Rating: T for language and brief sexual innuendo
Author's Notes: I started this in October 2011 and have been going back and looking at it every now and then since. I've finally decided it is time to get this fic off my computer. The complete lack of Wickham/Amanda shippers is to blame for this story. I don't know how anyone saw Lost in Austen and ended up rooting for Darcy/Amanda.
Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Lost in Austen, Mammoth Screen, or Jane Austen (though I wish I were associated with Tom Riley).
"Everyone you love, Miss Price, will one day prise your fingers from the raft and watch you drown. Everyone, Miss Price. Except me."
Amanda ran out the door and down the hallway after Wickham. He had just exited the front door, and she rushed after him. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" she demanded of his retreating back.
He paused in midstride and glanced back at her. "Simply that it seems the unique circumstances we two find ourselves in may not be so unique after all." The words did not have the usual Wickham-esque sharp bite to him. They sounded tired, resigned.
"Oh, yes, thank you, Wickham, that is so much clearer!" She stepped nearer. He still stood there, waiting in the courtyard. "You know what? That's it! I've had it with this bloody world! Everything's buggered up and nothing is how it's supposed to be, most of all you!"
He considered her cryptically. "Miss Price, as much as I would love to pursue this scintillating conversation, I must remind you that Mr. Bennett requires immediate medical attention."
Oh, yes. There was that. She suddenly forgot that she was angry with Wickham for being so unexpected, so difficult to understand, so like and completely unlike Wickham. She remembered that he was saving her. Saving this world. Saving Pride and Prejudice, or what could be salvaged, anyway. Her anxiety over Mr. Bennett returned as she remembered him bleeding his life out in the inn room. "Of course," she said. "I'm sorry, Wickham."
He nodded once, touching his hat, and turned away abruptly with a flourish, like the soldier he was.
He was there behind her shoulder, and she was suddenly aware of how very much she owed to him. He was solely responsible for her being able to save face in Hammersmith, had saved Mr. Bennett, and had safely escorted the Bennetts home. And he had not run away with Lydia. Why?
His voice broke into her thoughts. "Where am I to sleep?" His cheeky, flirtatious tone was back again.
But she didn't want to play games with him anymore. He was the sole person she could rely on in this story—hell, the only man who had ever come through for her at all. He deserved more than games. Amanda spoke slowly, carefully. "I am grateful to you, George. But where you... put yourself tonight is not my concern." For old times' sake, or maybe because it felt more comfortable, she added, "Perhaps you should address yourself to Mr. Collins."
He spoke lowly so that only she could hear. "I doubt Mr. Collins is equipped to give me satisfaction with regards to this enquiry." She could hear the smirk in his voice.
Amanda couldn't help it. "Then you must take matters into your own hands. Mine are full."
She thought about it sometimes, those cryptic words in 1880's Hammersmith. She wished she had managed to drag their meaning out of George right then and there. The time and place do so was past now. She couldn't very well walk up and say, "Oi, Wickham, remember that 'scintillating' conversation we never finished? Well, we need to do that, now. It's making me mental." Even if she did, she wasn't sure what she wanted to hear him say.
In one day, Amanda had managed to mostly correct the plot of her favourite Jane Austen novel. She convinced Darcy and Elizabeth to work on falling for one another, she struck a bargain with Lady Catherine de Bourgh, she engineered Jane and Mr Collin's annulment, and she (finally) paved the way for Jane and Mr Bingley's marriage. Yet after all that, she still felt there was something left to be done. It gnawed at her mind. She wanted to go home, yet she dreaded it. There were only pieces to pick up there. Michael, Piranha, her job. She couldn't wait to leave Pride and Prejudice and yet she couldn't bear to go. She would miss it too much.
It was when Amanda watched Elizabeth with Darcy that she began to really understand why it was that her own presence had thrown Pride and Prejudice so strongly off-kilter. She had tried to recreate that romance for herself, and it was not meant to be. Finally, Amanda remembered something that she should have remembered long ago, before she ever dragged Jane Austen's characters along with her deep into this mess.
"I'm not hung up about Darcy. I do not sit at home with the pause button on Colin Firth in clingy pants, okay? I love the love story. I love Elizabeth. I love the manners and language and the courtesy. It's become part of who I am and what I want. I'm saying that I have standards."
