring himself, Darcy closed his eyes, conjuring up the most serene picture in his mind.
He walked into Pemberley’s entrance hall. Georgiana squealed his name and launched herself into his arms. He spun her in circles until they both grew dizzy. He told her all about his latest trip, and she played the latest piece she had been practicing on her instrument for him.
Darcy had not thought he slept until the carriage lurched forward, sending both himself and the hamper crashing against Miss Elizabeth.
The faint smell of honeysuckle clinging to her hair delayed his apology. A whiff of spring in the dead of winter. The sweet scent tangled his thoughts as thoroughly as her contradictory nature, leaving him muddled and no closer to determining her true opinion of him. Not that he sought her approval.
“My apologies,” Darcy mumbled, the exertion to return to his side of the swaying carriage while holding onto the infernal picnic basket testing the limits of his strength and patience. Had his coachman gone mad?
He heard the coachman shout. Then another lurch, this time in the opposite direction, sending the ladies tumbling forward.
By the time they righted themselves, the carriage had slowed considerably. Darcy peered through the glass. Where in the blazes were they?
He struggled to cling to his anger when Miss Elizabeth’s honeysuckle essence once again invaded his senses, but he managed. Raising his fist, he pounded against the top of the coach. Darcy’s coachman knew his expectations regarding the care of his carriage and horses. He suffered few delays or incidents because of his servants' attention to detail, and to have an accident occur while Darcy was responsible for the ladies’ welfare was disastrous.
He received no reply.
He pounded again.
Deathly silence shrouded them.
Darcy’s ire froze as quickly as it had ignited when a man’s voice called out, “Stand and deliver!”
Chapter 9
Elizabeth's heart sank to her toes. Many times during her tranquil country life, she had wished for excitement. This was not at all what she had meant.
Mrs. Holton looked about wildly. "Oh, no! It cannot be! It cannot be!"
Metal clanked against something solid above them.
No sooner had Mr. Darcy cried out, "No!" than the crack of a firearm echoed through the silence.
No more sounds came from the coachman’s seat. Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face as she realized what had happened.
She blinked her eyes several times, but this was not a nightmare from which she could wake herself. A man had been murdered not a horse length from where she sat. Would they be next?
Mr. Darcy turned to her, his voice deep and his words quick. "Stay inside the carriage as long as you can. Look under the cushion."
Before he could tell her what she was supposed to look for or under which cushion to search, the door flung open.
A man dressed in black pointed a flintlock pistol at Mr. Darcy. "Out," he barked.
Mr. Darcy did not argue with the man. He and Mr. Bingley scrambled outside and closed the door behind them faster than Lydia could polish off a plate of cucumber sandwiches.
Expecting the awful man to return any second, Elizabeth started searching under the cushions. She ran her fingers over the boards, feeling for whatever Mr. Darcy had told her to find while Jane inspected under the cushions. If only Mr. Darcy had told them what they sought….
They found nothing on the gentlemen’s side of the carriage.
Elizabeth’s pulse thrummed in her ears, increasing with every thump and grunt she heard from outside. She ought not to have looked out of the carriage window, but she did. She cleared the fogged glass with her pelisse sleeve, her gasp of breath clouding it again at the cruel display toward Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley from two highwaymen.
"Let us search the other side," she urged.
Mrs. Holton found the hidden compartment under her seat. Pulling the panel away, she reached inside and pulled out a leather coin pouch as large as Elizabeth’s fist.
She handed it to Elizabeth, the weight of it pushing her hand down.
Elizabeth reached for the carriage door. "If we give them this, perhaps the men will leave."
Jane’s firm grip stopped Elizabeth. "Mr. Darcy said to stay inside. We might only complicate matters for them."
Another series of thuds followed by a moan reached Elizabeth's ears. "And do nothing? They need our help." She reached for the door again.
Jane did not stop her. Mrs. Holton did. She said, "It will not be enough. Time is short, and you must listen to me. You will be safer with the gentlemen than with this lot. You cannot stay inside the carriage."
Her words struck Elizabeth a blow. "You know who these men are?"
>
"You knew of this?" Jane gasped at the same time.
Mrs. Holton did not answer, nor would she look them in the eyes. She occupied herself with the basket their mother had sent, pushing it to no avail. "Help me, please, before they stop us. These provisions could save your lives," Mrs. Holton cried, her desperation growing with each failed attempt to shove the hamper closer to the door.
