Chapter 12

It was three days before the rain stopped, and a day more before it was safe to venture out on the roadways by horse. Mr. Bingley came early in the morning, even before breakfast, and the expected announcement was made. The Bennets had spent a week in mourning for their distant cousin, and now it was time for celebration. Mr. Fletcher, too, had made a proposal during a conspicuously convenient moment alone with Mary the day before, and so there was even more rejoicing once Mr. Bennet had less than graciously given his blessing there, as well.

With such rapturous cries from Mrs. Bennet and the general excitement building to untenable levels, Mr. Bennet soon retreated to his book room and there met with Murray, who had just returned from London. Elizabeth, however, longed for the fresh air and the quiet of the outdoors she had missed over the past few days and sought a walk instead. Mrs. Bennet decried such a plan, as walking in such mud would leave her unfit to be seen, but Elizabeth held firm and insisted that most of the mud would be frozen, in any case. In an act of true gallantry, with no doubt a little added hope of finding a moment alone with his betrothed during the course of a lengthy perambulation, Mr. Bingley declared his willingness to join in the plan, and Jane quickly agreed.

Thus the threesome exited Longbourn. Mr. Bingley suggested they might explore the gardens or stroll in the shrubbery near the house. Elizabeth, however, was more inclined to a longer walk, and proposed that a jaunt to Oakham Mount was simple enough and not too extended for them, as bundled as they were from the effects of the cold. She prevailed at last, and they set off.

At first, they remained together, as the path was wide, and Elizabeth asked how the rains had affected the Netherfield estate. "Terribly," he replied. "I am truly grateful that Darcy was here to help me make the proper decisions to help the tenants -- especially after the bridge went out. I was truly at a loss."

"Oh! Is Mr. Darcy still here, then?" Elizabeth cried. "I had thought -- he told my father when we saw him on Sunday that he was to leave for London directly."

"He was, indeed," Bingley said. "I do not know what put him in that temper, but he was in no fit condition to travel, and so I told him. I stood firm in that he was to remain for the night, at least, and then, if he still insisted upon it, he might leave first thing in the morning. After all, travelling on a Sunday! I wouldn't have it said one of my guests would be out on the road in such a way, when he admitted he had no urgent business in London that would require his immediate presence."

"You take such good care of your friends," Jane said with a smile, and the two lovers gazed at each other in shared sympathy for several moments.

"But he did not leave the next morning?"

"How could he?" Bingley asked. "The weather was such that it would have been suicide to travel, and no matter the mood Darcy was in, he is nothing if not considerate of his servants. He would not have them risking their lives on such a journey. As it was, it was a lucky thing he did not, or it might have been his carriage that caused the bridge over the river near Haye-Park to collapse. A farmer lost his wagon and a horse and very nearly his life as it went down under the pressure of the flood."

Both Elizabeth and Jane cried out at this tale, and Bingley assured them that his friend had already ensured the farmer would suffer no hardship from the loss. "He's a good man, Darcy is, and I am honored to call him friend. I shall miss him as he goes up to London, but I am certain he will return for my wedding," he said, with a grin at his betrothed, "for I intend to ask him to stand up with me."

"So then he is gone this morning?"

Bingley shook his head. "No; I was able to persuade him again to stay another night. With the temporary bridge not expected to be in place until tomorrow, it seems he would have had to travel nearly all the way to Luton to reach the main road, and that is quite out of the way and in the wrong direction. But as pleasant as it is for me to have my friend in residence, I shall have to hope that the rain does not resume, or Darcy will be truly cross. He has been nearly unbearable these last few days, with nowhere to go and nothing to do."

Elizabeth smiled weakly at this and nodded, knowing that Mr. Darcy's behavior was likely only partially caused by the rain. The turn of his countenance, when he left her father's study, had been all that was black and wretched, and it was all on account of the Bennets. The days of waiting until he could increase his distance from them must only add to the frustration.

With her thoughts dwelling on the man some mile or so away at Netherfield, she directed her feet to the river they would follow to the path that approached Oakham Mount. That winding waterway formed one of the natural boundaries of Longbourn's holdings, and was a familiar path when Elizabeth needed space to transfer her emotions into activity, safe on her father's land but far from the house. It would work well again today. Bingley and Jane, not as great walkers as she and more interested in each other's company than the hike, trailed behind as Elizabeth's feet ate up the distance.

Her agitation fueled her, lending speed to her steps, and she wondered why it disturbed her so much, now that she knew Mr. Darcy was still in Hertfordshire, and nearby at Netherfield, and unlikely to see them. She considered wildly the possibility of persuading her father to approach him with an apology, as a means to convince him to stay. But why did she want him to stay, if there was no hope? And what was the likelihood of her father abasing himself so?

