Darcy shared a quick look of bemusement with his uncle. This kind of prejudice was precisely why the different classes of England did not trust each other. During the reign of Henry VIII, Darcy’s forefather had been raised to a baron. Alas, Darcy’s father came from Lord Darcy’s second son’s line, who then had several sons himself. Without the benefit of several estates to parcel out to each successive son, they had to seek income somehow. With all that followed in the generations between then and now—which included the bloody changeover of many monarchs—the untitled but eventually landed Darcys had amassed greater wealth and kept their heads, better than many of England’s oldest noble families. Sir John Lundell boasted a lineage as one of the first baronetcies created and from a long line of knights before that. He clearly disliked that many gentlemen in the area had income from trade, however far back, and assumed that they only valued money while over-romanticising his own position. Darcy doubted Sir John cared so much more about his tenants’ welfare compared with his purse strings. Additionally, holding that view seemed to infantilise his tenants.
“Then we will hope the militia and any hired guards are well regulated,” Darcy replied with a tight smile before leaving on his errand.
*****
The sounds of groans swirled around Wickham. They had been marching for nigh on a week in what he considered excessively uncivilised conditions. He had foolishly believed that joining the militia would be his means for revenge on Fitzwilliam Darcy and would line Wickham’s pockets with his fine coin. He imagined himself finding a way to be set for life, with pretty, pleasant company and balls in between. He nearly had it all. Then he was fooled by Eliza, and Darcy won again.
When he realised Denny would inevitably link everything back to him, Wickham thought only to flee the country and be thankful Darcy did not kill him for touching Eliza. Now his sore feet and bone-weary exhaustion only fuelled his hatred. He might have been content to let Darcy live his life, but the other man clearly desired to escalate matters. His cousin recommended the Derbyshire Militia to assist in the West Riding where none other than his uncle was the Lord Lieutenant. If that is how Darcy wanted to play, then Wickham would meet him. By sending him to his death, clearly he did not desire to prosecute. If Wickham survived this encounter with the unruly mob of King Ludd’s followers, he would return the favour to Darcy.
The regiment reached Manchester yesterday, and there Denny rejoined the ranks, uncharacteristically silent about his London excursion. Now Wickham marched with his friend-turned-traitor on to a town called Huddersfield where there was knowledge of a planned attack the following night. The truth was Wickham could little blame the attackers. The mill owners were becoming filthy rich all over the North while the frame breakers were still poor farmers hoping to earn wages from fabric they wove in the winter. Merchants they might have sold to before were now restricted in who they could trade with due to the war. It seemed the only people who did not suffer were the rich, like Darcy and his aristocratic family. Loyalty meant nothing to them. Wickham’s father had quit a successful law practice to become old Mr. Darcy’s steward. Perhaps children of other well-to-do servants would be happy with a few hundred pounds with which to open a shop, but Wickham was always meant for more. Then the old man had to die and leave his hateful son with too much control over Wickham’s future with his set of conditions. He had to spend money to make friends, had to buy them rounds and lose to them at cards lest no one would mingle with the son of a steward at school and university. His costly and dissolute lifestyle was imposed on him by a Darcy, the same one to whom he had to be cunning and charming —and now the newest one thought to blame him for it all.
At last, they reached their destination. Leaving their sergeants in charge of setting up camp, Wickham and Denny silently made their way to the inn where they would be quartered. Judging by Denny’s pale complexion, the anger Wickham felt was palpably apparent. The innkeeper looked at Wickham and shrank back after thrusting a missive into Denny’s hands.
“Well?” Wickham bit out after Denny had scanned its contents.
“You’re never going to believe this,” he said. Then he finally met Wickham’s eyes. “We’re to meet with Darcy any minute.”
Wickham did not feel the least bit guilty when he punched Denny square in the nose. He stepped back in disgust as blood poured from his old friend’s face and rubbed his red-stained flesh on Denny’s coat. “We had best prepare, then.”
