Chapter 33 #2
His eyes were too grief-swollen to observe any remnants of his stings or the insect bites he must have suffered from the infested cot. But he could not disguise the infected, red dots on his hands.
“Bees,” sobbed Kitty.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “She grieved her separation from you since her arrival.”
“I only sought her comfort and welfare, for her and our … child.” He covered his face with his hands.
Elizabeth bit her tongue. Fitzwilliam’s fists tightened.
Mama mumbled, “Of course. Of course. Every child seeks her mother when she requires greater care.”
So intense had Elizabeth’s concentration been on Wickham and the carefully choreographed scene unfolding in the room, she startled when an apologetic Hill announced another caller. “Mr. Collins, sir,” he said, standing aside to allow the clergyman to pass.
Mr. Collins bowed and creaked, impervious to the interruption he had caused. What on earth was he doing at Longbourn? Why was he still lingering at Lucas Lodge, for that matter?
Ignoring Mr. Collins completely, Fitzwilliam cut through the silence. “What took you so long to arrive?” he demanded.
Knowing his words were certainly not meant for him, Mr. Collins crept across the room and slinked into a chair.
Wickham’s eyes hardened. “I came as soon as I received word. I rode as quickly as I could, but you more than anyone are aware of the distance.”
“You maintain that you were with your regiment when you received word?”
“Have you become an inspector, Darcy?” Wickham scoffed. “Where else was I supposed to be?”
He was sticking with his story. Elizabeth was glad. The more he insisted, the more satisfying it would be to catch him in his lie.
“What happened to your hands?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“I am a humble soldier on insufficient pay. My lodgings suffer from unwelcome guests. Another reason I wished to remove Lydia from the unhealthy surroundings.”
“You look agitated, Mr. Wickham,” Papa said, calling for Mrs. Hill. “Pray fetch some of the nerve tonic my dear daughter praised before her premature demise. She would want him to take comfort in the elixir he so kindly provided.”
Wickham squirmed in his chair. “That is hardly necessary.”
“You are in denial, my boy. It is perfectly normal for grieving husbands to partake of something other than spirits to ease the pain.”
Mrs. Hill returned, bearing Lydia’s prettily painted bottle on top of a silver salver.
Wickham swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the liquid sloshing half-way up the glass. He made no move to take the bottle.
Papa instructed, “Pour Mr. Wickham a generous amount. He is greatly distressed.”
Mama took the tonic, shaking the dark liquid and moving closer to Wickham, the soup spoon filled to the top. “Lydia said you had this specially made for her.” She held the spoon in front of him, poking his lips with the silver like a mother coercing a child to take his cod liver oil.
The room held its breath, its occupants on pins and needles as she prodded, and he squirmed away.
“Why do you not drink the tonic?” asked Mary, her question sounding like a scold.
Fitzwilliam’s patience tired quicker than Wickham and Mama’s little game of joust and jab. ”Tell us why you refuse to drink.”
With a huff, Mama dribbled the spoonful back into the bottle.
Wickham said nothing.
“Desist with this despicable disguise. You will not drink because you know it is poisonous. When your wife did not succumb to your scheme, you attempted to murder her in her sleep with a hive of angry bees.” Fitzwilliam’s sharp words shattered Wickham’s defense. He blanched.
“Before this room of witnesses, we charge you with the murder of your wife and unborn child,” Bingley pronounced.
Papa stood, pointing his finger at Wickham. “Along with the attempted murder of my Lizzy.”
Eyes white with terror, Wickham looked about the room for a supporter, and found none. “I swear … I swear on my own life … I had nothing to do with any assault against Miss Elizabeth.”
“You deny it?” demanded Darcy.
“I would never bring harm to anyone connected with you,” Wickham insisted, rising to his feet.
Fitzwilliam released his hold on Elizabeth’s shoulder, stepping closer to Wickham.
“You are mistaken in your reasoning. Do you think I could treat Mrs. Wickham as anything less than my own sister? Any attack against Elizabeth’s family is an assault against me, and my loyalty prevents me from sheltering you from the consequences. ”
Wickham’s eyes widened. He held his hands in front of him, a flimsy barrier. “I swear on my life. I never meant to harm anyone. It was an accident.”
An accident. Just as Dr. Sculthorpe had described the deranged criminals he had studied.
“I suppose the bees flew their hive into my bedchamber with no help from you?” Elizabeth asked.
“It was an accident. That was not meant for you.”
“You confess you meant them for Lydia, then?” He fell into that trap much too easily.
Wickham bit his lips. Beads of sweat glistened over his skin. “I … I—” He stepped closer to the door where Lydia suddenly appeared, hands fisted on her hips, red-faced, and blocking his path.
“Lydia!” He stumbled backwards.
“Hello, George,” she spat.
Recovering extraordinarily well, he opened his arms. “Darling! I am so relieved you are not dead.”
Lydia launched forward, her palm striking against his cheek with a resounding smack.
“You tried to kill me, you wicked scoundrel! I loved you! And what do I get for my affection? A man who would rather hang from the gallows than continue married to me — a man who swore he would always cherish and care for me. You swine!” She raised her fingers, poised to make good on her threat to claw his eyes out, when Wickham raised his arm.
Her bravado failed. Lydia immediately cowered, dropping and curling herself into a ball on the floor.
Everyone moved. Elizabeth and Jane dove to cover Lydia.
Fitzwilliam seized Wickham’s arm, twisting it behind his back until he squealed like a piglet.
Mary called for Hill to send the footman to fetch the constable, if he had not already done so.
Kitty and Mama fretted when they were not insulting Wickham.
Bingley and Papa stood guard at the door, blocking any hope of Wickham’s escape.
Elizabeth’s heart ached for her sister, whose quickness shrinking into a smaller target bespoke of a great deal of practice.
Whether Wickham had meant to strike his wife before them all or defend himself from her pointy fingernails, it did not matter. The way Lydia shook under Elizabeth, the tears she could not stop, testified to his guilt.