Escape to Pemberley
Preview: The Measure of Love
One
DARCY POUNDED HIS FIST furiously on the weathered door, rattling the nearby shutters. This ramshackle “rooming house” in London's East End was no better than a brothel—exactly the vile sort of place Wickham would frequent. Desperation had chased Darcy to the city's filthy underbelly once before, but the viper had slipped his grasp. Not this time, though. The street lad who had taken Darcy’s coin said that George Wickham was back, and he was not alone.
The door creaked open, and a pinch-faced woman in garish rouge peered out. “You, sir! State your business or be off!”
“I am here to see George Wickham.” Darcy shouldered past her into the dim, smoky foyer, hand drifting toward the pistol holstered under his coat “Where is he?”
The Madame crossed her arms indignantly “Don’t know any George. Now, see here, I run a reputable—”
“Silence.” Darcy grasped her arm, pressing several coins into her palm and curling her trembling fingers over them. “Wickham is upstairs, is he not?”
The Madame licked her thin lips, eyeing the money. After a moment, she jerked her head at the stair. Darcy took them three at a time, his boots pounding up the rickety steps, his breath coming in heated puffs. The Madame's shrill cries echoed after him, demanding he behave “civil-like”, but he heeded her not. His fury would not be contained a moment longer.
Wickham was here. After weeks of relentless searching, justice would be served. No more innocent lives ruined by that blackguard's selfish whims. Darcy ground his teeth, an image of his dear sister Georgiana's anguished face flashing before his eyes. Never again.
He took the last few steps in a single leap, the old wood groaning under his weight. This was the room—he could hear a feminine voice whimpering softly from within. Gathering himself, he kicked the door with an echoing crack. The lock splintered apart, opening on a dingy room wreathed in opium smoke and illuminated by one rusted oil lamp.
Wickham lounged on the bed like a sultan, shock melting into his trademark wolfish grin. But it was the girl who drew Darcy’s blazing eyes—for all her buxom déshabillé, hers was the face of a child—a child with tumbling golden curls who couldn’t be more than fifteen years old. She tugged the thin chemise up around her shoulders, her mouth opened in protest… but it was Darcy’s voice that thundered first.
"Wickham!" he roared.
With nostrils flared like an enraged bull, Darcy seized the front of Wickham's shirt and slammed him against the wall hard enough to make the mirror rattle dangerously. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the girl fleeing from the room but paid her no further mind. His full fury was reserved for the wretch before him, now twisting and writhing in his tight grasp.
"Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. High and Mighty,” Wickham choked out. “Wasn’t expecting to see you in a den of iniquity. Don't tell me you’ve finally come to your senses and sampled the wares for—”
Darcy cut him off with a swift right hook to Wickham’s sharp jaw, sending him sprawling to the warped floor boards. “That was for Georgiana, you bastard," he spat. As quick as a jungle cat, he pounced, hauling Wickham up once more by the shirtfront. “Now, you dog, you are going to pay for what you’ve done!"
Wickham coughed wetly as Darcy threw him against the stained mattress. Yet as he swiped blood from his mouth, his cracked lips twisted in a jeering grin.
“Come now, what’s all this about? Can’t blame a fellow for enjoying a willing girl’s company. Why, your delightful sister was the one who threw herself into my arms. Begged me to run away with her, she did! How is dear Georgiana?”
With a roar of outrage, Darcy seized Wickham by the shirtfront once more, hauling him up and slamming him into the headboard so hard his teeth clacked together.
“You will not speak her name!” he thundered, cocking his fist back again with murder in his eyes.
Wickham held up his hands, still grinning his infuriating, insolent grin even as twin trails of blood leaked from his flared nostrils. “Very well, very well. But tell me, Darcy, how ever do you propose I ‘pay’ for my indiscretion, as you call it? Will you take a cheque? For I dare say the entertainment was well worth more than you’d get from flogging a dead horse.” His grin turned positively vulpine. “Why, I imagine your dear sister still misses my affections!”
Darcy trembled with rage as he gripped Wickham by the shirtfront, his fist raised and ready to explode against that foul, sneering face once more. How easy it would be to beat this blackguard within an inch of his life, to feel the satisfying crunch of bone and flesh yielding to his revenge. Blood for blood.
