Chapter 31 #3
“What was yours,” Richard said coldly, “was ten thousand pounds, an estate, an education, and more indulgence than any scoundrel deserved.”
“It was not enough.”
“No,” Darcy said. “It never was.”
Sir William stood. “Mr. Wickham, in light of your admission and the evidence before us, I must take you into custody pending formal proceedings.”
The words seemed to strike Wickham like a blow.
“No.” His arrogance collapsed at once. “No, that is not necessary. Come, Sir William, there is no need for such severity. Darcy, tell him. This is a family matter. It can be settled privately.”
“You made it public when you entered this house and claimed my sister before witnesses.”
“I was angry. Desperate. You know I never meant—”
“You meant every word.”
Wickham turned to Richard. “Colonel, surely you understand. A young man without funds—”
Richard’s face was harder than Darcy had ever seen it. “You have two paths before you. You may go to gaol and face a judge, or you may take your chances with a press-gang before this matter spreads farther than it already has.”
Wickham stared. “A press-gang?”
“It is more mercy than you deserve.”
“What of the army?” Wickham demanded. “I could take a commission. I could serve. Darcy, you know I could serve.”
Richard laughed once, without warmth. “A coward and a reprobate like you? I would not subject even the French army to such a soldier.”
Wickham’s face twisted. “You cannot send me to sea.”
“I cannot,” Richard said. “But I can see that you are handed to those who can.”
Sir William looked pained by the exchange, but he did not contradict it. Mr. Philips watched in silence, his mouth drawn tight.
Wickham turned back to Darcy, desperation replacing charm entirely. “Darcy. Fitzwilliam. For old times. For your father’s sake.”
Darcy felt Georgiana move behind him, a small shuddering breath, but she made no sound.
“For my father’s sake?” Darcy repeated.
“He loved me. You know he did. I was his favorite. He would be ashamed to see you treat me so.”
A strange quiet settled over Darcy then.
For years, those words might have cut him.
They might have reopened the old wounds: the boy in the nursery, the schoolboy at Eton, the young man returning home to find Wickham already in possession of his father’s affection, his father’s trust, his father’s indulgence.
He had once envied Wickham that place, and hated himself for envying it.
Now he looked at Wickham and saw only the end of such favor.
“Yes,” Darcy said. “You were his favorite.”
Wickham stared, uncertain.
“And I am grateful for it,” Darcy continued. “Because had he loved me as he loved you, perhaps I would have become what you are.”
Wickham recoiled as though struck.
Darcy looked at him one last time. “You were given everything a young man could need to make an honorable life: education, money, land, welcome, forgiveness beyond reason. You spent all of it. You were offered friendship and answered with cruelty. You were offered independence and answered with vice. You were offered mercy and mistook it for weakness.”
“Darcy—”
“No. I am done.”
He turned his back.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Richard turned away as well. Mr. Philips followed, then Sir William, solemnly.
Elizabeth drew Georgiana closer, turning her body so Wickham could no longer see the girl he had tried to terrify.
Georgiana hid her face against Elizabeth’s shoulder, but not before Darcy saw that she too had turned from him.
Wickham made a sound—half sob, half curse.
“Do not do this,” he pleaded. “Darcy, please. I beg you. I will go away. I will never trouble you again.”
Darcy did not turn.
The door opened and two men that Sir William had brought from Meryton entered and took Wickham by the arms.
“No,” Wickham said, struggling now. “No, wait. I confess. I confess it, do you hear? I was desperate. Darcy! Georgiana! Please!”
Georgiana trembled, but Elizabeth held her fast.
The men dragged Wickham toward the door. His boots scraped across the floor; his voice broke into open sobbing before they reached the hall.
“Darcy! For pity’s sake!”
Darcy looked at the fire.
He listened until Wickham’s cries faded down the passage, then to the closing of the front door, then to the silence that followed.
Only then did he turn back.
Georgiana was weeping, but not as she had that first night.
Elizabeth’s arms were around her, one hand smoothing her hair, her own face pale and damp-eyed but fierce.
Richard stood with his jaw set and his gaze fixed upon nothing.
Mr. Philips released a long breath. Sir William looked older than he had an hour before.
Darcy crossed the room and knelt before Georgiana.
“It is over,” he said quietly.
Her eyes lifted to his, frightened still, searching.
“He cannot claim you,” Darcy said. “He cannot take you. The paper is false.”
Georgiana’s face crumpled.
She reached for him, and Darcy gathered his sister into his arms while Elizabeth held them both.
No one spoke.
There was nothing more to say.