Page 13 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Darkness was absolute.

George Wickham sat on a pile of coal sacks in the dark, having extinguished the light of the lantern to save the oil. He was hugging his knees to his chest. The woollen frock scratched his neck. The corset, clearly designed for a woman with a fundamentally different skeletal structure, dug into his ribs with every breath.

He was cold. He was hungry. And he was fairly certain a rat had just run over his boot.

"Go away," George whispered into the black void. "I am not food. I am a washerwoman named Agnes."

Above him, the house groaned. He heard footsteps—heavy, ominous thuds that vibrated through the ceiling beams. The Butcher. It had to be. Or the Spies.

Richard was sure they smelled of garlic. George sniffed the air. He smelled only coal dust and his own terror, but his imagination supplied the rest. He pictured men in dark cloaks, sharpening guillotines in the scullery.

He touched the mob cap on his head.

"This is it," he murmured to the darkness. "I shall die in a cellar. No one will know. My obituary will be blank. They will say I vanished."

He thought of the Emerald Snuffbox. It seemed so small now. So trivial. A shiny green trinket. On the card table, it had gleamed with promise and authority, buying his entry into the world of men. Now, in the dark, it was a heavy, jewelled anchor dragging him down.

If I survive,George bargained with the universe,I shall never touch a card again. I shall read books. I shall listen to Darcy when he talks about crop rotation. I shall even polish his boots.

A loudbangechoed from the other side of the door.

He yelped, scrambling backward until his spine hit the rough brick wall.

"Stay down!" Richard's voice muffled through the wood.

George threw himself flat onto the coal sacks. He buried his face in the rough burlap. Dust coated his tongue.

"I am down!" he whimpered. "I am subterranean!"

Silence followed. A long, stretching silence that was somehow worse than the noise.

Was Richard dead? Had the French overtaken the kitchen?

George lay there, shivering in his grey wool. He realised, with a clarity that stung, that he was entirely alone. His charm could not help him here. His smile was invisible. His wit was useless against a locked door.

He was just a man in a dress, hiding in the dark.

A tear leaked out, cutting a clean track through the soot on his cheek.

"Please," George whispered. "Fitz. Come back."

In Viscount Keathley's chambers at Matlock House, the dressing room was a flurry of silk and strategy.

Robert stood before a full-length mirror. He had discarded his earlier pristine coat for a garment of shocking burgundy velvet. He had untied his cravat, leaving it loose and slightly askew, suggesting a man who had already enjoyed three bottles of claret.

"The key," he lectured, adjusting his collar to perfectly imperfect, "is to appear wealthy enough to lose, and not dangerous enough to rob."

He turned to his brother and cousin.

Richard had unbuttoned his coat further and rolled up his sleeves, revealing scars on his forearms. He had the appearance of an officer who had been cashiered for duelling. Robert nodded approvingly.

"You," Robert pointed his cane at Darcy.

Darcy stood by the wardrobe. He wore a dark blue coat, impeccably cut. His cravat was a starch severe sculpture. His boots gleamed. He was the undeniable portrait of a rich, nervous student.

"No, no, no," Robert sighed. He marched over. "You are dressed for a sermon."

"I am neat," Darcy defended. "Father insists on neatness."