With Herculean effort, Darcy regained a shred of control. He was no street ruffian, and Wickham hardly worth dirtying his hands over further. Breathing hard through flared nostrils, Darcy released his foe and stepped back. Wickham collapsed against the mattress, face swelling grotesquely from Darcy’s fury. “I have better plans for you.”
Wickham spit crimson through his ruined grin. “What’s this? The high and mighty Darcy gone squeamish at the sight of blood? You ought to have sent your attack dog cousin if you didn’t have the stomach to see this through. Fitzwilliam would have happily finished the job.”
Curling his lip in disgust, Darcy replied in a deadly soft tone, “Be grateful Colonel Fitzwilliam is not here. For your brutality against innocents, he would tear you limb from limb without hesitation.” He flexed his aching, blood-stained knuckles. “Fortunately for you, some semblance of reason still governs my actions. But test that fraying thread further at your own peril.”
Wickham leered up at Darcy through swollen lips. "Come now, old boy, no need for this unpleasantness. Why not relax and sample the wares? I've a tasty little tart just downstairs, ripe for the picking. Pretty as a picture, with fire in her blood—just how you nobles like them. Still innocent in all the ways that matter, too.”
He licked the blood from his teeth, eyes fever-bright. “How about it , Darcy? Care to take her off my hands and school her in the ways of men?"
Revulsion churned Darcy's stomach. He hauled Wickham up by the throat, shoving him brutally against the stained wall. "Have you no shred of decency or conscience left? She is but a child! Ruining innocents for sport—you disgust me."
Wickham just chuckled. "Innocent? That one was born wild. Why, Miss Lydia is a gentlewoman in name only. She makes most London whores look saintly."
At this casual besmirching of yet another young lady's reputation, Darcy slammed Wickham back again, arm pressing viciously across his windpipe. "I'll see you rot.”
Wickham just leered, undaunted. “Oh, I hardly spoiled anything. But sweet Georgiana, now there was a tender lamb ripe for the plucking. So softly yielding, so deliciously willing to be taught and shown and taken...”
With a savage roar, Darcy seized Wickham about the neck and began raining blow after brutal blow upon his fiendish, grinning face. In the distance, he was dimly aware of violent shouts and pounding footsteps on the stairs over the roaring in his ears, but all his world had narrowed to crushing the life out of the blackguard who had hurt Georgiana.
They grappled violently, crashing into the furniture and shattering some sort of bottle. Darcy deftly avoided a knife-handed strike at his throat but missed the knee rocketing upwards into his groin. He staggered, and Wickham slammed into him full force. They tumbled out of the shattered doorway, teetering together on the landing's edge with flailing arms.
Wickham managed to grab the splintered railing, steadying himself. But Darcy was already overbalanced—he felt nothing but sick terror as the stairs rushed up to meet him. His head cracked against the wooden floorboards, and pain exploded through his back like a gunshot. Still he tumbled limply down, every edge and nail of the crude staircase gashed his flesh until all went black.
Far off, a familiar voice cried out. “Good God... Darcy!” Strong hands rolled him onto his back. Darcy struggled toward consciousness, and pain—blinding pain—returned in nauseating darkness. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s familiar face hovered above him, creased in horror. “Darcy! Can you hear me?”
He tried to stand, but there was… nothing. No response or sensation where his legs should have been. Fighting panic, he gasped, “My legs… oh God, I cannot feel my legs!”
ELIZABETH PACED THE WORN carpet of Longbourn's sitting room, twisting a handkerchief between anxious fingers. The family had gathered here each evening for the past fortnight—waiting, praying, as her father searched London's seedy underbelly for their lost Lydia. Thus far, his letters have been told of naught but failure. Yet when the creak of carriage wheels echoed outside in the twilight, Elizabeth’s heart seized in her chest. Father had returned, and his journey ended. She steeled herself against a surge of hope as Jane gripped her wrist, eyes round with shared trepidation.
They hurried to the entrance hall as Mr. Bennet entered, travel-stained hat in hand. One look at his haggard face, the grim set of his jaw, and Elizabeth’s fragile hope guttered out. The news would not be good. They had not found Lydia.
