“Where have you searched? Did you and your troops make it all the way back to Netherfield Park?”
A red hue rose on the colonel’s neck. “Please understand that the regiment was in a sorry state from losing their possessions in the windstorm and sheltering at the inn. Few were fit to perform even the most meager service.”
Darcy ran his hands through his hair, furious with the man’s ineptitude. Richard was correct. Forster was not fit to manage his cheating wife or a regiment.
Hurrying to his horse, Darcy raced toward Netherfield Park. He needed his greatcoat, a canteen full of water, something to light his way, and Richard.
Unexpectedly, he encountered many obstacles. Hurst and Bingley could barely navigate the staircase from the cellar to the kitchen. They both reeked of wine and brandy. The footmen spent the hours after the wind stopped trying to restore as much order as possible to the dower house and the main house. Cook had every maidservant hauling water in and out of the kitchen as she slapped bread dough on the table. Richard was helping to get the stable in order.
“Wickham?” Richard was flummoxed. “Why would you endanger yourself and others to look for that miscreant? He certainly would not do the same for you. Instead, he would celebrate the fact that you were gone by dancing on your grave. No, I will not go search for him, and I strongly suggest that you do not either.”
Darcy turned away. He had no time or desire to revisit the same tired argument with his cousin. Richard simply did not understand.
Darcy swore to the heavens. Richard would not understand. He had not read Gerald Darcy’s journals.
Rubbing his fingers over his eyes, Darcy said, “I will go.”
Before Richard could stop him, he draped the strap of the canteen over the saddle, grabbed a lantern with his other hand, and headed across the field toward Meryton.
Fortunately for him, the moon was waning gibbous. If the clouds would clear, then he would have his way lit by the night sky. Unfortunately, the lunar orb did not cooperate with his purpose. Nor did the clouds.
Every few steps, he stopped and shined the lantern on each side of his horse. The grass no longer stood at attention. Instead, it lay flat on the ground like the hair of his sister’s cat when she petted it.
“Wickham!” he yelled into the unstable air swirling around him. “George!” Pulling the collar of his greatcoat high around histhroat, he continued on his course, concentrating so hard that he failed to note how hard the wind was blowing until his hat flew off to land somewhere behind him.
Blast!Looking back, he could no longer see the lanterns Richard lit in the stables. Was it because he was too far away from the buildings, or had Richard extinguished them due to the wind?
Darcy had no choice but to press on.
“Wickham! George!”
Over and over, he yelled as the air pressure pushed at him from behind. Beneath him, the skittish movements of his mount indicated that he was not the only one concerned about the worsening conditions.
Only two miles between Netherfield Park and Meryton.Surely, Wickham would not have wandered too far from the road. Darcy reflected on the fierceness of the conditions when George left the ball. Rain poured in sheets, and the wind howled until those blessed few minutes of relief when many of Bingley’s guests left for their own beds. By the time Richard warned them to turn back, the storm whipped around them violently, and the rain tormented the horses.
How far could Wickham have made it down the road? Surely, Richard would have seen him as he came through Meryton to the ball, wouldn’t he? Yet, he had not. That meant that Wickham left the road before Darcy’s coach and the others turned around.
For hours, he searched the fields, his horse going back and forth from one knoll to another. Nothing, not one sign of Wickham.
Darcy turned his horse away from the line of trees into the fields. Cautiously moving his lantern, he searched and yelled until his throat ached. Nothing.
At the first flash of lightning, Darcy counted to three before thunder rolled. He glanced around at the little he could see.There was nowhere to shelter, only one grassy knoll and harvested field after another.
Squeezing his thighs, he kicked his horse into action. For as much as he needed to continue his search, finding shelter was now a greater necessity.
Another flash of lightning lit the sky showing Darcy that he had gone farther from the road than he thought. Before the thunder cut through the noise of the wind, Darcy recognized the stile and Elizabeth’s favorite oak tree. If he followed the boundary, he would reach a large chalk cave where he and his horse could hide out until the wind dropped or daylight rose.
Like the main roadway, the property was lined with trees. Giving extra pressure with the reins on the horse’s neck, his intention was to move away from danger. Then, he saw him lying on his back, that silly apple green ribbon still tied to his coat.
Wickham!God, no!
“George!” he yelled over the sound of one lightning strike after another. Reaching him, Darcy stripped off his glove, feeling his brother’s face and neck. He was as cold as the night air. Using the lantern to search the length of him, Darcy pulled the heavy limb from the towering tree off the body of his nemesis. “Hang on, Brother. I will take care of you now. Just hang on.”
There was no response.
Rain pelted them both. When Darcy removed his greatcoat to drape over Wickham, he saw what he missed earlier. A sharp branch pierced Wickham’s coat and linen shirt, impaling George’s abdomen. Darcy dropped to his knees, putting his ear over George’s mouth, desperately hoping for at least a whisper of breath. Nothing.
“No!” He stood and yelled at the brutality of Wickham’s end. Lifting his fists to the sky, Darcy raged against the streams of light bolting across the sky.
