Chapter Eleven
Darcy
The sound of hoofbeats faded as Bingley disappeared down the lane towards Meryton, leaving Darcy alone with his mounting dread.
An hour of searching had yielded nothing—no trace of Wickham at the inn, no reports along the London Road, no evidence the man had ever existed beyond the chaos he had left in his wake.
Darcy’s horse picked its way carefully through the darkness, but his mind raced ahead to the cottage and the reckoning that awaited.
What would Lord Hartford believe come morning?
That his steward had heroically protected his daughter, or that the same steward had compromised her himself?
Without Wickham to confirm Lady Elizabeth’s account, who would believe such a convenient tale?
The scenarios played through his mind like scenes from a nightmare.
Lady Elizabeth’s reputation destroyed because he could not produce her attacker.
His own position forfeit because appearances suggested he had taken advantage of his master’s daughter.
Lord Hartford’s trust shattered, his employment terminated, his future—and Georgiana’s—left in ruins.
The cottage came into view, and Darcy’s heart lurched. The front door stood ajar—a detail that sent ice through his veins. He had left it securely latched when departing for the search. Had Wickham returned?
He dismounted quickly, tethering his horse to the garden gate. Every nerve alert, he approached the threshold and peered through the gap. His sitting room lay cast in shadows, the dying embers providing meagre light. Nothing appeared obviously disturbed, yet something felt profoundly wrong.
Darcy stepped inside, the floorboard creaking beneath his boot. A twig snapped somewhere behind the cottage—odd to hear such a sound when he was clearly alone inside.
Then he noticed what he had missed—the back door, which led to the small garden and tool shed, stood open as well. A faint rustling came from that direction, followed by what sounded distinctly like a stifled curse.
“You always were terrible at hide and seek, George,” he called out, moving towards the back door. “Even as children, you had no patience for staying hidden.”
The rustling stopped abruptly.
“The garden shed, really?” Darcy stepped into the moonlit space behind his cottage. “That was your first hiding place at Pemberley too.”
The shed door creaked open, and Wickham emerged into the moonlight. His evening clothes were torn from his tumble into the garden, and a darkening bruise marked his jaw where Darcy’s fist had connected.
“You always knew how to leave your mark, Fitzwilliam,” he said as he rubbed his face where Darcy had planted a facer on him.
“What is it you want, George?” Darcy asked without preamble.
“Money,” Wickham replied bluntly. “So I can get away for a time.”
“So you admit what you did. What were you thinking?”
“I admit I miscalculated badly.” Wickham’s jaw tightened. “I thought Lady Elizabeth might be persuaded to see the advantages of marriage to me. When she proved unreceptive, the situation became… regrettable.”
“You attempted to force her into a compromising situation. I saw you. You followed her into the garden and attempted to make her kiss you.” Indeed, he had followed them into the garden, knowing a man like Wickham could not be trusted.
Still, he had been shaken to see him actually attempt to force a kiss on her.
“Yes, yes. I did. I attempted to compromise her enough that marriage would be necessary, I would have told all who had listened that we had kissed—although I hoped more people would come onto the balcony to see it,” Wickham corrected.
“A common enough strategy. I simply underestimated her reaction—and yours. Why could you not let me be?”
“Let you be? Let you shame my employer’s daughter? You are fit for bedlam, George. Or rather, Newgate.” Darcy stared at him, disgusted by the casual admission.
“That is my point. I would much rather not head for Newgate. Hence why I am here. I need your aid. For the sake of our shared childhood.”
“I would never abate a man like you. I shall turn you in. You will come with me to the main house and present yourself to Lord Hartford who will call the constable. And then you will answer to the magistrate.”
Wickham shook his head. “I cannot believe you would do this to me. I am like a brother to you.”
Darcy scoffed. “We are no brothers. You have resented me ever since I came into your lives.”
“And so what if I have? You have always been my father’s favourite. Do not deny it.”
Darcy waved a hand. “I will not squabble with you. I cannot believe you would come back here after I told you to leave Lady Elizabeth be. To let the family be. And now you expect me to finance your escape?”
“I expect you to recognise that my arrest serves no one.” Wickham began pacing the small garden. “Lady Elizabeth will be dragged through a public trial, her reputation shredded by courtroom testimony. You will be questioned about your own role in events. And my father…”
Wickham’s voice faltered slightly. “The shame would kill him, Fitzwilliam. You know it would.”
The words struck their intended target. Darcy thought of Mr Wickham—the gentle old steward who had raised him after his parents’ death, who had been more father to him than his own blood. The man who still took pride in George’s clerical position despite years of disappointment.