At this confirmation of her deepest fears, Mrs. Bennet collapsed into the same hysterics that had fueled her since that express came from Colonel Forster. “Ruined... my poor girls are ruined!” she wailed, dampening her handkerchief with tears. “And my sweet Lydia gone who knows where with what sort of man?”
Mary crossed her arms, rage smoldering beneath her sullen expression. “What does it matter whether she comes home at this point? Papa not finding her changes nothing. The loss of reputation in a sister is a stain upon us all.”
“Oh, how could you, Mary?” Kitty wailed.
“Yes, yes, how could you, Mary?” Papa asked tiredly. “You ought to rejoice, at least, that I did not find her with the constable or bring her home in a box. Jane, have some tea sent to my study.” He braced his hand on the door leading out of the drawing room, hesitating slightly as his eyes found Elizabeth and Jane. Then he quit the room.
Kitty clung to Mama, weeping and hiccuping. “It’s all so h—horrid! I cannot endure it. I wish I had gone to Brighton too! I could have stopped her… or at least gone so that we might be together—”
“Oh, such a state I am in. Oh, where is Hill?” Mama demanded. “My salts, I need my salts!”
Jane rolled her eyes to Elizabeth as Mama’s lamentations rose to near ear-splitting volumes. “We should speak with Papa,” Jane urged softly.
Elizabeth nodded. Their father’s drooping shoulders and faded eyes terrified her like nothing ever had. With a fortifying breath, she followed Jane to the study. Pausing at the door, Elizabeth steeled herself, then knocked.
There was no answer for a moment, but at Elizabeth's second knock, they heard, “You may as well come in and hear the worst of it.” Elizabeth spared Jane a glance. Then, biting her lip, she pushed the door open.
Mr. Bennet raised his head from weary hands, his eyes bloodshot and posture stooped. “Lizzy... Jane.” He attempted and failed at an encouraging smile for his eldest daughters. “I am relieved to see your compassionate faces, at least amidst the turmoil out there. Please sit, though I fear I have little to offer besides empty hands.”
Elizabeth took the chair opposite her father as Jane perched beside her. The silver scattering his temples seemed so much more pronounced after even a fortnight away. Guilt and regret lined his face as deeply as grief.
He ran a trembling hand down his jaw. "Forgive me, girls—I've failed you all..."
“No, Papa.” Elizabeth reached across the desk to grasp her father’s other hand. "We must hope. Tell us, what did you learn in London?"
With a shuddering sigh, Mr. Bennet related the scant crumbs of intelligence gathered. Tracking the carriage bearing Lydia and this Mr. Wickham she had met in Brighton through several coaching inns… Hiring Gardiner's private investigator to navigate London's less savory districts without success… Long days pounding grimy streets and haunted nights plagued by visions of his youngest daughter's peril and ruin...
Jane's eyes shone with tears as he haltingly relayed it all. Even Elizabeth harbored little hope left untainted by dread after learning how thoroughly this man had disappeared into the urban labyrinth with her sister.
“...I confess my imagination torments me, supplying endless possibilities for why a scoundrel like Forster claims Wickham to be would run off with a gentleman’s fifteen-year-old daughter,” Mr. Bennet eventually finished in a bleak voice. “Would that I had been a better father..."
Elizabeth squeezed his hand. "The fault lies with the man’s wicked intentions… and Lydia’s own recklessness. We must not abandon hope."
“Had I but put something by for you all! Then my most deserving daughters need not be without all hope of a respectable future!” He dropped his head into his hands, his fists tugging at the tufts of hair above his ears.
“Papa!” Elizabeth cried. “There must be something to be done. You said Uncle hired a private investigator. Surely, there is hope! Why…” she tugged her lower lip to the side of her teeth. “No one could hide Lydia for long. She is too loud.”
Her papa snorted, shaking his head. “Aye, and what I would give to hear her carrying on about her bonnet just now. Leave me, girls. Let me soak in my shame alone—I surely deserve it.”
Elizabeth sighed as she nodded. “Hill ought to have your tea ready soon, and then you must rest, Papa. Surely, we will have some word tomorrow.”
