Bingley's carriage arrived in London in the morning when the rays of the sun touched upon the ground and the snow of the previous night was just settling in, as carriages pushed it aside to the alleys of the road. He hadn't slept a single wink and did not think it possible for him to be level-headed about anything and so, when he was driven up to the address that he had been given, he sat in the carriage, merely staring at the address.
23 Smallton Road. This was where Mrs. Townsend lived.
If she was not there, Bingley would know that she was the perpetrator and was unsure as to just what he might do. Perhaps he would inquire to her relations and friends about the town to discern her habits and her tendencies (and perhaps, might even slip in a scathing question regarding her predisposition towards kidnapping young, beautiful angels married to him).
He slowly disengaged the carriage and stepped down, affixing his hat atop his head and fidgeting with straightening his waistcoat. His heart was pounding in his chest when the thought occurred to him that Jane might be here. Perhaps Jane was even within this very townhome!
He spoke briefly with his carriage driver to give him instructions to wait there upon the street. All around them, the snow was falling again and it only served to deliver a keen and icy ache in Bingley's heart, his memories still lingering on the last fresh snow with Jane. He kept his gaze down upon the ground and regarded the footprints his boot made in the freshly-fallen snow as he ascended the stairs and held his fist above the door, not quite ready to knock.
Where was Darcy when he needed him, honestly!
Darcy was the one who could speak volumes in perfect calm, when Bingley was more prone to panicking at a pin's drop. He had barely been able to propose to Jane without Darcy's aid. And now, here he was, on the doorstep of what might be Jane's salvation and he lacked the words to express his dire need to find her.
He paced back and forth upon the small porch while he searched for the proper words and the gravitas he knew he would need to impress upon Mrs. Townsend the severity of the situation and how very displeased he was with whomever's conduct was at fault and how he was terribly sorry for his father's sins, but he was not, repeat not, his father. He would imply that her aid in finding Jane would be part and parcel of good behaviour that Bingley would then relay to the police already involved in the investigation.
Finally, he summoned the courage to knock on the door, standing there and staring at the white painted wooden object before him. It would hold the answers he required.
He exhaled shakily, his nerves rivaling that of his mother-in-law as he waited.
And waited.
Oh, honestly, who took this long to answer their door? Bingley was pacing back and forth, quite sure now that he had his kidnapper and that this woman was at fault, for the mere reasoning that she was not there. He was surely jumping to conclusions, but it seemed as good a reason to accuse someone as any.
But just as he was ready to alert the nearest constable of this discovery, he heard the creaking of old floorboards and a woman's voice reassuring him that she was coming. It appeared that she intended to draw this process out as she was coming to open the door very, very slowly. There was a woman's voice that called out a soft, "I'll be there momentarily!" and Bingley tried to calm himself for the time it would take between that very moment and the moment the door would open. He twisted his wedding band and was almost shocked by how icy it was.
Bingley rose to his full height as the door was drawn open and upon the doorstep was a kind-looking older woman with grey in her brunette hair, smiling up at Bingley and holding a candle in hand. "You," she realised, gasping. "You're the very spitting image of your father," she stared, as though it was not a rude thing to do. "His very face and hair, and oh! The eyes are so very nearly identical. Indeed, you do bear great resemblance and are the very mirror image in this light."
Bingley removed his hat quickly, only then realizing that he had kept it on. He clutched it tightly within his hands. "I am? I am," he confirmed. "Yes. I do hope that's all right."
She studied him with critical gray eyes that were more hardened with the years of age, wrinkles forming at the corners. "Would you like to come inside for some tea, sir?"
She drew back to gesture inside to a small kitchen and Bingley could already see a pot of tea brewing.
"It would be quite lovely," she spoke, with a thin smile on her face, "to speak with you and recount what I have missed. Please, sir, do join me." There was an inviting smile upon her face, but there was something lingering there that Bingley could see as plain as day. It was a coldness that hadn't warmed during their short conversation.
Bingley just nodded and wandered inside past her.
And Mrs. Townsend closed the door to the townhouse, just as the carriage driver pulled away, as per Bingley's instruction to depart if he was to be occupied by further discussion within the house.
It wasn't until the evening that Jane saw signs of life stirring once more. She swallowed nervously and kept an eye on the footsteps and the door was drawn open hurriedly, as though whoever was keeping her here was now panicking. She could hardly fathom a reason for that and she merely rose to her feet, fidgeting with her hands and trying to keep herself in a calm mood.
"Out," the woman ordered harshly, her voice cold and the look in her eyes harsh. She wore a scarf wrapped about her hair and her mouth, and Jane could not see who it was, but her voice was so terribly familiar. She was sure that she had seen her before.
She glanced back to Mr. Townsend, her heart pounding in her chest so loudly that she feared that the very sound of it might reveal Jane's true intentions.
She had spent many hours awake, thinking of how to escape. Only now did she think it feasible, with the door open and the sunlight spilling in with the bursts of snow. Perhaps this woman (her kidnapped, Jane must remember) was simply cold and not trying to conceal her appearance.
She stepped forward nervously, holding up a hand. "I do not wish for any violence," she spoke, calmly and evenly.
"Mrs. Bingley, we're leaving. We must travel a very long way in very inhospitable conditions," the woman spoke, but her eyes were behind Jane and fixated on Mr. Townsend. Jane did not even want to think about just what conditions those might be and she nervously stepped forward once more. "I do not think you should do that," the woman warned.
The tone chilled Jane to the bone and she stared at the woman's eyes and daringly took yet another step forward.
"Mrs. Bingley," the woman's tone was sharp. "Do trust me. That is something that you do not want to do."
"Why not?"
It was the knife at her throat that truly surprised Jane and sent her heart careening to the floor in disappointment and grave fear. She strained mildly out of sheer human habit, the need to not be imprisoned, but the knife was only pressed tighter to her throat and she was truly afraid when she felt a droplet of blood pour down her chest and stain her dress. There was a tight hand around her waist and she closed her eyes.
"You see, Mrs. Bingley?" the woman remarked, almost sadly. "You should have listened."
Jane was most saddened by the knowledge of who was pressing the knife to her throat. The daylight spilled into the room and she let out a distressed cry, as though someone passing might hear her.
"Don't cry out," Mr. Townsend warned her, pressing the knife tighter, handling her roughly. "We need to get you into better accommodations. If you're to be our ransom, we need to make sure everything is well treated."
All that Jane wanted to know was one question. "Why?" she choked out as she was shoved forward, while the woman ahead hissed, 'Careful!'
Mr. Townsend's eyes had taken on a sharp and icy look. When he spoke, the normally dulcet tones of his voice were hard as diamonds and almost cruel and they made Jane flinch almost worse than she flinched at the weapon at her neck.
"Revenge."
tbc