She had just reached the river, which rushed swiftly downstream, its swollen current bending trees on the banks, when she turned and noticed her sister and Mr. Bingley had not yet rounded the last corner. She sighed, recognizing her role of chaperon could not be completely abandoned, and sat down on a large nearby rock to await them. She stared at the torrent before her, the press of the water compelling all in its path inexorably along the rapids, and thought about the last few weeks and their fateful quality. She was startled out of her maudlin thoughts as a kingfisher darted out of the wood and snatched a fish from the water, doubling back into the brush and out of sight with its prey.

Elizabeth turned again to the empty path, and realized her two companions must have fallen farther behind her than she thought. She had only just stood to return whence she came, when a sudden shout rose up from further along the river.

"Darcy! Darcy!" then, with rising hysteria, "No! Don't!"

And then a sharp report that echoed through the woods, followed by a scream, and without thought she turned in that direction, her natural instincts driving her towards the scene. She had just stepped back onto the path when she heard hoofbeats coming nearer, rapidly, and she had barely a moment to react as a riderless black horse with the saddle of the militia, its eyes wide with fright, pounded around the corner and raced past her. Its flank brushed against her, and she stumbled, nearly falling but catching herself on a tree. She looked after it for but a second, then turned again and began to stir, her steps unsure at first then coming with greater ease and rapidity. Behind her, as the hoofbeats receded, she heard Mr. Bingley shout and a short cry from her sister, but she was already moving, running, stumbling over the uneven, muddy ground. She dashed on, the path moving away from the river, and then towards it, and then away again, overhanging branches catching at her hair as her bonnet fell to her back, held on only by the knot in its ribbons. She didn't know why she ran, hardly thinking, heedless of her own safety, knowing only that something had happened, something serious, and Mr. Darcy was involved. She had to find out.

When she came around a bend, she skidded to a halt as she saw a hulking figure on the path before her, at the top of a rise where two paths met. Her breath caught in her throat as she approached the dark-colored horse, but it hardly reacted, busy as it was with its attempt to denude a small bush that had seen most of its fading leaves stripped bare by the heavy rains. She pressed a hand to its sweaty, steaming flanks and cautiously, gently felt along its body to the saddle, where a rifle was strapped to the back. She continued whispering comfortingly to the horse as she slowly moved past to see into the clearing beyond it. When she had come to the bridle and freely dangling reins, she stopped short, and the horse paused in its feeding and whickered softly to her. She brushed its soft nose absently as she took in the sight before her, the details branding themselves in her mind, and before long her equine companion returned its interest to the bush.

It was a small clearing, no more than a hundred yards in either direction, just along the river. She could see, over the tops of the trees, the steeple of the church at Haye-Park, and she knew that she must be very near the crossroads between there and Netherfield, not a mile from Meryton. But it was the figure by the side of the raging torrent that gained her greatest interest: by the bank stood a tall man, his leg propped on a rock, gazing fixedly downstream. One hand, hanging loosely by his side, held a pistol, and in the other, held before him, was a length of fabric. The man's hair rustled in the breeze, unfettered by hat, and she could clearly see the look of utter confusion and puzzled contemplation that graced his features. He wore riding clothes, and as her gaze traveled down to his boots, she caught sight of a dark smear of something, she hardly knew what, on the rocks at his feet. He was alone.

She had opened her mouth, intending to call out to him, when she heard shouts, the sound of men approaching from the far side of the clearing, and saw two men on horseback round the path. She ducked slightly behind the horse and peered around it as the men came closer. Mr. Darcy's head turned at the sound of his name, called by one of the officers, and Elizabeth recognized him now as Colonel Fitzwilliam, the other as Colonel Forster. They dismounted when they had come far enough into the clearing, and Colonel Forster called out, "Mr. Darcy! What is the meaning of this?"

Mr. Darcy, who stood in nearly the same position as he had when Elizabeth had first seen him, opened his mouth, but nothing came out. After a moment, he shook his head and looked again at the fabric in his hand, as if seeking from it the answers.

"Darcy! What did you do? Where is Wickham?" Colonel Fitzwilliam cried, dashing to his cousin's side. Taking the pistol from him, he examined it briefly and then handed it to the other officer, who had followed. He put his hands on Mr. Darcy's shoulders and shook him roughly. "Good God, man! What did you do?"

Again, Mr. Darcy opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment a handful of militiamen rushed into the clearing, their weapons in their hands, and he stiffened, his gaze going from them to each of the colonels in turn, and then, suddenly, towards Elizabeth, who still stood beside his horse. His eyes widened and he would have taken a step towards her had he not been arrested by his cousin's grip.

"Colonel, this is blood -- fresh blood," said Colonel Forster, who had stripped off a glove and knelt by the rocks, his fingers testing the dark liquid. They came away red, and he stood, his manner threatening as he stepped toward Mr. Darcy. "What is that in your hand, sir? Hand it over."

