Elizabeth looked over at her Aunt and Uncle, who were gazing around the scenery, taking in the sights as they travelled. She believed wholeheartedly that this trip had been the right decision, to escape the insanity of her siblings and the nerves of her mother for a few weeks and clear her head of the mess with Fitzwilliam Darcy and George Wickham. She acknowledged, however, that she couldn't run from her problems forever, and that she would have to face the reality of her situation sooner or later – that she had rejected a truly exceptional man, and she would have to live with that until she died. At the present they were headed to Lambton, where her Aunt was determined they should go further still to Pemberley. Elizabeth had tried to subtly steer them away from the idea but so far to no avail; she would try again on the morrow. For now though, it seemed as though they weren't going to make it to Lambton before nightfall; the sun was lazily stretching out pink tendrils towards the clouds as it disappeared beyond the trees.

"I believe we may have to turn in at the nearest town my dears." Mr Gardiner said. The women concurred and they changed course slightly, seeing signs for a small town in Leicestershire so named Ashby-de-la-Zouch that was almost on their way. When they arrived it was practically nightfall, and the lamps had been lit along the streets, casting the picturesque town in a beautiful glow. Down the way they could hear celebration at the pub and as they settled in a cosy Inn, Elizabeth proffered the idea of visiting the pub for dinner, as they, all of them, had never been to Ashby before. Her Aunt and Uncle wholeheartedly agreed, as the town seemed wholesome enough, and the noise from the pub was not aggressive. They wandered towards the quaint drinkery and observed children complaining at being told to go inside for dinner, and couples strolling by the various closed shops. Elizabeth concluded that she quite enjoyed this place so far, and could imagine returning in future possibly alone or with a husband for a peaceful break from society.

When they arrived at the pub her mood improved thus more, as the bartender offered them a cosy spot in the corner closest to the music and most men appeared to be there with their wives. This was not a town, she decided, for single men and women, rather one for comfortable couples and resting widows. By the time their food arrived, however, her opinion changed.

A swarm of militia men in their sharp red uniforms strode into the establishment and the atmosphere dropped to one of drunken men as they ordered round after round of ale. They didn't appear interested in the company of those living in the town though, keeping to themselves in their group of 30, laughing and joking and betting, all the while drinking their own weights in beer.

"Elizabeth Bennet!" Her name rang out across the room and at first she thought herself mistaken, but her Aunt and Uncle had heard it too, "Miss Bennet! What fun that I should find you here!"

George Wickham slid into the empty seat next to her and smiled across at her family, "The Aunt and Uncle I presume, how lovely to meet you!"

"Mr and Mrs Gardiner do you recall George Wickham? A member of our royal militia and son of the late steward to the old Mr Darcy."

"I'm sorry, where are our manners, but we have met before," Mr Gardiner reminded him, "At Meryton, although the acquaintance was brief and you seemed more inclined to the attention of our Lizzie." Wickham flashed one of his charming grins and nodded, the gaff forgotten. Elizabeth noticed it, but kept her mouth shut, choosing instead to focus on the glint of her fork as it reflected the light.

"Ah, so you knew Old Darcy?" Mrs Gardiner asked, interest piqued.

"Aye, he was a good man." Wickham said, glancing at Elizabeth as though sharing an old joke with her, but she deigned to ignore it.

The conversation continued much the same way, and Wickham was perfectly amiable to the three of them as they finished their meals and ordered desserts, even refusing a round of cards in order to continue their discussion of Derbyshire, and of Meryton.

"So the militia is encamped at Ashby now?" Elizabeth enquired, but Wickham shook his head, laughing.

"Not at all! We are on our way to Grimsby, a coastal town in Lincolnshire, but it is a long way to travel in a single journey, and this is just the latest stop of many. To tell you the truth I despise Grimsby and would much rather attend to the Bennets in Meryton, but I have been commanded, and so I must go where they tell me." He said her name almost suggestively and Elizabeth had to swallow her shudder of revulsion.

How had she been so blind? Now that she knew of his true inclinations, every honey coated word from his mouth was sickly and she felt foolish for trusting his charisma over Darcy. She forced a smile and Wickham seemed placated, although there was a glint of what could have been suspicion, if not wariness in his eyes. Mrs Gardiner yawned and rested her head on her husband's shoulder and Wickham leapt to his feet.

"Of course, you must be exhausted after your journey, and here I am, rambling away about the hardships I've had to endure since leaving the company of our Elizabeth Bennet."

Lizzie blanched when he said our, as though she could ever be his. He raised an arm for her to slip hers through and the four of them began a slow walk back to the Inn. Mr and Mrs Gardiner slipped ahead, tired and aching for their beds, and while Elizabeth tried to do the same, Wickham slowed his pace yet more and put his hand over hers in the crook of his arm. If she knew less of his character, she would have surmised it to be a protective, or friendly gesture, but now she felt that it was almost predatory.

