George Wickham gritted his teeth with frustration as the rain dripped down the back of his neck and into his collar. He had joined the militia in Meryton, Hertfordshire, for its social opportunities, not to work. He had hoped to spend most of his days promenading the main street on the lookout for lovely ladies and his nights in the local pubs, gambling and drinking.

Yet here he was, only four days into his new position, on a Saturday no less, standing in a dreary town square with other militia members, learning to march up and down in formation. It was wet and cold and thoroughly unpleasant.

"Captain Denny!"

Denny, the friend who had invited Wickham to join the militia, saluted smartly as Colonel Forster, commander of the regiment, rode his bay horse up to the small cluster of officers.

"Yes, sir!"

"Captain, the rearguard of the company is straggling. We cannot have that! Fall back with me and we'll drill the newer men."

"Yes, sir."

Wickham groaned softly and wiped his face for the tenth time, though it seemed pointless as his hand was as wet as anything else.

"Here, Wickham," Lieutenant Pratt offered, handing him a dry handkerchief from an inner pocket in his uniform. "You'll find it is wise to bring along a supply on drilling days."

Wickham opened his mouth to complain, but then thought better of it. Colonel Forster was his immediate superior and he seemed a strict man. It would be best not to openly whine to his fellow officers lest his complaining get back to the Colonel.

"We can only hope the next day is drier," he commented with false cheer, wiping his face thankfully.

"Colonel Forster prefers wet days, I think," Pratt replied with a grin. "He has been known to say that if the company can perform well on a cold and wet day, it can perform well on any day."

"That's true enough," an older militia man commented from their right. He was tall and grizzled and carried a long musket.

"Have you been with the company long?" Wickham asked curiously.

"Yes, sir. Going on eight years, sir."

"That's quite a long time."

"Warren here is one of the militia's foremost marksmen, Wickham," Pratt explained cheerfully. "With his famous Brown Bess, he has won us many accolades in the sharpshooting contests."

Wickham stared with interest at Warren's musket, which was nearly as long as Wickham was tall.

"It's a fine weapon," he murmured with a tinge of jealousy. Not that he had any intention of ever entering battle, but it was an impressive looking piece.

Warren glanced toward Colonel Forster, who was still toiling away with the rearguard of the regiment, and held the musket up slightly, "Care to have a look at her, sir?"

Wickham reached out without thought, "Thank you, yes."

"Keep her pointed down, sir," Warren cautioned. "She's loaded."

George Wickham nodded absently, even as he lifted the long, brown, smooth barrel into his hand. It was a truly lovely gun, and would likely fetch a fine price in a pawn shop.

"Point it down, Wickham," Pratt muttered.

Wickham nodded and lowered the muzzle so that it pointed toward the soggy earth. He smiled slightly to himself as he leaned over to look down the barrel, sliding a hand toward the trigger. Not that he would fire, of course, but he was a military man now, and it felt good to imagine, in the safety of dear old England, fighting the Corsican monster for King and country.

Thirty yards away, a stray dog ran onto the field and nipped enthusiastically at the heels of Colonel Forster's horse. The great beast whinnied in disgust and reared slightly, causing the soldiers around their leader to cry out warningly.

The sudden sound startled Wickham and without thought, his finger tightened on the trigger.

Bang!

There was a sudden flash and Wickham screamed in pain and shock. His face! His eyes!

There were shouts of distress and someone's hands grasped Wickham's shoulders. The steward's son continued screaming in agony and fear. He couldn't see! He was in torment!

What had happened?

/

Elizabeth Bennet took a deep calming breath as her father handed her out of the family carriage. The church bells were tolling and the family was late again for the Sunday morning service. She despised being late to worship, but as usual her sister Lydia has stolen someone's hair ribbons – today, Kitty's – and Kitty had complained and whined, and thus the Bennet family had been not only delayed but discombobulated.

She sighed as she hurried up the steps and into the sanctuary. The elderly rector, Mr. Allen, was walking with stately grace towards the pulpit and Elizabeth stepped into the Bennet pew followed by her sisters and parents.

They all sat down as Mr. Allen began the first prayer and Elizabeth relaxed. Here, surrounded by the high beamed ceiling, the stained glass windows, the wooden pews, she felt at peace.

The congregation rose for the first hymn, and Elizabeth allowed herself to glance quickly around the sanctuary. The Netherfield pew was inhabited by Mr. and Miss Bingley and the proud and disagreeable Mr. Darcy. There were a few red coated militia men in attendance, but regrettably she did not observe the handsome countenance of Mr. George Wickham, whom she had met the previous week. Mr. Wickham was all that was gentlemanly and cordial, and he and Elizabeth had struck up an immediate friendship largely based on their mutual disdain for Mr. Darcy. Darcy, who was a very wealthy landowner, had insulted Elizabeth on their first interaction and deprived Mr. Wickham of a valuable living in the church. The handsome and haughty owner of Pemberley was truly a despicable man.

