23. The Measure of a Man #3
At length Wickham spoke once more. “She is not alone.”
“I know.”
“The door is locked.”
“I know.”
“The innkeeper has stationed his wife in the adjoining chamber.”
Darcy rested his elbows upon his knees. “I know all these things.”
Wickham regarded him for a moment before giving a small nod. “Very well.”
Neither man attempted conversation after that. There existed too much weariness between them, and too many years that could not be untangled in a single night.
Toward two o’clock a muffled sound reached them through the panels.
Not words.
Sobbing.
Darcy rose instantly and crossed the few paces separating him from the door.
“Georgie?”
The weeping ceased so abruptly that he wondered whether he had imagined it.
He laid one hand lightly against the wood.
“I am here.”
Nothing answered him.
“I shall remain here all night.”
Several heartbeats passed before her voice came, scarcely above a whisper.
“I know.”
He closed his eyes.
“Would you like me to come inside?”
“No.”
“Very well.”
“I cannot...” Her words faltered. “I cannot bear for you to see me.”
“There is nothing you could do that would make me unwilling to see you.”
Another silence followed.
“I have disappointed Papa.”
The words were so unexpected that Darcy’s throat tightened.
“Our father loved you very dearly.”
“I know.”
“He would grieve that someone sought to deceive you.”
“I deceived you.”
He had no answer prepared for that.
“You made a grievous mistake,” he said after a long pause. “You compounded it by remaining silent. Those things are true. They are not the whole truth.”
She did not reply.
“You are also my sister.”
Still nothing.
“And nothing that has happened today alters that.”
A sob escaped before she mastered it.
“I am so tired.”
“Then try to sleep.”
“I do not think I can.”
“I shall be here when morning comes.”
Her answer drifted through the door scarcely loud enough to hear.
“I believe you.”
Darcy took up his chair after several minutes had passed without another sound from within.
Wickham looked up.
“Is she calmer?”
“I cannot tell.”
“I think she will remember that you remained.”
Darcy gave a weary shake of his head.
“I fear she will remember everything else.”
The first grey light of dawn crept beneath the curtains before anyone in the passage stirred again.
Darcy had not slept.
His neck ached from the chair, and his boots were stiff with dried mud from the previous day’s ride. Across from him Wickham blinked awake, straightened slowly, and rubbed one shoulder where it had rested awkwardly against the wall.
“I have known more comfortable lodgings,” he observed.
Despite everything, Darcy came close to smiling.
“As have I.”
The attempt at levity vanished when hurried footsteps sounded upon the stairs.
The landlord appeared, twisting his cap between anxious hands.
“Begging your pardon, sir...”
Darcy was already standing.
“What is it?”
“The gentleman, sir. The fair-haired gentleman.”
“Mr. Wycombe.”
“Yes, sir. His chamber is empty. He left without paying.”
Wickham was on his feet before the landlord finished speaking.
“Of course, he did!”
“We cannot rightly say how he managed it.” He swallowed.
Darcy refused to let the innocent innkeeper suffer because of another man’s treachery. “I shall cover his account,” he promised before he dismissed the man with a brief nod.
The innkeeper retreated gratefully.
For several moments neither gentleman spoke.
Wickham broke the silence first.
“He planned it.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“He never intended to pay once he discovered the settlement could not be touched.”
Darcy looked toward Georgiana’s door.
“No.”
Before either could move, a cry sounded from within the chamber.
Not loud.
Merely wounded.
Darcy crossed the passage.
“Georgiana.”
“I heard.”
Her voice was raw.
“He has gone.”
“Yes.”
“He did not even wish to say farewell.”
Darcy rested his forehead briefly against the door.
“No.”
“I was very foolish.”
He remained silent. It was not because he agreed; rather because contradiction would serve no purpose while the wound remained fresh.
“I thought...” She struggled for breath between the words. “I thought someone could love me for myself.”
“They shall.”
“I no longer know how to tell the difference.”
Those words lingered long after the conversation ended.
Darcy remained outside until the innkeeper’s wife gently persuaded Georgiana to admit her and assist with dressing.
Only then did he descend to the private parlor.
Wickham had already ordered breakfast, though little of it appeared likely to be eaten. A servant waited beside the table with writing materials arranged before the cold hearth.
“I took the liberty,” Wickham said, indicating the desk. “You mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s guardianship yesterday. He ought to know before rumor reaches him.”
Darcy looked at the blank sheet for several moments before sitting.
“Yes.”
“And Lady Matlock.”
“She will wish to be with Georgiana.”
“Precisely.”
He dipped the pen into the ink.
Here, at the end of his journey, the task required something more difficult than riding. He had to explain failure.