A thick male hand went over her mouth, whiskered lips against her jaw, liquor-laced breath blowing over her face. “It’s all right, Lizzy, it’s all right. Almost there,” said a deep voice. “See? It’s nice, hmm? You don’t mind a bit. I think you like that, do you not?”
Which was when she realized her skirts had been lifted, that her legs were bare, and that the man on her was having his way with her likethat.
“You do like it,” he told her. “I’m going to take my hand away, and you’re not going to make a bit of noise. Nod if you understand.”
She had not nodded. She had gazed up into the eyes of Mr. Wickham as he huffed and wheezed over her, and she had been horrified.
But when he stopped, he did take his hand away, and she was too shocked to cry out.
He stumbled off of her, and she lay there, watching him leave, hearing the door shut, and she tried to tell herself that it hadn’t happened at all, that it had been a dream.
She tried to convince herself of this in the morning, when there was tenderness between her thighs and his awful leavings leaking out of her. She washed it all away, thinking to herself itwasonly a dream, that it must be a dream.
And then, weeks later, when her bleeding didn’t come, she tried to tell herself that wasn’t to do with that. Sometimes her bleeding was late. Sometimes she skipped months. She wasn’t entirely certain how it was that babes were gotten upon women, but she knew it had to do with the parts of their bodies that had been engaged with each other in the awful dream—the not-dream, if she was honest with herself—but even so, it had been such a long time ago, and she had convinced herself not to think of it.
She could have said something, she supposed.
But what?
She did not know how to speak of it. She could not confide in Lydia of all people, and she was not close to Mrs. Forster, and it went without saying that she could not explain it to aman, like Colonel Forster.
Besides, Elizabeth had an idea of what would happen if she did tell someone.
They would make Mr. Wickham marry her.
But she could not bear the idea of marrying a man who was so vindictive as to trick her, to drug her, to take her will away, to use her, and all to punish her because she had tried to protect her sister from him. Her sister who was rather close in age to Mr. Darcy’s sister, the very young girl Mr. Wickham had debauched.
She would not be married to a man like that.
What Mr. Wickham had done to her already was very bad, but it was at least over now, and she was not going to subject herself to a lifetime of the man.
Of course, it also really wasn’t over.
She was with child.
After another month went by and she did not bleed and she began to feel ill in the morning, she knew it was true.
But she didn’t know what to do. She thought it was rather ironic that she had been concerned about Lydia ruining the family’s reputation, when here she was, with child, with no husband, and when that was discovered, it would be she who destroyed the Bennet family.
Truly ironic, yes.
And to think, if she had never said a thing to her father about this, she could have been on holiday with her aunt and uncle, even then.
Instead, the hot sun rose over the sea in Brighton, and Elizabeth was nothing but despair.
CHAPTER TWO
ELIZABETH WAS NOTinsensible to the fact that there were ways for a woman to have an illicit child without ruining her reputation. Sometimes, Elizabeth knew, there were ways to conceal such things.
Perhaps, the babe could be claimed by someone else, some family member. Elizabeth and another female relative, who would be respectably married, would both go off for several months, and then they would come back together, after the babe had been born. The female relative would claim to have given birth while they were away. And Elizabeth would never be able to acknowledge the child as her own, but she would be able to see the baby grow up and it would likely be the best thing for everyone involved.
Why, if only Mr. Darcy had not interfered with Jane and Mr. Bingley, perhaps Jane could be married now, and Elizabeth was certain her sister would do that for her, would be quite happy to do what she could. Elizabeth was certain that if Jane heard what Mr. Wickham had done to her, she would be sympathetic. She would not blame Elizabeth.
Others might.
And perhaps she ought not have angered Mr. Wickham, Elizabeth knew not. If she could but go back, perhaps she would have changed whatever it was she had said to Lydia.
But Jane was not married, because Mr. Darcy had separated Jane and Mr. Bingley, so that would not do.