The hymn ended and everyone sank obediently into their seats. Mr. Allen gave the sermon, an interesting one based on the parable of the lost sheep, and after two more hymns and a prayer the service ended.

Elizabeth, who had entered the Longbourn pew last, waited for everyone else to file out. She watched with interest as Mr. Darcy marched rapidly toward the exit of the church, his face set in its usual expression of distant disdain. Miss Bingley, Mr. Bingley's unmarried sister, hurried after him with an equally unfriendly expression.

Mr. Bingley, on the other hand, made a beeline for Elizabeth's elder sister Jane and within moments the two were exchanging enthusiastic pleasantries.

Elizabeth smiled in satisfaction. A week previously, Miss Bingley and her elder sister, Mrs. Hurst, had invited Jane to dinner at Netherfield while the men of the house were out dining with the officers of the local militia. Mrs. Bennet, eager to promote a match between Mr. Bingley and her eldest daughter, had sent Jane out on horseback to Netherfield, fully anticipated the downpour which would necessitate Jane staying the night. Her plan succeeded, though all the Bennets were surprised when Jane promptly came down with a bad cold.

Elizabeth had walked to Netherfield the next day, and the two eldest Bennet daughters had spent several days in company with the inhabitants of the house while Jane recovered from her illness. For all that Elizabeth despised her mother's machinations, and was indeed shamed by them, she had to admit that those hours of interaction had been good for Jane and Mr. Bingley. They were clearly in love with one another, and given Mr. Bingley's kind character and optimistic outlook toward life, Elizabeth was quite hopeful that they would indeed make a match of it.

"Lizzy!"

Elizabeth turned as her mother's sister, Mrs. Phillips, rushed forward, her plump face pink with excitement.

"Good morning, Aunt Phillips. I hope you are well?"

Mrs. Phillips waved off her habitual greeting, "We are well enough indeed, Lizzy, but I have such news!"

"Yes?" Elizabeth inquired warily. Her own mother, being but the daughter of a country attorney, had never learned to be ladylike and elegant in her speech and manners. Mrs. Phillips, for all her kind heart, was even louder and more vulgar than Mrs. Bennet.

"It is about that handsome Mr. Wickham," her aunt exclaimed. "He was injured yesterday!"

"What?" Elizabeth demanded, straightening in surprise and distress. "Injured in what way?"

"The militia company was maneuvering in the town square and there was an accident with a gun! The poor man was badly burned in the face. He may be blinded!"

Elizabeth paled slightly in horror. Poor Mr. Wickham. Poor, poor, Mr. Wickham!

"That is dreadful," she cried out in distress. "What a tragedy."

"Indeed it is," Mrs. Phillips replied, though her eyes were enthusiastic. Elizabeth knew that her aunt was a kindly soul, but gossip was her life blood and obviously Lizzy's dramatic response pleased the older woman.

"Mrs. Phillips."

Aunt and niece turned as Mr. Phillips approached with an older man at his heels.

"Mrs. Phillips, this is Colonel Forster, commander of the local militia. Colonel, my wife Mrs. Phillips, and niece Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

Colonel Forster was a dark haired man of some forty years, of medium height and pleasant demeanor.

"I am pleased to meet you both," he said with a bow.

The ladies curtsied and Mrs. Phillips burst forth eagerly, "It is an honor to meet you, Colonel Forster. We have so enjoyed socializing with your fine officers."

"Thank you, Mrs. Phillips," the Colonel responded, his face clouded. "Indeed, it is regarding one particular officer that I approached your husband. Are you aware that one of my men was injured in a training accident yesterday?"

"Mr. Wickham, yes," Mrs. Phillips replied.

"Is it very bad, sir?" Elizabeth asked worriedly. She had felt an instant connection with the handsome lieutenant, and her stomach twisted as she observed Forster's expression grow even gloomier.

"It is indeed quite serious, Miss Bennet," he stated gravely. "He was injured in a powder flash when a musket misfired. The apothecary hopes that he will recover his sight, but at the very least he has a hard road ahead of him. In any case, I understand, Mrs. Phillips, that you and your husband accept boarders on occasion in your home?"

"Yes, we do," Elizabeth's aunt replied in a puzzled tone.

"The Colonel has asked us to board Mr. Wickham for at least a few weeks, Mrs. Phillips," her husband explained. "His eyes and face are bandaged so he cannot see and thus is unable to move around alone safely. We have the first level bedroom available, and our manservant can assist Mr. Wickham. He assisted in caring for my own invalid father before his death, Colonel Forster."

"That is truly excellent," the Colonel replied, his face clearing noticeably. "It is quite a challenging situation. Wickham is a good man and I feel somewhat responsible for his injury, though of course it was but a regrettable accident. Wickham will pay you for the boarding, of course, until he is able to return to the barracks."

