Chapter 26 - The last chapter!

Chapter 26

Elizabeth Bennet

The cool, calming moonlight dappled the lush forest floor. They kept to a steady clip, though nothing which might strain the horses. The carriage ride was harried and fretful, desperate to escape London before being discovered. Once switching to horseback, an air of victory stole over the foreigners and they slowed their pace. Elizabeth shook her head, knocking the weariness away. Her shoulders and spine strained at the constant jostling. She tried to keep as much distance between the man and herself as possible, but being that he sat directly behind her, his body pressed to hers, a stiff posture was Elizabeth’s only defense. 

“Close your eyes, mi querida. You are tired.”

She turned her head, glancing at him. Those cold, icy eyes hungrily watching, calculating. “How did you find me?” These were first words she spoke since being taken. 

The foreigner, Philip, he told her at one point–she was to call him Philip when in private–he laughed. “I dreamt of you, over and over. Every night, you ghosted my dreams. I believed you dead, rightfully so.” 

Her glare narrowing, this was no answer. 

“I drew your picture by day, perfecting each stroke and shadow until my dreams came alive. I now see my talents are not as accomplished as I once believed, for you, mi cariña, are a goddess come to life.” A growl formed at Elizabeth’s lips. He reached up to trace the scowl, a devouring grin at his own lips. She knocked his hand away. “Remember, you must be a good girl. Do not allow what happened last time to happen again.” 

Elizabeth secretly dropped another pearl, she would be out soon. 

“How did you find me?” she repeated, her teeth clenched as his fingers eased along her arm. 

“Ah, sí, my story. I thought you dead, a fitting punishment for your misdeeds. Yet, I could not let you go, so I sent a man to trace the location of your corpse–to put you to rest, if you will. Rather, he discovered a soldier at a card table in Whitechapel who recognized the drawing I made of you, Elisabetta. A couple pieces of silver and he revealed everything.” Philip’s accent smooth and rolling. 

“I returned to England to see for myself, soon learning you would be attending the Jasper Ball–famoso even in España. Very cleverly on my part, I must say, I secured an invitation for your sister to attend the ball. Should you judge her threatened, you would be an accommodating companion. The soldier revealed that you were close with your sister.” 

“Who is this soldier?” she demanded breathlessly.

Philip called to a man riding behind them, speaking in Spanish. She heard the name in answer, it turned her stomach sour. “A Mr. Wickham,” the foreigner replied, his face leaning forward to run his nose along her neck. Elizabeth shivered at the touch. “Are you cold?”

“No,” she hissed. 

This explained a great deal. Elizabeth returned from speaking with Lady Claridge, arranging to call on the duchess in a couple of days’ time, only to find Jane dancing with the fiend from that fateful night in Whitechapel. She was paralyzed to the floor, her limbs quaking and her voice lost to shock. When another man, his words thick with accent, approached Elizabeth from behind and threatened to harm Jane if she did not go with him, there was little she could do. While in the carriage, Philip told her that should she scream or attempt to run, he would have his men go to Longbourn and kill the little boy who very curiously resembled her. Elizabeth’s world dissolved into a dark, hopeless chasm of no escape. She must do as he bid. Perhaps selfishly, Elizabeth left a trail of pearls behind in hopes of Mr. Darcy discovering her before it was all too late. 

The horse leapt over a fallen tree, propelling Elizabeth into the man behind her. His arm clutched at her waist, digging her further into his body. 

“You do not want me,” she said agitatedly, desperately. “I… I have two ugly, terrible scars beneath my gown. They will–they will disgust you. If you should see them, you will look on me with nothing but repulsion.” 

“From the stabbing?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yes. The jagged scars are puckered and… and unsightly.” 

Philip stiffened, his hand loosened and he fell silent. Several minutes went by without a word from him. Elizabeth hoped he was considering just abandoning her in the woods; surely she could make her way toward home until Mr. Darcy or Lord Claridge found her. 

“I will see them,” he said at long last. “The scars.” 

“But they are beneath my gown,” she cried, her heart beating much too quickly. 