All that high-mindedness had taken a flying leap the moment she faced the prospect of meeting Darcy at the Netherfield Ball. And the awful thing was, she had really thought she meant it when she had said it. She had loved the love story. She still did. She loved that Darcy loved Elizabeth despite their class divisions, that he reformed himself to deserve her love, that he willingly met with and paid off the man he most hated, just because he knew it was important to Elizabeth, and that he had done so without expecting anything in return. It was just, so romantic. A world in which there was true love, and it came in the form of a man who was someone you could rely on, someone you could trust, someone who treasured you, someone who complemented you (and you him) perfectly. And when she set foot in that world, Amanda had lost her head and thought (hoped) that Darcy could be that man for her. But while Lizzie stirred up the best of chivalry and love in Darcy, Amanda merited scorn. Even though Darcy had apologised, Amanda still knew it had happened because he was dealing with her and not Elizabeth.
When she heard George was leaving, Amanda was filled with overpowering anger. She rushed out to find him and give him a piece of her mind. She found him in the stables, saddling his horse. She stormed up to him. "Wickham, I expected more of you," she began, crossing her arms. He raised a grinning face and guarded eyes to her. She faltered before mustering her indignation and continuing. "It's completely like you to just leave without even saying goodbye. The last time you did that, Elizabeth was sure you were so noble and wronged, but you know what? The truth came out. So it didn't do you any good! And it won't do you any good this time, even if you haven't really done it the first time." She stepped nearer and jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. "I don't know what you're up to, but you know what? I don't care! I wash my hands of you! I—"
"Miss Price," he interrupted, "I fail to understand your meaning. To what previous departure do you refer?"
"The one in the bloody book where you're still a bastard!" she fumed at him. "Only you wouldn't know about that, but I do."
He reached up and placed his palm on his horse's nose, stroking it absently. "Am I correct in perceiving that you are out of sorts, Miss Price?"
She glared daggers at him. "Full marks, Wickham!"
"May I ask why?" he asked calmly.
"Because you are messing with my head and I've had enough of it! And you're leaving without even saying goodbye!"
His hand stilled on the horse's nose. "I believed the latter circumstance would be amenable to you."
Her arms came uncrossed as she made fists at her sides. "Well, that's what you thought. You didn't ask, did you, George? No, you just assumed, you cad."
The hand on the horse came down slowly to his side as he regarded her. "Miss Price, the fault is entirely mine. I beg your forgiveness for not formally taking leave of the Bennetts and yourself." The words had a blank sound to them.
"Come off it, Wickham," Amanda said crossly. "What are you playing at?"
He tilted his head. "'Playing at', Miss Price?"
She resisted the urge to grind her teeth. "You know what I mean."
"I'm afraid I don't. I am simply returning to my station in Brighton."
"Why? Is Caroline somewhere nearby there?" Amanda asked suspiciously.
"I believe, though I am not entirely certain, that Miss Bingley will be vacationing at Rosings. I am simply resuming my military post."
She crossed her arms. "You don't think Lydia is attractive? She has 1000 pounds a year, you know, and you could squeeze more out of her father."
Wickham returned to stroking the horse's face. "Why is it that you always make assumptions about myself and Miss Bennett?"
"I have very good reason, Wickham, and the fact that you haven't made a move in her direction is something I can't even begin to wrap my mind around."
"Miss Price, have I done anything to make you think I would take advantage of unfortunate ladies?"
"You have designs on Caroline," she sneered.
"Miss Bingley is hardly what I would term unfortunate," he returned.
"Well…" Amanda began, but found she couldn't think of anything to say. She was seething inwardly.
"Miss Price, Miss Bennett is a charming young lady, and I wish her the best, but I can assure you that I have no 'designs' regarding her."
"Well then, what the hell do you want, Wickham?" she demanded.
He just stood there, looking at her. Amanda felt like he was weighing her and finding her wanting. She squirmed uncomfortably. "What?"
"What does it matter to you?" he asked.
"Because…" She paused. Um, why did it? "Because I'm trying to figure you out and it just isn't working!"
He lowered his voice. "Miss Price, when we met, why did you harbour such an ill opinion of myself?"
Amanda frowned. She wondered whether it would hurt to just out and tell him. He was George; he could handle it, maybe. But maybe it was against the rules. It hadn't seemed to work in her favour yet, though she kept slipping up and shouting about the book to people.
