Chapter 37
Drawing Room
Longbourn
The Next Morning
The drawing room at Longbourn was filled with family and visitors.
Given Mr. Bennet’s recent death, it was unusual to have so many callers, but then again, it was an unusual situation, and one that was closely involved with the two Bennet daughters who had rescued Caroline Bingley from George Wickham.
Elizabeth was seated side by side on a couch, with Darcy at her side and her two youngest sisters on a settee across from her.
Mr. Bingley stood by a window, and the Collinses sat on adjacent chairs, while Colonel Fitzwilliam, Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Charlotte were sitting on a trio of delicate biscuit-colored chairs by the small fire.
Jane Bingley alone was absent, above stairs with her mother. By unanimous consent, not a word had been said to Mrs. Bennet about the horrific attack on Caroline. It would do no one any good for Mrs. Bennet to learn of the assault and, provided with an excuse, start her shrieking hysterics anew.
Mary, as the mistress of Longbourn, poured the tea, handing around the cups to her guests with a grace that had lost all self-consciousness.
Elizabeth, seated beside her betrothed, accepted her cup, balancing the saucer on her knees and holding it in place with one hand.
The fingers of her other hand twined back around Darcy’s, seeking the strong comfort he offered.
His thumb brushed gently over the back of her hand, and she relaxed a little.
“How is Wickham?” Darcy asked of Sir William once everyone had been served tea.
Sir William Lucas took a sip of his well-sugared drink and then said, “He is not particularly well, but that is no surprise given that he had an arrow pulled out of him.”
“What will happen to him?” Elizabeth asked.
Sir William shrugged and said, “If he survives, he will be brought up for military trial, which will enable us to keep quiet the specific details of the crime. He will likely hang. But Mr. Jones thinks that he may well die from infection, and Colonel Forster has agreed to wait on any decision concerning a trial until the situation is clear.”
“I assume that Lydia’s part in this whole affair is not a concern?” Mary asked anxiously.
Sir William turned an approving face on the youngest Miss Bennet, who was nibbling away at a scone, and said, “Miss Lydia is a heroine, without a doubt. We are all very grateful for her resolution during a difficult time.”
Lydia looked surprised but pleased, and Bingley, after clearing his throat, said, “Indeed, Lydia, we are all incredibly grateful for your actions in saving Caroline.”
“Well, I could do nothing else!” the girl declared. “Caroline is my friend, and Mr. Wickham is a disgusting person!”
“He is disgusting,” Charlotte Lucas said, speaking for the first time in some minutes. “In addition to his cowardly attack on Miss Bingley, it has come to light that Mr. Wickham is responsible for the recent rash of thefts in the area.”
This provoked a cry of astonishment from more than one person, including Elizabeth.
“But how can that be?” Bingley asked in genuine bewilderment. “One of Jane’s brooches went missing, and I am confident that Wickham never crossed the threshold of Netherfield Hall.”
“He did not directly steal most of the items,” Charlotte explained. “He seduced a number of maids and tenant daughters and then blackmailed the women into stealing for him.”
There was a communal gasp, and Bingley said, “Are you saying that one of the maids at Netherfield Hall…”
“Yes. According to Wickham, who seems eager to destroy anyone he can, he seduced one of the parlor maids, Maggie.”
Elizabeth gulped. She knew Maggie because she was a cousin to one of the Longbourn servants.
Bingley, usually a genial man, appeared genuinely furious. “You are saying that one of my own people stole…”
“Bingley,” Darcy interrupted, and his tone was sufficiently stern that his friend stopped speaking.
The master of Pemberley looked first at Elizabeth and then around the room.
“It is a terrible thing that a servant girl, or tenant girl, would betray their employers in such a way,” he said, “but as a mitigating factor, I feel I must tell you that a young heiress of my acquaintance, one connected to my family, nearly ran off with Wickham with the intention of eloping in Scotland. The man has a silver tongue and has convinced many a woman that he is honorable and good, when in fact he is rapacious and greedy. That is not entirely an excuse, but I can well imagine the women giving into his lover-like words and then being blackmailed into doing his bidding.”
Elizabeth, who had been as angry as Bingley, found her breathing steady at these words.
She remembered how impressed she had been with Wickham at their first meeting, and while she would never give up her virtue in such a way, she could imagine a simple servant girl being convinced by a handsome and well-spoken rogue that he genuinely cared for her.
“That may be true, Darcy,” Bingley said, “but I will not have a thief in my house.”
“I understand that entirely,” Darcy said.
“I am merely saying that I would not wish for any of the girls in question to be transported. I think that if the women are spoken to sternly, they will never put themselves in such a situation again. Moreover, I am willing to pay for those items that were stolen.”
Sir William Lucas turned a confused look on Darcy. “That is incredibly generous of you, sir, but I do not understand why you would do such a thing. This is not your fault.”
Darcy’s hand tightened on Elizabeth’s, and he returned the older man’s gaze steadily.