Whatever Mrs. Holton knew would have to wait. Right now, they needed to get out of the conveyance with the basket of food and do what they must to assist Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.
Elizabeth stepped out of the carriage, a blast of icy wind slamming into her and flinging the carriage door wide open.
Two highwaymen, the one she had seen threaten Mr. Darcy with his pistol, and another, pummeled the gentlemen along the side of the road. Through the snow fall, the criminals were nothing more than faceless, black blurs with their hats pulled low over their eyes and dark handkerchiefs covering any distinguishable feature.
What Elizabeth could discern at a glance filled her with rage. Mr. Darcy’s hands were tied behind him, rendering him defenseless when one of the cowards struck him in the ribs.
Mr. Bingley struggled on the ground where the pistol-bearing highwayman held him against the mud and snow.
Elizabeth looked up at the coachman’s box. Beside the slumped form of the coachman, Mr. Darcy’s footman sat holding the horses’ reins with hands that shook like tree branches in a windstorm. He was terrified. He would be of no use to them if fear had prevented him from going to his master’s aid.
With one mighty pull, Elizabeth freed the basket from the carriage, her mother’s precious china clashing and breaking when she dumped it on the ground.
Charging toward the cowards, Elizabeth shouted, "Stop it right now! I have a pouch full of gold coins. Take it and leave!" She held the pouch up for them to see, shaking it for good measure. The coins jingled louder than the gusts whistling past her ears. She knew the highwaymen heard them too when they turned their attention away from the gentlemen to face her.
“Miss Elizabeth—” Mr. Darcy lurched forward, but the coward with the pistol caught him by his bound hands, pulling them up until Elizabeth’s shoulders twinged at the sight.
“Throw it here,” the second highwayman said in a gravelly voice Elizabeth tried to distinguish but could not.
She held the coins away. “No, you must come and get it.” Anything to get those awful men away from the gentlemen and give her a closer look. Poor Mr. Bingley must be soaked through to the bone. Mr. Darcy’s pride held him upright, but Elizabeth could see it cost him.
Behind her, Mrs. Holton said, “We do not have the luxury of time. Let us hurry before we are caught in the storm.”
The man dropped Mr. Darcy’s hands, shoving him away and snatching the coin pouch out of Elizabeth’s hand. Just as she thought to get a good look at his face, he reached to her neck and she felt the delicate gold chain of her necklace press against her skin and break.
He turned away before she recovered herself, saying, "Let us leave them to the storm."
With one more kick of his boot, the other highwayman pushed Mr. Bingley back to the ground. The rogue took his horse from his accomplice, who then clambered up to the coach box.
The footman raised his hands, crying, "Please do not shoot me."
Holding his pistol against the footman’s temple, the coward growled, "Unless you want a bullet in your head, you will do exactly as I say."
Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley limped and lunged until they stood between the criminals by the horses and the ladies beside the carriage. They were a pathetic sight, battered as they were, but Elizabeth felt protected.
Mrs. Holton stepped away from her post. "I am so sorry," she said. Without another word, she got back inside the carriage, leaving Jane standing in front of the basket with the other side exposed.
The highwayman saw it.
Elizabeth stepped in front of the hamper, spreading out her skirts as if she were whisking off a piece of lint.
It was difficult to act bored when her heart threatened to leap out of her chest. Their survival depended on keeping that basket.
But it was too late. The highwayman rushed toward them, pointing at the basket and demanding, "What is this?"
Mr. Bingley charged him, slamming the highwayman against the coach. "Do not lay a hand on them!"
A pistol fired in the air. The coward holding the reins of Mr. Darcy's coach handed his smoking weapon to the terrified footman. "Get the basket inside the coach and let us leave," he ordered.
The highwayman shoved Mr. Bingley away and grabbed the basket, but not before Elizabeth latched on to the other end. She tugged with every ounce of her strength, gaining confidence when Jane helped her.
Mr. Darcy shouted from behind them. What was he doing back there?
Elizabeth did not have a chance to look or to hear what he said.
Mr. Bingley grabbed the middle of the basket and pulled. With a crack, the reeds split, spilling its contents on the ground.
Mama’s fine china, already broken, now scattered into tiny pieces sliding over the slick road. The carriage jolted forward, the wheels crunching over her mother’s prized porcelain.
