Mr. Denny gets involved...

Chapter 9

Edward Denny gritted his teeth as George Wickham's boastful voice carried through the underbrush, the man's crude remarks about his wife's charms grating on Denny's nerves like the scrape of a dull blade against bone. The crisp morning air, fragrant with the scent of damp earth, did little to cool the simmering resentment that bubbled beneath Denny's cultivated veneer of camaraderie.

"I tell you, lads," Wickham crowed, his rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder as he swaggered through the woods, "my Lydia was near as easy to bag as these blasted birds. A few pretty words, a charming smile, and she was mine for the taking."

The other officers chuckled. Denny forced a tight smile, his fingers tightening around the smooth stock of his own weapon as he fought to maintain his composure. It was a battle he waged with increasing frequency, the weight of his growing affection for Lydia pressing against his heart like a leaden weight.

He knew it was wrong, this fierce, protective longing that surged through his veins whenever he thought of her. She was another man's wife, and to harbor such feelings was a betrayal of the very principles he held dear. And yet, with each passing day, he found himself drawn ever deeper into the tangled web of the Wickhams' troubled marriage, his conscience warring with the undeniable pull of his own heart.

Denny's thoughts were scattered by the excited baying of a hunting dog. One of the other officers, a ruddy-faced man with a thick moustache, let out a whoop of triumph. "Oi, lads! Looks like old Rufus has found something!"

The men surged forward, their earlier banter forgotten as they plunged into the underbrush, hot on the heels of the eager hound. Denny followed, his heart pounding with a curious blend of anticipation and dread. He knew not what the day would bring, but one thing was certain - his feelings for Mrs. Lydia Wickham were growing more difficult to ignore with each passing moment, and eventually, something would have to give.

The morning sun pierced the canopy of leaves above their heads, dappling the forest floor with shifting patterns of light and shadow as the group of men tramped through the undergrowth. Denny's boots sank into the soft earth with each step, the steady thud of his footfalls a counterpoint to the muted conversation of the other hunters, Rufus's excited barking and the squawks of the birds disturbed by their presence.

And then, in the distance, Denny spied a flash of red and gold, the unmistakable plumage of a rooster pheasant.

The crack of gunfire echoed through the misty woods, mingling with the distant calls of startled pheasants. Mr. Denny watched as a bird, its plumage a brilliant mix of copper and gold, burst from the underbrush, only to be felled by a well-placed shot from one of his companions.

"Well done, Thompson!" Denny called out, his breath misting in the cool morning air. The successful hunter, a young lieutenant, grinned as he retrieved his prize.

Beside him, Wickham scowled, his features darkening with frustration. He had yet to bring down a single bird, despite his earlier boasts of being an expert marksman. With a muttered curse, he raised his rifle, taking aim at a pheasant that had alighted on a nearby branch.

The click of the hammer was met with a hollow silence. No shot rang out. Wickham's face reddened with anger as he lowered the malfunctioning weapon. "Blasted thing," he growled, thrusting the rifle towards Denny. "See what's wrong with it, will you?"

Denny took the gun, his brow furrowing as he examined the mechanism. As he worked, his fingers brushed against something soft and out of place. Carefully, he extracted a small scrap of fabric, its delicate floral pattern unmistakable.

Recognition dawned on him, a cold weight settling in the pit of his stomach. The fabric belonged to one of Lydia's dresses, a gown he had admired just days before. But what was it doing jammed in the firing mechanism of her husband's rifle?

Suspicion gnawed at him. Since Miss Kitty's visit, Lydia had been acting strangely. First there was the incident with the brandy. The decanter had been mostly full, and while Mr. Wickham had drunk at the tavern, he had been no more inebriated than usual. Yet, the man had been sauced unto vomiting in mere hours and then asleep on his chair like one near dead.

Then, his story of the cliffside picnic. Lydia would not, on his own, have chosen such a remote location for such an excursion. And to hear it told, he had been mere steps from falling to his death. Then there was the horse incident. Though Lydia had smiled and giggled with girlish artifice, none of her smiles had reached her eyes. Instead, there had been a calculating gleam in her gaze. And though she had encouraged Mr. Wickham to try his hand taming the beast, she had also shown shock at her husband's horsemanship.

Shock and perhaps disappointment?

Denny's mind raced as he pocketed the scrap of fabric, his heart racing. Was Lydia so miserable in her marriage that she sought to murder her husband?

He could not imagine such cold-bloodness from the woman he knew, but he could not deny the evidence of his own eyes.

"Denny, why are you dawdling?" Mr. Wickham called, snapping Mr. Denny out of his reverie. "Tell me you have not mucked about with my rifle enough to ruin it?"

"The jamb is full of cotton," Denny said, swallowing hard. "I'm afraid it needs a thorough cleaning before it will be fit for shooting again."

"Blast and damn!" Wickham kicked at the ground, sending a spray of mud and leaves flying. "This is a fine kettle of fish. I will need to borrow your firearm, Denny."

Denny, preoccupied with his own suspicions, barely heard the other man's words.

"Are you daft, man?"

"Take it," Denny said, thrusting his rifle at the irate Wickham.

Mr. Wickham's mood, never one to suffer inaction for long, improved at the prospect of hunting and quickly forgot his irritation. Denny, in contrast, wondered not how Lydia could contemplate the murder of her husband but how the woman had endured so long without attempting to do the deed sooner.