“Then we remove the gown,” Philip said in a wickedly pleased tone. He called to his men, giving orders Elizabeth did not understand. Each man pulled at the reins of his horse, bringing the convoy to a halt. Philip, however, kept their horse moving until alone in the forest. When he stopped, they were in a small clearing. All to be heard were the sounds of rustling leaves and shadowy woodland creatures stirring early for the dawn.

The foreigner jumped down first, stretching his arms and legs after the long journey. Next, he reached for Elizabeth, taking delight in grasping her body. He spun her around and ripped her gown near in half.  

“No!” she protested, tugging at the beautiful silk she so adored. “This is my only dress.”

“I will have a new wardrobe prepared for you. My lady dresses as I deem fit.”

“Do you have a dress waiting for me now?” Elizabeth pressed, bearing the full weight of her dark eyes down upon him. 

“Hmm… fair point. It will be several days before we arrive in Spain. Perhaps I have been hasty. I tend to do as I like, when I like.” Elizabeth let out a breath. “Nevertheless, I will see these scars.” With one finger, he motioned for her to step closer. Frantically, she scanned the darkness encircling the clearing, finding no help, no escape. She slowly inched toward him. Philip gently pulled lace-after-lace, Elizabeth closed her eyes, bringing Mr. Darcy to mind. At last, the chemise was loosened, and covering herself as best as she could, the scar on her back was revealed. Philip laughed. 

“That is all?” Ripping his jacket off, he rolled up a sleeve and presented a long, pink scar which ran from elbow wrist. “This is but one of my marks. Your scar is easily overlooked when a goddess such as yourself bears it.” Elizabeth stumbled back as Philip’s eyes roved over her. 

“Please, they will hear us.” She knew not what to do, how she might flee. Panic erupted in her bones.  

“Yes, that is a consideration,” he nodded, closing the space between them. “The moonlight upon your skin is… irresistible.” A single finger traced the fine line of her jaw. “I believe I must have you now.”

Elizabeth lifted her arm to push him away, he caught her wrist not to let her go. “What of your men? D-Do you wish them to see us?” Tears poured over her cheeks, as much in helplessness as in anger. 

“They know not to interrupt in any measure.” His hands were then around her, she struggled but he would not let go. Elizabeth’s strength, weakened and wearied from months of recovery, could never match his. Philip threw her to the ground, staring as he began to tug at the fall of his pants. Elizabeth tried to scrabble away, but he stepped on her dress, grinning. Philip bent to his knees, and began to crawl overtop her body. Elizabeth cried out, she did not know what to do. 

“I will kill you, and I will enjoy it,” said a voice from behind them. 

Philip rolled over, his cool eyes flaring. He fastened his breeches, smiling and laughing softly, cruelly. 

“Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth wept. His grey eyes flickered toward her, emotion of every sort roiling deep, then a cold emptiness overtook him.  

“Remain there, Elizabeth,” he demanded, his voice hollow. Mr. Darcy stepped into the clearing, brandishing a long, gleaming sword. Philip called into the darkness to summon help, his hand slipping toward his discarded jacket and the blade hidden inside. Elizabeth grabbed it first, throwing the fine coat out of reach. Philip slapped her across the cheek. Darcy charged forward without another warning. 

It all happened so fast. Elizabeth could hardly recall those fateful minutes. Lord Claridge burst through the trees, taking Elizabeth into his arms and pressing her face to his chest. He would not have her see the bloodshed. The ache in her chest thrummed painfully at each rapid beat, fearing for Mr. Darcy. Shouts and grunts and the shriek of ripping skin blared into the clear night sky. These would be sounds which echoed into her dreams for years to come. 

“Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy finally called to her. “Elizabeth, are you hurt? Dear God, tell me he has not hurt you.”

She did not answer. Elizabeth briefly pressed her forehead to Lord Claridge’s chest before breaking free to run into Mr. Darcy’s outstretched arms. She stepped over the body with only the slightest of considerations. Catching Elizabeth with a strangled grunt of pain, and stumbling back a step, the gentleman took her tight into his clutch. Over and over, he whispered her name. A song, a poem, her name became an echo of legend, their legend. Mr. Darcy gingerly took her face in his hands, his nose pressed to hers. He said nothing more, he need not, their touch was enough. 

