Page 63 of Eavesdroppers Never Hear
Wickham abruptly let go of Lydia’s arm and shoved her hard toward Elizabeth.
When Elizabeth stumbled, he jumped over the top of Lydia, who had fallen, grabbed Elizabeth’s arm, and dragged her back until he stopped with his back against the folly, presumably so nobody could sneak up on him. While she was reeling in surprise, he dragged her against his chest, held her left arm tightly against his chest, grabbed her right wrist in his left hand to hold her fast—and held a knife against her throat.
Wickham sneered menacingly. “Not this time, Darcy! For once you will pay what you owe me!”
“I owe you nothing,” Darcy said through clenched teeth, though with the knife at Elizabeth’s throat and her eyes as big as saucers, he said it with far more gentleness than he might have.
“Yes, you do! You paid me a pittance for the living your father designed for me. He intended me for better things.”
“Believe as much if it gives you comfort, but what I gave you was far too much. Three thousand pounds for a living of three hundred is a decade of income without having to wait, take orders, make sermons, or do anything at all. Not my fault if you frittered it away gambling.”
“It is no matter. I have your piece of fluff here… and by the way… have you tapped that keg yet?” he said with a leer, while the knife wandered back and forth, and Elizabeth cringed in terrified embarrassment.
“What is your plan, Wickham?” Darcy asked, while Lydia, who had climbed unsteadily to her feet, stood in dumbfounded horror, muttering, “My fault… my fault… my fault… my…”
Elizabeth spoke gently but loud enough to be heard. “This is not your fault, Lydia. You could not have known the depravity of this man. Neither of us has ever known true evil.”
“I would be careful with that wicked tongue if I were you, little Miss Priss!” Wickham hissed menacingly, while pulling the knife out in front of her face so she could see it clearly and presumably reflect on her fate long enough to be quiet.
“Coward,” she muttered, to which he growled and moved the knife closer.
“How do you imagine this ends, Wickham? You know I will never let you leave with her.”
“Well… since my life is forfeit if I let her go, I suppose we will see. Your Miss Bennet is about to take a little trip. I will give you my word of honour as a gentleman I will not touch her, and you can retrieve her for the very reasonable price of ten thousand. Come come, Darcy… old Simonson probably has that much tucked away under his valet’s cot.”
“I will not go with you,” Elizabeth said, though her eyes were cast down far enough to watch the blade that was back against her throat and her belligerence came out much closer to a squeak than a roar.
“All right, I will give you what you ask, but I assure you if you harm one hair on her head, or spill one drop of blood, I will take you back to Pemberley and drop you down the Cubar mineshaft with a quart of water to enjoy the spiders and snakes in the dark for the remainder of your brief, miserable life.”
Elizabeth felt the man stiffen and shudder, so presumed Darcy was mentioning some place from their childhood. She had no idea what his game was, but a careful look at his relative position showed he was powerless to attack the man with anything save his voice. She assumed he was softening the scoundrel up with the only weapon at hand, waiting for a chance to strike.
She gulped and hoped the villain would not notice it. “Unlike you—Mr Darcy is a man of his word. You may release me right now and you will get your money with no more risk to yourself. I would take it and run if I were you.”
She heard the man chuckle grimly. “Perhaps Darcy is as honourable as you say… but his cousin is another matter entirely. No, my dear, I will need a bigger head start than that, and you are my ticket.”
Elizabeth noted Darcy had crept forward until Wickham said, “Far enough, old sport. Would not want to make me nervous, would you?”
Darcy stopped, and whispered, “Lydia.”
She was still muttering to herself, but his voice got her to desist, and he held out his hand. She came at once, and huddled behind him, peeking around his very tall shoulder, which Elizabeth thought was his design so he could protect her while clearing the field between him and Wickham. It was obvious he was waiting for a chance to take advantage of any lapse with the knife.
Elizabeth looked into her lover’s eyes, saw pure unbridled terror, and suspected she showed the same in hers.
She noticed whenever Wickham talked, he moved the knife away from her throat, calculating that a drop of blood would cause his life to end quickly and painfully right then and there.
“Out of curiosity, what makes you think Mr Darcy owes you anything, Mr Wickham?”
He let out the story he had been dying to relate the night at Aunt Philips’ house, and she wondered if he had known who she was at the time. It seemed unlikely but possible, she supposed. She let him speak his fill while watching the knife like a hawk as it moved back and forth between being pressed against her throat or her collarbone, and a spot half a foot away—far enough to be slightly less threatening, but too close to make an escape.He talked… and he talked… and he talked; whining about the fact that his godfather had given him too much, as far as Elizabeth could tell from the story.
In a break in the man’s ceaseless whining, she asked innocently, “Lydia, are you well?”
“She is fine,” Wickham snapped, clearly getting increasingly nervous by the minute.
“I am so sorry, Lizzy!” Lydia said despairingly.
“Do not be! You were trying to protect me. You could have gone about it more sensibly, but your motives were pure. You should feel no shame.”
“AAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhh…. Are the two of you not touching. I believe I may cast up my accounts,” Wickham sneered in a voice Elizabeth hoped would be ripped from his throat eventually.
