Wickham’s gaze flickered with calculation. “So, you are closer to the grave than I thought,” he muttered under his breath, half to himself.
Darcy seized the moment, letting himself sink further down, making his body appear weaker, more vulnerable. “Make your decision,” he urged, his voice strained. “Go to Longbourn and Lucas Lodge and the other principal houses in the area; bring the gentlemen here. I will do as you ask… but only if you act now.”
The urgency in his tone, combined with his feigned collapse, seemed to sway Wickham. He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Darcy’s face. “Very well,” he said, finally relenting. “I’ll go myself. But know this, Darcy—if you’re playing me, you’ll regret it. I promise you that.”
Darcy managed a weak nod before he collapsed utterly. His ploy had worked. He had bought himself a little more time, and with any luck, it would be enough.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Elizabeth held her breathas she watched the scene unfold from her vantage point in the carriage. Sir Anthony Mortimer rode past the window, his horse’s hooves splashing mud as he halted abruptly before Darcy’s carriage. Through the narrow slit in the curtain, she could see him turning his mount to square off with the driver, his expression twisted with impatience.
“Turn this carriage back to Netherfield,” Sir Anthony barked, his voice carrying over the rain-soaked landscape. His command was sharp, almost desperate, as though he had little time and even less patience.
Darcy’s coachman, who looked to Elizabeth like a seasoned man who had seen his share of rough dealings, kept his seat atop the carriage, his back straight, his expression unyielding. “I am sorry, sir,” he replied evenly, his voice steady despite the tension simmering in the air. “But I take my orders from Mr Darcy. He instructed me to remain here and ensure the road is cleared.”
Sir Anthony’s face darkened at the refusal, his lips curling into a sneer. “Darcy be damned,” he snapped. “I have authority here, and I say you will turn this carriage around, or I’ll—”
“With all due respect, sir,” the coachman interrupted, a boldness in his tone that surprised even Elizabeth. “If you’ve authority, then perhaps you might order these workmen to get on with clearing the tree. That’s what needs doing.”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched. She could barely make out her father’s form beside her, his hand still firm on the pistol under the seat, ready to act if necessary. She glanced back at the scene outside, her pulse racing. For a moment, she dared to hope that Sir Anthony would be reasonable, that he would see the sense in the coachman’s words. But that hope shattered in an instant.
Sir Anthony’s hand moved swiftly to his coat, and in a flash, he pulled out a pistol, levelling it directly at the coachman. “I will not be defied,” he hissed, his eyes wild with amix of frustration and fury. The pistol glinted in the weak light, its barrel unwavering as he aimed it squarely at the coachman’s chest.
Elizabeth stifled a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth to keep silent. Her father was scarcely managing better. His thumbs drew back the hammers on the flintlocks, but the muzzles dipped and wavered.
The coachman held Sir Anthony’s furious gaze, his hands still raised in a calm display of surrender. The rain continued to drum against the carriage roof, adding a dull, rhythmic beat to the tension that thickened the air. Elizabeth could hardly breathe, her eyes darting between the men outside, her heart thrumming with fear and uncertainty.
Giles, Darcy’s valet, took a tentative step forward, his voice as measured as his movements. “Sir Anthony, surely there is a more civil way to resolve this,” he reasoned, his tone even, attempting to appeal to the gentleman’s sense of decorum. “We are only following Mr Darcy’s instructions. If you would permit us to clear the tree—”
“I said I will not be spoken to by servants!” Sir Anthony snapped, his pistol still trained unwaveringly on the coachman. “Turn this carriage about, or I’ll shoot that wheel horse right here!”
The coachman glanced down at the horses, the rain dripping from the brim of his hat. He looked back up at Sir Anthony, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. “A fine beast, that one,” he said, his voice steady despite the danger. “Cost Mr Darcy eighty guineas, he did. Shall I tell him where to send the bill?”
Sir Anthony’s face twisted in fury, the pistol in his hand shaking with the force of his anger. “Darcy will not be billing anyone for anything unless he cooperates,” he thundered, his voice carrying over the steady rain. “And I have no intention of letting his servants run off to parts unknown until the man himself has agreed to my terms!”
Elizabeth could feel her father’s steadying hand on her arm, holding her back as she fought the urge to throw open the door and confront Sir Anthony Mortimer herself. But they had agreed to remain hidden, to wait for a moment when escape seemed possible. Now, though, that moment seemed to be slipping further away with every breath she took.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but how shall we ‘run off to parts unknown’ when the way is blocked?” the coachman replied.
Through the narrow crack in the curtains, Elizabeth watched as Sir Anthony’s face grew redder, his patience clearly wearing thin. “I have had enough of your insolence!”he barked, snapping the muzzle of his pistol back toward the driver. “Turn this carriage around, now, or I will have your head for insubordination!”
The coachman, to his credit, held his ground, though Elizabeth could see the tension in his rigid back, the tightness in his grip on the reins. “I am afraid I cannot do that, sir,” he replied calmly. “Mr Darcy ordered me to remain here.”
Sir Anthony’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are all Darcy’s servants so obstinate? No, no, man, you must be hiding something for him.”
“I assume you sir, there is nothing!”
“Then you will not object to me seeing for myself, will you?” Sir Anthony swung down from his horse, tossing the rein to one of the workmen standing by.
“Sir, I must protest! You would not dare meddle with the gentleman’s property!” The coachman had the pistol in his hand now, and Elizabeth shook her head, praying silently that he would not attempt to use it. Sir Anthony would surely fire first if the coachman made any effort to aim.
“I would not touch that flintlock if I were you,” Sir Anthony warned as he stepped closer to the carriage. “If you do not wish to cooperate, perhaps I should see what is so valuable inside this carriage that you are willing to risk your lives to protect it.”
Elizabeth’s heart shuddered to a stop. She exchanged a quick, alarmed glance with her father. Mr Bennet gave her a slight nod, his expression dark.
The coachman, realising the situation was about to spiral out of control, made a last-ditch effort to divert Sir Anthony’s attention. “Sir, there’s nothing in there but some sensitive correspondence and Mr Darcy’s personal effects. If you could just—”
But Sir Anthony wasn’t listening. He was already at the carriage door, his hand reaching for the latch. The door swung open with a creak, and Sir Anthony’s expression shifted from annoyance to surprise—and then to satisfaction—as his eyes fell on Elizabeth and Mr Bennet inside.