"The last time I saw you, you did not seem so happy to see me as you used to, and tonight I fear the same thing. Do you tire of my company already, Eliza?"

"No, of course, I am just weary of the exercises of life. It has little to do with you, I am sure." She said warmly, scrunching her toes into her shoes to release the tension she felt everywhere else.

Wickham's hand tightened over hers, "Now, I thought we were friends Miss Bennet. It would not do for you to keep lying to me as you do."

Elizabeth's mouth went dry and her free hand gathered up some of her dress in a fist, "Oh? Why do you believe I do not tell the truth Mr Wickham?" She attempted to sound calm, but it was late evening and her Aunt and Uncle were disappearing ahead of them. She glanced around, but all the windows were absent of light and the tavern was now far enough behind them that no-one could possibly see them from the door. Her heart picked up its pace.

"I believe," Wickham said softly, "that you are afraid of me, Miss Bennet. And I cannot for the life of me conjure up a reason for this fear. I have certainly never entertained one." She could smell the alcohol on his breath now, it was making the air thicker.

"Afraid? Mr Wickham, I assure you, I am afraid of a great many things, but you are not one of them." She forced a laugh through her teeth but even she didn't believe herself now. His face split into his roguish grin, but this time there was something else to it.

She flicked her eyes back up the path, but her Aunt and Uncle were too far ahead and the shadows had enveloped them. She could barely hear the celebrations behind them, so they had to be near the Inn. Perhaps if she stalled him long enough, they could reach it and she could go to bed without incident or argument. She could see the light in the window of her Aunt and Uncle's room flickering on, and felt for the key in her own pocket. She couldn't help the sigh of relief as she felt the cold metal between her fingers. She tried to turn towards where she knew the locked door of the Inn lay just beyond the light of the street, but Wickham stopped dead in his tracks and refused to move.

She turned back to him with what she hoped was a mocking smile, "If I didn't know better Mr Wickham, I'd say that you were trying to scare me." She had hoped to throw him off guard but his smile dropped and he pulled her closer, the ale stinging her eyes and making them water as his other hand moved and then he was gripping both her wrists and she felt heat on her face as the tears spilt out over her lashes. She blinked furiously and he laughed, pulling her flush to his body.

"So Darcy divulged our secret, did he?" He snarled in her ear.

"Wickham, I don't know what you're talking about, now will you unhand me, this is not the behaviour of a gentleman!" She scolded, trying to quash the odd feeling in her stomach.

"He DID tell you. You no longer believe me to be a man of morals." It wasn't a question anymore. She shook her head but he could see through her now and his grin turned into a worrying smirk, "Well, I do try and live up to people's expectations. You expected to be afraid of me this evening, did you not, Miss Bennet?"

She tried to shove him away, but his brute strength was too much for her and she struggled in vain. He simply turned around and threw her against a wall. She felt her head against the concrete and for a second she saw spots, and when she came to she felt his forearm pinning both her hands behind her, as his other hand pulled against her skirt.

She was vaguely aware of him drunkenly mumbling, "I'll give you something to be afraid of." She kicked out at him and he cursed, his hand bleeding from the heel of her shoe, but he didn't loosen his grip. If anything, it made him more determined and when he looked into her eyes she shook her head.

"George. Please. Don't do this, please… please… George." For a second, a hint of the man she though she knew appeared, but it was replaced with rage as he raised his arm and backhanded her so hard she collapsed to the floor. She tried to stand but he stomped on her ankle and she cried out in pain. He picked her up and dragged her down a side alley, further into the darkness, further away from the Inn and her family; further away from help.

Her mind was suddenly blanketed as though with a thick fog, and she found herself trapped under the heaving body of a drunken, vengeful George Wickham as he violated her. She felt detached, empty, almost as if she were viewing it from outside herself. Her skirt was ripped and torn and covered in mud. Her face felt like it was glowing with the pain of his strike, and his hand was clamped down over her mouth. Her hair was falling out and knotted and her ankle was almost definitely sprained. Wickham was biting her neck and chest and she couldn't breathe anymore. She squirmed underneath him and he trapped her legs under his. Something painful was happening below her waist but she closed her eyes and prayed for the end, whether by death or rescue, she didn't much care. For a long time it seemed as though it was never going to, but finally, agonisingly, she felt his weight shift slightly and she knew that he was finished, at least for the moment. She was crying, she knew that, but her voice seemed to have disappeared – she couldn't have screamed if she wanted to now, even as his hand slipped from her mouth and dropped to her breasts.

