Page 68 of Sweet on Mr Darcy

Wickham cried out in surprise and fury and grasped a fistful of her hair .

She twisted violently and raked both hands across his face before he could completely subdue her. She dug her nails as deeply into his flesh as she could, knowing that she had missed his eyes, and regretting it acutely.

Wickham emitted a most rewarding scream, followed by a string of language that would have earned Mary a swooning spell. He staggered backwards, clutching his face. Blood ran heavily between his fingers.

“You little fiend!”

Lydia gasped and glared at him with rancour. “If you touch me again, I will render you unrecognisable.”

Wickham roared and rushed at her. Before he could even brush her with his outstretched hands, she lifted both feet, manacle and all, and kicked out as hard as she could, directly in a location that her father had once informed her would incapacitate any man if she ever found herself in trouble.

Wickham dropped like a stone in front of her, his face turning blue.

Lydia wondered if she had killed him. For a moment, the man seemed to be completely unable to breathe as she looked on in terrified interest.

Finally, he sucked in a ragged breath and let out a howl that ought to have been heard for miles. Lydia wondered how far away from other people they were.

He attempted to rise, then doubled over onto the floor and clutched the front of his trousers. He wheezed for some minutes, and Lydia wondered if he was actually weeping. At length, he crawled away, then collapsed on the pile of filthy hay near the back wall. The villain lay bleeding, swearing, and eventually fell asleep.

Lydia waited quietly as dark fell, thinking wildly of how she might escape. Hours passed, but she never fell asleep. She was wide awake, unwilling to be vulnerable if the fiend woke.

Perhaps two hours before dawn, Wickham stirred.

He rose stiffly, one hand pressed gingerly to the front of his trousers, and the other dabbing at his scratched face.

The two of them glared at each other, Lydia unwilling to show fear.

He retrieved the letter from where it had fallen upon the floor during their struggle. “I shall return presently. If you make a single sound while I am gone–”

“Do not waste your breath,” she said defiantly.

“You are too far from even the closest farm. There is no point in even gagging you. No one will hear you. It is your own breath you will waste.”

“I believe that we already established that your will means nothing to me.” Lydia refused to look away, though her heart pounded in her chest.

He ignored this and pocketed the ransom letter, then left her. The flimsy door closed, and a latch turned.

Lydia began to count as she listened to his footsteps fade into the woods. She struggled with the manacle as she did so. Only when she was certain that twenty minutes had passed and that Wickham must be entirely out of earshot did she inhale and scream. Not gracefully; not refined, nor ladylike by any possible method of measurement.

A scream of such violence, it should have awakened Lucifer himself from the very depths of hell. Then again; and again. She screamed until her throat was hoarse, until her eyes hurt and her head pounded.

Finally… she heard footsteps approaching, and a frightened voice outside.

“Hallo?”

“In here!” Lydia began to weep. “Please, help me!”

The door was ripped open. A young farm boy, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, stared at her in horror.

“Good Lord,” he breathed in surprise.

“Indeed,” Lydia croaked, her voice spent. “Can you open this contraption on my ankle, please?”

Three hours later, dirty, enraged, her energy spent, and wrapped in the boy’s coat, Lydia Bennet was presented at the back kitchen door of the Bennets’ cottage like a highly indignant parcel.

The cook opened the door and screamed, which summoned the entire household in approximately five seconds.

Peter and a small group of servants burst in first. Then Mr Bennet, followed by the entire family.