"Because I knew all about you. Or I thought I did. Anyway, I knew some very bad things about you, and you're proving them all wrong, though you still are proving to be rather a slimy character, but a noble kind of slimy… I mean, what kind of creeper tells a girl he can smell himself on her?" she exclaimed. "But then you show up at Hammersmith and just shock me, and you had everything under control, and I didn't—don't—know what to think, and I'm raving, aren't I?" She put her hand to her face and turned away. "I'm yelling at George Wickham in the Bennett's stable because he's leaving without saying goodbye. I am stark raving mad." She turned back to tell him to forget it, only she found he was grinning boyishly at her, and it made her stomach do a funny little flip flop. No, it did not just do that. That did not happen. She stood there speechless, and he just grinned at her.
"What?" she finally wailed miserably.
"I knew the scent line would attach itself to your consciousness," he said jovially. "It never fails. Ladies do like to be intrigued."
She huffed angrily. She was really cross now. "George Wickham, nothing has attached itself anywhere! And there is no intrigue!"
"I thought you were distressed at not being able to, how did you put it, 'figure me out'?"
"That's an entirely different matter!"
"Is it?"
"YES! Yes, it is!" she shouted. She waved her arms at him. "You know what, just go. This is ridiculous. I am not arguing with George Wickham about intrigue. It's not happening." She began backing up. "I am going home and leaving this all behind. I am going back to my job, where people complain to me all day about their money problems, and I am going to tell Michael to get his stuff out of my house, and then I am going to call up Piranha and we are going to have a girl's night out on the town. And in the morning I'll wake up sloshed in some stranger's bed and this will all have been a dream. A strange, buggered-up dream. And then I'll go home and clean my house, because it's probably a mess. And then I am going to start reading new books. Yes, that's the key. New books. I hear there's a new novel about philosophy out. It will be a change. Anything's better than this."
She had backed up all the way to the door of the stable, her eyes never leaving his face. His own eyes were serious and unreadable, and she felt so tired and awful and emotional. It must be PMT. It must.
He took a few slow steps toward her. "Miss Price, I doubt you will be able to accomplish any of those plans in Hammersmith."
She laughed bitterly. "Oh, you'd be surprised, Wickham. My Hammersmith is a very different place than the one you know."
He continued moving toward her, stealthily calm. "Oh? Where is it? I have only ever been acquainted with one Hammersmith."
She sighed. "It's through the Bennett's upstairs door that leads nowhere."
He smiled. His face was so very near now, and his fingertips were brushing her own. "Miss Price, you never cease to amaze me."
Amanda would have come up with a cheeky retort for that, only just now she was finding it hard to breathe. Which was odd. There was plenty of fresh air around her, pollution not being invented for another fifty years or so. They stood and looked at each other. Wickham's eyes were so very brown. A nice brown, not like Michael's. A kind of pleasant brown that you could look into all day and think sappy thoughts about love and chivalry and language and manners and standards. How had she not noticed that before?
"Wickham," she said suddenly, remembering something, "what did you mean the other day when you said something about our circumstances being similar?" She was surprised at the desperation she felt for his answer.
His eyes widened and he considered her carefully. "I meant," he said slowly, "that we each love a person whom does not return our affection."
"Oh," she said blankly, "I thought you weren't serious about Caroline."
"I do not refer to Miss Bingley," Wickham said firmly.
"Well, you certainly aren't in love with Lydia! You didn't look at all cut up about her running off with Bingley," Amanda retorted.
He frowned at her. "I repeat, I have no interest of that sort in the young Miss Bennett."
She sighed. "Well, George, I have no idea what you're talking about, but I have news for you. I am not in love with Darcy, so there. I thought I was, but I just took the long route to good sense. I seem to have a bad habit of doing that."
He regarded her quizzically. "You're not interested in Swellerando's thousands of pounds?"
She laughed. "No, I was never interested in his money."
"Well, I fail to see what that escapade was about, then," said Wickham, puzzled. "Are you quite sure that you are in earnest?"
Amanda laughed harder. "Yes, yes, that was all just my stupidity. I'm quite over it now. I just don't know what to do myself when I'm not chasing after rich men."
He leaned forward and whispered sultrily in her ear, "You could try chasing after poor soldiers."
