Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure I did not write Pride and Prejudice. At least, not in this lifetime.
Chapter Thirteen
Lizzy had just begun to doze on the window seat, her head pillowed on a dusty cushion, when a strange sound brought her sharply awake. She pushed up, her eyes focusing on the closed door. It was hard to tell for certain, but she thought perhaps it had been a cry.
It did not take long for the sound to repeat. "Reg!" A man called from somewhere on the main floor. "Reg! Attack!"
There were other sounds then, too. Rushing booted feet. Shouting. Doors slamming. Something shattering. And then, sickeningly, the harsh clanging of metal on metal.
Swords.
Lizzy jumped to her feet. She knew not whether to hope this was her rescue. Certainly she desired to be away, but she did not wish for anyone to be harmed in the effort. And if, as her heart told her to hope, this was Mr. Darcy coming to her aid, the thought of anyone being injured in the attempt was even more painfully distasteful.
But what if this were not on her behalf at all? What if this was a rival group of men similar to Smythe's, or even a band of robbers pillaging a house they had imagined would contain little resistance?
She very deliberately sat back on the window seat. She wanted to rush into the corridor, to see what was occurring and perhaps offer some aid—even to call for an end to the fighting—but she considered what Mr. Darcy's good sense would tell her. She was neither skilled with a weapon nor exceptionally agile or strong. Therefore, she ought to remain well out of the altercation until after it had settled, as much as it was difficult to be patient.
Unfortunately, her patience lasted less than two minutes. A particularly loud crash somewhere on the main floor, following by the appalling sound of a pistol shot, drew her back to her feet, and before she could talk herself out of it, she ran across the room and threw open the door. The noise seemed to all be coming from below now, perhaps near the bottom of the stairs at the end of the passage, and the corridor was empty. She drew in a deep breath and moved slowly through the doorway. She would go only to the top of the stairs.
She crept along the wall of the corridor silently, all her senses directed toward the noise from below. Every now and then, she picked out a voice that she might recognize—perhaps Mr. Darcy yelling directions, or the colonel laughing mockingly, or… Mr. Bingley? No, that could not be. Her mind must be playing tricks.
She reached the upper landing. She clung tightly to the balustrade and leaned out, intending to swing just enough to see over into the main entrance.
A hand clamped on her wrist, and another covered her mouth and pulled her up against a hard chest. She attempted to cry out and thrash, but she could make little sound. No, no, no, she thought as she wriggled and squirmed and tried to bite the hand, this would not happen again!
"My dear Miss Bennet," whispered a familiar voice, "I know you have little reason to believe this, but I mean you no harm."
Lord Smythe—Mr. Talmadge—was gripping her hard, but she managed to unlock an elbow enough to jab it into his middle. His breath rushed out in a puff, but his grip did not loosen. He began dragging her toward the nearest open door.
"I seem to remember you being more docile last time I held you," Mr. Talmadge chuckled breathlessly. She grabbed the door jamb, her fingers clawing for purchase, but he knocked her arm aside and pushed her into the room, releasing her before silently closing the door.
She backed away from him, moving several steps in the utter darkness before bumping into a bedstead. The thin post of the bedframe creaked loudly as she pressed back against it, almost as if it would snap with the pressure. If only it were not so black, she might spy something to use as a weapon, but the effort was pointless. "Stay away from me."
"As lovely as you are, Miss Bennet, and as much as I may have intentionally misled you upon our first meeting, I am, in fact, quite loyal to my lovely wife, whom I believe you have met since arriving here. I have no ill intentions."
"Then why have you shut me into a dark room with you?"
He chuckled again. "Because I have no desire for Reg and the others to know I am here. Your beloved Mr. Darcy and his friends are downstairs even now, attempting to subdue them, but I have little interest in fighting my own men. I brought Darcy here, I gave them my best advice on how to overcome the opposition, and now I only wish to retrieve my wife and depart. You were seen conversing in front of your chamber window, so I know you have been speaking with her recently, but she was not in her room or in any other I have searched. Do you know where she is?"