Denny's conscience dictated he confront Lydia and Miss Kitty and stop them before they did something irrevocable. But his heart whispered a different tune. The memory of Lydia's haunted eyes, the way she flinched at her husband's slightest movement - all of it painted a picture of a woman pushed to the brink.

More than convincing the pair he knew what was right, Denny wanted to understand. He needed to understand.

Clearing his throat, Denny turned to his companions. "I'm afraid I must take my leave, gentlemen," he said, forcing a smile, his voice carefully neutral. "I have just remembered an urgent matter that requires my attention."

Mr. Wickham, his attention focused on the distant rustling of a pheasant, waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes, Denny. Off with you, then. But make certain to drop off my rifle at the house when you can. I hope it will be in perfect working order when I return."

Denny nodded, his jaw clenching at the man's cavalier attitude. "Of course. I shall see to it personally."

Thompson gave Denny a sidelong look. "Are you certain. You will have to walk back to the manor for your carriage. I can walk with you."

Denny shook his head. "No. Stay. Enjoy the hunt. I know the way."

"Very well. Good luck with your errand."

With a curt nod to the others, Denny turned on his heel and strode back through the woods, his mind racing with each step. His first instinct was to protect Lydia from the consequences of her actions. But that impulse conflicted with a visceral need to understand the depths of her despair. Was her unhappiness due to her husband's cruelty? And I so, how could Denny help?

When at last he reached the Wickham home, he had only to knock once. Mrs. Lydia Wickham opened the door, and setting eyes upon Mr. Denny said, "My husband? Was it terri-"

Kitty, beside her, jammed an elbow into her sister's side. Lydia coughed.

"Mr. Denny," Kitty said. "I hope all is well." Her voice squeaked with forced cheerfulness. "Come in, please."

Lydia stepped back, clutching her skirts as Kitty swung the door open. "Would you like some tea? Or coffee? Lydia's cook made biscuits."

Denny walked into the room. "Is your cook still here?"

The sisters exchanged glances.

"No," Lydia said. "What is the matter, Mr. Denny?"

Denny reached for where he had stored the piece of fabric and held it out. "I found this in the firing mechanism of your husband's rifle."

Lydia 's face blanched. "It is not what you think-" she started at the same time Kitty said, "Lydia was sewing. Something must have slipped out. Or something. There must be some mistake!"

Denny held up a hand, silencing her. "I understand more than you realize, Miss Kitty, Mrs. Wickham." he said, his voice softening. "But I need to hear the truth from both of you. What has driven you to such desperate measures?"

"I cannot believe you are insinuating my sister-"

"Quiet Kitty," Lydia said with a raised hand.

Kitty pressed her lips together, but Lydia waved Denny to the sofa. He sat. Lydia sat beside him, with Kitty perching on the very edge of the leather armchair Mr. Wickham favored.

Then Lydia, with quick, spare motions, rolled up the right sleeve of her gown. Mottled bruises ran around her wrist and up her arm.

In shock, Denny stared at the bruises, his hands balling into fists as rage threatened to overwhelm him. He had suspected, but never imagined. Even in the heat of summer, Denny realized, Mrs. Wickham always wore high gloves and a shawl.

"He will kill her one day," Kitty interjected. "Her or one of the girls."

Silent tears ran down Lydia's cheeks, and Denny took her hand. The bruises on her arm, stark against her pale skin, seared into his memory, fueling the rage that simmered beneath his carefully controlled exterior. He wanted to make the man pay for the suffering he had inflicted upon his own wife, but he dared not show the depth of his rage lest he frighten her. It was well Mr. Wickham was still tromping about the woods, and better still the gun Mr. Denny carried would not fire.

Or perhaps not better. In a just world, a man who treated his wife so would be subject to the full force of the law. But under English law, a man could treat his wife however he liked, and she had little recourse but to endure, especially when the father could bar her from her children and cut her off without a penny.

"How long has this been going on?" Denny asked.

"Since Eugenia was a babe," Lydia said. "He was not so bad in the beginning. He drank too much, but as time went on, and I have born no sons..." her voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands.

Denny squeezed her hand. "Your husband is an unconscionable blackguard, and no man of honor should stand by and let such behavior pass unchecked."

"You cannot fight him," Lydia said, her voice cracking. "If you hurt... or kill him, you will be hanged or transported, which is worse than death. And if he kills you..." Lydia let out a sob. "I could not bear it."

Was it wrong for Denny's heart to soar knowing that Lydia would be hurt by his death? He knew it was not proper, but the knowledge was nonetheless intoxicating. "If it comes to that, I would not plan to take Mr. Wickham on in a fair fight," he admitted, his lips twitching into a grim smile. "But let us see if we cannot find another way. You have my word, Mrs. Wickham, Miss Kitty. I will not rest until you are safe and free. For now, you must take more care in your endeavors. You are lucky that I discovered this today, and not Mr. Wickham. If he discovered what you were about..."

"Thank you, Mr. Denny," Lydia said, her voice breaking. "You are far too good to us. We are indebted to you."

"You owe me nothing, Mrs. Wickham," he said, squeezing her hand. "It is my honor to assist you. Now, let us think of a new plan, one that is far less risky for the three of us."

THANK YOU FOR READING! The plot is thickening, and now our girls have some support. More hijinks to come!