“I think it is my fault to some degree, Sir William. My father made many mistakes with Wickham in sending him to school and Cambridge, which allowed him to ape the manners of a gentleman. I compounded those errors by washing my hands of the man when I knew perfectly well that he was dishonorable. I should have done something before this. I should have had him thrown into Marshalsea, as I hold hundreds of pounds of debt receipts in his name. Money cannot take away Miss Bingley’s dreadful experience, but I can, at least, mitigate the financial struggles of those who were harmed by Wickham’s behavior. ”
Elizabeth turned adoring eyes on her husband to be. The contrast between him and Wickham could not be more obvious. Darcy was loyal and faithful and willing to sacrifice for others. Wickham plotted and schemed to cheat and rob and destroy those around him.
***
Bedchamber
Mr. Jones’s House
Two Days Later
The world swam and dipped around the bed, which seemed to plunge and rock like a ship on the high seas.
Wickham groaned, careful not to move, not only because of the giddiness but to avoid aggravating the fire that felt as though it was devouring the right side of his body.
It was all emanating from his shoulder, even the thick feeling in his head, which felt stuffed with cotton wool.
He moaned in misery. It could, he was vaguely aware, be worse.
He might have been locked in a jail cell and left to suffer on a hard, narrow cot rather than tucked warmly between linen sheets on a mattress filled with feathers.
Better to be here in the house of the kindly apothecary, even if he was essentially under house arrest. The soldiers posted by Colonel Forster outside the bedroom door did not bother him at all.
They did not intrude on his solitary agonies, and he was in no fit state to attempt any sort of escape.
He could not even battle the fever sufficiently to rise from his bed!
Wickham moaned, resisting the urge to try to find a more comfortable position.
There was no more comfortable position, he knew already.
Nothing could completely take away the pain in his shoulder and arm and side, though Mr. Jones allowed him periodic doses of laudanum, which lessened the torment somewhat.
All he could do was lie there and suffer, too weary and in too much agony even to worry about his eventual fate.
Hammond, of course, had suggested that they would hang for their attempt to capture Caroline Bingley, but he was the godson of George Darcy. Surely that would not be his fate!
Hammond! Curse him! He ought to be rotting in jail awaiting his own sentence!
The cur had run, abandoning the hired carriage and job horses and Wickham himself to the tender mercies of Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam.
The last Wickham had heard, the man still eluded capture, having disappeared into the network of crime he had so carefully maintained.
It was not fair! Hammond was just as guilty as Wickham himself, after all!
He should have helped Wickham escape or, at least, distracted attention from the injured man after Darcy and his cousin had caught up with the carriage!
Wickham's shoulder throbbed, and he groaned again, panting through the pain. He had never imagined anguish like this, one so severe it chased every thought from one's mind. Surely it was time for the apothecary to give him another dose of opiate?
The door opened, and Wickham turned his head carefully and squinted as Mr. Jones entered the room with a bowl of steaming water in his hand, followed by an older man who looked vaguely familiar.
Lurking outside the door was one of the privates of the militia, who stared coldly at Wickham before closing the door.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Wickham?” Mr. Jones asked, settling onto a stool next to the bed.
Wickham moaned and said, “I am in pain, so much pain. I need more laudanum.”
Jones nodded and then reached into his pocket, pulled out a small vial, and poured it into the glass of water sitting at Wickham’s bedside.
Wickham sat up in spite of the pain and eagerly stretched out his shaking left hand to take the water, which he poured down his throat. The bitterness made him grimace, but he knew that the pain would diminish significantly in a few short minutes.
Mr. Jones was a compassionate man, and he waited in silence until the laudanum began working before he started unwinding the bandages around Wickham’s wound. Wickham lay back against the pillow and closed his eyes, relieved as the pain diminished.
When he felt air hit his wound, he clenched his jaw in preparation for Mr. Jones to pour water on the injury which he knew would hurt a great deal.
A full minute passed without additional anguish, and he opened his eyes and looked at the apothecary, whose eyes were fixed on Wickham’s shoulder.
“What is it, Mr. Jones?” he rasped.
The man sighed deeply and said, “Are you able to see your wound, Mr. Wickham?”
Wickham grimaced. “I prefer not to do so.”
“I think you need to,” the apothecary said gently.
Wickham swallowed, sat up a little, and turned anxious eyes on his shoulder.
It was a horrifying sight, with a bloody scab surrounded by red flesh, except for the areas which were oozing yellow.
“Do you see how red streaks are emanating from the wound?” Mr. Jones asked calmly.
Wickham gulped, closed his eyes, and collapsed against the pillow. “Yes.”
Silence fell for a moment, and then he felt a firm, cool hand touch his forehead. He opened his eyes as Jones removed his hand and said, “Your fever is mounting.”
“I feel terribly hot and in pain,” Wickham whimpered.
The older man, who had been standing near the window, now walked over and sat down on a chair close to Mr. Jones.
“Mr. Wickham, I am Mr. Allen, parson at the church in Meryton.”
Wickham had never bothered going to church, but he now remembered that he had met Mr. Allen at a dinner at Lucas Lodge.
But why was the man here?
“Mr. Wickham,” the apothecary said steadily, “your wound is a very serious one and has become infected. There is nothing I can do to stop it from spreading. I invited Mr. Allen here because the sad truth is that I doubt you will live for another week, and it would be wise for you to make your peace with God Almighty.”
Wickham’s eyes flared wide, and he stared in horror at Mr. Jones, unable to believe he had heard correctly.
“You mean that...,” he stuttered.
“You will die soon, my son,” Mr. Allen said gently.
Wickham fainted.