Chapter Thirty-Six #2
Darcy sheathed his blade after cutting the last knot from the boy’s wrists. The cords had left raw red marks around the child’s small hands. As soon as they were free, the boy flung his arms around Darcy’s neck and clung to him with trembling limbs.
“Papa!” he cried out. “Papa, where are you? Lizzy! I want Lizzy!”
The sound of that tiny, broken voice pierced Darcy to his core.
“Hush now, Thomas,” Darcy murmured, drawing the child into his arms. “You are safe. I have you. You are going home.”
The boy buried his face against Darcy’s shoulder and wept. Hot tears soaked through the fabric of Darcy’s coat as his small body shook with great, gulping sobs.
Darcy stood, adjusting his grip to cradle the boy more securely.
His small fists gripped Darcy’s lapel with desperate strength, and his legs wrapped around Darcy’s waist as though he feared being taken again.
Darcy placed one gloved hand gently on the boy’s back and rubbed slow circles, whispering reassurances even as his throat tightened with fury and sorrow.
He stepped over the scattered remnants of the shack’s grim interior and walked out the doorway. The cold air bit into his skin as he emerged, careful not to jostle the child.
Thick brambles and underbrush surrounded the crumbling hut, but Darcy forced a path through, shielding Tommy with his body. Thorny branches clawed at his coat and tugged at his hair. He winced as one caught the side of his neck, leaving a stinging scratch. Still, he pressed on.
Behind him, Richard barked orders as he hauled Wickham to his feet, binding him tighter. Darcy did not look back.
At last, the trees thinned, and the edge of the wood opened into a small clearing where Mr Bennet and Elizabeth waited.
As soon as Tommy spotted them, he lifted his tear-streaked face and reached towards them with a shuddering wail.
“Papa! Lizzy!”
Elizabeth ran forwards, but it was Mr Bennet who reached them first. His arms were already outstretched as Darcy transferred the boy gently into his embrace.
“There, my boy,” Mr Bennet murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “It is over now.”
Tommy wrapped his arms around Mr Bennet’s neck and sobbed into his shoulder. Mr Bennet held him close, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek to the child’s hair. Darcy saw a weariness in his eyes, yes, but also unmistakable love and grief.
Darcy turned to Elizabeth. Her hands were pressed to her lips, her face wet with tears. He stepped closer and took one of her hands in his own, squeezing gently.
“I will come to Longbourn shortly,” he said. “Once Wickham is in custody and secured in Meryton.”
She nodded, blinking rapidly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for bringing him back.”
Darcy bent his head and kissed her knuckles.
“Always.”
He gave Tommy one last look, then turned and strode back into the woods, where Richard waited with a bound and cursing Wickham.
They began the walk to Meryton, forcing Wickham between them, his arms secured before him and tied to the saddle strap of Richard’s mount.
Half an hour passed in silence before Darcy turned to him, voice like ice. “I know what happened from Anne’s perspective—and Elizabeth’s. I wish to know your part.” Quickly, he outlined what he knew and then waited for Wickham to speak.
Ever the opportunist, his former friend related that he had seduced Darcy’s cousin for a bit of fun. He explained that Anne had only decided to marry Wickham when she realized she could seize control of her estate.
“Master and mistress of Rosings.” He laughed. “The fool thought she would have any say. I had other plans.”
Darcy halted and turned on him, eyes ablaze. “Anne was na?ve. She thought you would care for her as your wife.”
“She thought a great many things,” Wickham said darkly.
Richard narrowed his eyes. “You would have been worse than Lady Catherine. At least she loved the estate. You would have stripped it bare within a year.”
“I would have made use of what was mine,” Wickham snapped.
“You took her to London,” Darcy said, redirecting the conversation.
Wickham nodded, pride creeping into his expression. “Mrs Younge arranged everything.”
Darcy disliked the mention of his sister’s former companion but said nothing as Wickham continued.
He spoke of all the arrangements. The babe had arrived early, which explained why they had stayed in London for so long after Anne’s disappearance.
After a few weeks, Anne felt she could travel, and the couple hired a coach to take them north.
“We never made it.” Wickham’s voice cracked.
“One moment, we were bouncing along in a horribly sprung carriage and the next… The crash did not render me unconscious. It was clear Anne was gravely wounded. She was bleeding and fading fast. I knew there was no hope. She was not my wife. The child was born out of wedlock. I had no claim to any of her fortune. As the will said, if Anne died unmarried, everything reverted to Lady Catherine.”
“So you left them,” Darcy growled. “You left Anne to die and abandoned your child in a ditch.”
“What else was I to do?” Wickham snapped. “There was nothing left for me. No claim, no fortune, no future. I did what I always do. I cut my losses.”
Richard stepped closer, his voice filled with contempt. “And then you tried the same thing with Georgiana.”
Wickham scoffed. “Yes, well…it worked so well with your other cousin.”
Darcy’s fists clenched, and he stepped between his cousin and the prisoner.
“You are worse than the lowest blackguard and libertine,” Richard snarled. “If there were any justice in the world, you would be locked away until your bones turned to dust.”
Wickham gave a crooked smile. “Then perhaps I shall start praying there is no justice.”
Darcy shook his head slowly, his disgust plain.
“There is,” he said. “And you will not escape it this time.”
They resumed walking. Behind them, the broken remnants of Wickham’s schemes lay buried beneath the winter woods—ashes, blood, and a child’s forgotten tears. Ahead, the road led to Meryton… and a reckoning long overdue.