The horses surged into a rapid trot, the carriage rattling and swaying over the uneven dirt road.
Wickham drove for a full hour. The sea air faded, replaced by the scent of damp earth and summer foliage, excitement singing in his veins. He had outsmarted Darcy and Miss Elizabeth, securing his future.
He spotted a small, secluded grove of trees slightly off the main road, and pulled the horses to a halt. The silence was broken only by the breathing of the animals and the chirping of crickets.
It was time to inform his captive of the revised itinerary.
He secured the reins and climbed down from the driver’s bench. He approached the carriage door, preparing his most charming, regretful expression. He would explain that Gretna Green was too far, that they must rest at an inn, and that he loved her too much to risk her health with continuous travel.
He grasped the handle and pulled the door open.
The interior of the carriage was mostly dark, but the pale moonlight slanted through the open door, illuminating the passenger sitting upon the squabs.
Wickham froze.
The hood had been thrown back.
It was not Lydia Bennet. It was not a foolish sixteen-year-old girl.
It was a very old woman.
Winslow sat comfortably against the cushions. She held the remains of an apple in her right hand. She offered a single-toothed smile.
Scrape.
She gummed a piece of the fruit.
“Why did you stop, young man?” Winslow’s voice was a dry, raspy croak that shattered the quiet night. “Gretna Green is still far away. I was hoping to see the Scottish border as soon as can be. I’ve always wanted to admire the heather.”
Wickham staredat the scullery maid.
His mind ceased to function. The impossible absurdity of the situation broke his capacity for rational thought. He looked at the old woman, then at the apple, then back at the old woman.
The elegant extortion scheme collapsed into dust. The Bennets had known. Elizabeth had known. She had orchestrated this exact scenario to humiliate him.
His legs were going to be broken by sunrise.
Wickham did not shout. He did not curse. He did not demand an explanation.
He slowly, methodically, closed the carriage door and turned around. He slid his back down the wooden carriage wheel until he hit the dirt road. He sat upon the damp grass, surrounded by silence and the reality of his complete ruin.
He pulled his knees to his chest.
George Wickham, the most charming officer in the militia, lowered his head into his hands and wept.
Chapter Twelve: The Night Ride
Fitzwilliam Darcy strode along the cobblestones of East Street. The sea air was brisk, carrying the briny scent of the Channel. It was nearing three o’clock in the morning. Brighton was largely silent, the raucous energy of the taverns finally subsiding into the night.
Beside him, Richard walked with a steady, measured pace, fully accustomed to late-night patrols.
They were returning to Mrs Gable’s lodgings after an unsatisfying evening. They had scoured the whole town, visited two tea houses, and walked the perimeter of the Steine twice. They had seen no sign of George Wickham. He had vanished.
“He has gone to ground.” Richard adjusted the collar of his coat. “He knows the creditors are circling. He knows we are watching. I suspect he is hiding under a table in some disreputable alehouse.”
Darcy frowned at the uneven pavement. “I do not like it, Richard. When Wickham goes to ground, he is invariably planning something.”
“Perhaps he has decided to throw himself into the sea,” Richard offered. “It would save us a great deal of trouble.”
