Chapter 8 #2
Wickham, fighting back, split Darcy’s lip, at which time Saye nodded to Fitzwilliam, who leant in and pulled Darcy off.
Saye, with a haughty sniff, offered Wickham a hand to assist him in standing, removing it as soon as Wickham was raised, and wiping it on his breeches.
Darcy shook off his cousins’ assistance, keeping his glare trained on his adversary while he righted his clothing and held his handkerchief to his bleeding lip.
“Get in the carriage, loser,” said Saye. “We require a word with you.”
Dawn had begun to lift the veil of night over London. “Mother and his lordship are gone from town,” Saye informed them all. “Let us go down to Dunraven street.”
With an air of resignation, Wickham obeyed, climbing in with only a moment to consider the ivory squabs.
“If you get dirt or blood on my seats, I shall take it out of your hide,” Saye informed him.
“Who gets ivory seats?” Wickham asked.
“Ivory silk seats,” Saye corrected him with a sniff. “I do. Beauty over prudence, just like me. Now hold your tongue and mind your dirt.”
The other men settled themselves in the carriage, Darcy next to Saye and Fitzwilliam beside Wickham.
The men were silent as the carriage moved through the streets.
Darcy had too much and too little to say and tried his best to order himself.
All would be laid bare now; all would be known. It was for the best.
“I must observe,” said Saye at length, “that our old friend Wickham here does not seem surprised to find himself set upon by Darcy.”
“I have some comprehension of what this is about,” Wickham replied, dabbing his handkerchief on his face and examining the results.
“Do you deny it?” Darcy spat.
Wickham raised one brow and coolly replied, “I have no wish to deny it.”
Darcy lunged at him, held off at the last moment by Fitzwilliam. “Steady on, Darcy. Let us hear what this vile excuse of a man has to say first.”
They arrived at the Matlock town house minutes later. Fitzwilliam kept a tight hand on Wickham’s arm, guiding him through the side door and down the hall to his father’s book room. Entering, he nearly threw him into a chair while Saye went to the sideboard and began pouring brandy.
“Saye, it is morning.”
“Morning is the time after you sleep,” Saye acknowledged. “I have not yet been to bed; ergo, still night. Darcy, I daresay, you need it more than anyone.”
Darcy stood in front of Wickham reflecting on the man that had once been a playfellow, then a mate, and now his foe. His thoughts were a jumble; the first question emerged as a hoarse croak.
“How long—” His voice broke, and he paused, clearing his throat. “How long has this been going on?”
Wickham’s eyes darted to the side where Saye lounged and Fitzwilliam stood looking like he was ready to fight.
“I want only for the truth,” said Darcy. “And I do not intend to stop until I have it, so pray, save us both time and speak in honesty.”
“Last summer,” said Wickham.
The words felt like a blow to Darcy’s chest, such as they confirmed what rumours he had been told, but he remained outwardly composed.
“And it has been…continued? Throughout…? That is to say, until the present time?”
Wickham met his gaze and nodded. Darcy had to turn then, going to look out the window while he struggled to remain calm.
“Do you love her?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“‘Course,” said Wickham. “I mean, she is a lovely girl, is she not? You men need not worry on that score—I do intend to marry her.”
Darcy whirled about, setting upon Wickham and yanking him into an upright position by his coat. His face inches from Wickham’s, he hissed, “You will need to kill me first.”
Wickham shook him off, pulling himself away. “If you keep assaulting me in this way, that should not be a trouble.”
“And you have…you have…?” Darcy asked, unable to stop himself from knowing, and equally unable to finish the sentence.
Wickham’s pitying look was all the answer he needed. “If it is any consolation, I know—I am quite certain—I was the first.”
Darcy’s hand shot out, hitting Wickham across the face and causing the man to stumble backwards over the chair he had so recently vacated. “Enough,” Wickham howled while Fitzwilliam pulled Darcy away again, echoing Wickham’s sentiment.
“We need answers not animal fury, Darcy,” he scolded. “Challenge him later if you must.”
“How is that a consolation?” Saye snapped while Darcy sank into a nearby chair. “You think Darcy wishes his marital rights appropriated by another man, most particularly you?”
“A duel,” Darcy said hoarsely. “We shall settle this as it must be. Fight to the death. Get your pistols, Saye.”
“Marital rights?” Wickham asked, disregarding the challenge he had just been issued. “How do you mean?”
“What do you think he means, you idiot?” Fitzwilliam shouted. “You have lain with his wife!”
“Mrs Darcy?” Wickham stood, looking around the room at the men. “What? I never—”
Darcy rose from his chair, crossing the room in a quick pace to stand in front of Wickham. “I shall not hear your lies!”
Wickham shoved him back, somewhat half-heartedly. “Enough, Darcy. I have never touched your wife.”
“Then why did you think Darcy set upon you?” Fitzwilliam asked. “Your guilt is clear!”
“I have guilt enough,” said Wickham slowly, “but none for Mrs Darcy. I thought we were speaking of Georgiana.”
Mrs Jane Bingley, having recently returned to Netherfield after a three-month wedding trip to Italy, sat down to breakfast one morning in late July and was handed a letter.
“It is from Lizzy,” she said, smiling and showing it to her dear Charles.
“Do you think we might prevail upon them to come to us?”
“It is Darcy’s habit to go to Pemberley in July,” her husband replied. “They are likely there now.”
Jane peered curiously at the mark on the letter. “No, ’tis from Leeds. How strange! What could they have been doing in Leeds?”
“Perhaps Darcy had business there, and your sister attended him,” Bingley suggested. “What does it say?”
Jane broke the sealing wax, opening the letter. She was immediately disappointed to see no more than a line or two written inside and read them with haste. Then she uttered a small gasp and raised her hand to her mouth.
“Charles? What can this mean?”
Bingley took the letter from her hand, reading the words aloud.
Dearest sister,
Please be assured that I am well. I love you, and I wish you every happiness. Do not fear for me when you learn the unhappy news—I am sure all will be well.
Yours &c,
Lizzy
He looked around as if he expected additional pages might have fallen from the table, but that was it. There was no more.
Jane bit her lip as she watched him, wishing he might reassure her but already suspecting he would have nothing of comfort to offer. He smiled at her but seemed unsure.
“Your mother, has she spoken of them?”
Jane shook her head. “She worried a bit that Lizzy was not yet increasing but said nothing besides that. Charles, what can it mean? Is Lizzy ill?”
“I shall write to Darcy directly,” Bingley assured her. “Do not fret my love, we shall get to the bottom of this.”