He spun on his heel and entered the private meeting room. He cared not for the whispers circulating around him. Denny shuffled along after him, pinching the bridge of his nose and staunching the blood with a handkerchief.
Before the weak ale they were served had quenched his thirst from a week of walking on dirt paths, Darcy arrived. Wickham had expected Darcy to seem surprised to see him, but instead he met Wickham’s gaze with steely resolve. Marching directly to him, Darcy pulled Wickham forward by his lapels, screwed up his fist, and punched him on the jaw. Wickham felt his head rattle and his teeth chatter. Before he had regained his senses, Darcy punched him in the gut so hard that he regurgitated all the ale he had swallowed.
The splatter on his boots must have cooled Darcy’s ire. Flicking his eyes from his boots and then to Wickham and Denny, Darcy sat without preamble and said, “Let’s get to it.”
Denny attempted to help Wickham up but was waved off. Wickham fumed as he stumbled to his seat. If he were not so afraid of the gallows, he would run Darcy through at this moment.
“Our presence was noted. They will be fools to attack,” Wickham said.
“I do not think wisdom is one of their strong suits,” Darcy replied.
Just like Darcy to see no value in those below him. “Our orders are to enter the factory after the final shift tomorrow night. Mr. Bingley has hired men who will be arriving at the encampment this afternoon. They will explicitly obey our sergeants,” Denny said.
Wickham concealed his reaction to Denny’s words. They were protecting a Bingley mill? Would friendship drive Darcy here when Wickham had every expectation that Eliza fled to London, and even now, Darcy could have been courting or wedding her? Another man might be too angry at being thrown over by a woman, but Darcy would easily forgive the trespass if he believed Wickham was at the heart of the matter. Reconciliation between Eliza and Darcy must be imminent if it had not already occurred. Wickham would wager everything Darcy was worth that Darcy had higher stakes in the mill than mere friendship.
He allowed Denny to continue to speak on the logistics of how they would defend the mill, hoping to ensure as few casualties as possible. Darcy spoke in a detached tone. Of course, he could; it would not be his life being risked. When the meeting appeared over, Darcy glanced at him. “Denny, I will need a moment to speak with Wickham alone.”
“My, my. Your uncle still pulls your strings, does he? And where are his sons? Safe at home while poor Darcy must deal with rabble rousers and dirty militiamen?”
Darcy did not rise to the bait and instead occupied himself by taking a swig of ale. “Given your hostility towards Denny, you have likely surmised that I know it was he who delivered that note blackmailing my aunt. A peer. Nay, a very powerful peer’s popular wife. You are intelligent enough to gather just how much trouble you could be in should we prosecute.”
Wickham focused on his cup on the table. “But you never will.”
“Do not be so certain. You did not blackmail only me and my wife’s family, but you involved the House of Matlock, and they are far less forgiving.”
Darcy undoubtedly meant to threaten him, but Wickham latched onto the fact that he already wed Eliza. “What are you offering instead?”
“Transportation. Life in a colony with enough funds to begin well. The rest is up to you.”
“And if I say no?”
Darcy merely shook his head. Again refusing to rise to the bait as they both knew Wickham had to recognise the position he was in. Men were executed for blackmailing peers.
&n
bsp; “I don’t suppose you could make these provisions before you send me to a tinder box with a ready match?”
“It was not my goal, or even Arlington’s, to see you face these men.” In Darcy’s eyes, Wickham saw a shadow of the fondness that had once existed between them. “You joined the militia, undoubtedly for foul intents that you nearly accomplished. Had you not wanted to risk your life and limb to defend others, you ought to have thought about that before joining.”
“What would you know about it?”
Darcy shook his head. “You have always thought you knew me so well. While you were skipping classes at university to gamble at the Duke of Somerset’s table—oh yes, I easily surmised how you knew that piece of gossip about my aunt—I served my five years.”
“The rumour was you had gone to Kent with your cousins.”
