A/N: OK, I admit it. Those last three chapters were a bit of an abrupt surprise, and I was honestly a bit nervous about pushing the button because I knew it was going to be a shock. From the reviews, I'd say most of you either liked it a lot or are unwilling to be critical so I guess it was OK. In some ways it may seem like I painted myself into a corner (funny, one reviewer said that using one of my own favorite expressions), but that wasn't really the case. This chapter was in my mind ever since I wrote chapter 1, and I very deliberately was trying to work my way up to it. I mean, who can resist Collins laying about with the same fire-iron. Maybe you could resist, but I couldn't.

Several people wondered about how Collins could be up and about, and why Sergeant MacDonald felt he had failed her. I tried to not give too many clues, so I said his 'mind was gone', nothing about his body except he was unlikely to ever leave his bed. My supposition is that doctors even today aren't really able to predict someone like that, and coma victims frequently have periodic bouts of unexpected behavior. After three months he would most likely be a vegetable, but there is also a chance he might get one last big blast driven purely by adrenalin. I believe 3 months is about as long as you could push that idea though. Sergeant MacDonald feels he should have seen the signs, and Darcy thinks the same. If I can find anyone else to beat themselves up over their lack of psychic foresight, I guess they could all feel guilty together, but in my book, the Sergeant has nothing to apologize for.

So, I apologize if I scared you with those chapters. Also, while I'm at it, I do not apologize for scaring you with those chapters. There, I get to have it both ways.

I have a new player to introduce, and a bit of a troublesome story, so let's get on with it. Things are starting to work their way to a conclusion, but my plan to end in 25 chapters is pretty much shot. Maybe 30?

Wade

Tttttthhhhhhwack!

The sound should have made me flinch. It did not.

Tttttthhhhhhwack!

The sound should have made me satisfied. It did not.

Tttttthhhhhhwack!

The sound should have made me feel justified. It did not!

Tttttthhhhhhwack!

The sound should have made me feel something; good, bad, indifferent, something, anything! IT DID NOT!

The sight of the whip flying through the air should have made me feel frightened… or safe. It did neither. The vision of the man's hands tied to the pillory or the vision of his blood spattering from his back, falling down across the same trousers that he had dropped to accost me before falling onto the ground, should have made me feel disgusted, or vengeful, or justified. They did neither. The knowledge that this soldier was to endure his 30 lashes, and then be shipped off to France to be killed or tamed should have made me feel safer, more secure, perhaps avenged. It did not. It simply left me feeling empty.

My father would have a fit if he knew I was watching the spectacle. However, my father was in the process of shipping me off to Scotland or god knows where to hide my 'shame', and since he was abandoning me to my own fate, I had very little concern about what he preferred. I was so well past the age of consent that I merely considered it a fond memory, and I would go where my father willed when it was convenient to me. At eight and twenty, I had very few illusions left in life.

I had enough sense to not stand in the crowd that was watching the flogging, and I did not expect to accomplish anything by watching it hidden upstairs in the milliner's shop, but I had been compelled to see it.

This man… if I cared to use that appellation, had traded my spinsterhood, my innocence, my ordered existence, my illusion of safety and security and stability for a few minutes of his pleasure. Now that few minutes of pleasure was being exchanged for several weeks of agony, and a reasonably good chance of dying from the wounds of the lash; followed by a miserable channel crossing, all for the dubious pleasure of trying to survive in the battlefields of France. He was being sent to a regiment well known for taking miserable cretins like him, with what I am told is a horrific survival rate. He would either serve the king admirably, or he would serve the king economically after being shot by his fellow soldiers.

I knew all of this from Colonel Miller. Colonel Miller was not Colonel Forster! He was as opposed in his ways from Colonel Forster as it was possible to be. The mere fact that I got this knowledge directly from his lips would prove the supposition. Colonel Miller was not a man to be crossed.

When the regiment marched into Meryton in 1812, everyone remembered the same regiment that had marched in at about the same time in 1811. Many shopkeepers now remembered the crippling debts run up by the previous regimen, the worst of them being Mr. Wickham, but he was certainly not the only rotten apple in that barrel. Several women of the town were either gone off to distant relatives, or sitting at home taking care of bastard children; all care of Colonel Forster's regimen. The regiment had come, destroyed, and left for Brighton all without any punishment whatsoever.

