Darcy in Want of a Wife

Chapter 36

On the Road to Scofield

Hertfordshire

Hours Earlier

“What are you doing?” Mary asked plaintively. “Why am I here?”

Wickham leaned back and stretched out his legs, and one boot touched Mary’s shoe. She pulled back from him and swallowed hard at the mocking smile on the man’s face.

“You are being abducted, Miss Bennet,” the woman said, and Mary turned horrified eyes on the woman at her side. She was, Mary thought, some five and thirty years of age, dressed with quiet elegance, and looked every inch the lady. It was now obvious that she was not.

“Who are you?” Mary whispered.

“I am Mrs. Younge, an old friend of Wickham’s,” the woman replied coolly.

“Why would you … what are you going to do with me?” Mary asked fearfully.

“That depends very much on Darcy,” Wickham said, and Mary turned to see an expression of implacable hatred on the man’s face.

She was intimidated, without a doubt, but also entirely bewildered. “Mr. Darcy? What does he have to do with anything? He left for London months ago.”

“Yes, he did,” Wickham continued, “though he took time, of course, to plot with Mr. Bingley to arrange for my imprisonment in Marshalsea. In the last weeks, Darcy has fallen in love with your sister, Miss Bennet, and there is every reason to believe that he will soon ask for her hand in marriage. I have no intention of allowing the man who ruined my life to ride off into the sunset with the woman he adores, and thus I am ruining your family’s good name by carrying you off.”

Mary’s heart was beating like a drum, and she felt sick, but she was also extremely confused. “Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth? That is quite impossible. He disdains her!”

“I fear you are not up to date on Miss Bennet’s relationship with my old enemy,” Wickham said drily. “I am aware that his first act upon setting eyes on Miss Bennet was to insult her beauty, but he is a rich man, and doubtless any irritation over his behavior was swept away by his wealth and high position in society.”

Mary narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “My sister is not like that! She will not marry a man based on riches and connections!”

That was true enough, and Mary admired her sister for it. She herself had little chance of marrying at all, and certainly not of marrying well. She did not believe she would have the courage to set aside a good offer for love or even respect. She would, indeed, have accepted their cousin, Mr. Collins, as a husband if he had offered for her instead of Charlotte Lucas.

“Perhaps you are correct about that,” Wickham said, shrugging his shoulders negligently, “but perhaps you are not. I thought that in Miss Bennet I had found a kindred spirit, but she certainly did not come to my defense when I was locked up for a few paltry debts. Miss Lydia, of course, attempted to assist me, but was stopped by Darcy. Yes, I believe I have every reason to take my vengeance on the man, and you are, regrettably, the Bennet daughter who fell into my net. I would have preferred Miss Kitty or Miss Lydia, who are both prettier and livelier, but one does not always get what one wants. In any case, you will be ruined by tomorrow, as Mrs. Younge will testify that we spent significant time alone together, and your family will be ruined with you, and Darcy is far too proud and puffed up to wed a woman with that kind of scandal in her background.”

Mary turned away from the man to look out the window, dug into her reticule, pulled out her handkerchief, and wiped the tears which threatened to spill down her cheeks. She could not believe this was happening to her; it was some kind of nightmare! She knew that Mr. Wickham was not a good person, but for the man to abduct her? To deliberately ruin her?

She was thankful it was not her younger sister who had been snatched. Kitty would have accompanied her to Meryton this morning except that the girl had woken up with a bad headache. But perhaps they would have been safe if they had been together? Would Wickham have attempted to abduct them both? The answer was probably yes; she had entered the carriage innocently, and no doubt Kitty would have as well.

“We will be in Scofield in about two hours,” Mr. Wickham remarked.

“And what of it?” Mrs. Younge asked.

“We need to send a letter to our benefactor,” Wickham explained, “telling her that we have achieved our goal in snatching Miss Bennet.”

Mary kept her face averted, but could not help biting her lip. ‘Her’? It was horrific enough that Mrs. Younge was in league with Mr. Wickham to take advantage of a fellow female, but it appeared that another woman was acting behind the scenes and … what, providing money? It must be that; it was expensive to hire or buy a carriage and the horses as well, and Wickham had nothing. Unless Mrs. Younge was wealthy?

“I will mail the letter,” Mrs. Younge declared. “You need to stay here to watch the girl, though I suggest that we gag her before we stop; it would be most inconvenient if she called out for help.”

“I do not think that will be necessary,” Wickham said, much to Mary’s relief. “We will stop the carriage on a back alley close to the post office; there will not be many people around, and in any case, I trust Miss Mary is far too sensible to cause trouble.”

“You abducted me, both of you,” Mary said suddenly, and her voice trembled. “That is a hanging offense.”

Wickham laughed and shook his head. “Nonsense, Miss Mary. You and I have been corresponding for some time now, and we made the arrangements for this escape together, or at least that is what I will say. It is hardly my fault if you experienced some regret after running away with me.”

“I would never!” Mary cried out. “Everyone knows that I am a virtuous lady!”