“How many times have you watched him weep over my failures?” Wickham pressed.
“The gambling debts, the drinking, the constant need for rescue. This would be different. This would destroy what little faith he retains in his son. Fitzwilliam, he was so proud when I finally finished my studies and took on the living. Do not take that from him.”
“I am the one who takes it from him? Me?” He could not believe the audacity.
Yet, Darcy closed his eyes, seeing the old man’s weathered face.
Mr Wickham’s health had been declining, his heart weak.
The shock of learning his son had attempted to compromise an earl’s daughter might indeed stop his heart.
“What do you want from me?” Darcy asked quietly.
“As I said, money.”
“I told you before I could loan you nothing. It is all invited.”
Wickham sighed. “I do not ask for much. I must get away for a time. London, perhaps. Or York or some other forsaken place where my name is not known. Until this all dies away and I can return to Derbyshire.”
“They will find you sooner or later.”
“Not if you do not confirm Lady Elizabeth’s tale.”
Darcy’s lips parted at this latest demand.
“When they question you tomorrow, I need you to say you’re not certain it was me who attacked Lady Elizabeth.”
“You want me to lie.”
“I want you to admit reasonable doubt. It was dark, you acted on instinct, but you cannot swear with certainty to my identity. Many men were dressed similarly. From a distance, in poor light…”
Darcy saw the logic despite his revulsion. “That still leaves Lady Elizabeth’s testimony. And the couples of the terrace. I saw them. They saw you.”
“They were engaged in their own worlds. At best, they saw a dark-haired gentleman with her. As for her. The word of a distressed young woman against uncertainty from the only true witness. Without corroboration, they cannot pursue charges.” Wickham stopped pacing.
“More importantly, it muddies the waters enough that gossip dies down rather than growing. She becomes a victim rather than a scandal.”
“And you escape all consequences.”
“Do I? I cannot return to my living for some while. And my idea to join the militia or read the law shall have to wait,” Wickham’s voice dropped. “Is that not punishment enough to spare an old man’s heart?”
Darcy stared at the moonlit garden, weighing impossible choices. Justice for Lady Elizabeth versus mercy for Mr Wickham. Truth versus the peace of mind of a man who deserved neither shame nor heartbreak for his son’s crimes.
In his mind, he saw the old steward’s gentle face—the man who had taught him everything about managing land and caring for people. Who had held him when he wept for his dead parents, who had taken pride in his small accomplishments, who had sacrificed his own comfort for Darcy’s education.
Could he be the instrument of such a man’s destruction?
“If I do this,” Darcy said slowly, “you disappear completely. I will not have you return here and attempt something else of this nature. I will do nothing to besmirch his name, or mine, or Lord Matlock’s.”
“You have my word.”
“Your word has proven worthless before.”
Wickham’s jaw tightened. “I have no desire to face English justice, I would call that motivation.”
“Wait here. Do not move.”
Darcy moved towards the cottage to retrieve his savings. It was all he had outside of the money invested.
When he returned to the garden, Wickham was preparing his horse.
“The money,” Darcy said, holding out the bills.
Wickham pocketed them quickly. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. You have made the right choice.”
“Have I? Or have I simply chosen the least damaging form of cowardice?”
“Sometimes mercy serves better than justice.” Wickham swung into the saddle. “Remember—you acted on Lady Elizabeth’s identification, but the darkness made certainty impossible.”
“And if Lady Elizabeth asks me directly?”
“Tell her what you must. But in official testimony, uncertainty protects her better than accusations you cannot prove.”
Wickham spurred his horse towards the lane, then paused. “Give my father my love, when you write. Tell him I found opportunities that took me away from the living for a time.”
Then he was gone, hoofbeats fading into the night. Darcy stood alone in his cottage doorway, staring at the empty space where his savings had been, wondering if he had just saved three people or betrayed them all.
The fire died to ash as Darcy sat motionless in his chair where he had sat since Wickham departed. He had chosen to protect an old man’s heart over a young woman’s justice. Lady Elizabeth’s cry for help echoed in his memory alongside the image of Mr Wickham’s gentle face.
What would Lady Elizabeth think when she learned he could not confirm her account with certainty? What would Lord Hartford believe when his steward claimed the darkness had obscured crucial details? And what manner of future could any of them build when truth had been sacrificed for mercy?
The questions pressed against him, but no answers came with the pale dawn light. He had made his choice, purchased not Wickham’s innocence but his father’s peace of mind.
Now he must live with the consequences, whatever they might be.