“Never mind the rumours. We will all act according to our duty, and then you may resign your commission and choose your future location of residence.”
Darcy gave Wickham a pitying look, and at that moment, Wickham hated him more than when he had believed Darcy to be a self-righteous hypocrite. Instead, knowing that Darcy chose the path of honour when he could have paid his way out of service, knowing he left behind his new bride to see after his investment, and the human collateral caught up in it all made Wickham realise just how depraved and unprincipled his life had been. And instead of being jealous of his carefree and comparatively charmed life, Darcy pitied him. Something stronger even than the desire for revenge and love of money surged forward. His pride would not accept Darcy’s charity.
“Leave off.” Wickham suddenly stood, and his chair loudly scraped on the hard floor. “I don’t want any more of your money.”
He made to leave and pushed by, but Darcy pulled him by the arm. “You can hardly leave the country on your own dime, and I am through believing you can resist the temptation of wealth through Darcy money or revenge on me.”
Wickham shoved Darcy’s hand aside. “There comes a time when a man’s got nothing but his pride left. You won it all, Darcy, and the last thing I want is to see your face again or have you pity me.”
This time when Wickham tried to leave the room, Darcy did not stop him. A primitive beast gnashed on his insides. He deserved more out of life, but the cards were stacked too unevenly against him. Visions of riches and grandeur dissolved away, and instead he desired mutual destruction. If Wickham could not be rich and refused more of Darcy’s pity-money, then Darcy ought to feel the cost somehow. Tomorrow night would be interesting indeed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Elizabeth looked at the clock in Lady Lundell’s drawing room and sighed. Will and Mr. Truman had left for the mill hours ago. The other men had gathered in the library to drink away their nerves, and Elizabeth envied them the soothing tonic. Tedious minutes and hours of waiting in silence ticked by. She committed the last twenty-four hours to memory.
Will had returned to the castle the evening before in poor spirits. His mood blackened when Lord Matlock and Sir John confirmed that the other area landholders refused to negotiate on the rental terms. Mr. Truman and Bingley arrived as well, both with equal shares of bad news. In her heart, Elizabeth acknowledged she had always thought this was the inevitable outcome. No party was willing to compromise their position. When Will told her of his confrontation with Wickham, she believed the sentiment all the more.
She did not think she would sleep that night, but it claimed her at last. When she awoke, she saw her husband casually attired and gazing out a chamber window. Hearing her stir, he came to her side.
He crushed her to his chest. “I have left you everything,” Will said.
“What?” Elizabeth exclaimed in horror as thoughts flitted through her mind.
“I have seen that your family will want for nothing as well.”
She pushed back. “How can you speak of material things? Of my family? When all I wish is to have a life with you!”
A sob wrenched through her, and for a selfish moment, she wished her husband were just a bit less honourable. That he should personally go and fight instead of relying entirely on the militia and guards spoke of his superior character; the likes of Wickham and Denny could not compare. She was more humbled than ever by her previous opinion of him, but she was proud of him. Terrified for his welfare but proud.
They spent the day in their chambers and in each other’s arms. At last, the hour came for Will to leave for the mill. Bingley had desired to go as well, but as he had not served in the militia, it was determined he should stay. For Jane’s sake, she was glad.
Mr. Truman was to go with Will to the mill and arrived at Lundell Castle in readiness. As a guest of Lord Matlock, he was invited in but was received very coldly by the Lundells. Elizabeth’s anger at the injustice of his treatment mingled with her anxiety about the evening. While Will was in conference with his uncle and Sir John, she could no longer hold back the tears.
“None of that now, Mrs. Darcy,” Mr. Truman said quietly as he offered a handkerchief to her.
“Thank you,” she replied.
“These rioters have no idea what they are getting themselves into,” he said. “Mark my words, there will be nary a casualty on our side, but they will not be so fortunate, and all it will do is anger the men in London. Your husband and the others will be cried up as heroes.”