“I daresay it is easy to be virtuous when you are ugly and your sisters beautiful,” Wickham said harshly. “In any case, it does not matter. Society is generous with gentlemen; we are permitted to dally about, but in such cases, a lady is ruined, and her family with her.”

Mary turned a horrified stare at Mrs. Younge, who said, “Miss Bennet, I advise you to accept your lot with as much grace as possible. Moreover, I would not wish you to be entirely desperate; if Darcy and Bingley cooperate appropriately, we will be happy enough to hush this all up.”

Mary gulped, and another tear trickled down her face. She could not imagine how this horrific affair could be hushed up, nor could she imagine her captors being merciful.

She was ruined.

/

Longbourn

Later in the Day

The drawing room at Longbourn was no longer a charming room where the Bennet ladies welcomed friends, or read books, or worked on needlework. It was now a command post in the search for the missing Mary Bennet.

Elizabeth was seated at a writing desk and was writing down the information trickling in from various servants of the Bennets and Lucases, along with a number of townsfolk who had agreed to assist in finding the young lady.

Elizabeth was very grateful. Her father was lazy and her mother was often absurd, but they were kindly people and treated their tenants well. The people of Meryton liked the Bennets, and in the midst of this horrible situation, they were turning out in droves to find the lost lady.

Two hours previously, two of the blacksmith’s sons had learned that the mysterious yellow carriage, presumably carrying Mary, had been seen on the road to Scofield. The elder of the sons had ridden onward toward Scofield in pursuit of Mary and her abductors, while the younger son had hurried home with news. Darcy and Bennet had decided to send more searchers toward Scofield in the hopes of picking up the trail, though Darcy thought it wise to still send men along other routes.

Elizabeth was hopeful that they were truly on Mary’s track; yellow bounders were rarely seen in Meryton, as post chaises were expensive. Most of the gentry owned their own carriage, and most of the poorer folk would take the stagecoach instead of hiring a post chaise.

It seemed likely that Wickham, if it were indeed Wickham, had been blessed not only with enough money to leave Marshalsea, but additional funds which allowed him to hire a carriage and snatch Mary.

She suppressed a shiver. Wickham was not only desperate, but vengeful, and she shuddered at the thought of her poor sister in the man’s vicious grasp.

/

Scofield

A Few Hours Earlier

The carriage came to a gentle halt and Mary looked out the window, her mouth turned down mournfully. They had arrived at what was, presumably, the town of Scofield, and the driver of the carriage had pulled into a small lane which faced the back of a long building.

She had determined, based on the conversation of Mrs. Young and Mr. Wickham, that the driver was a Mr. Harrison, who was Mrs. Younge’s brother. She could expect no help from him. She had also discovered that there was a fair amount of money involved. It seemed that Mr. Wickham’s benefactor was paying him well to destroy the Bennet family.

It was horrifying and bewildering. Who could do such a thing to the Bennets? To Mary?

“Hurry back, my dear,” Wickham said with a flirtatious arch of one perfect eyebrow.

“I will,” Mrs. Younge returned, though her tone was grim as opposed to romantic. “The sooner we reach the lodge, the better.”

She opened the door and stepped down, and Mary huddled closer to the window, the tears falling down her cheeks. She swallowed a sob and stared at Wickham, her expression twisted with fear.

Wickham grinned at her, obviously amused, and then turned to look out of the window. “We will not be here long, Miss Mary, and…”

In that moment of inattention, Mary launched forward and smashed Wickham’s nose with her copy of Robinson Crusoe , which had a delightfully hard edge. He yelped in anguish and lifted a hand to push her away, which caused his sleeve to ride up his arm. This, in turn, exposed a few inches of flesh between sleeve and glove, and Mary, without hesitation, bit the man’s arm with all her strength.

He screamed in agony, and Mary heard the driver above call out, “What’s the matter?!”

Mary dropped her book and lurched toward the door of the carriage. It opened, and she jumped out and began racing as quickly as she could down the alley.

“Get her!” Wickham howled, and Mary heard the sound of the driver, Mrs. Younge’s brother, yelling, “Stop! Stop!”

She did not, of course, stop. Indeed, her legs moved faster, driven by terror, and she dove to the left onto another alleyway, which led away from the shops and towards an area with houses, ranging in size from small to medium. She did not know anyone in Scofield, and both men chasing her were stronger and faster than she was. She needed to find a place to hide, but where…?

“Miss! Miss! Are you alright?!”

Mary looked wildly about and observed a tall, rangy woman of some forty summers dressed in the simpler garments of the lower classes, who was standing in the small front yard of one of the medium-sized houses, staring at her with obvious concern etched on her face.

“Men … men chasing me!” Mary cried out as she panted, slowing slightly. She was tiring quickly and knew that she could not maintain this pace for long.

“Come here, Miss!” the woman cried out. “I will hide you!”

She lurched to the right and ran toward the woman, who reached out a hand, grasped Mary’s arm, and pushed her toward a stairwell which led downward to what must be the basement of the house.

“Go inside and hide,” the woman hissed quietly.