Yet despite her steadfast words, sick fear slithered in Elizabeth’s heart. What horrors could Lydia be facing now at this strange man's mercy?
Two
Fire lanced through Darcy’s body, dragging him cruelly back to wakefulness. He suppressed a pained groan as the ornate ceiling of his London townhome swam into focus over him. Panicked memories filtered back—Wickham's sneering face… a desperate struggle… plunging down the stairs… then sickening blackness.
Low voices filtered through, muffled by the pounding ache in Darcy's skull. He struggled to focus on the hushed exchange between a grim-faced stranger and his cousin Richard hovering behind.
"...spinal damage may be catastrophic… too early to determine full severity..."
Anxiety prickled sharply as Darcy stirred.
"What… what has happened?" He rasped weakly.
The colonel grasped Darcy’s hand. "Thank God you’re awake. Lie still—there, breathe easily.”
Darcy’s throat went dry as he struggled to order swirling memories. Why could he not will his legs to move?
Sensing Darcy’s rising panic, the doctor leaned over him. “We have kept you sedated for two days. You suffered spinal damage in the fall, Mr. Darcy.”
“Why can I not feel my legs?” he barked.
The doctor traded a significant glance with Richard. Darcy stared at his cousin, but Richard shook his head and covered his mouth with his hand. Then he turned away, leaving the doctor to answer.
“There has been a great deal of damage, Mr. Darcy. We… we cannot yet determine if… if you shall walk again.”
“Cannot determine?” Darcy erupted hoarsely. “Blast it, when can I move my legs? I’ve matters to attend. Are you a doctor or not?”
The doctor held up a placating hand. “Please try to calm yourself, Mr. Darcy. It is still very early. The swelling may yet—”
“Calm myself and wait helplessly abed? When will you be able to answer me?” Darcy thundered.
“Now, surely, Mr. Darcy, you must know that these things take time.”
“My back cannot be broken. It cannot be! I can…” He grunted, trying to sit up, but was only able to crunch his stomach muscles, and that, not without pain.
“I cannot say for sure, Mr. Darcy, but I am not entirely without hope for—”
He tried forcing himself upright, face purpling, but found his chest fettered and bound against such efforts. “I’ll have no platitudes or false hope! Summon more doctors, if you must, until one gives me honesty!"
"See here, Darcy, be reasonable!" Richard grasped his shoulders as Darcy struggled. "Dr. James is already the third physician we have brought in.”
“And what did the others say?”
Richard dropped his eyes.
“Blast and damn you. They inspect me while I am knocked unconscious with laudanum and are shocked when I do not respond? Find one who can repair my legs!”
Richard clasped the hand Darcy was waving around and anchored it to the bed. “Now see here, raving like a lunatic will not aid your recovery."
Chest heaving, Darcy’s head collapsed against the pillows as his wrecked body betrayed his swirling, impotent fury. As enraged denial slowly spiraled into panic, the doctor tried urging more laudanum on him to dull the pain.
“Pain, what pain? That is precisely the problem, is it not? I cannot feel anything!”
“Sir, your head… the shock of it all—”
Darcy swept out a quaking hand, sending the glass vial flying. “Get out!”
The doctor sighed regretfully. “As you wish But I must insist you take the draught for your recovery if you refuse to rest.”
He hesitated before withdrawing, but Darcy speared him with a molten glare. “I said get out. Now!”
Only when they were alone did Colonel Fitzwilliam cautiously approach the bedside chair. “The doctor only means to help ease your torment, Darcy.”
Darcy turned his face away, shame burning his cheeks at this helpless, invalid state laid bare even to his cousin. As panic's cold talons sank deeper, his breath came in ragged gasps. “Richard… you must help me. I cannot bear this! I cannot be… Tell that doctor he is a fool. I shall walk!”
He grasped Richard’s sleeve with fervent desperation, all traces of his customary stoic strength vanished. “Help me… in God’s name, find someone who can make me whole again!”
Pity shone brightly in the Colonel’s eyes as he grasped Darcy's trembling hand. “Here, now… peace. You must rest and gather your strength.”
He gently pressed the discarded vial of laudanum back into Darcy’s palm, closing his fingers over it. Darcy eyed him with a scalding glare, then sloshed the bitter liquid down his throat.