Suddenly, all of Lizzy's anger dissipated and she was left feeling quite overwhelmed. She had no desire to help this particular man, but Mrs. Talmadge did love him so very much, and if he really had been attempting to aid her, what else could she do?
"Miss Bennet, where is she? She is still here, I assume."
"Actually, sir, she is not."
He stepped toward her, she could tell from his footsteps, and although she could not see his expression, it was obvious from his tone that all of his ease had deserted him. "What do you mean? Was that not her he saw?"
"It was her, but she has gone, or at least, I assume she has left, if she was not in her chamber."
"But where would she go at this time of night? And why? Is she angry that Reg brought the men here? Had I known he had such intentions I would never have left her here while I prepared us a temporary place on the Continent."
"No, I… that is, she…" Lizzy was full of misery, wishing there were time to break the truth softly to him. She could simply send him after his wife, but she knew that it would be better for him to be prepared. She steeled herself, straightening her back and bracing herself against his response. "She was running from Reg and, in a way, from you."
"What?" he cried, grabbing her by the arms so suddenly that she gasped. How had he approached so quickly? "Did he hurt her? What do you mean 'from me'?"
Lizzy thought carefully, trying to put the entire story together in only a few sentences. "Tilda loves you very much, Mr. Talmadge, but there was a time some months ago when you were gone for several months, many of them without contacting her, was there not?"
"I was busy, and then I grew ill. I thought she understood."
"She did—afterward. But she felt lonely and abandoned, and Reg… Reg was here. She did not say it, but I believe he has had feelings for her for some time, and he took advantage of your absence to win her favor. She… they… well, I am sure you know what happened. She feels terrible. She does not love him and ended the affair quickly, but she is with child now by him, and she cannot bear to face you. She loves you so much, even more now, I think, than before, since she fears losing you."
He was so near her, his fingers still hard on her arms, that she could just make out the horror and shock on his face despite the darkness. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
"I am sorry—I would rather not have told you, but for her sake, you must understand. Reg came here only partly to hide me. Mostly, he was attempting to convince your wife to abscond with him to the north, where he was planning to continue your business. He promises they will live as man and wife, that he will claim the child with pride, and she is so ashamed, so afraid to face you, that she is considering it."
It took several more seconds before Mr. Talmadge was able to speak, and even then, his words were breathless and quiet. "She is with child… by Reg. He… he is my best friend."
Lizzy could not speak. Even attempting to empathize with the man's pain was tightening her throat. Her heart ached for him, for his wife, and even, grudgingly, for Reg.
He shook his head after a moment, obviously attempting to gather his thoughts once again. A shout of pain downstairs drew both their attentions, and he finally seemed to partially return to himself. "Why did she leave in the middle of the night? Where did she go?"
"She was confused. She wanted space away from Reg, away from your home, to make her decision. I tried to stop her, but she wanted to leave when he would not notice her absence for several hours."
He nodded once. "And where? Where did she go?"
Lizzy hesitated. "Why? Will you go after her?"
He dropped her arms. "Of course I shall! Tell me where she has gone."
"But why will you follow her?"
"Because she is my wife!"
"Will you follow her to accuse her, to demand an explanation and rail at her for her faithlessness? Or will you follow her to beg her forgiveness for being an absent, neglectful husband?"
He stared at her. "I… Well, I had not… that is, have I not some right to my anger? Do you expect me to crawl on my hands and knees to her when I have never been disloyal?"
"No, but I can guarantee you that if you meet her with anger, you will destroy her already-fragile heart. She does not expect instant forgiveness—it will take time for trust to develop between you again—but if you approach her with rage, she will return to Reg, who will welcome her with open arms. If you intend to attack her, then it would be better to leave her alone entirely and disappear onto the Continent. Then at least she will remember you with tenderness and regret."
He turned away from her then and paced several times back and forth. Lizzy wished the dim moonlight coming through the uncovered window was strong enough to show his face as he moved. He did not stop until there was another crash downstairs and an exchange of indistinct, angry words, followed by running footsteps through this corridor.
Finally, he looked up at her again. "I love her. She has betrayed me—I feel as though my heart has been ripped from my chest—and yet, the thought of never seeing her again makes me wish my heart would stop beating altogether. I cannot… I have no wish to live without her."