Mr. Darcy responded automatically to the order, offering the fabric in an absent manner, his eyes still on Elizabeth, and the colonel snatched it away, turning it over in his hands. "This is torn from an officer's sleeve -- a lieutenant's. Mr. Darcy, we must ask you again: where is Mr. Wickham? "

"I do not know," Mr. Darcy said at last, his voice strangled, his gaze finally turning to the colonel, and then his cousin. "There was no one here when I arrived."

"You cannot be serious, Darcy," said his cousin. "We heard--"

"I know what you heard!" Darcy snapped, suddenly coming to life. "I heard it myself. And I cannot explain it. I have not the least idea why he said my name like that--"

"You are telling us," Colonel Forster said, "that you were not here with him, that you did not fight with him, that you did not shoot him with this recently fired pistol that you were holding in your hand when we arrived, that this is not his blood, that you did not dispose of his body somewhere--" he looked around him, then at the river rushing loudly by them "--in this river, maybe? Men! Search downstream. I want Mr. Wickham found immediately. He may have come ashore, or his body washed up or caught on the rocks or branches. Find him!"

"Colonel," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, "it cannot have been my cousin. No matter the provocation, Darcy would never have done such a thing!"

"How do you know this, Colonel?" cried the other officer, turning on him. "Because he is your cousin? Forgive me if I do not take your word for it. As it stands, everything points to your cousin having done away with my officer."

"I did no such thing," growled Mr. Darcy, stepping forward. Colonel Forster immediately drew his sword in response, and the other man retreated, his hands held open before him.

Meanwhile, Colonel Fitzwilliam was looking around frantically, as if to find something to exonerate his cousin, and spied the other horse standing by the side of the clearing. He jogged a few steps in that direction, then caught sight of Elizabeth standing by its side and stuttered to a halt. He looked around at the activity in the clearing, then came closer and said in a hushed voice, "Miss Bennet! What are you doing here?"

Elizabeth stepped around the front of the horse hesitantly. "I heard the shouting, Colonel, and the shot," she said. "I arrived just before you did."

"But from where?" he asked, taking hold of the horse's bridle and looking at it with narrowed eyes. "This is Darcy's horse. What are you doing with it?"

"Nothing, sir. It was here when I came running from there," she said, pointing down the path.

"Alone? What are you doing out here?"

"I was not alone," she said, shaking her head. "My sister and Mr Bingley -- we were nearly run down by a horse galloping down the path, coming from here, I presume. It looked absolutely wild, no doubt frightened by the shot, though why a horse of the militia ... I left them behind on my way here. They are some ways back. I thought -- oh, I don't know what I thought -- that I could help, maybe…"

The colonel looked at her searchingly, then nodded. Suddenly, in their silence, they both grew aware behind them of the escalation of furious words being exchanged between the two men by the river, and as one turned to look.

"I tell you, he sent me a note, told me to meet him at the crossroads. He said he knew who had killed Mr. Denny and Mr. Collins. He sounded frightened."

"And so you came armed with a pistol. I dare say he was frightened -- of you."

"He knew me -- he knew he had nothing to fear from me physically. No matter what our relationship has been in the past--"

"Oh, yes, I've heard of your relationship! I daresay it may have quite a lot of bearing on what has happened here."

Beside her, the colonel muttered something angry and indecipherable, and had just gathered the reins of Darcy's horse when a muddy militiaman burst out of the woods and ran towards the pair on the riverbank. "Colonel!" He shouted as he ran, then skidded to a stop before Colonel Forster and saluted sharply. "I found this, sir, downriver, caught on some branches." He pointed downstream and handed what appeared to be an officer's hat to his superior.

Colonel Forster looked it over, his face growing more angry, and then he thrust it back in the other man's hands and barked at him, "Get to the camp. Tell Saunderson I want him down here on the double with the rest of the men. I want this river searched thoroughly for Mr. Wickham, as far as we can go. And God help you, Mr. Darcy," he said, turning to point an accusing finger at the other man, "if all we find is his body with a gunshot wound. For now, I arrest you, in the name of the King, for an attempt on the life of an officer of his majesty's militia."

"Good God," murmured the man beside Elizabeth, watching as Colonel Foster had another of his men, who came running at his call, bind Mr. Darcy's wrists and lead him towards the colonels' horses. The starch came into the tall man's spine as he was prodded forward, his head held high and his face set like granite.

With a sharp movement, Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to Elizabeth and grabbed her hand. "Miss Bennet, get your father. We have very little time, and if there is anyone who can figure this mess out, it is him." When Elizabeth hesitated, her eyes fixed on Mr. Darcy as he was led away, he barked at her and pointed. "Go! Get Mr. Bennet. We've not a moment to lose."