A short story written for the 'Dark and Unpleasing' theme at AHA

XOX OXO XOX OXO XOX OXO XOX

I walked along the paths of Rosings with Miss Elizabeth Bennet at my side and marveled at my good fortune.

After the ball at Netherfield, I recognized the danger of being too much in Miss Elizabeth's company, and determined to leave the county as soon as possible. Miss Bingley's desire to return to town coincided with my own, and so plans were made to close up the house and depart only a day after Charles himself had done so.

Yet, something nagged at my conscience. I could not simply leave Meryton without giving some warning to the local shopkeepers. A shop in a small market town could easily be ruined by a man like Wickham. So it was that the afternoon after the ball, I rode into Meryton, ostensibly to make a few purchases, but really to discreetly warn enough of the tradesmen that, should Wickham be up to his usual tricks, he would soon be discovered. I made it a point to visit the tavern for a bit of refreshment, and to speak directly to the owner.

Not once did I mention Wickham's name. Instead, I concocted a story about a regiment of militia being quartered in a small town near my home, and how several of the officers had left behind crushing debts. Under normal circumstances, I abhor deceit, but I knew it had happened in other places, even if it had not occurred yet in Lambton. My reasons for not implicating Wickham had nothing to do with the fact that I hoped he could be attempting to reform his character—I knew him too well for that. Rather, I suspected he would soon begin spreading his tale of mistreatment at my hand, if he had not already done so, and so my word would be suspect. If my warning was against extending credit to the militia officers in general, however, well perhaps then it would not be discounted.

That task complete, I left, secure in the knowledge that I had done the right thing, and endeavored to put all of the residents of Hertfordshire out of my head.

When I arrived at Rosings only to find Miss Elizabeth was visiting her friend, the former Charlotte Lucas, I knew it was fate. But Miss Elizabeth seemed different somehow. Shyer.

I could not determine why until one morning when I, er, accidentally encountered her on her walk. She accepted my company but spoke little and was clearly agitated. Finally she burst out with a nearly incoherent stream of apologies and thanks. Apologies for having so mistaken my character and for seeking to provoke me whenever we spoke, and thanks for making Wickham's character known to Meryton. After my words of caution, several of the shopkeepers decided to meet periodically and compare notes on the debts of the militia. It did not take long for Wikcham to run up a debt equal to several months' salary. Shortly thereafter, he was forced to flee the town in disgrace.

For a few moments I was stunned; I had not realized that she thought so ill of me. But I seized on this second chance, and began to court her properly. We had several heated discussions, including a painful one wherein she challenged my behavior to herself and all those below me in wealth and consequence, but our friendship and understand of each other grew stronger with each one.

And now, today, we were walking in companionable silence listening to the rustle of the gentle breeze in the trees and the singing of the birds. Only the birds had stopped singing.

And in the unusual silence, there was the snap of a twig being crushed underfoot.

Startled, I turned and laid eyes on perhaps the most frightening apparition I had ever seen in my 27 years. An unkempt man, dressed in tattered and stained clothes was pointing a pistol directly at me. His face was covered in dirt and contorted in anger, so perhaps that explains why it took me a moment to recognize my former friend.

"Wickham!" I cried upon realizing who I faced. Surreptitiously, I attempted to pull Miss Elizabeth so that she stood behind me and shielded from the weapon, but she remained where she was. I thought perhaps she was so frightened that she could not move, so I abandoned subtlety and stepped in front of her. Only she responded by moving once more to my side.

I would have continued trying to shield her, but Wickham chose that moment to being speaking.

In fewer than two sentences, I was convinced he had lost his mind. Wickham raged against me for ruining him by denying him his due and then slandering his good name in Meryton. Then, to my surprise, he turned his vitriol on Miss Elizabeth, who had been one of the first of the local gentry to support the shopkeepers against him.

During his lengthy exposition, he kept his weapon well-trained upon us, so I could not act against him.

Finally, it seemed his ranting was coming to an end.

". . .Now I must decide which one of you shall die first. I am tempted to make Darcy watch you die, Elizabeth. That would be a suitable punishment for him. But, on the other hand, if I kill Darcy, there will be no one here to stop me finding other ways to revenge myself upon you. And Darcy's last thought as he dies will be of how he will be unable to stop me. Yes, I think that will suit most admirably."