"Can you raise the child as your own?"
He sounded winded, as if she had elbowed him in the middle again, as he replied, "I do not know. I… I would try. That is all I can promise."
His honesty reassured Lizzy. "That is all I ask. She left on foot on the road to her family's tavern in Amersham."
"On foot?" he barked, straightening in indignation. "Whatever for?"
"She is heavy with child, sir. She cannot ride safely."
"Of course." He rubbed his face miserably. "Of course. I shall follow her then and hope to catch her before she reaches her family."
He spun before she could respond and moved toward the door, opening it incautiously and rushing through it. Lizzy followed him, whispering, "Sir! Be careful!"
But the warning came too late. Lizzy had just leaned out of the doorway when the door to the chamber down the hall where she had been kept was flung open and Reg ran out carrying a lantern, his sword in hand and his face thunderous. He and Mr. Talmadge froze at the sight of one another, both surprised, but as Reg's expression transitioned to guilt and dismay, Mr. Talmadge's contorted in fury.
"Geoff!" Reg said, trying to hide his concern. "What are you doing here? I thought you in France. It is good that you are here, however—we could use a touch of help with some troublemakers who are attempting to leave with our ransom guarantee."
"You!" Mr. Talmadge growled, drawing his weapon. "You take over my business, you abduct an innocent for a ransom like a common thief, you invade my home, and you take advantage of my wife, yet you have the nerve to call on me for help as if I am your friend!"
"Geoff, I… how did you…?" Reg's eyes searched the hall, and when they landed on Lizzy, his discomfort changed instantly to wrath. "You should have stayed out of this, Miss Bennet."
Part of Lizzy wanted to shrink back into the dark room and lock the door, hoping that the next time she emerged, all of this would be over, but another part was enraged that anyone felt they had a right to threaten her. She compromised with herself, neither moving closer nor backing away, and attempting to appear unruffled.
"Did you think I would not find out on my own?" Mr. Talmadge yelled, fully outraged. "Or did you just hope to be out of my reach when I did? Did you hope that by stealing my wife you would also steal my will to fight?"
"She deserves better than you!" Reg yelled back. "You had not been married for a week before you left her here, in this tumble-down, cavernous, old tomb, alone but for the company of two silent, aging strangers. You left her for weeks at a time, even months, with little more than a few lines now and then. Why she loves you so fiercely, I cannot imagine!"
"And I suppose my operation deserves better than I gave it as well?" Mr. Talmadge asked, a vein nearly popping on his forehead.
"It could have been so much more," Reg answer defiantly. "You and your ridiculous sense of honor—your unreasonable standards for the men, your unwillingness to cross any of the imaginary lines in your head between wrong and nearly-wrong. You could have made us all rich, but instead it took nearly a decade to accrue enough to achieve even a comfortable income. I am neither so timid nor so hindered by your inexplicable ethics. Mr. Darcy will be only the first of many prodigiously wealthy members of the Ton to support our bid for true comfort and security."
"You have always been greedy," Mr. Talmadge spat, disgusted.
"You are no better! We began this in the first place with the idea of using the wealthy to secure ourselves."
"But we preyed on their weaknesses only to a limited degree. They created their own ruin—we only took advantage of it. We never hurt the innocent or got on the wrong side of the law."
"You see! Your strangely arbitrary principles! You follow this imaginary set of rules in order to assuage your conscience. I, however, have no such weakness, and I will do what I must to secure my own happiness."
"Including steal your best friend's wife!"
"'Tis my child she carries, Geoff," he replied tauntingly. "The law may call her yours, but I say the life growing inside her declares the issue far less certain."
"If she were yours, then you would know where she is right now, would you not?"
Reg's face went slack. "What do you mean where she is?"
"She has gone, Reg, run away from you."
"No," Reg breathed. "No, she is… she retired some hours ago."
"She is not in her chamber," Mr. Talmadge smirked, brandishing the sword he had seemed to forget in the heat of their argument. "I looked there first. She has gone, and as soon as I have finished with you, I will find her."
"No," Reg repeated, his color rising. He raised his weapon as well. "You cannot have her. She is mine now. I will have everything that is yours!"
