Thanks to those who reviewed, your efforts inspire mine.

I also read PnP at about that age, FatPatricia515. I can't remember what I thought of Wickham, I just remember being surprised at how accessible it was, despite being written almost 200 years ago. Jane Austen was a true poet who could write from the soul.

Thanks for your review, JoanGBrand. That sentence didn't convey my intention well, so I have revised it.

The title for this chapter was previously suggested by Chica de las Ojas Cafe.

Chapter 13 Nightwalkers

"My God!" replied Darcy. "You are not mesmerised!"

"Mesmerised?" repeated Elizabeth uncertainly. "Why would I be mesmerised?"

Darcy snatched his hand away from her neck and shut his eyes briefly. How was he to acquit his behaviour? It was impossible! He wished briefly that he had the facility to lie like George Wickham before realising that, having watched Wickham's shameless untruths being swallowed for years, Darcy had had every opportunity to study him.

"I... thought your cousin was mesmerising you..." started Darcy.

"Mr Collins?"

"Ye..Yes. He was rocking back and forth on his heels and seemed to be incanting something?" he offered lamely.

The rain suddenly slackened to a light drizzle. Elizabeth glanced back toward the light of the dining room, as if trying to imagine the scene. Her cousin had not followed her into the rain. He was nowhere in evidence. She could only hope he had vaporised, like a bad dream. Elizabeth did not wish to enlighten Mr Darcy on the humiliating truth behind the dumb play he seemed to have witnessed.

"He was reciting something," said Elizabeth, letting Mr Darcy think it was a poem rather than her cousin's stupid rehearsed proposal.

She then looked down at her wrists, which were now imprisoned by the black leather of Darcy's gloves. "Mr Darcy, will you please let go of my hands?"

With chagrin, Darcy realised that in snatching his hand away from Elizabeth's neck, he had grasped her wrists.

"I beg your pardon," he said, releasing her. "I thought you were going to fall." Another bouncer*.

After rubbing her wrists, which still tingled from the after-effects of Mr Darcy's iron grip, Elizabeth decided to swiftly change the subject. "You have not answered my question. What are you doing out here in the rain?"

"I am... investigating the chicken thief," extemporised Darcy. "We have lost some poultry at Netherfield also." Good Heavens—a straight-out lie!

"Do you think he is here now?" asked Elizabeth, looking about her.

"I followed someone, but got distracted when you ran from the house."

"So was it you by the chicken coop the night before last or the thief? That handkerchief of yours—when I found it, it was bloodied. Did I shoot you?"

"I was nearby, following. I cut myself earlier in the night... on a garden tool... I must have dropped the handkerchief as I circled the henhouse looking for the thief after your shot. As you see, I am fine."

"Why are you hunting the chicken thief?" asked Elizabeth, with some incredulity. "Surely Mr Bingley has men to do such things?"

"I can see very well at night. Much better than most men," said Darcy, unconsciously swerving again toward the truth.

"Is that why you wear those dark glasses during the day?" asked Lizzy curiously.

"I suppose the two are related," Darcy said honestly.

Elizabeth could not help noticing how handsome he looked with his wet hair plastered to his face. "Why did you touch my neck?"

"I beg your pardon," said Darcy blushing. "I was concerned you were getting wet... The water dripping from your face... You had better go back inside."

Elizabeth sighed, knowing full well that he was right. She was soaked. Mr Collins lurked inside but there was no where to run to. What had possessed her to burst out into the rain instead of calmly rejecting him?

"Do you wish to come inside?" she asked hopefully, clutching at any thing to save her from Mr Collins.

"No. As you see, I am dressed for the weather. Please..."

"Yes?"

"Please do not tell anyone you saw me. Your father might object to my trespass. I was only trying to help."

Elizabeth considered for a moment. "Very well."

She was about to return to the house when she thought of the handkerchiefs and drew them from her pocket. "Your handkerchiefs," she said, offering the now damp, neatly-folded cloths.

Darcy quickly tugged off one of his gloves to receive them but instead of pocketing them, his hand reached out slowly to her once more. He gently wiped away a raindrop that was hanging from her chin with the two neatly folded squares,

Through the thin silk Elizabeth could feel the warmth of his hand. Despite the fleeting contact, it was a more intimate gesture than when he had grasped her hands so fiercely. She felt a sudden warmth towards him that she was at a loss to explain.