Mary stumbled down the steps, opened the door, and staggered within to find herself in a small dingy kitchen, thankfully unoccupied. She collapsed onto a simple wooden chair, her heart beating madly, heaving in and out deep ragged breaths.

A minute passed in silence, and Mary’s heart rate slowed, only to quicken again at the sound of a man speaking outside the open window above her. It was George Wickham.

“Miss?” the man’s oily voice asked.

“Yes?” Mary’s rescuer replied.

“Have you perhaps seen my sister running by?”

There was a pause, and every muscle in Mary’s body tightened.

“Your sister?” the woman asked, her voice filled with apparent concern. “A child?”

“No, no, she is full grown, but I fear that she is rather weak in the head. I am gravely worried about her; she cannot be out and about safely.”

“Oh, I see,” the woman replied “Well, I have not seen an unfamiliar lady near here today, though I only came outside some fifteen minutes ago to feed the chickens.”

“She would have come by in the last minutes, Miss. Are you entirely certain you did not see her?”

The question sounded, to Mary’s ears, a trifle threatening, but her savior did not seem at all ruffled.

“No,” she said in a thoughtful tone, “I have not seen any strangers this afternoon at all, save for you, sir. I am very sorry; it must be distressing to lose your sister in such a way.”

“It is indeed most concerning,” Wickham declared, and Mary bit her lip at the sincerity in the man’s voice. The man was a most gifted liar.

“I am grieved I cannot help you,” the woman replied, her tone matching Wickham’s in gravity. “Will you … that is, are you staying here in Scofield, sir? If I see such a lady, where should I send word?”

“Wickham!” another voice called and, a few seconds later, “Is there any sign of her?”

It was, of course, Mrs. Younge’s brother, but by now, Mary was feeling insensibly confident in her rescuer, who seemed to match Wickham in her ability to deceive.

“None at all,” Wickham said, and then, in a minatory accent, added, “I fear that my sister has taken refuge in some little hidey-hole nearby; I can only regret that I played hide and seek with her when we were younger; she is most adept at finding good hiding places.”

“Your sister, erm, yes, of course,” Mr. Harrison agreed. “Well, erm, we should, um, keep looking.”

“Miss, my sister is a few inches shorter than you, plain, with dark hair, and dressed in blue,” Wickham said aloud.

“If I see her, I will invite her inside and keep her here until you return,” Mary’s new friend said earnestly.

“Thank you most profoundly,” Wickham said. “May I also ask you to pray for my poor Mary?”

“I will.”

Mary heard the men’s footsteps recede and found herself slumping in the chair, suddenly exhausted beyond belief. Three more minutes passed in silence, and then the door opened, causing Mary to jump in alarm, and then relax at the sight of her rescuer.

“Do not worry, Miss. They are not within earshot.”

Mary felt her eyes fill with tears, and her body began to shake.

“Thank you so much, so very much,” she said in a trembling tone. “I hope you understand, that is, that man is not my brother.”

“Oh, I know,” the woman said, walking over to a pitcher, selecting a glass, and pouring water into it, which she then offered to Mary. “Drink this, Miss. I can see you have had quite a shock. I am Beatrice, by the way.”

Mary took the glass with a trembling hand and drank most of the water down. “I have, yes,” she replied a minute later. She was inclined to burst into tears again but forced herself to restrain herself. For the moment, she was safe, but the sooner she could send word to Longbourn, the better it would be.

“I am Miss Mary Bennet,” she continued. “My father is master of Longbourn in Hertfordshire, near the town of Meryton. I was abducted by Mr. Wickham this morning on my way home from the bookshop in Meryton. He intends to ruin my reputation, and that of my family, because a man he hates, a Mr. Darcy, is courting my elder sister. I daresay that sounds absurd, like a melodrama, but it is the truth.”

Beatrice had been cutting a slice of bread from the end of a loaf, and now she lavishly added butter, placed bread and butter on a plate, and handed it to Mary. “Please eat, Miss Bennet. I believe you entirely; I know men well enough to know a rogue when I see one!”

Mary took a bite of bread and realized that she was, indeed, starving. She chewed, swallowed, and said, “You are very acute, Beatrice. Most women I know consider Mr. Wickham one of the most delightful men of their acquaintance.”

“I daresay you refer to women of the gentry, Miss Bennet,” Beatrice said drily, picking up the pitcher and adding more water to her cup. “Men like Wickham only turn their charm on servants when they want something from them.”

“You are, of course, correct,” Mary said, and took another drink of cool water. “You are very wise.”

“I have my mistress to thank for that,” the woman declared, walking over to the stove and stirring a pot of some food which, once the top was removed, smelled delicious. “My brother and I serve our mistress, Mrs. Bradstowe, who owns this house. She is away at the moment, along with my brother.”

“When will she return?” Mary asked with trepidation.

“In two or three hours,” Beatrice said, “but you need not worry; she cared deeply for her husband, who died some ten years ago, but is not overawed by men in general. Moreover, she trusts my judgement. She will not betray you.”

Mary heaved a deep, grateful sigh. “Thank you so very much.”