Colonel Miller was of an entirely different stripe. He was not afraid of the lash, and it was not only enlisted men who received it. Officers who stepped out of line were flogged considerably worse than enlisted, because their position of privilege demanded a higher level of behavior then ignorant farm boys. So said Captain Miller!

For myself, I neither knew nor cared whether this man lived or died. I neither knew near cared whether he was enduring agony or ecstasy with each snap of the whip. I had gone beyond such caring. All of my crying had been done. All of the chastisement from my father had been delivered, with him apparently unaware that I was the victim. He only felt shame at my condition, and perhaps embarrassment that one of his daughters had been captured so easily.

It had all happened so innocently. When the regiment came in, everyone remembered the previous year, so all of the girls started walking together for safety. Like all of the others, I strove to do the smart thing at all times. Having remembered some of the men from the previous year, and having heard rumors about that last night at the ball at Netherfield; I was very diligent in my efforts, nor would I allow my sister so slip into carelessness.

This all worked quite well until we found one of our tenants daughters badly injured, down near the bridge over Wright's Creek. We could not tell what was wrong with her so I sent my sister to run quickly for assistance, while I stayed to try to attend to the young girl. She could not possibly have more than fourteen or fifteen years. My sister, true to her word, ran like the wind and had my father and my brother back within half an hour. Unfortunately, that half an hour had been twenty minutes more than it took the soldier to take my innocence, exactly as he had taken the other young girl's.

He had his face covered with a hood, and thought himself quite safe from detection. He was not even wearing a uniform, so it would be difficult to prove exactly who he was. His plan was a good one, and likely to succeed. In fact, it had probably succeeded before. At least it might have succeeded if he had not ended up with four fingernails scratch down his cheek, which made him readily recognizable. Of course, he was arrogant though to think he could tell his own story and have it prevail, particularly since he knew full well any family would try to hush up the scandal.

The man had trapped my arms in place with his size, and taken his way with me before I even had any chance to fight back. He attacked me from behind, threw me on the ground, lifted my skirt and petticoat, grabbed my wrists, and proceeded to indulge his appetites. He was the worst sort of brute, but the whole thing was over before I even got my wits about me. I nearly took his eye out when I got my fingers under the mask, and was lying there with my fingers covered in blood, the other young girl curled up against my chest crying, and the miserable cretin long gone when my sister returned.

My father hung his head in shame, although why he was shamed would be beyond me. Perhaps he should be ashamed that he had failed to protect his daughters, or that he had welcomed the regiment with open arms, or perhaps because he simply could not stand up like a man, accept what had happened, and demand satisfaction. My father was near 60, and having a duel with a 20-year-old militia man was not likely to end well, but he could have demanded satisfaction from the man's commander, or sent my brother to defend both our honor and the next victim… Yet he did not. He thought to protect the family's precious reputation at my expense, and had I not fallen with child, I might well have agreed with him. My sister need not suffer my fate, although I had to wonder how many women in England were suffering because fathers and brothers looked out for the family interest, at the expense of justice.

Fortunately for me, or perhaps not, Colonel Miller noticed my countenance the next time I went into Meryton, and he had definitely noticed the scratch marks on one of his officers faces, despite his best efforts to hide them.

Colonel Miller was not a man gifted in conversation. He was not a man gifted in propriety. He was not a man gifted in manners. He was not a man gifted in subtlety. He simply marched in front of me, and stared me down.

"I will need to see that hand, if you please, Miss."

I had nearly run him down, and had put the offending hand inside my pelisse.

"I would rather not, Colonel."

"You may send your father or brother to take their justice when we are through, but I am afraid I truly must insist. It is a matter of great importance."

He was not subtle, but he had at least arranged our little encounter where we would not be seen and remarked upon. We were in the open, maintaining all propriety, but not where anybody could actually see us right at that moment. I did not know what in my countenance had alerted him; but I suspected this not his first trip to this particular well.