"Good night," she said and turned to walk back to the house.

When she reached the door, Elizabeth looked back towards Mr Darcy, but he was gone. As she closed the door, a wind gust lashed the rain against the glass. It began to pour down again with increased ferocity.

Lizzy turned and with relief, found herself alone in the room. Mr Collins was gone. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sideboard. Her dishevelled hair clung damply to her face. Her muslin cap sleeves were plastered to her skin. Then she noticed the cambric chemise underneath was practically transparent; only her stays preserved her modesty. Lizzy looked down at her legs. They were clearly visible through the soaked material, along with the pockets dangling from her waist. Standing on her tiptoes to look again into the mirror, Lizzy could see she was barely decent; her underclothes so transparent that the gap between the tops of her legs could be seen.

With considerable trepidation, Lizzy turned to view her back in the mirror. She had not pulled the chemise fully down beneath her short stays at the back as she dressed in the morning—to avoid an unsightly line across her bottom and to assist with her toilette. She could see the chemise had rucked up as she had leant forward during the day. The cleft of her pert bottom was clearly visible through the wet muslin; the dowdy dress suddenly turned into a very daring one. Good Lord! Had Mr Darcy seen that? It had been as black as the ace of spades outside but he had said he could see well in the dark. She could only hope that her walking towards the lighted house had provided some contrast and thrown her back into shadow.

Lizzy jumped when the dining room door opened and took refuge behind the table, but it was only her mother.

"Lizzy!" screeched Mrs Bennet as she hurried towards her. "What do you mean by running out into the rain when Mr Collins was pouring his heart out to you?"

Lizzy had no chance to reply before her mother caught sight of her clothing.

"Lizzy!" Mrs Bennet gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "You are not fit to be seen!"

Shame-faced, Lizzy for once had no reply.

After fishing around in the sideboard, Mrs Bennet produced a red damask tablecloth, flicked it out, and thrust it at her daughter.

"How can Mr Collins finish his proposal when you look like that? What possessed you to run out into the rain?"

"I thought I saw the fox," said Lizzy lamely.

"Lizzy!" expostulated her mother. "I do not know how a smart girl like you can be so silly! Longbourn is far more important than a few chickens! Now I will have to arrange another meeting for you with Mr Collins in the morning when you are decent!"

"No, Mama! Why did you arrange the first meeting without asking me my feelings? I cannot like our cousin. He is stupid and slimy!"

"Lizzy! How can I knock some sense into your head?" said her mother. "Your cousin will inherit Longbourn! As his wife, you will be its mistress! I cannot afford to keep you! We could all be living in the hedges if you do not accept him and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT!"

The door opened again and Lizzy initially feared it might be Mr Collins, come to renew his suit, but it was her father. Mr Bennet stopped just inside the door to view his dishevelled daughter wrapped in a tablecloth. He raised an eyebrow; then coming into the room, he closed the door behind him.

"What is going on?" he enquired softly. "Mr Collins has just invaded my study in high dudgeon."

"Mr Collins has asked Lizzy to marry him and the silly girl ran out into the rain without replying!" Mrs Bennet wailed. "I am trying to arrange another meeting for tomorrow morning but the ungrateful wretch says she will not have him! Tell her she must be sensible!"

Mr Bennet approached his daughter, who was beginning to shiver.

"I gather you have not warmed to your cousin," he said, tongue -in-cheek.

"No," replied Lizzy softly, fearing her capricious father's next words. Despite paying scant attention to her mother from the age of three, Elizabeth had never defied him.

"I cannot like him either," said Mr Bennet philosophically, looking into the middle distance. "It has been most amusing watching him slither around, but as to letting him take my favourite daughter... I do not think I can bear it."

Then, turning to his wife, "You will have to convince him to take one of the younger, sillier ones, Mrs Bennet."

Elizabeth blinked, finding herself off the hook.

"What?!" cried Mrs Bennet. "Now that he has fixed his interest, Mr Bennet? Lizzy is not one bit better than the others! She cannot play the pianoforte as well as Mary and she is not half as good-humoured as Lydia!"

"You heard me, Mrs Bennet," replied her husband shortly. "Now please remove Mr Collins from my study by offering him tea or whist, or whatever is required to make him disappear."