“Let this draught soothe your mind so your body may heal. I will do everything under heaven, cousin. And one or two things under hell, if I must.”
"PERHAPS TODAY WILL FINALLY bring word from Lydia," Elizabeth mused as her slippers whispered through the quiet garden. Dapples of afternoon sunlight shifted over the path where she walked arm in arm with Jane, both their faces etched with worry.
"Or Uncle’s investigator will have new information after pounding London's streets another day," Jane murmured back. "I know the chances seem slimmer each day, but we must keep faith.”
Elizabeth sighed uneasily, eyes following a butterfly flitting among the roses. "I cannot bear imagining where that thoughtless girl is now. You do not suppose that Mr. Wickham might have abandoned her, do you? Anything might have… wait, do you hear hoofbeats?"
Both sisters turned sharply as the unmistakable thunder of a galloping horse echoed from beyond the garden hedge. Exchanging an anxious glance, they gathered their skirts and hastened through the rustic gate onto the lawn. An unfamiliar rider drew rein just before them, his horse lathered and heaving breathlessly.
"Excuse me, ladies!” The rider pulled off his cap, wiping sweat from his brow with a grubby handkerchief “I’ve an express letter for a Mr. Bennet!”
Hope and foreboding warred in Elizabeth’s breast as she turned to the house. "I shall fetch him at once!"
Jane led the rider round while Elizabeth rushed inside, gathering her startled sisters. Soon, Mr. Bennet stood scanning the mysterious letter, brow furrowed. His daughters crowded anxiously behind him, breaths bated for whatever revelation lay inside.
The rider touched his cap. "I'll be off then, sir."
Mr. Bennet looked up bemusedly from the unfolded pages. "Oh yes… of course, your payment."
"Already rendered, sir." With that, the rider wheeled his mount, galloping down the drive as Mr. Bennet’s outstretched payment faltered.
“Well, Papa? Oh, what does it say?” Elizabeth pressed tremulously.
Mr. Bennet turned the pages over once more before his shoulders slumped. “Thank God.” He exhaled something unintelligible, then refolded the letter and handed it to Elizabeth, and went inside without another word.
Kitty craned her neck to see while Mary strained impatiently beside her. Jane nodded, and, hands trembling, Elizabeth unfolded the missive. She drew a sharp breath as her eyes scanned the first lines.
"It… it says here that Lydia is safe." She clutched Jane's hand, joyful tears pricking both sisters' eyes at this first glimmer of hope.
Elizabeth read on haltingly, "The letter writer, a Colonel Fitzwilliam, says he… no, his cousin… how very strange, they almost share a name. He discovered her still in the company of… of Mr. Wickham." Shocked gasps met this revelation. Kitty's hands flew to her mouth while Mary pursed her lips disapprovingly.
Collecting herself, Elizabeth continued, "...she is now returning home in this gentleman's carriage, with a maid sent to keep her company and the colonel riding alongside to act as her escort."
"Thank the Lord!" breathed Jane
“A colonel!” Kitty pressed her hand to her chest in a near-swoon. “Do you suppose he is handsome?”
Haltingly, Elizabeth finished, "It says here… she is expected on the morrow."
"Tomorrow!" Kitty trilled. "Oh, but what shall she tell us? Perhaps they were secretly married this whole while!"
Mary cut her off. "Foolish girl! If Colonel Whoever-he-is went through such efforts, likely there is shame yet to be unveiled." She shook her head ominously. "Mark my words."
But Elizabeth was too suffused with glad relief to heed Mary's cynicism just now. She squeezed Jane's hands, both sisters' eyes shining with gratitude. Against all hope, their dear, wayward Lydia was returning home.
SUNLIGHT FILTERING THROUGH THE window stirred Darcy to wakefulness. For one merciful moment, as the chirping of sparrows filled his ears, he forgot. Then, full memory crashed down with all its bleak despair.
He was still numb below the waist. Even the slight shift of his head ignited fresh waves of agony from the stitches crossing his scalp. Darcy explored them with tentative fingers, then hesitantly slid a hand under the blankets. He focused every fiber of his being on willing his toes to move, tears pricking fiercely as only lifeless numbness answered.
