Chapter Forty-Two

Elizabeth watched as her fiancé flew away into the western sky. She wrapped her arms around herself tightly, feeling a sudden chill that was more premonition than reaction to the cool morning air. Fate had worked so hard to keep them apart, using Lieutenant Wickham as its tool. The scoundrel had managed to influence them with his half-truths and honeyed words even though they were both warned against his lies. She cursed him silently.

“Lizzy,” Charlotte prompted. “Shall we return to the house? I would like to hear more of this story. I would know how this Wickham caused such mischief.”

“Is this something Father should know, as Mr. Wickham is still in Meryton?” Miss Lucas inquired breathlessly. Elizabeth thought the knight’s daughter had never expected such adventures when the young lady had set off to visit her elder sister. “Mayhap he could spread the word to protect others from this … scoundrel?”

Thinking of her own younger sisters and the other young ladies of the country, Elizabeth agreed that was a worthwhile effort. “I’ll prepare a letter for both your father and mine.”

“I believe I should make my way to Rosings Park to inform Lady Catherine of these events. She may be upset.” Mr. Collins spoke to his wife, looking for her endorsement of his intentions.

“A capitol idea,” Colonel Fitzwilliam beamed. “I shall accompany you to see her reaction. Will you stay or go, Georgiana?”

“You are welcome to stay with us, if you wish to hear more of these events surrounding your brother,” Elizabeth assured the younger lady.

“I would relish the opportunity to get to know you as well.” Georgiana answered with a blush and a nod.

While writing her warnings to her father and Sir William, Elizabeth shared her tale of the subtle insinuations and prevarications of the Lieutenant with the other ladies. Her telling had not progressed too far when it was announced that Lady Catherine had arrived, along with Miss de Bourgh and Mrs. Jenkinson.

“Miss Bennet, will you take a walk with me?” asked Lady Catherine after she had endured the polite greetings of Charlotte and Georgiana. Elizabeth was concerned about her potential disapproval but knew there was no use in putting the necessary conversation off.

“Please, the garden is lovely this time of day.” She offered the older woman her arm as they left the parsonage. Elizabeth waited on Lady Catherine to begin. As they walked in silence the older woman would occasionally glance, or glare, and Elizabeth, her mouth working, or her lips pursed.

Eventually, a calm settled over Lady Catherine’s countenance and she asked, “Do you love him?”

“More than anything or anyone.” Elizabeth replied honestly. The venerable lady made no response. They continued to walk for several moments.

With a nod, Lady Catherine seemed to come to some conclusion. But her next question made Elizabeth wonder at the nature of that conclusion. “I have heard that you are a skilled somatic manipulator.”

“I have some talent in that direction.”

“My daughter, as you well know, has long suffered from her gift. If nothing is done, no relief is found in the none-to-distant future, she will likely perish from these difficulties. Can you help her?”

“I do not know but I will try what I can.”

“Thank you.” Lady Catherine patted her arm as they continued their stroll, the mother sharing what she could of her daughter’s condition. Anne had been born with fangs similar to a viper’s. Some physicians had hypothesized that her body was not fully proof against her own venom and that she was slowly, but inexorably, poisoning herself.

Elizabeth and Miss de Bourgh had removed themselves to the heiress’ chamber.

“I appreciate your willingness to help me, Miss Bennet. But I do not believe you will be able to alleviate my constant distress. Many have tried, at my mother’s urgings. But all have failed. My only solace is that my suffering will not last much longer.” Miss de Bourgh’s tone revealed a depth of despair that Elizabeth found most pitiable.

“But I have your permission to try?”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth laid her hands on her hostess’ cheeks. She could feel the fangs and the venom sacks, and could tell there was a constant low- level leakage from the fangs into the young lady’s digestive tract. The doctors were right. She found the toxins had thrown her humors completely out of balance. Using what she had learned of gift manipulation from her examination of the ExtraOrdinaries, she felt it might be possible to permanently alter Miss de Bourgh’s gift to be less damaging to herself, or failing that, to remove it completely.

She explained the possibilities to her patient. “If I try this, it is possible that the only permanent change I can make with rob you of your gift completely.”

The young woman looked at Elizabeth with a palpable mixture of hope and misery. “My gift is nothing of the sort. I would gladly give it up if it would stop the pain. Please, Miss Bennet, do what you can. Even if all that you can do is give me the mercy of a gentle death.”