Mrs Bennet fumed but knew she was defeated. Her husband did not often put his foot down, but when he did, it took weeks of the vapours to move him. She had less than a week to convince Mr Collins that he had been mistaken in his feelings for her second eldest before he was to return to Kent. Mrs Bennet pursed her lips at her husband and stamped her foot, but she dutifully went off to retrieve Mr Collins, all the while formulating praises of Mary in her head.

Lizzy unclutched one hand from her tablecloth to press her father's hand before taking the opportunity to make her escape, fleeing up the stairs before Mr Collins could emerge from the study. She arrived in her bedchamber to find Jane sitting unhappily on the end of the bed.

Her sister looked up, wide-eyed, as Lizzy entered the room and closed the door behind her.

"Lizzy! What happened?"

"Did you know?" asked Lizzy, suspicious of her sister's posture.

"Oh, Lizzy! Mama told me when we left the dining room. There was nothing I could do! Did he propose?" asked Jane, jumping up. "Why are you wet?"

"Oh, Jane! It was dreadful! He started on this long, rehearsed speech on why he needed to marry, because Lady Catherine had told him to do so! Then he went on about the entail—so condescending!—telling me how magnanimous he was to allow me to continue living in what has always been my home! I thought I could bear no more until he got down on his knee and told me how deeply his affections were engaged, mentioning all these attributes that do not resemble me in the least! It was like I had walked into the wrong room! I longed to be away from him! When he got up and took my hand before I could think of how to politely refuse him—in such a proprietary manner!—I went a little mad. I ran out into the night. Of course, it was ridiculous. I got soaked and then I realised there was nothing for it but to return to the house—to my doom!"

Jane had retrieved a huckaback towel from the washstand as her sister spoke and, pulling some pins from Lizzy's hair, she began to squeeze it dry.

Submitting to Jane's ministrations, Lizzy sat down on the stool before the dressing table. "When I arrived back, Mr Collins had thankfully gone. Then Mother came in and began to scold me, telling me she would arrange another interview for the morning."

"Oh no!" groaned Jane.

"Do not worry!" interjected her sister. "Father arrived next—thankfully Mr Collins had disturbed him in his study. Papa says I do not have to marry Mr Collins. Mother is not pleased."

"Oh, Lizzy, I am so glad! Come to the fire! Is that a tablecloth you have around you?"

Standing up, Lizzy dropped the tablecloth and swivelled around to show her sister her back side. Jane's hand flew to her mouth. When Lizzy burst out laughing, Jane could not help but join in giggling.

"What did Mama say?" said Jane, once she had herself under control.

"I will not bore you by repeating it. I believe Mama will try to interest him in Mary next."

"At least Mary is not repulsed by him," replied Jane. "She said he might make a decent husband if he is encouraged to read and improve himself."

"Did she say that?" asked Elizabeth with incredulity, as she struggled from her sodden dress. "Is arrogance the only characteristic Mary has inherited from our father?"

"You must forgive her. Mr Collins is very silly. You said so yourself!"

"True! Perhaps I can accuse her only of unwarranted optimism."

Lizzy donned her nightgown and, after having her hair combed by Jane for an hour in front of the fire, was ready for bed. Putting their cares away, the sisters talked inconsequentially of the Netherfield ball—what they intended to wear, what still needed to be purchased—while Lizzy's hair dried. But in between her words, Lizzy thought of Mr Darcy—the intimate stroke of her neck, the pressure of his hands as he clutched her, and finally the way he had delicately wiped her chin, going slightly cross-eyed as he did so.

After the sisters climbed into bed and snuggled together, the secret Lizzy had vowed to keep for him burned inside her. She had never kept anything from her sister before. It felt wrong.

"Jane, can you keep a secret?" she whispered.

"What about?" asked Jane cautiously.

"No! You must vow first!

"I promise."

"When I ran outside, Mr Darcy was there."

"Mr Darcy!?"

"Yes, he was outside, standing in the rain."

"Whatever for? Did he speak to you?"

"He said he was looking for the fox."

"How bizarre," said Jane, thinking for a moment. "But you see, you have him all wrong! He goes out at night to help the community!"

"He admitted he was out near the hencoop the other night when I fired the shotgun. The handkerchief was his. Do you think it is possible that he is the chicken thief?"