She had never felt so terrified and repulsed and violated and disgusting. Her eyes opened wide, staring at the starry sky above her. It seemed so peaceful. The universe was resting while her world collapsed. Eventually, she felt Wickham removed completely from her person and hope rose in her chest, but she stayed frozen to the spot as she waited for him to stumble down the street back towards the pub. When she was sure he was far enough away, she moved. Slowly, groggily, she got to her feet and unconsciously fixed her dress as she shuffled back to the Inn. The key, miraculously, was still in her pocket, and she let herself in quietly, refusing to turn on the light or even take off her shoes as she trudged silently upstairs to her room adjacent to that of her family. She lay down in her bed and half-heartedly pulled the sheet over herself before dissolving into hysterical tears. She wished for death until sleep finally enclosed her in its comforting grasp.

The next morning Elizabeth was numb. When she woke, she knew she would have to hide the occurrence from her Aunt and Uncle; it was shameful, and though she knew her wonderful relatives would never view it as her fault, she was now violated and no longer a maid. Which meant any and all prospect of husbandry were out of the question, now and forever. She found she could have coped with that, if it weren't for the shame that she'd been so wrong in her estimation of his character. If she'd listened more closely to Darcy's warnings, or been less trusting of Wickham in the beginning, maybe she would not have found herself in this dreadful position.

She pulled off the dress from the night before and stood in front of the mirror. What she saw drew a horrified gasp from her lips. While her face was largely untouched, there were sharp bruises on her breast and finger-shaped bruising around her throat. Her cheek appeared fine, but the back of her hair was matted with blood and when she reached up to touch the injury, her head spun. She glanced down at her ankle and found that if she took in a deep breath every step she took, she could bear her weight.

Elizabeth set about bathing herself. She attended to her hair first, then, looking across at her dress, simply chose to throw it in the waste rather than salvage it. She picked an outfit with long sleeves and a high neckline, to hide her injuries as readily as possible. To match the mustard yellow of her blouse she wore a reddish bonnet to secure her hair and tied a bow around her throat, letting the long ends hang around her collar. Now when she looked in the mirror, she looked almost like herself. But she knew better. She knew she would never be herself again.

"Lizzie? Lizzie are you up?" Mrs Gardiner's voice alighted from the corridor and Elizabeth closed her suitcase and stepped out, "Oh, you look lovely! Are you ready to set off for Lambton? I believe we will arrive at around lunch, so if we get settled, we can visit Pemberley before the day is through!" Lizzie wanted to discourage the idea of Pemberley but her aunt sounded so excited that she just could not bring herself to say anything, simply nodding as they arrived downstairs for breakfast.

The day was long and she spent most of the morning focussing her energies on chatting with her relatives, and appearing cheerful. She hadn't risked glancing back into Ashby as they'd left. She couldn't imagine what she would have done had she seen the man who she now despised so much.

As they arrived at Lambton, Elizabeth made one final, futile attempt to avoid Pemberley.

"My love, should you not like to see a place of which you have heard so much?" Her aunt said, "A place too with which so many of your acquaintance are connected? Wickham passed all his youth there you know, he said it himself yesterday evening."

Although her aunt couldn't possibly know the pain she was causing in bringing up the man, Elizabeth's chest tightened and she coughed heavily. She was distressed until the maid, hearing their conversation, offered the information that Pemberley was empty until the next day, as the master was out on business with his family. Decidedly, she agreed, at least out of curiosity for the life she could have led if she hadn't been blinded by hurt pride.

It was true, she thought as the carriage pulled them across the extensive grounds towards the main home and finally let them off, that it was incredibly beautiful. As they wandered through the house while his housekeeper chatted away, she felt she could understand the man she had rejected a little better. She could imagine the long walks she may have taken here, and the children that would never be, frolicking in the lake, or climbing through the trees. The housekeeper brought them to a series of paintings of Darcy, a girl who must have been his sister, and... She couldn't even bring her eyes to the image as her Aunt said, "Oh look; that is Wickham Lizzie! And Mr Darcy, do you believe it holds their likeness?"

She nodded and the housekeeper beamed, "Does Miss know the master?"

"A little." Lizzie said, blushing.

As they left the room on their way into the grounds she happened to glance back and see the full image of Wickham. It was then, with no small inkling of fear that the realisation of the possible consequences of Wickham's actions could be hit her square in the chest. Instead of bearing the child of a right and honourable man, she could at that very moment be holding the spawn of a man who had destroyed her. The urge to cry built up and she found herself striding ahead of her aunt and uncle, calling out an excuse, saying she'd seen a beautiful flower by the lake and was compelled to observe it more closely. She encouraged them to continue with the tour, but the second she rounded the corner she sprinted towards the lake, tears streaming down her face. When she reached the edge she collapsed to her knees, sobs wracking her body. She tried to catch her breath, bringing her knees to her chest and resting her forehead there, begging her body to stop. She had begun to control her breathing when suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder and flinched violently, expecting to see Wickham, but what she found instead was the owner of Pemberley, concern on his handsome face, arm still in the air where her shoulder had been.