Berkes, with a triumphant grin, ripped Elizabeth away and pulled her into his embrace, scolding her for being so foolish. The reproaches tripled as she told the men of Philip’s threats, furious that she would sacrifice her life for Jane’s. Mentioning Mr. Wickham’s role in her capture sent them into a firestorm of rage. A promise to have him sent to Russia for the remainder of his days was made. 

In little time, Berkes and his men gleefully made their way to the sea in order to sink a certain Spanish ship. Mr. Darcy and Lord Claridge remained behind, deciding how best to make their way back to London. The horses, gladdened to be at ease, feasted on the crisp, dewy morning grass of the clearing, relieving their weariness. Elizabeth curled into Mr. Darcy’s side, watching the stallions in a languid stupor. Every once in a while, Mr. Darcy would reach over, kissing the top of her head. Finally, they decided to await a carriage at a nearby village inn. Mr. Darcy lifted Elizabeth onto his horse, swinging up behind her, and they set off in the same direction of Berkes and his men. Elizabeth tucked into Mr. Darcy’s chest as they trotted through the forest. The gentleman wrapped his coat about her shoulders, keeping any brisk winds from her face and arms. When they came upon the inn, Mr. Darcy escorted her to a room above the quiet tavern. Their carriage would not arrive for several hours. 

The small, musty room looked out over the sea, the sun just now climbing over the waters like a soft blaze of flame churning to life. Mr. Darcy closed the door behind him, Elizabeth turned from the graying window to look on him. A sort of madness bathed his countenance. Without his coat, and in the light of the early dawn, she could see the stains of blood coating the white linen of his shirt. He claimed it was nothing, she should not worry at all. Elizabeth, nevertheless, sought out pail of water and some fresh strips of linen in order to bandage him properly. 

“You will see Mr. Farr when we return to London,” Elizabeth insisted. 

“I will not,” Mr. Darcy returned, gingerly sliding his arms back into his waistcoat and standing. “Farr is not a man I purposely seek out.” 

“Do you insist on arguing? For you know I will win.” 

Slowly, the gentleman pulled Elizabeth out of her chair and wrapped his arms about her waist, the palm of his hand resting atop scar on her back. “Yes, my dearest Elizabeth, you will win. You will always win.” Mr. Darcy took a deep breath, then asked, “Tell me, did that man hurt you?” 

Elizabeth knew of what he meant. Her flesh curdled and itched. She needed to scrub herself clean, but this could not be done with water and soap. Only the man before her now could heal the wounds so forcefully opened. “He will be forgotten,” she managed to say. Elizabeth threw herself upon him, tugging at his cravat, pulling his face to hers. Mr. Darcy gave in at once, kissing her back with the force of a thundering stampede of horses. Elizabeth allowed his hands to consume her; his touch, his scent and taste dominated her every thought. Whatever may come, whatever had passed, the man possessing her now in this moment let her free.

Too soon, he pulled away. Mr. Darcy rubbed a hand down his face, steadying his entire body. “Elizabeth,” he whispered, his chest rapidly rising and falling in breathlessness, “Elizabeth, we must stop.” 

“I was scared,” she admitted, tears blurring her vision. “What he did to me, I thought I would never–only you could heal–”

Mr. Darcy grasped her arms, looking fiercely upon her. “That bastard is dead, I only wish I could end him again. Your fear is my fear, your pain is my pain. I would carry it all if only I could. I have only loved but one woman in my life. She has held my heart in her palm since I lifted her from the snow and she curled into my chest.

“I have failed you time and again. Oh Lord! How I have failed you. Elizabeth, you deserve so much better than me. Nevertheless, I am prideful and selfish and I love you more than my own life. Can you ever love me again?”

Bowing her head, tears streaming from the corner of her eyes, Elizabeth did not answer at once. 

“Please, can you ever love me again?” he asked again, lifting her chin. 

“When have I ever stopped loving you?” she returned. Mr. Darcy stilled into a ghostly pallor, a hitch and intake of breath broadened his chest. She reached up, embracing his cheek in her palm. “I may have hated you at times, Fitzwilliam, but I never stopped loving you.” 

