Page 48 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

I had come so close, almost to the summit. I felt tears moisten my eyes—but not tears for me, tears for Georgiana, abducted—no doubt for a ransom—by such a despicable man. Yet, if I left now, the summit of Scawfell Pike, the highest peak in England, would be forever behind me. To be the first woman to climb Scawfell Pike—that would be something indeed!

‘Does not Proverbs say—Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall?’ Mary gently admonished me. Kitty and Lydia took my hands. Before I knew what I was about, I began skipping from stone to stone down the slope, the mist swirling around, casting everything in a chilling grey.

“Elizabeth! Whatever are you doing?” Darcy shouted, panic in his voice. “Please, we must wait for Mr. Appleby, or surely you will be lost in the mist!”

But there was only one way to go—down. It was a long way. I followed the spur between Pikes Crag and Dropping Crag, having seen them marked on the map in my guidebook. I heard stones sliding behind me—Darcy, with his long legs and the freedom of his trousers, was following. It was a dance—skipping, a few steps to the side, a turn, skipping once more. If I were not fearing for Georgiana, I could have enjoyed the thrill of it; and the terror, like nothing I had experienced before.

I came to a narrow defile between two rocky bastions. It was narrow, barely allowing me to squeeze through. Then I came free, below the clouds and mist, directly above the scree slope which sprawled from the base of the cliffs to the Hollow Stones trail. I had arrived in time—but for what, I knew not. Wickham sat on his horse staring up at me, one hundred feet below—as the crow flies, no more than two hundred. He urged the beast on, but rocks loosened by my unsure footing fell onto the path ahead. The animal was worn out, exhausted after being driven too hard across the country—three hundred miles from London in less than a week. Then, scaling the steep valley walls from Langdale, following the old packhorse trail. It stood trembling, its tail twitching erratically, head held low to the ground. Wickham dismounted, pulled on the reins attempting to force the animal ahead. It snapped at him, tossing its head, refusing to move.

Darcy came up beside me, staring at the scene below. A scree slope, surely too dangerous for any man to attempt. But Georgiana was my sister! How could I leave her to endure that man alone? ‘Go, Lizzy, we are with you!’ My sisters’ cry overcame my paralysis.

During winter, the pond at Netherfield often iced over—I had learnt to skate as a child. Both Lydia and Kitty were excellent skaters. Together, we slid down the slope—skipping, tripping, our legs running faster and faster, my skirts pulled up as high as possible. I could not have flown any swifter.

Wickham was staring—certainly not at my ankles, nor my tangled hair flowing freely behind me—my bonnet long since blown away. Of course, I had no plan for stopping, but in the event, none was needed. Indeed, the gods must have been having a great day. I tumbled—the rocks upon which I had been sliding thinned out, tufts of coarse grass and bare soil poking through. You cannot slide on fescue and sedge grasses; at least, no ice skater can.

I plunged into Wickham, much like a cannonball into the side of a sturdy oak ship of the line. But Wickham was mere flesh and bone, and the impact threw him across the path, and down the far slope. I came to an abrupt halt. Papa smiled at me—’Mr. Newton, my dear, his Laws of Mechanicks; when a smaller body collides with a larger one.’

In novels, the hero, after besting the villain, nonchalantly dusts himself off, then unties the damsel tied to the villain’s horse, who immediately falls into his arms in passionate embrace. Oh, such lies! I wept—tears pouring down my cheeks; my foot was twisted beneath me; my hands and arms abraded by the rough ground.

“Elizabeth? Are you alright?” Georgiana’s gentle hands brushed hair from my face. I squinted up at her.

“Wickham…”

“Rolled down the hill. But, please hold yourself still. Fitzwilliam is coming—a little more sedately than you, dearest. But, I must admit, that was the most brilliant descent I have ever seen. Oh, it was magnificent! And you were screaming, Lizzy, all the way down the slope. If you had not collided with him, Wickham would have fled in sheer terror!”

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Volume 3

Chapter 20

Lingmell Col

‘Can I sing to you, Lizzy?’ Sweet Lydia—her gentle voice soothed my soul and eased my pain. She sang one of the nursery rhymes Jane and I had hummed to her when we carried her about the house at Longbourn.

Hush-a-by baby on the tree top,

When the wind blows the cradle will rock;

When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,

Down tumbles baby, cradle and all.

Certainly, I had tumbled, unconstrained, down the scree. How long I lay on the cruel, unyielding ground, I cannot say. My mind roamed: Mary held my hand; Kitty stroked my cheek; and Lydia sang her soft, soothing words of comfort and succour. I began to hallucinate, for I heard Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice—but he was in Derbyshire, searching for Wickham.

“Lizzy, my darling!” Mama’s hand took mine; I felt her kiss my forehead—but she was alone at Sty Head Tarn.

“Mrs. Bennet, can you help us place her on the litter—she needs a mother’s hand.” Mr. Darcy’s deep voice—everywhere at once—taking control. How had he come here?

Then my brother’s voice, resonant, comforting: “You are a silly girl, Elizabeth. Did I not tell you that if you faltered on the way up Scawfell, I should never let you forget it? But you never faltered, Elizabeth… and I shall never, ever let you forget that you are so very remarkable.”

“Georgiana,” I whispered. “How is she?”

Darcy chuckled, leaning close. “Still laughing at Wickham’s look of terror when you flew down the slope and collided with him. At that moment, she saw him for what he truly was—a weak, cowardly little man. He’s lost all power over her.”

“I’m glad,” I whispered. “I’m so very glad.”

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