"You will have nothing," Mr. Talmadge hissed.
In a movement too quick for Lizzy's tired eyes, he lunged forward with a stab directed straight toward Reg's heart. Reg barely had time to parry, the tip of Mr. Talmadge's blade nicking the shoulder of his coat.
Thus began one of the first true displays of swordsmanship Lizzy had ever seen. She knew that many gentlemen learned to fence at school, that there were clubs where they improved their skills and practiced against one another for sport, even placing wagers on the winners, but being as none of those places welcomed ladies, she had never seen even a fencing exercise, let alone an honestly-pitched battle.
As she watched the two gentlemen parry and riposte, lunge and feint, she thought once again of her youth, of those days playing pirate in the forest with John, Walter, and Martin. Their swords had only been narrow branches, but their battles had felt quite real to them. She had borne as many welts and scrapes as the boys afterwards, worn them like badges of honor implying her strength and courage.
Looking back now, however, they had understood nothing of the true ferocity of a match between two bitter enemies whose intent is to harm. Each thrust, each swing, each dodge was sharp and quick, the repetitive metallic ringing shrill and cold. The men growled at one another, too angry and breathless to fling insults and taunts the way she and the boys had always imagined. Their footwork was, to her eyes, sloppy and inconsistent, and their movements were efficient but rather graceless, their focus having moved away from skill and onto inflicting damage.
She found herself shivering in the doorway, only partially from the cold of the house. There was no pleasure in watching this, no admiration for their abilities. All she experienced was a dawning sense of horror, realizing that neither of these men intended to give quarter, that she might any moment be witness to a man's brutal killing. If Mr. Talmadge were to lose the battle, Reg would run him through without hesistation, would take his best friend's life then begin a search for Mrs. Talmadge, possibly taking her north whether she wished it or not. If Reg were to lose, Lizzy was less certain regarding Mr. Talmadge's vindictiveness, but he may be equally vengeful.
Either way, the battle was likely to end with one of them lying slumped against a wall, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes staring ahead unseeing.
Lizzy shivered again. They were both too hurt, too angry, too foolish to control themselves, but she was not. She had no wish to observe a man's death, and if she wanted to be spared the sight, only she could do something about it. Her eyes cast around the corridor as her mind raced. What could she do?
After several moments, she had a thought, her memory of those tree-branch swords rising up again in her mind. She ducked back into the chamber behind her. It was completely ridiculous, but absurd or not, it was all she could do.
Fitzwilliam leaned back against the wall, attempting to rest for a moment even as he held his sword trained on the three young men in front of him. "I advise you men to remain quite still while we wait for my friend to retrieve some rope. I would prefer to avoid injuring any of you permanently, but I will have no qualms if you make it necessary."
One of the men nodded, another glared, and the third was too busy grumbling over the wound Fitzwilliam had just placed on his thigh to respond.
"Now," he went on, "would one of you be so good as to tell me which way lies the young lady you abducted?"
"She's on the second floor, sir," the first man replied, unbothered by a disgruntled jab from the second man. He was quite young, Fitzwilliam noticed. "In the… third chamber on the right, I think, up the right-hand staircase."
"Why would you tell 'im that, Wellington?" the second man growled. "'At chit is our ticket ta tha 'igh life."
"She is our ticket straight to hell, and you know it, Cooperton," the third man said through gritted teeth. "I told you we should never have gone against Smythe's orders. Getting mixed up in abducting and ransoming like this makes us no better than highwaymen."
"Reg is right," Cooperton muttered. "You're all a bunch a' cowards."
"No more talk," Fitzwilliam commanded as the door opened and Matthew entered carrying a length of thin rope he had retrieved from the stables. "My compatriot here is going to tie you up for everyone's safety. I would ask you not to make any trouble."
The men submitted quietly, even Cooperton. Just as Matthew was finishing, the door popped open, Bingley looking inside. "Ah, here you are, Fitzwilliam! Well done! I have incapacitated the watchman out front and locked him in the hall closet. Where did Darcy and John go?"
"They moved toward the rear entrance," Fitzwilliam said, pushing off the wall and joining Bingley and Matthew at the door. "I saw them fighting with the two guards."