"Impossible!" said Jane hotly. "Why would a rich gentleman steal chickens? Lizzy! You could have shot him! Did he explain the blood?"

"He said he cut himself on a garden tool."

"Well, clearly you must have missed. Otherwise he could not have been at the soirée last night."

"Which he left early, as per usual," observed Lizzy. "Do you think he might be something like a Bow Street runner?"

"Are they not men of a lower social standing—like former boxers? Besides, they have to be hired by someone. The only likely person to have done so is Sir William and he would have told us if he had. Why did you ask me to keep it a secret? Did Mr Darcy extract such a promise from you?"

"Yes. He said he was worried our father would not like his trespass. I feel bound to keep my promise—but not with you; I could never keep anything important from you," Lizzy said, hugging her sister. "Still, his reason does seem strange. Is it possible that Mr Darcy could be a French spy?"

Jane sighed in exasperation. "We are not at war with the French any more! Besides, what would he be doing at Longbourn? Why cannot you just take what he says at face value, Lizzy? Mr Darcy is a gentleman. You could have killed him! Promise me you will not use the gun any more unless you are hunting with Father."

"I promise," said Lizzy reluctantly. "Though who shall save the chickens now, with Father sleeping like a log, I do not know."

"Mr Darcy," yawned Jane and, turning over, she settled down to sleep.

Darcy ran back towards Meryton, his mind in turmoil and his boots squelching with every step. His teeth ached. Although he had not appreciated the full glory of Elizabeth's transparent dress, he had seen how it clung to her shoulders, and as she walked back to the house, her silhouette—light and pleasing. He had dug his fingernails into his right palm upon seeing that.

His meeting her had somehow crystallised his dilemma in his mind. Finn was right—Darcy could no longer pretend to himself that these nightly excursions were intelligence missions. He was fatally attracted to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The safest thing he could do would be to keep his distance from her—as per his original intention. He would have to find someone suitable on the Longbourn estate to establish as a keeper—something he should have done in the first place after the Bennet sisters' visit to Netherfield.

Sighing, Darcy picked up his pace, eager to return to Netherfield and solace.

Meanwhile, a mile away in the Red Lion, Wickham was deep in thought. He and Denny had parted ways with Captain Carter and Chamberlayne before dinner. The captain and the ensign were billeted with Mrs Long, whereas Wickham and Denny were with Mrs Andrews, who was currently staying for several days with her brother in Luton. When Mr Andrews had declared at breakfast his intention to dine on cheese toast during the entirety of his wife's absence, Wickham and Denny had agreed that sustenance would have to be sought elsewhere—hence their impromptu visit to Longbourn yesterday, in which they had been joined, due to the rain, by their fellow officers. Following dinner at the Red Lion, Denny had fallen asleep beside the fire over his pint* while Wickham stared into the red flames and cogitated.

After getting over his initial shock of seeing Darcy hale and hearty at the Lucas's soirée, Wickham's principal feeling was one of indignation, at being put to the monumental inconvenience of fleeing the country after their brangle. But subsequently, Wickham began to think there was something fishy about Darcy.

Firstly, Wickham was fairly sure he had dealt Darcy a fatal shot from his pistol during their encounter in London. George had not murdered anyone before, but he had seen a few mortal wounds in his time, and he had thought that he had recognised one. Darcy's falling like a log had seemed to confirm it. What was the secret of Darcy's startling rapid recovery? It was unnerving, making George feel like he had somehow stepped into fairy* instead of France—like their encounter had been several months back instead of weeks.

Secondly, who was this nobody Charles Bingley, and why was Darcy consorting with him? Since when had the haughty-taughty* Fitzwilliams sought company with the bourgeois?

Finally, why had the conservative Darcy, who never aspired to anything in fashion that singled him out, started wearing all black? How Byronic!

It was all very perplexing. Just what had occurred on Darcy's Grand Tour to effect these changes? Had the real Darcy been kidnapped and a doppelgänger* been sent back?

George's reverie was interrupted when two strangers walked in the door of the Red Lion, stamping the wet from their feet. To the barman's enquiry, they replied that the rain had stopped.

Restless, Wickham woke Denny.

"What?" slurred the younger man. "Did I fall asleep?"

