Page 141 of Companions of Their Youth
Footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Mr. Bennet appeared in the doorway, his face looking haggard.
He took in the tableau with a single sweep of his gaze.
“Well,” he said dryly. “I take it you have made your decision about the courtship after all.”
Elizabeth turned to him, the tears still wet on her cheeks. “Papa…”
His eyes flicked to her gown, then to the unconscious man on the floor. His face changed. “What happened?”
Darcy stood. “It is a long story, sir. But he—Wickham—tried to kill her.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes narrowed. He turned to the returning footman. “Send for Sir William Lucas immediately—and Colonel Forster. Tell them only that one of the soldiers is in need of aid.”
“Yes, sir.”
Just as the man turned to go, Wickham stirred with a faint moan.
Without hesitation, Colonel Fitzwilliam gave him a firm kick to the ribs. “Stay down, you devil.”
Then he looked to Elizabeth, his expression chagrined. “My apologies, Miss Bennet. I fear my manners have entirely deserted me. I should not express such violence in front of a lady.”
She gave a weak laugh. “Considering the fact that I also kicked him—and hit him with the poker—you are quite excused.”
Mr. Bennet stared at his daughter as if he had never seen her before. He stepped farther into the room, taking in the broken vase near the wall, the bullet hole in the ceiling, the pistol half-hidden beneath a side table, and Wickham—still groaning and bound—on the floor.
“You caused this damage, my Lizzy?” he asked incredulously, halting before her. “Are you hurt? Somebody needs to tell me what happened. Now.”
Darcy glanced up sharply at the tone. The amiable, thoughtful man he had come to respect—a father full of quiet humor and evident affection for his children—now stood with a gaze like tempered steel. There was nothing jesting in his manner. He radiated command so fully that even Colonel Fitzwilliam, a seasoned officer, looked mildly impressed. Or perhaps, faintly intimidated.
Elizabeth’s chin trembled again. Darcy felt it against his chest as she steadied herself.
“Perhaps,” he said gently, “we ought to allow Miss Elizabeth to sit until Sir William and Colonel Forster arrive. Then she need only tell the tale once.”
Mr. Bennet’s gaze snapped to him. His mouth opened to reply—and then, slowly, he nodded. “Yes. Yes, quite right. Lizzy, forgive me.”
He turned and strode to a small cabinet at the side of the room. “Excuse the liberty,” he muttered, pulling open a panel and retrieving a crystal decanter and two glasses.
Darcy helped Elizabeth to a settee, steadying her as she sat. Her torn gown slid down her shoulder, revealing the scarring from his sister’s attack two weeks prior. She blinked hard, clearly trying to school her expression. Her lips were pale.
Mr. Bennet crossed to her and handed her one of the glasses. “A small sip,” he said, pressing it into her hand. “For the nerves. And do not tell your mother.”
Darcy watched, astonished, as Elizabeth obediently lifted the brandy to her lips and took a sip. She winced, coughed once, and handed it back with watering eyes.
Mr. Bennet took a long draught from the second glass. “It is effective,” he said defensively when he caught Darcy’s expression. “Be thankful it was not a cigar as well.”
Darcy gave a dry sound in his throat—half grimace, half chuckle. “Indeed. I am grateful for that small mercy.”
Elizabeth chuckled too, and the sound, faint as it was, loosened something tight in his chest.
The moment was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Sir William Lucas and Colonel Forster entered together, eyes immediately going to the bound figure on the floor and the black, ragged hole in the plaster overhead.
“Good God,” Colonel Forster muttered.
Sir William adjusted his coat and bowed stiffly. “Miss Bennet. Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bennet. Colonel.”
“Thank you both for coming so quickly,” Mr. Bennet said with a nod.
