Some Particular Evil

Chapter 41

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

O nce Darcy allowed the first tear to fall, he could not stem the flow of emotion that came cascading behind it. His mother—his loving, devoted mother—had been murdered. Murdered .

The events of that night sixteen years before flooded his memory, and he replayed every moment. He remembered clearly looking around at how happy everyone seemed, how gay the whole scene was, and thinking that his mother might be cheered up if she could be convinced to join in the festivities.

Darcy had even begun to run back to the house to beg her to come down with him. He had seen himself in his mind’s eye taking his mother by the hand and entreating her to see how diverting it all was, walking with her back to the barn, and watching as her eyes lit up to witness the music and the candles and the dancing.

Then Wickham had found him on the road and convinced him to play with the other children. How selfish he had been! To run and laugh with the sons and daughters of tenants, hiding behind haystacks and bushes, while his mother was in danger.

If he had only resisted the foolish urge for fun and games, he might have saved her. He might have taken her out of harm’s way altogether. Or seen what Anne was about to do and stopped her before she could rob him and Georgiana of a mother. He may not have been as tall as she was at the time, but he was a boy; surely he could have wrestled a twelve-year-old girl away from his mother.

The guilt hit him that much harder when he realised how unfairly he had judged Lady Anne all these years. Rather than giving her the benefit of the doubt, he had assumed the very worst. Even when his father, aggrieved and bereft, had urged him not to be angry with his mother, assuring him that a woman who loved her children as much as Lady Anne would never leave them without a very good reason, he had baulked.

He had blamed her. And he had hated her. And that blame had led to a lifetime of mistrust and assumptions of faithlessness towards everyone in his path. And, he now saw, to save himself the pain of their desertion, he had deserted them first. At the first whiff of treachery, he had cut others off without a backward glance, then congratulated himself for being so discerning.

Wickham had not deserved his harsh rejection in university. Darcy had seen Wickham veer onto a path he deemed unacceptable, had assumed the very worst about him, and had heartlessly discarded his childhood friend. What was more, he had commended himself for doing it! Wickham, having just lost his beloved father, had deserved a compassionate friend. Had Darcy ever shown true compassion to anyone?

Yes. Jane Bennet .

While he had thought mainly of protecting Bingley from the grasping schemes of Mrs Bennet, he knew as well that Bingley’s attachments were like the fireworks at Vauxhall gardens—they burned hot and bright for a moment but faded out as soon as the object of his ‘undying devotion’ was out of his sight. He had hoped for some evidence of loyalty to this particular lady on Bingley’s part, if for nothing else than to show that his friend was growing in maturity. That hope had been in vain.

He must soon tell Elizabeth of Bingley’s inconstancy; for now, however, he would revel in her nurturing tenderness.

“What are you thinking of?” Elizabeth’s sweet, calming voice washed over him like gentle rain as he gazed at her. What was he thinking of? Jane Bennet? Wickham?

No.

“I could have saved her,” he said, choking on the words.

Elizabeth’s countenance fell in anxious sympathy, and she squeezed his hands.

“You were just a boy, and your cousin was a crazed predator.”

“She was a girl.”

“A murderous, evil girl. She made your poor mother her prey, and nothing anyone could have done short of recognising her insanity and binding her in chains would have stopped her from accomplishing her ends.”

“But I chose to play with the other children rather than go back to my mother and insist that she join us for the festivities,” Darcy lamented, shaking his head at his own immaturity. “I was the weak one. Anne should have targeted me .” If only he had been stronger, more principled, more resolute, he would have been at the house with his mother. He would have seen what Anne was about. And he would have stopped her from murdering Lady Anne Darcy.

“You were a child! I am sure Lady Anne wanted you to be out with the other children. Think of the joy in her heart when she saw how excited you were for the festival; she would have wished nothing more than for you to be laughing and playing like the eleven-year-old boy you were. You are not responsible for her death.” Her eyes bore into Darcy’s as she spoke, as if begging him to believe her.

Perhaps one day he would, but today, he was a boy whose mother had died. A boy who had unfairly condemned an innocent, loving woman for a despicable sin she did not commit. A boy who could never atone for the lack of faith he had manifested in a mother who had only ever given him the utmost affection and devotion.

And his heart was broken.