"Two other men moved that way as well," Bingley said grimly, already striding away.
"One went up the stairs just a few moments ago," Matthew offered. "Saw him as I was returning from the stable."
"Miss Bennet is upstairs!," Fitzwilliam cried, spinning on his heel. "I shall go after that one. You two go help Darcy."
Bingley and Matthew ran between the staircases toward the back, Bingley's sword out and Matthew carrying some kind of club. Fitzwilliam could dimly hear the sounds of combat, which at least meant Darcy and John were still fighting. He grabbed the lit candelabra they had removed from a niche near the front door and dashed up the right-hand staircase, carefully stepping around the spots where longtime neglect had allowed the stair-boards to warp.
This must once have been a beautiful home—the lines of the staircases, the moldings, and the entrance were grand and graceful—but it had taken multiple generations to bring it to its current level of disrepair. Any furniture left visible in the corridors was dusty. There were no longer any paintings on the walls, although one could see marks on the peeling papers where they had once been hung. Even some of the moldings were missing, presumably because they had fallen down, and those that were left appeared ready to fall at any moment. What a dreadfully sad sort of old place this was.
He had not made it many steps up before he registered the clash of swords ahead of him. He slowed, holding the light high, and as the staircase curved, he caught sight of Smythe standing with his back to the stairway, his chest heaving and his sword raised high in the air. There was a small lantern sitting on a table in the upper hallway, and it illuminated Smythe's opponent, a tall, dark-haired man with a hard face and broad shoulders.
"You cannot best me, Reg," Smythe panted. "You never could."
"I never had a good reason before, Geoff," Reg replied. "It was always wisest to let you win, to let you think you were in control."
Smythe scoffed. "You let me win, did you?"
"Many times."
"Well, we shall see about that!"
Smythe approached Reg again, hacking and thrusting with some skill but little caution. Reg defended himself with precision, but his counterattacks lacked finesse, and Smythe parried them easily. It did not take many moments of observing for Fitzwilliam to see that the men were relatively evenly matched, that this would be a contest of stamina. Either that, or the win would be an accident, the result of one tripping on a raised corner of a rug or losing his focus because of a loud noise.
He was surprised, however, by the viciousness of their movements. These were not just men with a cause—they were angry men bent on destroying one another.
He knew not what was best to do. If he attempted to intervene, he might distract Smythe and cause him injury. Two against one, especially in a narrow corridor, were not truly any better odds. But neither could he simply leave them there to fight. If he went to help Darcy, one or the other could be killed, and Fitzwilliam did not trust either of them not to flee with Miss Bennet in tow again. It would, in fact, be a perfect time for him to rescue Miss Bennet himself, except that they were fighting directly in front of the chamber in which the man Wellington had said she was located. At least the door to the chamber was closed. He would just have to wait out the fight, to be prepared to offer aid if it was needed, and get ready to retrieve Miss Bennet as soon as the fight migrated or ended.
He stationed himself three-quarters of the way up the staircase where he could have a good view of the proceedings but not be in the way.
Before him, the fight continued, both men now employing every available tactic in order to triumph. Reg had taken to hurling any loose thing he found in the hallway, a chipped vase, a loose sconce, even the broken leg of a table, toward Smythe. The table leg caught Smythe on the left shoulder, and he cried out in pained anger, but it did not slow his movements. Smythe, in return, was entirely ignoring gentleman's dueling rules and appeared just as likely to jump on Reg if given half the chance and wrestle him to the ground as he was to disarm him and demand his surrender.
At one point, the two swords locked together, the men so near each other that they might have been dancing. Reg said through gritted teeth, pressing his entire weight against Smythe, "Do you want to know what it was like, Geoff? Do you want me to tell you how your wife called out my name as we lay in her bed so many nights? Shall I tell you how she… Ack!"
Smythe spat in Reg's face and pushed him to the ground in a sudden burst, then swung his sword down with both hands. Reg was momentarily blinded by the spittle, but he anticipated the attack and rolled to the side just in time, kicking out at Smythe's leg. Smythe crashed sideways against the wall before toppling to the floor, his sword flying out of his hand.