Satisfied he had left them as desperate as he could, the highwayman mounted his horse and cantered beside the coach.
Elizabeth released her hold on the piece of basket still in her hand, watching Mr. Darcy’s carriage get smaller as it traveled down the road.
She looked at the pile of shattered porcelain and spilled provisions at her feet. At least she would have plenty to eat, and company with whom to share it. Two single ladies with two single gentlemen.
If Elizabeth did not know better, she would have thought her mother had planned this.
Chapter 10
Darcy wanted to kick something. He had been so close to freeing his horse, but without the use of his hands and with Bingley so preoccupied with that infernal basket, Darcy had been forced to use his teeth to loosen the ropes. He had not been fast enough.
Grumbling, Darcy repeated, "May you please untie me, Bingley?"
This time, Bingley heard him. He peeled off his gloves and shoved them in his pocket. Moving behind Darcy, he fumbled with the rope.
Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet picked through the remains of Mrs. Bennet's hamper, putting what they could salvage in the middle of an embroidered tablecloth. Miss Elizabeth held up a pewter kettle, handing it to her sister.
Who packed something so cumbersome as pewter in a flimsy picnic basket? Darcy knew Mrs. Bennet to possess little sense, but he was shocked she would place the heavy kettle beside her fragile china in a carriage which would traverse a bumpy road for hours until they reached London. It explained her insistence that the basket be carried inside the carriage, but it did nothing to lessen the ridiculousness of it. Then again, what was Mrs. Bennet if not ridiculous?
Miss Bennet cradled the kettle to her chest and sighed contentedly. Darcy could find nothing to be content about in their current situation. Evidently, the daughter was as silly as her mother.
Bingley tugged on the ropes around Darcy’s wrists, but they were no looser for all of his attempts to loosen them. If anything, they were tighter. "I apologize, Darcy, but I cannot make my fingers work," Bingley said.
Darcy turned around to see Bingley shaking, his teeth chattering.
Before Darcy could inquire after Bingley’s injuries or assist him in any way, Miss Bennet ran to his side. Handing him the kettle, she said, "Most of the chocolate spilled, but the pewter is still warm."
She helped Bingley wrap his hands around the vessel when he nearly dropped it. Her eyes widened in horror when she pressed the warm kettle to his chest and pulled her fingers back to dry them on her pelisse. "Your coat is soaked through. You must be chilled to the bone," she exclaimed.
Darcy felt as low as his boot heel. While he had taken the majority of the blows, Bingley had been kicked and held to the ground. His wool greatcoat
would have been drenched and heavy. No doubt, his clothes were wet underneath as well. Miss Bennet, who Darcy had criticized a moment ago as silly, had selflessly offered Bingley the warm kettle before Darcy had even noticed how miserable his friend must have been.
The frigid breeze plastered snowflakes against Darcy’s skin, and he was unable to turn up his collar. His skin burned where the ropes pinched his arms.
They needed to find a shelter — and fast. He needed to rid himself of the blasted ropes binding him.
Setting the food-laden tablecloth on a patch of fresh snow, Miss Elizabeth walked behind him. Her gentle fingers tugged at the rough ropes.
Relief flooded through Darcy when the coils loosened their hold. It was all he could do not to strain against them in his haste to be free of the restraints.
They were no longer in danger from the conscienceless criminals, but the weather was soon becoming a detriment.
Darcy looked around, taking in his surroundings and forming a plan.
Miss Bennet returned to the pile of broken china, picking through to recover a broken cup and a few dishes undamaged enough to be useful. Racing back to Bingley’s side, she poured some of the chocolate into it.
Bingley shook so hard, he spilled most of it down his coat in an attempt to drink.
Miss Bennet took the cup from him and raised it to his lips, saying gently, "Allow me to help you."
She was nothing like her mother. Darcy had always believed Miss Bennet to be insipid and easily influenced, but there was a firmness and decisiveness in her actions that bespoke a stronger character than Darcy had accredited to her.
With a final pull, Miss Elizabeth freed Darcy. He rubbed his wrists, the skin above his gloves chafed and swollen. It burned, but Darcy was too cold to cool his injury with snow.
When he looked up, Miss Elizabeth faced him.
He was amazed at the presence of mind both Bennet sisters displayed in the wake of their harrowing ordeal. Most ladies would have remained in the carriage rather than attempt to assist them. Most ladies would have fainted.