It sent shivers up her spine. And suddenly, Amanda began to understand something that had been eluding her all along. Darcy was not the man for her because she was not Elizabeth. She was only Amanda, and Amanda was quite a different person from the second Miss Bennett. Amanda didn't want stuffiness and propriety and moodiness. She wanted life and freedom and even a bit of recklessness. She wanted her shining knight to ride in on his white horse, rescue her, and sweep her off her feet to a place where they could be equals in life and love. And she thought maybe, he already had, only she hadn't been looking.
"George," she whispered, "who is she, really?"
He smiled. "Why, Lady de Bourgh, of course. Only our circumstances are so different I have not a hope…"
She made a face. "That was the most awful mental picture I've had in months."
He tsked at her. "Miss Price, ladies do not have 'mental pictures'."
Their fingertips were still brushing, and she grabbed his hand suddenly. His look of surprise was priceless, but not as priceless as it would be in a moment. Truth was dawning on her. Sod it all, she wanted Wickham. This strange fact suddenly made more sense than anything else ever had. She reached her free hand up, hooked it around his neck, and pulled him down for a kiss.
She gave it to him good. If she was going to break all taboos and kiss George Wickham, she might as well make it memorable. For a moment he was so stunned he didn't respond, but he caught on quickly. In another moment the kiss rivalled the wildest fantasies she'd ever had while in the thralls of Pride and Prejudice-induced starry-eyed sighing. It was all fireworks and stars and a thousand Harlequin balls and steamy, corset-loosed nights. His arms were around her and both her arms were around his neck and she was going weak in the knees. Yes, she actually was. She hadn't thought that was really a thing, but apparently George Wickham could make it happen.
They broke apart, gasping, but they didn't let go of one another. "Ladies don't generally do that, either," said Amanda, trying to smirk but failing because of her breathlessness.
He was looking at her like he had just been flattened by a bulldozer. "Not generally," he agreed.
She ran her hand over the almost unnoticeable stubble on his jaw before threading her fingers into his hair. "You do know Lady de Bourgh is somewhere in the vicinity, right?"
He actually smirked, then. "Lady de Bourgh and Caroline Bingley and all the Miss Bennetts can go to Hammersmith, for all I care." He untangled her hand from his hair and raised it to his lips.
She smiled at him woozily. It crossed her mind that this was George Wickham, bastard, who had his arm around her and was kissing her hand. "George Wickham, if you screw me over I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth and saw your manhood off myself. And then I will hack you into tiny little bits and trample them."
He grinned, flipped her hand over, and began pressing kisses to her palm. "That sounds delightful," he said. Amanda was finding it hard to think straight, what with his lips tracing the lines on her palm. "I have always liked a woman with spirit."
"I mean it, George," she said faintly.
"I do, too," he answered. "Do you think I would have waited about for you this long if I did not?"
She jumped away. "What do you mean?"
His eyes were smouldering. "Have you deciphered the riddle yet, Miss Price?"
Amanda was actually shaking, with fear and hope and longing. "No. Tell me."
He took a step nearer and reclaimed her hand. "I have been trying to tell you all this time. You have captivated me, Miss Price, and I find that not a day, not a moment, goes by when I do not think of you and wish that I could make you believe I am not the cad you believe me to be. You are the one who has captured my heart."
Oh, wow. This was not happening.
"Miss Price, I have nothing to offer but the pittance of a soldier. Yet if you would but grant me the honour of your hand, I would move heaven and earth to make you happy."
She gasped. This was definitely not happening. "You…you're asking me to marry you?"
"Yes," he said firmly.
"Just like that?" she exclaimed.
"Yes," he answered more slowly, frowning.
"You're not going to try to convince me to run off with you or something?"
"Would you rather I did?" he asked with a roguish grin.
"Uh…" She didn't know how to answer that. This was all rather fast. "Um, you never struck me as the marrying type, George, at least not when money wasn't involved."
He smiled. "Miss Price, you make me believe I can assume the married life happily."
Well, Amanda was utterly flabbergasted. She rubbed her face, and when she removed her hand, he was still there, watching her earnestly with a ridiculously tender look on his face. This was Wickham, for crying out loud! Where had Jane Austen gone wrong?
And then none of that mattered. Jane Austen didn't matter. It didn't matter that George Wickham was a renegade character in a book rewriting himself. Amanda saw her chance for happiness, and she grasped at it with both hands.
"I have a question for you first, George," she said.
He raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"
"Will you go to Hammersmith with me? My Hammersmith."
His eyebrows rose even more, but his grip on her hand tightened. "Certainly," he said.
So they went.