Mr. Darcy swooped down, pulling Elizabeth into his arms. He held her as though she were a phantom of some fading vision. “Marry me,” he said at last. “Marry me or I will steal you away to Gretna Green and force you into matrimony through any coercion necessary.” Elizabeth laughed and Mr. Darcy claimed her lips. “Marry me,” he repeated, his body trembling in wait of answer. 

Elizabeth twisted her head back to look into his eyes. She smiled and nodded. 

“Please say the word, milady,” his voice steady. 

“Yes.”

***

The carriage slowly, steadily made its way to London. Lord Claridge sat opposite Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth, his head resting against the back as he slept in restless fits. The gentleman beside her, clutching her hand, remained wide awake. Knowing she herself would soon succumb to sleep, Elizabeth quietly said, “Fitzwilliam, you wished to call on the morrow to speak with me on an important matter, yes?” He nodded, a slight frown pulling at his mouth. “It is the morrow.” 

“I fear you may be upset.” 

“Tell me in any case.” Elizabeth sat up straighter in order to give him her full attention. 

“Well…” He hesitated, “While you were away I have not sat idly by.” Elizabeth encouraged him with a smile. “There is an estate, Willow Run, not three hours from Pemberley. Though I cannot claim it quite so grand as our own manor, I find it to be most stately. The proprietor, Sir Henry Jacobson, has long sought to sell it, and I have made arrangements to purchase it.”  

Elizabeth’s brows drew together in confusion. 

“My love, I wish to hand over Willow Run to James,” he said quickly, turning his eyes away. “I know it can never make up for the loss of Pemberley, nor the pain of his situation. Yet, I will be a father to him in every way I can. Though I cannot properly claim him as my own, he will know who I am and what he is to me.” 

Tears came to her eyes, tears of utter happiness, and fear, and confusion. “How would this be possible?” 

“Yes,” he returned in a torrent, “I fear a difficult transition would be ahead. Many questions raised with false answers. Your parents might be troublesome.” 

“Mr. and Mrs. Bennet are not to accompany Jamie?” 

“No, I spoke to Richard on the matter and he has offered himself as James’ guardian. My cousin eagerly wishes to retire. Richard would be James’ formal and legal guardian.” 

“My father…” 

“He can be persuaded. Longbourn is legally Mr. Collins’ at Mr. Bennet’s death.” Mr. Darcy took both of her hands in his. “Elizabeth, our son will know us as his true parents, when the time is right. He will be safe and provided for. We need not be parted from him often. Moreover, a lovely little chapel comes with the estate. Perhaps Mary might wish to accompany her nephew to Derbyshire?” 

A sob choked her throat, but still she asked, “Can you, can we afford such an undertaking?” 

“My father left me a large fortune at his death, a fortune I have continued to increase. Furthermore, I have some small properties in the north I have been quietly selling away. Elizabeth, I assure, we can provide this for our son… if you are agreeable.” 

Lord Claridge leaned forward, his secret smile at his lips. “James is our family, Elizabeth. We will protect him always. Besides, when your son is named proprietor of Willow Run, we truly will own nearly all of Derbyshire. Leave the murky details of the inheritance to my wife and sister. They thrive on sculpting gossip.” 

Laughing, Elizabeth reached up to briefly kiss Mr. Darcy. “Yes, I am agreeable.” 

Four months later, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were finally wed. Cecilia and Agatha insisted there must be proper courtship to display to the London society. Mr. Darcy, however, procured a special license so they might be married not quite a month after the announcement of their formal engagement. Elizabeth was surrounded by her entire family, including her son, when she married the man she loved.  

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This is it!! Thank you so much for coming along with me on this extremely turbulent journey. I know it hasn't been easy. Still, and I will say it again, thank you for reading. I'm still getting the edits together and should have a draft of the final version done soon. I may see if I can find a couple of beta readers before I put it on Amazon, yet it shouldn't be much of a delay. 

Also, I have in mind a short epilogue to follow. But you will have to wait for the published version to read it. I think I have left only one loose end to be tied up, and she needs a little tying up. 

If you have any comments, concerns, questions etc., you can still contact me at jennapatten85@gmail.com or chessiejenna@aol.com or on twitter at @JennaPatten7 I will be making a few announcements in the coming weeks as to my progress. So, if you want, check back every once in a while. 

~Jenna