Chapter Twelve #4
“Are you convinced yet of my loyalty?”
“I must admit that I did not doubt your loyalty, despite the nude whore. I know you and know you would not betray me, but that does not justify nude whores,” she gave him a smug smile, and he kissed it away. “I was afraid Caroline might have angered you, which is why I sought you out.”
“She did anger me. She twisted some ideas around and preyed upon my fears, but you need not be concerned about those anymore. Caroline will not have the chance to pull my puppet strings again.”
“Did she make you question my loyalty to you?”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth remained silent and looked away from Darcy.
“I question it no longer, my sweet. She has such a wicked tongue. When she speaks, lies makes sense, regardless of how irrational the idea.”
“Do not go into her company again unguarded. If you must speak with her, make sure another is present. Her brother or me, if at all possible. I trust her not and I will not have her poisoning us against each other.”
“As you wish.”
She faced him again and smiled softly. “Shall I order us a bath before dinner?”
“Dinner is hours away.”
“My dear William, I did not say it would be our sole bath.”
He merely chuckled.
* * *
Sir Thomas Bennet, frail and weak, stared out the window as though he expected an arrival.
George found him like this more often than not and, at first, was glad of the sad scene.
Now, however, Sir Thomas’s melancholy fanned the flames of rage that rolled around inside him.
Sir Thomas, who had always been so kind to him and treated him like a son, had been reduced to a mere shell of a man.
Some days George was unsure if he awaited Eliza's return or Death's single call.
“Sir, how goes your day today?” George asked as he retrieved a blanket and pulled the warming wool around the old man's shoulders.
“She sang for me this morning, and Hill gave me soup.”
At least part of the sentence rang true. Sir Thomas had resolved his anger with Mrs. Hill and George had sought the nurse out, bringing her home to care for her master once again.
“I have sent word to her, sir. I believe she will be with us very soon.”
The bubble in which Mr. Bennet lived seemed to dissipate for a moment.
He stared up at George with the clarity that had once made him a kind father, a caring landlord, and a noble politician; all the qualities High Lord Darcy had stolen when he had kidnapped Liza.
However, Sir Thomas’s private reality soon grasped him once again.
“But she is here now, bonny George. She is above stairs readying for the day. Ye shall see. She shall be down soon and ye shall see.”
George nodded while he warmed himself in the ire that had become his constant companion.
He left Sir Thomas to seek out the study where the old man kept his long-abandoned sword.
The blade was polished to a brilliant shine and held a fine gold tassel, the mark of Bennet’s service in battle.
The sword was old, but it remained a fine weapon, a righteous weapon that would bring the black-hearted prince to his knees in payment for the misery he had caused.
He tied the blade around his waist and left Longbourn without a word.
When he stopped at the gate of the house, George gave one last glance back.
Today, he left to avenge his lost life, but he had one errand to accomplish beforehand.
Gritting his teeth, he trekked to the grove where he had shared his final kisses with his beloved.
On the open book stone, a doe lie exhausted from struggling against the ties that bound her legs.
The Lady Caroline, that noble, sainted woman, had given him an apple to feed the doe.
She had said that if the doe fell, George would know what to do next; the doe would be a test of his resolve and his courage to take on the Prince of the North.
When the animal had collapsed, George became convinced that he would spill his first blood. He had to.
For his Liza.
She had become more than his sweetheart, more than his former betrothed, or even a woman.
Liza had become an abstract ideal. She was justice personified.
If he could save her from the Blackheart, then all would be well in the world.
Love would be the true victor; George Wickham was simply a vessel that fought her war.
He drew the sword and brought it down hard. As the blood sprayed him and the doe screamed, George’s courage screwed into place. He relieved the pitiful animal's misery with another swipe of the blade and laughed because he fancied he was able to see its life float away on a bubble.
“Soon they shall burst, and all will be well again.” The words were like an oath.
He wiped the blade on the carcass to clean away the blood as best he could, while far away, in a great northern house, a witch laughed too.
Her mirth was derived from the knowledge that the sacrifice had not been great enough, and another stupid animal would soon be put upon the altar in her war with the Fates.