Elizabeth gave him a weak smile. “I am the wrong lady to speak to about that. I would rather have him home and safe.”
“That does you credit.”
“You have seen much action?” she asked, blushing at the question.
He nodded, and his eyes glassed over with a faraway look. “I have seen my share.”
“You would probably find it very silly if I confessed that, only a few months ago, I never gave much thought to the ugliness of this world. To how complicated it all is.” She dabbed at her eyes. She wished with all of her heart that she could take back so many things that had happened to her after Sir William Lucas’s ball. Perhaps many other things still would have come to pass, but if she had accepted Will’s first proposal, she would not know the evilness of George Wickham and have the hatred in her heart at the idea of him being likely proclaimed a hero alongside her own honourable husband.
“We all have a moment of awakening to the suffering in life. It is what we do with it that matters, regardless if it happens when you are seven or seventy.”
“And what do you do with it? How do you go through life being slighted or worse?”
“I do not find my own worth in the estimation of others.”
Elizabeth nodded. That was a quality she admired, one she saw in her husband and was likely one reason for Caroline’s attraction to him if the man before her had been Caroline’s first love. “And what do you do when wronged by others?”
“I could quote the Good Book and tell you the Church commands us to forgive them. I could make it sound easy.” He shook his head. “The truth is that each day is a battle to find compassion for others. But, you see, it is impossible to know what quiet battle someone else is facing in their life. There is often more to the story than meets our eyes. I have faced darkness in life, and I cannot condemn anyone else to face that alone. So when someone is cruel to me, I grant clemency.”
Seeing Will approach, Elizabeth met Mr. Truman’s eyes and nodded. “Thank you for your wisdom.” She returned his handkerchief. “I see that you mean forgiveness can be freeing.” Will reached her side, and she said, more to herself than to either of them, “Forgiveness is the greatest act of love and is not something that can be earned.”
Mr. Truman looked a little startled at her words and then excused himself, leaving the newlywed couple to themselves.
“What was that?” Will asked Elizabeth.
“I think I have finally managed to find how I can forgive Papa,” she whispered.
“I thought you would in time,” he said and quickly pressed a kiss to her temple.
Perceiving the men assembling at th
e door, Elizabeth kissed Will’s lips, uncaring if anyone saw. “I will be here when you return. I will be waiting up to bid you goodnight.”
Will had no words, but a tender look, and kissed her hands before leaving.
Loud knocks on the front door and shouting interrupted Elizabeth’s reflections. She and Lady Lundell started and went to the hall. Her heart ceased beating as she saw Will being carried to the parlour. Time stood still for a moment as Elizabeth registered a flurry of activity and shouting, but she could only see the ashen complexion of her husband and the blood-soaked makeshift bandage on his arm. At last, she followed them into the room and surged towards her husband’s side.
“Get her out of here!” Sir John yelled.
“No!” she exclaimed, and Lord Matlock interceded with his friend, allowing Elizabeth to stay.
“Will! Will, darling! Say something!” She could see he breathed and felt a pulse on his neck, his cravat having been torn off to bandage his arm, but he would not open his eyes. He clutched something in his uninjured hand, and after a moment, she recognised it as the bookmark she had made at Netherfield. She looked around the room, seeking someone who would be knowledgeable. As much as she esteemed Lord Matlock, he did not seem to be much use at the moment. She willed herself to calm.
Bingley finally noticed her and came to her side. “Oh God, Lizzy. I never would have thought…” He trailed off and blanched.
“Come, there is no reason to be upset yet,” her voice trembled. “Did they call for a surgeon?”
Bingley nodded and ran a shaking hand through his hair. “We are closer to him here than the mill is. He should be here soon.”
“And…and the others?”
“I have heard there was a militiaman hurt. Several of the intruders were struck, but only two or three were incapable of running away.”
Sufficient Encouragement: A Pride and Prejudice Variation (When Love Blooms Book 1) Page 29
