Chapter Twenty-Eight
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was grim as he and Darcy set out in the direction of Flitwick Hall, located near Ware.
It was his opinion that if the girl they were to see married today was indeed so immature and guileless, with the possibility that she might never mature much more, that it would have been kinder to take her away, give her baby to a good family, and help her attempt to forget the matter.
He saw what they were doing as a further cruelty, but it was not his business.
The lady’s father must do whatever he thought was fitting for his family.
Since the babe would be the child of the young woman’s blood, and there were no other heirs, perhaps if it were a boy, he might be raised as his grandparents’ heir.
Fitzwilliam shuddered at the prospect of taking Wickham’s spawn as his heir.
Darcy was quiet as they made their way on horseback, accompanying the armed men who would provide security for the escorted prisoner as they travelled to London.
Fitzwilliam knew that even after what happened with Georgiana, even though Darcy fully accepted what must happen to Wickham, his cousin was still assaulted by a thousand recollections of boyhood afternoons at Pemberley.
Fitzwilliam remained silent, not wishing to pain his cousin further.
The only way for Darcy to put the whole ghastly business behind him was to process his feelings through his brooding. It was simply his cousin’s way.
The men rode up to Flitwick Hall and were received by Sir Gregory and Lady Sayles.
Mr Chickering was there with his very innocent daughter.
The girl had been even more flighty than usual since her ordeal, and could not be kept reasonably calm without the comfort of a pug named Truffles, which she carried everywhere.
The local rector was also present, prepared to marry the young woman to her unfortunate consequence by common license.
“He will marry her!” Mr Chickering insisted. “You fellows can persuade him all you like, and by any means at your disposal, if you think it will help, but I swear by all I hold dear, that man is not leaving Flitwick Hall until my daughter is married!”
Fitzwilliam and Darcy followed a servant into the cellars of the house, an old wine cellar to be exact. Wickham was asleep on the small cot, covered in two blankets when the two men entered.
“Darcy! I wondered when you would turn back up.” Wickham sat up, pulling the blankets closer about him. “Did you plan to leave me down here to freeze to death in this old cellar? What have you done to get me out of here? Have you found me a barrister?”
Fitzwilliam doubled over in laughter as Darcy gaped at the villain in shock at his never wavering audacity.
“Wickham, you cannot pretend that you seriously believe that either Darcy, or I, or even any of our connections, could save you from this. God’s teeth, you have deserted the militia in wartime, attempted to abscond with an underage girl who was under the protection of your colonel’s house, defrauded merchants, damaged the reputation of your regiment, robbed more than a dozen carriages, stolen hundreds, perhaps thousands of pounds worth of heirlooms, not to mention money and weapons, and ransomed three hostages, and–God in Heaven–impregnated one.
An innocent, underage girl that you had to have understood is little more than a simpleton.
And this is only what we know of occurring since July, to say nothing of your past crimes in Derbyshire and London.
You have gone too far this time, and we have not a prayer of saving you, and you know it. ”
“Why are you even here then?” Wickham snarled.
“Because we will see this end for Darcy’s own honour, to close this disappointing chapter of our lives, and see you permanently put behind us.” Fitzwilliam answered with finality in his voice.
“Why have I not been taken by the army?” Wickham demanded. “What is the delay?”
“We have not decided if you should face the justice of the army, when your crimes against the residents and travellers in Hertfordshire are so much more vicious than simple desertion. Our intention is to deliver you to The Old Bailey for a criminal trial.” Fitzwilliam watched as the blood drained from Wickham’s face.
“No! I am a deserter of the army! The execution will at least not be public! Darcy, the least you can do for the memory of your father is to ensure I do not die a slow, public death, if my death by hanging is not swift!” Wickham was panicked.
“And what if someone makes the connection, you know many people attend the hangings, your father took me everywhere with him while you were too busy studying, I am known to be connected to your family! You must do something, for both our sakes!”
“The least?” Darcy demanded. “The least I could do? Wickham, I think the least I could do is return to my betrothed, and assure my sister that she never need fear your name again. Instead, I am here on behalf of another pitiful young girl whom you have harmed irreparably, so if I do anything to improve the end of your short life, it will be for her, not for you.”
“You will marry Miss Chickering by license before you leave this house.” Fitzwilliam was forbidding.
“Upon signing the register, you will take your mother’s maiden name of Lovett.
You will then be conducted to London, where you will be tried and die under the name of Wickham.
Whether this occurs at The Old Bailey or the army barracks will be determined by your obedience in this matter, and your conduct in the presence of Miss Chickering and her father.
You will not play the devil-may-care rascal, Wickham.
You will be solemn and subdued. You will make little to no eye contact with anyone, especially the girl, and you will speak as little as possible.
You will say nothing to your bride other than to refer to a pressing need to go and make your fortune on the sea, and that you will miss her terribly until your return. ”
Fitzwilliam’s voice turned even more menacing.
“If you stray from these instructions, if you say anything to anyone other than these instructed responses, if you lash out at any point and say something hurtful to Miss Chickering, or insulting to her father, I assure you, Wickham, I will ensure that the trip to London will be the most painful journey you have ever made in your life. I can promise you with equal dedication that I could ensure that certain men in the army get their hands on you, and if that happens, your fond dream of a swift death by firing squad will be the furthest thing from your end that you can possibly imagine. Do you understand?”
Wickham, knowing that he was well and truly finished, and accepting that there was nothing that Darcy could do to help him even if he wanted to, nodded, trembling in terror of the few days ahead of him. His last days.
“Darcy, will y-y-ou make him keep his p-p-pro-m-m-ise?” Wickham stammered in fear.
Darcy sighed. “Wickham, if you can show this one simple kindness in your whole miserable life, if you can just quietly marry this girl, sign the register, do or say nothing that will bring her or her family more pain, and give legitimacy to what I pray will be your last-born child, I will do what I can to make what remains of your short life reasonably comfortable, and to attempt to ensure you the most merciful possible execution, which is more than you deserve. I assure you, I do it for the poor young lady, not for you, but you have my word.”
An hour later, the new Mrs Lovett was sobbing into her father's coat over being parted again from her true love, and Wickham had been shackled (out of sight of his young wife) and loaded into a padlocked wagon. The party then headed for London.
What followed in London was swift. As promised, Wickham was delivered to the army barracks, along with a packet of evidence from Sir Gregory Sayles, and from Wickham’s victims, many of whom had visited Flitwick Hall to identify him and sign statements once he was caught.
Darcy produced his numerous debts, and by some miracle, his commanding officer just so happened to be visiting headquarters.
Colonel Forster was able to testify as to the general useless at best, and outright selfish and ruthless at worst, nature of the disgraced officer.
Wickham was sentenced to die the following dawn by firing squad.
Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam kept their word, and ensured that the cell in which he spent his last night had a decent bed and blankets, and that a hearty last meal be sent to the doomed man.
In one last attempt for mercy – of a sort – Darcy also arranged for a bottle of strong whiskey to be sent to Wickham late that night, hoping the man would be intelligent enough to save it for the last hour or two before dawn.
Wickham had never enjoyed being sober, always preferring the dullness of inebriation, and so if–for the sake of his father–Darcy could at least dull the terror of execution for his old playmate, he would try.
They spoke little as they rode on horseback to Matlock House. “Will you come in and speak to the pater?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“I will, but not immediately. Allow me to visit Darcy House and change for dinner. Tell Aunt Eleanor to set a place for me at the table.”
“Very well,” answered Fitzwilliam agreeably. “I believe I will stay with my parents. Since I will be here for only two nights, I might as well give my mother the thrill of having me at home.”