by Jessie Lewis
“No,” Miss Elizabeth said under her breath. “I am calling you poor.”
Panic assaulted him. Did she know it all then? His reduced circumstances? His less than honest schemes to acquire whatever money he could get his hands on? If she revealed his shot at Miss Darcy’s fortune or Miss King’s or any of the others in between, it would almost certainly spell the end of his career in the militia. And God forbid that his dalliance with Forster’s wife should be discovered. “On the contrary, Miss Elizabeth!” he blurted. “Your sister boasts many inducements that might tempt a man.”
A gasp from Miss Bennet and the look of horror on Miss Elizabeth’s face convinced him that those might not have been the most well considered words with which to defend his honour. He stepped backwards, attempting to meld into the safety of his regiment, only to discover the bastards had all deserted him and were halfway down the street. His head began to pound.
“I would not have thought you imprudent enough to attempt it,” said Miss Elizabeth as she turned to leave, ushering her sister before her.
Seized with the conviction the wench was threatening to expose him, Wickham’s panic swelled into indignation. “What is your meaning, madam?” he called, walking after her, but he stumbled over his own drunken feet and staggered towards her, grabbing for something with which to steady himself. That something was her upper arm. His grip spun her around to face him.
“Unhand me at once, sir!”
He made to let go but thought better of it when a wave of nauseating dizziness assailed him and he almost fell atop her. “I hope you did not mean to threaten me just now, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr. Wickham, I beg you would release me,” she replied, looking about in alarm.
“I should not like to think you so cruel as to reveal whatever tales Darcy has filled your pretty little head with. It is not kind to gossip.”
“Are you preaching to me, Mr. Wickham?” she said angrily. “I had been given to understand that making sermons was not always so palatable to you.”
“I would really rather you kept Darcy’s charges to yourself.” His head was thumping mercilessly, and he felt perilously close to vomiting.
“And so I shall, but my charges are my own to make. You have lied to me from the very beginning of our acquaintance—”
“Lower your voice, madam!”
“Unhand me!”
She tugged her arm away, pulling him off balance. His feet scuffed forward, his head spun, and he held on all the tighter, for there were now black spots at the periphery of his vision. “Stand still!”
“You have whispered vengeful falsehoods in my ear,” she said more loudly, trying to pry his fingers from her arm. “You have defamed a good man for your own promotion.”
“Enough!”
“You have ingratiated yourself into this neighbo—”
He heard his name called and swung his head up. People were emerging from shops the length of the street. His fellow officers were running back towards him. “Look what you’ve done, you infuriating tart!”
“Release me!” the wench squealed then stamped hard on his foot. “Mr. Darcy was right about you!”
“Hold your tongue!” he snarled in her face. Half the town was bearing down upon him, and she was about to spill all his secrets at the top of her lungs. His pulse thundered in his ears.
“You are vicious and unprinci—”
“I said, hold your tongue!” Addled by alcohol and fear alike, Wickham was unable to think of aught but silencing her before she exposed him to the world as a fraud. His fist connected with her temple, and she crumpled into an insensible heap at his feet.
The other four Bennet women reminded him of their presence with a collective scream. He looked up. People were yelling and running—and very close. He did the only thing he could do. Without a backward glance, he ran as fast as his drunken legs would carry him to the nearest tethering post, purloined the first horse he came upon, and ran the beast until it went lame.
Many hours later as he cowered in the back room of a pounding house in Edmonton, Wickham cursed Darcy for probably the thousandth time that day. It was all his bloody fault.
4
The Beginning of Despair
Thursday, 28 May 1812: London
Darcy was midway through a meeting with his housekeeper when Godfrey brought him the morning’s post. Atop the pile sat a new missive from Bingley, bringing an abrupt end to his interlude without thoughts of Elizabeth, which on this occasion had lasted almost an entire hour.
He was in no humour to subject himself to Bingley’s raptures on all matters pertaining to the Bennets and particularly unwilling to learn, as he feared he might, that Elizabeth would now be sister to one of his closest friends. He opened a desk drawer, tossed the letter in, and slammed it closed again. The rest of the post he put aside to read later and returned to reviewing the ledger before him.
It was not until later in the day, upon addressing the outstanding correspondence, that his niggling guilt was assuaged. A reply from Colonel Forster assured him that Bingley had not written with news of his engagement after all; thus, his letter could be ignored with impunity. Regrettably, the news with which Colonel Forster—and, he presumed, Bingley—had written was far less agreeable.
Meryton, Hertfordshire
May 25
Mr. Darcy,
My sincere thanks for your recent communication. It grieves me to report, however, that your warning has come too late. On Saturday last, whilst in his cups, Wickham seriously injured a young woman and left the scene without being apprehended. By all accounts, her condition is considered to be very grave and recovery becomes increasingly unlikely. Thus, the charges against him look set to be for considerably more than assault alone.