Reg fumbled madly for his weapon, which had rolled partially under the table holding the candelabra, giving Smythe enough time to retrieve his own sword and rise unsteadily to his feet. It was hard to tell, amidst the shadows and flickering light, but Fitzwilliam was fairly certain there was blood trickling down the left side of Smythe's face.
Smythe shook his head slowly and seemed to have trouble focusing, but he was quick enough to raise his arm when Reg finally stood and darted at him. He parried Reg's blow and managed to slash Reg's left shoulder viciously. Reg moved back out of his range, his face contorted in fury and pain.
"I hate you!" Reg cried. "Always better than everyone else, despite your family having less than nothing, despite your father being a gentleman gambler and your mother being little better than a whore! For years, I let you convince me that if we were patient, we could make these wealthy, debauched men pay for living off each other's failures and the honest efforts of the poor. And you were right—we could have been rich! But you and your conscience failed us! I will not be so foolhardy! I will show you what success truly is, what happiness truly is, and none of what I have will come at your behest!"
"I only ever wanted to make a real life for myself, for my future family, that was free of this old place, free of its worthless titles and its debts!" Smythe returned, swaying on his feet. "But true freedom could not come if we were always having to run from the law, to hide from those we had harmed. In all the years we have worked together, no one has ever had just cause to pursue us until now! I was keeping us safe, keeping both of us safe!"
Smythe kept talking, but under the sound of his voice, Fitzwilliam recognized the sounds of men approaching on the stairs below him. He spun and released a relieved breath at the sight of his four friends. Darcy was favoring his left side slightly but appeared well enough. Bingley was entirely unscathed and was staring up at the altercation above them with something like enthusiasm. Matthew had a blackened eye and a bloody lip, and he was supporting John, who was hopping up the stairs awkwardly on his left leg and looking pale. All in all, however, Fitzwilliam decided they were quite well enough. He gestured for them to be quiet and they nodded, all eyes on the fight in the upper corridor.
"But now you have ruined it all, do you not see?" Smythe continued ranting, finally appearing steadier. "After tonight, the men will no longer trust you. Most of them are honorable men, cautious men, who only ever involved themselves in this work because they could see that the wealthy upon whom we preyed had brought upon themselves their own ruin. Now they have seen the result of toying with the innocent. In one swoop, you have lost all you hoped to steal from me, my men's loyalty, my business, and my wife."
"What is he talking about?" Darcy whispered to Fitzwilliam.
Fitzwilliam shook his head. "I shall explain what I know later, although I remain unclear regarding much."
"She cares for me!" Reg bellowed, nearly apoplectic. "I shall not lose her!"
"You are right! You cannot lose what was never yours!"
Reg's next sound was an incoherent roar as he dove at Smythe. Smythe attempted to side-step him, but he was obviously still dazed from the blow to the head, and he was only able to slightly turn himself before Reg had brought him to the ground, his head hanging precariously over the top step of the staircase. They had both lost their swords upon impact, but Reg pressed Smythe down with his left forearm as he pulled a long dagger from his belt with his right.
"I will have all that is yours," Reg hissed, raising the knife above Smythe's heart.
Fitzwilliam bent to run, realizing the danger too late and already recognizing that he was too far to prevent it. Darcy cried out beside him and started up the stairs, also knowing the cause was lost.
They tripped to a stop as a small, shadowed figured darted out of the chamber nearest the stairs and smacked a long club of some kind against the back of Reg's head. The hand holding the knife continued its downward movement, but the force behind it was lost, and the point of the dagger ended buried half-an-inch into the floorboard less than a finger's-width from Smythe's shoulder before toppling with a clatter. Reg's entire body swayed and collapsed just to Smythe's side and across his legs.
Smythe kicked Reg off and struggled to his knees beside his former friend, obviously in a fair amount of pain. He looked up then, grimacing toward the figure hovering above him. "I believe now your debt to me is settled, my dear."
Fitzwilliam, beyond curious, raised the candelabra he still held and gasped. The figure standing above Reg, shaking like a leaf in the wind and still tightly holding her club, was Miss Elizabeth Bennet.