"You ask much, Colonel."

"I do."

I liked the way he refrained from prevarication, or excuses or justification or flattery or empty words. He was not a man to be crossed, nor did he pretend to be. His duty was to the entire population, and sometimes difficult and unfair things had to be done for the greater good. He never explained that, but I managed to figure it out while standing in front of him. Had it required his explanation, he would not have been the man for the job. Having made my choice, I carefully removed my hand from my pelisse, and removed my glove.

With a maneuver that would be considered both forward and crass, but the gentlest of touches, and the utmost respect, he examined my hand minutely and carefully. I was not at all best pleased with my very first experience of a man holding my ungloved hand, but I endured it. In another time and another place, I may well have welcomed the man, but that opportunity was long gone.

My fingernails were even three weeks later still ripped and torn, and they were the exact size, length and space to match up with his miscreants face. He stared at me hard, and I finally nodded. I know not whether he was asking my confirmation or my permission, but I was willing to give both with the understanding that he would do his duty.

"May I presume events occurred in the way these scratches indicate?"

"You may."

Looking uncomfortable, he still continued relentlessly, "Did the events proceed all the way to the conclusion I am expecting?"

"They did."

"And have there been… the expected consequences."

I turned red, stared at my feet, and said, "It is too early to be certain, but most likely yes. The signs are not propitious."

He looked at me in what I believed to be understanding. Perhaps another man may have preferred to show sympathy, but that was neither what he could deliver; nor what I needed.

He finally replied, "Thank you. I know that was difficult, and a lot for me to ask. I am truly sorry."

Not only was Colonel Miller not a subtle man, he was also not a stupid man. He knew what happened in situations like this, how fathers would blame their daughters, brothers would ignore the truth in front of their face, and the family's reputation would be saved at all costs. Colonel Miller knew this, but fortunately for me, or perhaps unfortunately for his man, Colonel Miller did not give a rat's ass what girl's father's thought. If one of his men misbehaved, it was up to fathers to bring them to him for justice, and if they failed their duty, it was up to Colonel Miller. If that required confirmation from the victim directly, so be it.

"Colonel Miller"

He looked at me and nodded, and I added, "I was not the only one. Two on that day alone, but I shan't break another's confidence. The second is but fourteen. She is damaged, colonel; but has at least been spared the particular consequences."

He held a grim expression, and said, "Her testimony will be unnecessary. Yours is quite enough for the punishment that is due. I know it will not be much of a help, but your name shall not be mentioned in my actions."

I nodded, and the deed was done.

Truth be told, I believe Colonel Miller actually enjoyed deploying the lash. He certainly never assigned the task to anyone save himself, and he had quite the skill, and frankly, the frightening look of a predator when he was at his work.

By the time the 30th lash had been laid right on top of the 29th lash, which to the best of my knowledge was right on top of the 28th lash, the man was bleeding like a stuck pig, hanging from the pillory by the chains on his wrists, and begging for mercy.

All of this had a profound effect on me. Well actually, that's a lie. It had no effect whatsoever. The Colonel could have killed him and I would have thought no more nor less of it. Pillory and noose were all the same to me. It was just the way it was, and I know would have a different life. So be it.

My father, bless his ancient heart, arranged transportation for me to go to a distant relative somewhere in Scotland. This was a good plan. It was a thoughtful plan. It was an excellent plan. It served all the various purposes for all the various players. In fact, it had every chance of actually getting me to the said relatives in Scotland with only a minimum of fuss and bother, and very little effect on my father, brother and sister; who would go on just as before, but short one spinster daughter.

I went along with the plan in principle because I did know that my sister's life would be materially affected if I stayed, and she had done nothing wrong in her life. Now I probably should mention that when I say 'In principle' it really means 'I borrowed an enormous amount of money from my father and my brother; everything I could find about the house or convince some tradesmen was owed; combined it with some money I borrowed from a few neighbors, with promises of repayment from my father and brother.'