My men have traced him as far as Edmonton but no farther. If you have any information that might help locate him, I should be grateful to hear from you, or you can pass details directly to Col. Dempsey of the Eighth Regiment of the City Militia.
Lastly, I enclose a list of debts accrued in the area by Wickham up to and including Friday, May 22, the total of which I have offset with his last month’s salary. I pass on the profound thanks of all the local merchants for your generosity.
Yours sincerely
Colonel Forster
***
Friday, 28 May 1812: Kent
“Mr. Collins, ma’am,” announced the aged butler.
Mr. Collins ducked past him and scuttled over to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, bowing as deeply as his corset allowed.
“This is most inconvenient,” she said with a sniff. “I was not expecting you until tomorrow.”
“My humblest apologies, your ladyship, but I come bearing news of a most distressing nature, which I felt my duty to impart without delay, for it is imperative in circumstances such as these, and in particular when such cherished and venerable personages and their futures are involved, that no time is wasted that could be better spent putting into place measures that will prevent events progressing to a point at which they cannot be undone.”
“To what events and which personages do you refer?”
He thought he had just told her that. Perhaps he had couched the news in too gentle terms. “I have received word that your nephew Mr. Darcy has expressed serious intentions towards a young lady other than your most illustrious daughter—that he intends to affiance himself to another!”
“That is impossible.”
“It ought to be, your ladyship, but my wife has received a letter this morning from her father. The whole of Hertfordshire is apparently alive with the news that—”
“Hertfordshire? Who is there for my nephew in Hertfordshire?”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
An angry flush overspread her ladyship’s countenance, and she gripped the arms of her ch
air with both hands. “Your cousin?”
He nodded. “I suspect they formed an attachment at Easter and now—”
The wisdom of coming to share his news shrivelled to a distant memory when Lady Catherine reared up from her seat and pointed a shaking finger at him. “You have done this! You brought her here! You allowed her, a member of your own family, to come into my home and wilfully enthral my nephew under my very nose!” Her pique reached such a pitch as brought on a fit of coughing for which Mr. Collins was immeasurably grateful, for he knew not when or, indeed, whether her wrath would otherwise have exhausted itself.
“Pray forgive me! Had I known this would be the result of her visit, I should never have allowed her to come.”
“I do not forgive you!” she croaked, hauling herself to her feet. “You have no idea what you have done. But it will not be borne, not while I live to prevent it.”
Mr. Collins cowered out of her path as she hobbled furiously from the room, bellowing between coughs for her trunks to be packed. The silence left in her wake was as a vacuum, sucking the sound from his ears and the breath from his lungs. He fumbled for a hold on the back of the sofa and, by placing hand-over-hand, dragged himself on unsteady legs towards the door, then all but ran back to the parsonage.
***
Friday, 29 May 1812: London
Knightsbridge
May 29
Darcy,
Received your note. So it comes to this! Your father must be turning in his grave. Thank God this violent streak did not reveal itself around Georgiana. Not that I am not sorry for the girl in Herts, but still, she is not dear to us.
Rest assured, Wickham will be found. You did well to put Jameson on the hunt. He is a good man for the job. Needless to say, my boys enjoy a good chase—have allowed a few to take up the scent. Between both our men and Forster’s, the bastard will be in irons in no time. I should not bother with the Runners. They will not touch this while the army and the militia are involved—nothing in it for them.
Not at all surprised you have managed to assume culpability for the whole affair. I shall not waste His Majesty’s ink attempting to persuade you otherwise, though I trust you can guess my opinion.
Keep me informed. I shall do the same for you.
Fitzwilliam
Darcy put the letter aside. Regardless of his cousin’s opinion, he knew no one would have been harmed had he only deigned to warn people of Wickham’s depravity sooner. It pained him to think Elizabeth must know this also and despise him for it.
The sound of voices in the hall brought a welcome interruption to such wretched reflections. He pushed himself out of his chair, happy for the reprieve of a visitor—and a familiar one, given the absence of a calling card. His surprise was great indeed when Lady Catherine de Bourgh swept into the room.
“I am relieved to find you at home, Nephew,” said she, enthroning herself in an armchair. “A report of an alarming nature has reached my ears. I could not rest until I had your word it was without foundation.”
Darcy suppressed a sigh. “Good afternoon, madam.”
She blinked at him, her countenance reddening slightly. “Yes, yes, good afternoon.”
“And what is this report you would have me refute?”
She bristled. “A vile rumour has spread all the way from Hertfordshire…”
The mention of that place set Darcy’s heart to racing. He ignored it. Hertfordshire was a large county, and reason would have it that not every piece of news to travel thence must pertain to Elizabeth.
“…that you are very soon to become engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet!”
Reason was overrated. “Where have you heard this?”
“From Mr. Collins. His wife’s family would have it that in Hertfordshire it is widely expected you will soon make your addresses.”
He glanced heavenward. “You have met Mrs. Collins’s family. Can you truly credit any report from Sir William as being grounded in truth?”
