Page 3 of Chasing Shadows
Elizabeth set down her spoon and said quietly, “Mama, you distress yourself needlessly. I am here, safe, and you must not give way to such fancies before my sisters.
But her words did little to stem the tide. Lydia began to chatter of pistols and highwaymen, Kitty whispered fears of ghosts, and Mrs. Bennet continued to bewail her fate until Mr. Bennet himself entered the room.
“Well,” he said dryly, surveying the chaos, “I see the gossip has already made its way to Longbourn. Meryton cannot contain a whisper for more than half an hour, much less a murder.”
“Do not jest, Mr. Bennet!” his wife cried. “Our lives are at stake! Murder stalks the very lanes, and you treat it as though it were a jest at whist!”
Mr. Bennet took his seat, poured his tea, and regarded his wife with that mixture of patience and irony his family knew well. “I do not jest, my dear. I merely observe. Murder is indeed a serious business, and I should be glad to hear the particulars from those who know them, rather than from every housemaid between here and the Green.” His eyes flicked toward Elizabeth, thoughtful and keen.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes. She could not forget the manner in which Mr. Darcy had spoken the night before, urgent and protective, as he revealed the plan he and the colonel had contrived. He and Mr. Bennet had remained awake tokeep watch, determined to guard her should she become the murderer’s next prey. Their vigil had been cut short only by Wickham’s calamity, yet its weight still pressed heavily upon her. For all his falsehoods, Wickham’s death struck her with a strange heaviness, a mingling of pity, shame, and sober fear.
The morning meal dragged on, the family restless, when at last Hill entered to announce that two gentlemen had arrived.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy, sir.”
The parlour erupted at once.
“Mr. Darcy again!” Mrs. Bennet shrieked, fanning herself. “He brings soldiers to our very door! I shall faint! I shall be ruined!”
Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken, though her countenance remained composed. Mr. Bennet cast a glance about the room, noting the eagerness written plainly on the faces of his wife and daughters. He shook his head. Better not to indulge their curiosity, lest they carry fresh gossip to every corner of Meryton.
“Show them in,” he said at last.
The two gentlemen entered and, after the usual civilities were exchanged, Mr. Bennet motioned them toward his study. The men rose, but before her father could lead them from the room, Elizabeth cleared her throat. The sound compelled all three men to look back.
“Papa,” she said with quiet firmness, “I believe I ought to be present. Last night, I might have been the victim as easily as Mr. Wickham. Mr. Darcy knows it, as well as I.”
Mr. Bennet regarded her closely, then gave a grave nod. “Come, Lizzy. The rest of you remain here.”
Mrs. Bennet uttered a cry of protest, but the study door closed upon father and daughter before she could frame another word.
Within the office, the fire burned low, casting long shadows across the shelves and chairs. Mr. Bennet remained standing as the gentlemen entered.
Darcy bowed, grave and formal. “Mr. Bennet, may I present my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, once again. As I said yesterday, he came to Meryton at my request, to aid in clearing my name from suspicion. It was he who followed Wickham yesterday.”
The colonel inclined his head. “It is an honour to be received, sir, though I regret the occasion of our meeting.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes turned to his daughter. “Now, Lizzy, you ought not to be here. Yet I cannot deny your claim. You are right. The killer might as easily have chosen you as a victim.”
Elizabeth swallowed, her composure strained by the weight of Darcy’s gaze, which seemed fixed upon her.
“Whatever you hear within these walls is given in confidence,” Mr. Bennet went on. “You must be cautious in what you repeat to your sisters and mother. One whispered tale too many, and Longbourn will be the source of new gossip across the town.”
Elizabeth inclined her head solemnly.
“Very well,” said her father. “Pray, be seated.”
The gentlemen took their chairs, while Elizabeth stood near the window, her hand resting on the back of her father’s seat.
The colonel drew a breath, his clasped hands betraying the tension of his tale. “Sir, last night I was present when George Wickham was attacked. As you may have heard, he was struck down in his lodgings—stabbed through the chest. I entered moments after, but too late to prevent the blow.”
Elizabeth felt her throat tighten, her breath caught between grief and dread.
“I saw a man fleeing,” the colonel continued, his voice weighted with regret. “A fleeting glimpse only. Enough to know he was no common thief, but not enough to see his face. I confess I hesitated. Wickham still breathed, and I chose to aid him rather than give chase.”
Darcy spoke then, his tone calm yet firm. “It was the only honourable choice. No man could be faulted for it.”
The colonel inclined his head, though guilt still shadowed his eyes. “We were joined by Mr. Tobias Hatch, the parish constable, who had been trailing Wickham. Together we bore him to Mr. Jones, the apothecary. A horse was dispatched to summon a surgeon from St. Albans, but Wickham’s wounds were mortal. He died soon after our arrival.”