Elizabeth frowned slightly at this. On the one hand, she was delighted that Mr. Wickham would be in the benevolent care of her aunt and uncle. On the other hand, she understood that the lieutenant was quite poor due to the cruelty of Mr. Darcy.

Colonel Forster, who was a keen observer, noticed her frown, "Mr. Denny, Mr. Wickham's friend, informs me that Wickham will soon be the recipient of a substantial legacy when an older relation dies. In the meantime, I am glad to stand surety to any debt he incurs with you for his care."

Mr. Phillips waved an impatient hand, "I am certain that there is no concern. Mr. Wickham is a fine man."

Elizabeth nodded, smiling. He was indeed a very fine man. A good man.

/

"I do not understand why Mr. Wickham cannot stay here," Lydia cried out with a pout of displeasure.

"It would be quite inappropriate with five unmarried females in the house," Mary said reprovingly.

"Poor Mr. Wickham," Lydia continued, ignoring Mary as usual. "How terrible to be injured so soon after his arrival here in Meryton! And what will he do? He will be so bored! Our aunt's house is so quiet unless she is holding a card party, and that is but once a fortnight!"

"I suspect, dear Lydia, that quiet is exactly what Mr. Wickham needs," her father said drily. "The man has been injured and needs to rest and heal. I have no doubt he has little interest in dancing or cards at this juncture."

"That means he won't be at the ball at Netherfield on Tuesday," Kitty commented. "That is sad, is it not, Lizzy? He obviously admired you."

Elizabeth flushed slightly. It was true that she had been strongly drawn to Mr. Wickham, but they barely knew one another. She did not want to attract the attention of ...

"My dear Cousin Catherine," Mr. Collins said portentously, "as sad as the situation is for the young man, it should hardly be of concern to your sister Elizabeth. And indeed, it was Mr. Wickham's choice to join the military, and therefore accept the risks incumbent therein. Lady Catherine de Bourgh has said, more than once, that any man who lives by the sword must be willing to die by the sword, rather an unsettling truth given that her own nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, chose the military as his profession. Of course, the Colonel, as the son of an earl, no doubt is held back from the greatest dangers in battle ..."

Elizabeth clenched her teeth together and forced herself to keep silent as the man rattled on incessantly. Mr. Collins was her father's heir because sadly, Longbourn was entailed away from the female line and Elizabeth had no brothers. Mr. Collins had arrived at Longbourn only a few days previously. The Bennets had never met the man before as Mr. Bennet had quarreled with Mr. Collins's father, a miserly and unpleasant man.

The younger Mr. Collins was quite unlike his now deceased father. He was a clergyman, which was a noble profession, and he was never hostile toward the Bennet family.

What he was, however, was utterly ridiculous, rude, clumsy, ingratiating, and obsequious, especially toward his patroness, a Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Kent. Mr. Collins was fond of spouting out Lady Catherine's sayings at any and all hours, and obviously was unable to tell when Lady Catherine had coined a phrase herself or was merely quoting the Bible, which made Elizabeth wonder how well the clergyman knew the Holy Book.

Worst of all, Lady Catherine had ordered Mr. Collins to Longbourn to choose a wife from the Bennet daughters in order to mitigate the loss of their home when their father died. While that was a noble desire, the fact that Mr. Collins blindly obeyed his patroness in as serious a matter as finding a marriage partner was distasteful to Elizabeth.

Alas, Mr. Collins was all cringing acquiescence where his patroness was concerned. He had also cast his gaze over the available Bennet women, been warned away from Jane by Mrs. Bennet, and chosen Elizabeth. He had haunted her steps for the last several days in as clumsy a courtship as she could imagine, and she only escaped his attentions when she was in her bedchamber.

She would not marry the man. He was a fool, and a noisy one at that. She would never have a moment's peace as the man's wife. Furthermore, Lady Catherine was clearly an overbearing and difficult woman and Elizabeth would not put herself under the control of such a person, even if she was a member of the nobility.

Elizabeth sighed softly. She could only hope that Mr. Collins would be scared off somehow; she had done her best to be witty and arch, both characteristics which should have made it clear that she was a horrible choice for the wife of parsonage of Hunsford.

So far, Mr. Collins was proceeding with doltish determination, and life at Longbourn, always somewhat frenetic, was now unpleasant much of the time.

And Mr. Wickham had been injured, poor man.

Author Note: Not long ago, I posted my first Pride and Prejudice fanfic. Your kind response was amazing and encouraging and here I am again with another P&P variation! If the story turns out well enough, I plan to publish it as I did with my first story, I am Jael – now on Amazon. Kudos to my editor husband who keeps toiling away on my comma faults and dialogue mistakes! Thank you for reading and I greatly appreciate reviews, both positive and negative.