Wickham ignored this self-evident question to take up the thread of their previous conversation. "So, you have been filling in your leisure time with Harry Winston by stealing chickens, have you?" he whispered.

"It was just a bit of fun and gig," yawned Denny.

"Trust Harry to be up to no good! You'll end up in the stocks that way, you know, or worse."

"It wasn't entirely frivolous," defended Denny. "Harry said that once we go to war, we will likely have to fend for ourselves and it was good practise."

"What did you do with the chickens?"

"We gave them to the gypsies to tell our fortunes."

Wickham rolled his eyes. "Clever men make their own fortunes," he said dismissively. "I will teach you a more valuable skill."

"What?" asked Denny eagerly.

"How to be a spy," grinned Wickham.

The two officers did not have to go far during their first reconnoiter. They had barely reached the end of Meryton's Main Street when a figure dressed entirely in black appeared from a right of way* to the south.

"Halt! Who goes there?" demanded Wickham, though he recognised the figure perfectly well.

"It is me, George," said Darcy. "As you know very well."

"State your business!" demanded Lieutenant Wickham.

"This is not a war zone!" retorted Darcy, astounded at Wickham's impudence. "Mind your own business!"

It had been Darcy's intention to warm up in the Red Lion over a pint before proceeding to the tenants' cottages of Netherfield, but his encounter with Wickham put him off the idea entirely. He turned his back on his nemesis and proceeded along the road west.

"That," said George to his student when Darcy had got out of earshot, "is a man behaving suspiciously. We are going to find out what he is doing."

At that moment it started sprinkling again, showing the break in the rain had been only a respite.

"...tomorrow," added Wickham, and turned back towards their billet.

Footnotes

bouncer - a big fat lie as opposed to a whisker, which is a little one. Historically, a bouncer was a big person who made much noise in moving, hence the modern meaning of a person who throws the disorderly out of pubs.

pint of ale

brangle - squabble, wrangle.

haughty-taughty - repeating slang for haughty

fairy - time passes more slowly in fairy, so when you come back, more time has passed than was apparent to you.

doppelgänger - an apparition or double of a living person, a clone.

right of way - public path across private property

Pinterest captions

[1] her wrists … were now imprisoned by the black leather of Darcy's gloves.

[2] Another bouncer*.

[3]. So was it you by the chicken coop the night before last or the thief?

[4] "I can see very well at night. Much better than most men," said Darcy

[5] She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sideboard.

[6] Her muslin cap sleeves were plastered to her skin.

[7] Then she noticed the cambric chemise underneath was practically transparent; only her stays preserved her modesty.

[8] her legs …were clearly visible through the soaked material, along with the pockets dangling from her waist.

[9] The cleft of her pert bottom was clearly visible through the wet muslin.

[10] "Lizzy!" screeched Mrs Bennet as she hurried towards her. "What do you mean by running out into the rain when Mr Collins was pouring his heart out to you?"

[11] Mrs Bennet produced a red damask tablecloth, flicked it out, and thrust it at her daughter.

[12] "What is going on?" he enquired softly. "Mr Collins has just invaded my study in high dudgeon."

[13] "I gather you have not warmed to your cousin," he said, tongue in cheek.

[14] Elizabeth blinked, finding herself off the hook.

[15] Her husband did not often put his foot down, but when he did, it took weeks of the vapours to move him.

[16] "Lizzy! What happened?"

[17] "Oh, Jane! It was dreadful!"

[18] Jane had retrieved a huckaback towel from the washstand as her sister spoke and, pulling some pins from Lizzy's hair, she began to squeeze it dry.

[19] "Do you think he might be a Bow Street runner?"

[20] Mr Andrews had declared at breakfast his intention to dine on cheese toast during the entirety of his wife's absence,

[21] Denny had fallen asleep beside the fire over his pint.

[22] Wickham's principal feeling was one of indignation, at being put to the monumental inconvenience of fleeing the country after their brangle.

[23] It was unnerving, making George feel like he had somehow stepped into fairy* instead of France.

[24] Since when had the haughty-taughty Fitzwilliams sought company with the bourgeois?

[25] Had the real Darcy been kidnapped and a doppelgänger been sent back?

[26] "It was just a bit of fun and gig," yawned Denny.

[27] …a figure dressed entirely in black appeared from a right of way to the south.