When I finally did leave, nearly two months after the incident, I was in my own chosen post coach, on my own chosen schedule, to my own destination with my father and brother none the wiser. I was still about a month from really showing my condition, and I had arranged to spend a few weeks in town as a sort of holiday before our lives were thrown to the wolves. I did not want my father or brother to have an easy time ascertaining my true destination.

When I left, I also had my own companion, Betsy Clymer, who had fared no better with her father and brother, but at least was not with child. She could not possibly eat much, and since I thought I might well need to learn how to do real work, I thought we might be useful to each other. She could teach; I could protect. Even if not, I just could not leave her to her fate, since she obviously did not have any conveniently well-off brothers to steal from. We would make do.

As I say, I followed the plan in principle, but since I considered the primary principle to be my absence, one absence should serve their purpose as well as any other.

I knew where I was going, but had no idea whether I would be welcomed. It mattered not, since I had actually managed to liberate enough funds to go to my relatives in Scotland if necessary, and even if not, I could always threaten to return and my father would send all the funds I needed by the fastest express rider he could find; particularly if I threatened to return with Betsy and two babes!

I begin to wonder why it was that us English considered the Scottish to be somehow below us, when they were charitable enough to take in our wayward daughters with hardly a second thought. In reality, I thought perhaps the Scots were superior, and we simply had to look down on them to make us feel better. I thought I might like to go to my relatives in Scotland just to see if my supposition were true, but I did not quite have the courage for that before I tried something else.

The day I left town, I did so on my own terms. I had a short journey to take, as well as a spiritual journey from acknowledge spinster to mother. I thought I might be able to fashion a Mrs. to stick to a surname, it mattered not which name. Considering the fact that the natural father of this child was almost certain to die in France, then I should be able to hold myself out as a respectable war widow. It could be done. Nobody would distrust the notion, since it happened nearly every day in nearly every neighborhood. I would however need some assistance in arranging the particulars.

It seemed that I was in need of a parson that might be willing to sign a wedding register without being overly particular about presence or lack of the groom; or perhaps one that was too stupid to keep careful track of said register. A parson's wife who might possibly be willing to do a tiny insignificant little favor for her former best friend might also be just the trick. If none of that worked out, I would be no worse off than I was now. Come to think of it, I was so angry with my father and brother, I sometimes thought I would be happier as Cyprian in London, but that thought was obviously irrational, so perhaps… perhaps I was not so unaffected after all.

I really only had one direction I could go where I might be able to create some kind of life. I would be poor as a rat, unless I managed to trade in my widow's weeds for a husband. I understood widows had a certain amount of cachet, certainly more so than a country gentleman's spinster daughter, but having another man's child and a tiny dowry might make things difficult; unless of course I did liberate a dowry by threatening to return, child in hand. Yes, that scheme could work. Wedding another soldier would not be ideal, but a farmer or tradesmen was not out of the question, and I thought I could be quite happy. If I ended up with my own home, how could I repine?

It all hinged on being able to make a reasonable case that I was a widow. It was an easy enough assertion to make. Father of the child sent to war: truth! Father of the child killed in action: eventual truth! Marital status of the union: fully consummated! What more could possibly be required? As long as they did not quibble about any little niceties such as the saying of vows, reading of banns, that sort of thing, all should be well.

I just needed to get a few signatures on a piece of paper, and the only place I felt certain I could make that happen was in Kent. My journey was to take me into the little village of Hunsford, where I hoped I would be able to make the right story to be able to have my life become something not-miserable sometime in the future.

I left with the one indomitable hope that would not go away. It was the hope that would drive me the 50 miles I needed to go, and the hundreds of miles I would have to go after that, and all of the pain of childbirth, and the pain of raising a child on little money, and the uncertainty of life. There was only one thing I knew about all of this, and even it had been sorely tested by the past year.

Lizzy! I knew for a fact that if I could get myself to Kent, Lizzy would help me. Lizzy could be depended upon, and considering the miserable wretch she was chained to, all of my needs for the stupidest parson in England should be satisfied in one place.

I hoped beyond reason that one day I could repay her by performing some task for her. That was my biggest hope as I climbed into the coach with Betsy in tow, ready to claim our lives.