So, the lady from Hertfordshire once again laid her hands on her wretched patient and reached out with her senses to touch the small crux of her gift radiating energy to her mouth and jaw. As she examined this root, she gained confidence that she could sever the connection, just as she had with the prisoners she had experimented upon. What she wanted to do, instead, was to forge new pathways for the energy to reinforce the stomach and the rest of her body, giving her immunity from her own poisons. Eventually she reached a point where she felt she could go no further safely.

“How do you feel?” Elizabeth asked.

“Different. But I still have my fangs.”

“We will see how you progress for the next few days. If necessary, I can make more adjustments in the future.”

“Regardless of the outcome,” Miss de Bourgh took Elizabeth hand in hers. “I thank you for your efforts.” Lady Catherine also offered her gratitude, though more reservedly, as Elizabeth left the room.

That evening, as the full party, save Mr. Darcy, gathered for dinner at Rosings, their missing member rushed into the room.

“Elizabeth, Richard, there is an emergency. We must leave at once.” Mr. Darcy insisted upon his entry. His wild, windswept appearance added urgency to his words.

When the three gentlefolk arrived at Longbourn, they found there had been another development. “This letter was delivered not long after you left, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth’s father held out a folded piece of paper. On the outside she spotted a wax seal with an impression. Elizabeth took the paper and opened it.

To Mr. Bennet –

As you may suspect, I have your daughter Lydia. The only way you may ever see her alive again is to convince your daughter Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy of Pemberley to attempt to rescue her. I will send you a location near London tomorrow at noon. Darcy and your daughter will have until midnight tomorrow to attempt to save your youngest.

They may bring as many friends as they like, so gather your forces. You should not expect to see any of them alive again. This is a certainty if they bring reinforcements from the Army or the Alien Office. They are of course free to endanger any other family and friends they wish to involve.

Will you risk one daughter to save another? Will Mr. Darcy risk his life for a girl wholly unconnected to him, or through inaction allow her to perish? Will you call on others to endanger their own lives? That is your punishment, and theirs, for your interference in my plans.

LaFontaine

Elizabeth handed it to Darcy. He looked at it, and at the seal. “This is the same seal as on the ring I took from the French assailant in Derbyshire last month.”

“Wickham is in league with the Frenchman?” her father surmised.

“So it would appear,” Elizabeth agreed. “What can we do to prepare?”

Both Darcy and her father looked at her as if preparing to object. She looked back at them calmly. “You know I will do this. Now, how can we make certain we get her back?”

“He is expecting more than the two of you,” her father said. “That means you will have to seek help.”

Late the next evening Elizabeth, Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Charles, Sir William, and Sir John were gathered on the north bank of the Thames, well east of London. They were just outside of a small town called Purfleet, which was home to the Royal Gunpowder Magazine.

“There are five magazines that can hold up to ten thousand barrels of powder each.” Colonel Fitzwilliam pointed to a map of the compound. “Tell us what you found.” Darcy had used his gravity gift to harness the ambient star shine and moonlight and concentrate it to create a gentle luminance. Elizabeth was constantly astonished at the skill with which he wielded his gift.

“From the air I could see the heat from four large groups … here, here, here, and here.” Elizabeth pointed to the first building, two areas near the outer wall of the compound, and an area near the back gate. “I cannot tell which, if any of them, might be the garrison. Nor can I give any details on the numbers in each location, though the first is the largest of the four.”

“And there is a flyer patrolling the skies above the base.” Darcy added.

“LaFontaine’s note said that Miss Lydia is in the middle powder shed.” Sir John pointed on the map. “But she cannot be our only objective. This magazine is the primary supply depot for both the Army and the Navy. The powder here is a strategic priority.”

“Not to mention that if it should blow, it might take most of this part of the country with it.” Colonel Fitzwilliam added. “This is obviously a trap.”

They discussed potential tactics, and if Colonel Fitzwilliam was surprised that the other men treated Elizabeth as an intellectual equal, he made no overt display of his doubts. As the appointed time neared Darcy said, “We have to go with this plan, there is not time to formulate another. We will just have to keep enough flexibility of mind to adjust to new threats as they arise. Are we ready?”

“We are.”