“I can credit him with knowing every rumour there is to be known.”
“What that man imagines he knows and what the rest of the world believes are highly unlikely ever to coincide. I have not been in Hertfordshire for many months. Why should this particular rumour be circulating now?”
“Do not be obtuse. Miss Bennet clearly set her cap at you after her Easter visit and has begun the rumour herself in an attempt to entrap you from afar.”
Darcy almost laughed. Little did his aunt know how willingly he would submit to any such entrapment. “I assure you, there is no possibility Miss Bennet might invent such a tale. This report is nothing more than fanciful conjecture, likely spurred by my friend’s return to the area.”
She peered at him for a moment, as though deciding whether to believe him or not, then sighed overly loudly. “Thank heavens! Such an alliance would have been a disgrace! But then I knew it could not be true. You would never connect yourself to a woman of such inferior birth, of no importance in the world. You know your place.”
Darcy clenched his teeth against rising indignation. “I am very sensible of my place. Do you know yours, though, I wonder?” Her eyes widened in outrage, but he pressed his point. “Do not presume to instruct me on whom I may or may not wed.”
She seemed torn between fury and alarm. “Surely, you cannot mean to tell me you do have intentions towards this girl?”
“You are mistaken if you believe you are in any way entitled to know my private concerns.”
“But she is nobody! She has nothing to recommend her! She is a tradesman’s niece, a parson’s cousin—”
“Lady Catherine, I have said nothing of my intentions, but whatever they may be, Miss Bennet is a gentleman’s daughter and an exceptional woman whom I hold in very high esteem. I will not hear you disparage her.”
She looked at him aghast. “Have you lost the use of your reason?”
“Quite the contrary, I am more master of myself than I have ever been.”
“Her arts and allurements have drawn you in!”
“I believe I made clear my wish for you not to speak ill of her. She is quite without art and deserves no censure of yours.”
“You cannot be serious!”
He only glowered silently at her.
“You are infatuated then.”
When still he gave no answer, she threw a hand in the air and cried, “Heaven and earth, can you not find a half decent incognita to relieve you of your fascination?”
“You forget yourself, madam!”
“No, Nephew, it is you who forgets yourself!” she cried, slapping the arm of the chair. “Need I remind you that you are engaged to my daughter?”
A vein pulsed in Darcy’s temple. “I am bound to your daughter by neither honour nor inclination.”
“You deny the arrangement? You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour, and—”
“A tacit agreement made between four parties, three of whom are now dead, eight-and-twenty years ago can have no possible claim upon me. No principles of duty or honour would be violated should I not marry your daughter.”
“Not marry?” Her ladyship clutched at her chest, air wheezing in and out as she rasped breath after furious breath. “This is not to be borne! I am not used to brooking disappointment!”
“Then I suggest you adjust your hopes accordingly.”
She let out an inarticulate cry and heaved herself to her feet. “You are then resolved to have this…this Bennet creature?”
“Regardless of your determination to know them, my private affairs will remain so.”
“What of your family and what you owe all of us?”
“Your performance today has quite convinced me of the limits of my obligations there.”
“You would then see us all ridiculed for a whim to marry a buxom
pauper?”
Darcy could not recall ever being thus enraged. “I will countenance no further censure of Miss Bennet, either in this house or abroad. If you can say nothing civil, I strongly recommend you refrain from speaking at all.”
“I came to you, hoping you would discredit Mr. Collins’s report, and you have all but confirmed it!”
“I have confirmed nothing. You have drawn your own conclusions.”
“Indeed I have, and I am most seriously displeased. Depend upon it: I shall carry my point. Do not imagine Miss Bennet will ever be your wife!”
Darcy turned his back on his aunt and rang for the butler. He closed his eyes and pressed his clenched fist to his lips ’til the sting from that blow passed but, after a very short while, squared his shoulders and turned back to the room. “There is nothing left to say on the matter. Godfrey will show you to your carriage. Good day, madam.”
Lady Catherine gave a wheezy splutter of indignation. Darcy gave a curt nod and left the room.
***
Lord Matlock eased slowly into his chair, unsure which creaked more loudly, the furniture or his knees. His man handed him his tincture, which he swallowed greedily. It had been a long and tedious day, and all he presently desired was to spend his evening in quiet reverie with a book, a cigar, and some port. He had taken up none of these before the door was flung open, and to his great surprise and immeasurable displeasure, his sister swept into the room.
“Reginald! We must act immediately! Darcy has lost his wits!”
The improbability of any such thing convinced him no action was required at all.
“He will not marry Anne! He will not have her! Obstinate, selfish boy! He would hear no reason! He refuses to honour the agreement of his mother, his father…” On she raged until Matlock began to wonder whether he might enjoy the whole of his book ere she exhausted her ire. Perchance if he lit his cigar, he might smoke the shrew from the room. Alas, the door was then opened a second time, and all hope of a peaceful evening was lost.