Rage boiled up inside me at his threats against Miss Elizabeth's person. I glanced down to see how she was bearing up. Only instead of the fear I expected to see on her face, or even anger or defiance, I saw her give Wickham a look of utter contempt.

"You ought to put that pistol down, Mr. Wickham, before you do something that you will live to regret," she stated in a tone that was almost bored. Under her breath I thought I heard her add, "Although you will not live to regret it for very long."

I nearly stared. Did she not realize the danger we were in?

Wickham actually laughed at her. "No, Elizabeth," his voice took on a suggestive tone to match his leer as he spoke her name, "I do not believe I shall."

And then, with no further warning beyond shifting his gaze from her to myself, he pulled the trigger.

Never, ever, could I have imagined the pain that followed. It felt as though someone had set my stomach on fire. And then placed a boulder on my chest to impede my breathing. Spots flashed before my eyes as I gasped for breath. Above the groans and whimpers that I could not suppress, I heard the sounds of a struggle. "Elizabeth!" I gasped out, fearful of what Wickham might be doing to her. But when I attempted to move the pain in my stomach seemed to radiate out to the rest of my body with such intensity that I must have fainted.

I woke in scarcely less pain than what had caused me to lose consciousness, but was met by the sweet sight of Elizabeth's face. She had survived.

Only she was pale and trembling.

"Are. . . you. . . hurt?" I managed to gasp out. I tried to reach out to her, but once again, the pain in my abdomen halted the motion.

"I am unharmed. Now be still," she ordered, leaning down to examine my wound. She had already unbuttoned my jacket and waistcoat to reveal my lawn shirt.

I managed to raise my head slightly, just enough to see the slowly spreading red stain. It might not be bleeding much, but I had heard enough from Colonel Fitzwilliam to know that stomach wounds such as mine usually resulted in a prolonged and painful death.

The look on her face when she met my eyes again told me that she was aware of my condition as well.

"Can you move your legs, Mr. Darcy?" she asked, her voice wavering now as it had not done when facing down a raging madman with a gun.

I made the attempt, but a fresh wave of pain mixed with a healthy dose of nausea washed over me and I cried out.

"I apologize, I should not have asked you to move. Tell me when you feel my hand."

I concentrated on remaining conscious and stifling the pained noises that gathered at the back of my throat. I would have preferred to attempt to ignore all physical sensations and spend my final moments gazing upon her face, but I acceded to her request and waited to feel the pressure of her hand.

It never came.

"Mr. Darcy?" she asked, her tone of voice conveying the final blow.

Why it should matter now, when I already knew I was dying, I do not know, but mental anguish was added to the physical torture already consuming my body. I could not feel my legs and the knowledge struck me with the force of another bullet. I shook my head, afraid to unlock my jaw for fear that I would have to scream and would not be able to stop.

Elizabeth's face came back into my field of vision. I blinked back the tears of pain and clenched my jaw tighter. Even breathing hurt now, and the shallow breaths I managed were not quite satisfying my need for air.

"I am so sorry," she whispered. Her delicate hand, stained with my blood, came up and caressed my cheek. "Forgive me," she said enigmatically.

Then, to my surprise and despair, she got to her feet and ran into the woods without once looking back.

I tried to tell myself that it was best that she not watch my death. Or that she had thought to take a shortcut through the woods to Rosings in a desperate though futile search for help, but I could not stop myself feeling completely abandoned. I would die here, at Wickham's hand, utterly and completely alone. The Darcy name would die with me, though hopefully the bloodline would carry on through Georgiana. Colonel Fitzwilliam would make sure that she was not enticed into marriage by an unscrupulous man seeking control of Pemberley.

I lay back and waited for death to come. I would welcome the cessation of pain.

XOX OXO XOX OXO XOX OXO XOX

Oh no! Darcy is shot through the gut and it apparently hit his spine. Then Lizzy went and abandoned him. And what the devil happened to Wickham? Is there any way I can fix this one? Comments, rotten tomatoes, and wild theories are all welcome.