There was a quiet knock, and then his valet, Giles, entered. “Thank the Lord you are awake at last, sir. Can I fetch you anything?”
“I am not hungry.”
“Of course, sir. I beg your pardon, but I ought to…” Giles cleared his throat and dipped his head toward Darcy’s bed.
Confused, Darcy searched the man’s carefully schooled features. Then, with dawning horror, it struck him. Mortified heat flooded Darcy’s cheeks.
“I… my person… I fear I cannot...” he stammered haltingly, desperation choking his strained voice.
Giles flushed but nodded in understanding. “Of course, sir. Allow me to assist you.”
Mute with shame, Darcy stared blindly out the window as his faithful valet’s gentle hands tended to his most private needs. He was now fully at the mercy of his traitorous body and the kindness of others! Like a helpless babe… or a cripple. Was this to be Darcy's life now under others' care?
The ignominy threatened to crush what fleeting dignity remained until Giles finished. Darcy rasped into the laden silence, “Where is Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
Giles tidied discarded linens, his gaze averted. “He set out before dawn, sir, escorting the young miss back to her family.”
“Who?” Darcy’s brow furrowed. "What young lady?”
"The girl found with Mr. Wickham. You rescued her, I believe?”
“I… I cannot recall her face,” Darcy admitted after a frustrated pause. His memories of those frenzied moments were but shards of visceral panic and pain.
Giles nodded. “Well, sir, I am happy to see you returned to us, against all odds, by God’s grace. Shall I fetch some tea? A book, perhaps?”
“No! Leave me be.”
Giles thinned his lips and dipped his head. “As you wish, sir.”
Once alone, Darcy indulged in a torrent of frustrated tears. Even victory over Wickham tasted as bitter ashes while he lay imprisoned in useless limbs. And he hardly spared a thought for the nameless damsel now making her happy return to her family under Fitzwilliam’s protective wing.
A NERVOUS KIND OF busyness filled the drawing room where all Bennet sisters waited in tense silence. Though breakfast was long past, each daughter wore her finest dress as if expecting fashionable morning callers. Not that they had been troubled by that sort of business lately. No one was calling, save Charlotte Lucas, and no one was likely to receive them, either.
While the daughters of Longbourn waited in the drawing room, Mrs. Bennet, however, had not yet left her bedchamber, claiming she felt faint and dizzy every time she thought of stirring. She would not feel well again until her dear Lydia was back under her roof, and until then, she would nurse her nerves in the quiet of her room.
Every stray whinny from the barnyard or clatter of wheels from the farm wagon set their hearts pounding anew… until the clock crept past eleven and restlessness replaced fraught anticipation.
"It is very fine of this Colonel What's-his-name to return Lydia, I grant.” Kitty smoothed her skirts for the dozenth time. “But the least he could do is be punctual about it!"
"Hush now, be grateful if they arrive at all.” Jane laid a calming hand on Elizabeth’s, where she clenched her handkerchief into a tense knot with her skirts. “The roads are still muddy, and surely...”
Jane’s gentle chidings broke off as an unfamiliar carriage swept grandly up the drive, framed by a liveried rider.
"La! So, that is a colonel's carriage!” exclaimed wide-eyed Kitty. “It is positively enormous!”
“Kitty, the letter said the carriage belonged to the colonel’s cousin, a Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth reminded her. Not that Kitty was listening.
“Why, it has gilded trim and scarlet wool upholstery! Oh look, is that Lydia?"
Elizabeth pressed herself against the glass, wondering what sort of shattered shell remained of her fifteen-year-old sister. Would she be frightened? Ashamed? Repentant? Bruised and misused?
All gazes fixed eagerly as a familiar giggling figure stepped down, assisted by the stone-faced maid. Even at a distance, Lydia looked thrilled, casting admiring glances back at the elegant equipage and saying something to the maid behind her.
Turning back to the house, Lydia paused only to adjust her jaunty bonnet before sailing toward the front door, chin raised as though returning from a grand tour rather than narrowly escaping ruination.
Jane and Elizabeth traded doubting glances. “Well! At least she appears unharmed,” murmured Elizabeth with more optimism than confidence.
