Chapter 15
Fifteen
The night hung heavy with silence, the air dense with the weight of unseen clouds that cloaked the moon and cast the streets of Meryton in a murky gloom. Not a leaf stirred, nor did any distant owl call to break the stillness; the village lay as if under a spell, hushed and waiting.
Within a modest lodging house on the edge of town, all signs of life had long ceased. The landlady had barred her doors, her nightly prayers offered before retiring. The stable boy lay sprawled in the loft, oblivious to the world as his snores echoed softly through the beams.
It was in this unnatural stillness that a figure emerged from the shadowed recesses of the lane behind the house.
Cloaked in darkness and moving with deliberate stealth, the man advanced, his footsteps softened by the damp earth beneath him.
The faint light of the waning moon broke through a thin veil of clouds, flickering across his face and casting fleeting shadows on the cobblestones, revealing the scarf pulled high to obscure his features.
Yet there were no prying eyes to witness his passing. The street lay deserted, and the house, like the town itself, seemed to slumber under the weight of the night. The darkness, ever watchful, soon folded around him once more, swallowing his silhouette until he became one with the shadows.
At the rear of the house, he paused. His gloved hand traced the frame of a window, finding the shutters slightly askew.
He crouched low, producing a slender tool from within his coat.
The faint scrape of metal against wood was the only sound as he worked the latch, his movements quick and practiced.
Within moments, the window yielded to his efforts, and the man slipped inside.
The parlour greeted him with a chill, the lingering scent of smoke from the long-dead fire mingling with the musty air of a room too little aired.
The curtains, heavy with dust, stirred faintly in a draught, disturbed by his quiet entry.
Shadows clung to the walls, casting ghostly shapes across the threadbare carpet.
The figure moved with calculated ease, his steps purposeful and soundless, each action deliberate and precise.
His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on the worn armchair by the hearth and the door that led to the narrow staircase beyond.
From the folds of his coat, he withdrew a blade.
It was narrow, cruel, and glinting faintly in the sparse light that crept in through the shutters.
The steel bore an inscription along its edge: Fitzwilliam Darcy.
He turned the weapon over in his hand, his eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction.
It had all come together too perfectly—so neatly, in fact, that he could scarcely tell whether it was fate or sheer determination that had brought him to this moment.
He had plotted and schemed for months, crafting each step of his plan with care, waiting for the right opportunity. And tonight, that moment had arrived.
George Wickham had attended the ball at Lucas Lodge, just as he had hoped.
The gathering had provided the perfect opportunity to observe them both—the men he held responsible for the ruin of his sister.
For nearly a year he had hunted for such a moment, waiting for the chance to see Darcy and Fitzwilliam in the same place, unsuspecting, unaware of the danger lurking near.
He had watched them from the shadows, noting the tension between them.
Darcy had flared with a rare display of emotion when he caught sight of Wickham conversing with the Bennet girl.
That had been his first glimpse of the fire that simmered beneath Darcy’s controlled exterior, and it had confirmed what he needed to know then that his plan was doable.
There was no room for error now.
His fingers tightened around the blade, his thoughts turning darkly to the past. For a fleeting moment, he had considered targeting the Bennet girl.
She would have made an easy mark, and her death would have shattered Darcy’s composure.
But Longbourn was too large, too bustling with servants.
The risk was too great. No, it was Wickham and Darcy who must suffer. It was they who deserved punishment.
The circumstance had not been like Thomas Granger’s death.
He wasn’t part of the plan, but he could have ruined it, had he talked.
Killing him had been clean and simple, executed under cover of the ball without so much as a whisper of suspicion.
But the girl? No. She was not worth deviating from his plan.
His plan was meticulous.
Now, all he had to do was kill Wickham and leave the blade behind.
The thought echoed in his mind. A blade engraved with Darcy’s name.
It would be enough. Enough to cast suspicion on the man, enough to ruin him utterly.
It would seal his fate. Darcy would face justice—or what passed for justice when no court would condemn a gentleman.
The world would think Darcy guilty, and that would be punishment enough.
His grip on the blade remained steady as his mind drifted back to his sister—her smile, her laugh, the light that had been snuffed out far too soon. He had returned home to find her body, cold and lifeless, the note trembling in his hand as he read her final words.
The words haunted him still, the neat loops of her handwriting burned into his memory.
“This is for you, sister,” he whispered into the dark room, his voice low and filled with resolve. “It was all for you.”
And spoiling Darcy name wasn’t enough, he mused. He would pursue him to the ends of the earth if need be. After all, how difficult could it be to kill a man who believed himself untouchable? A man who prided himself on his intelligence, yet trusted the wrong people?
A faint smile curved his lips.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small bottle of ether, the glass cool against his fingers.
With practiced care, he uncorked it and poured the liquid over a folded handkerchief, rubbing the fabric between his hands to ensure it soaked in fully.
The sharp scent rose, cutting through the stale air of the room.
Satisfied, he glanced toward the window, his ears attuned to the faintest sound of approaching footsteps. Even if the ether began to fade, it would not matter. Wickham would be here soon, long before the fumes had a chance to completely dissipate.
With the patience of one well-versed in waiting, the man found a place in the shadows near the stairs, the blade held loosely in one hand, handkerchief in the other.
His breath was steady, his resolve clear.
Time passed, the silence stretching until it seemed part of the walls themselves.
The faint creak of the house settling under its own weight was the only disruption.
Then, at last, footsteps approached.
***
Lodging was provided for the militia in Meryton, but George Wickham, ever the cunning schemer, chose to avoid it.
He had his reasons—reasons born not from duty, but necessity.
His creditors, scattered across the country like ravenous wolves, were always on his scent.
To take lodging with the militia would be to paint a target upon his back; it would be too easy for them to inquire after him there, to follow the trail to his door.
No, a man like Wickham needed a place of his own, where he could remain unseen when he wished and vanish entirely when required.
The house he rented in the edge of Meryton suited him perfectly.
Modest and unremarkable, it drew little attention from passers-by.
The landlady, Mrs. Prynne, was deaf as a post and disinclined to question her tenants' comings and goings.
The house itself, with its two doors—one at the front, one at the back—provided him with the perfect means of escape should anyone come knocking with unwelcome demands.
And they would come, in time. His schemes were not without risk.
He walked briskly through the streets, his mind spinning with thoughts of the evening.
Tonight had not unfolded as he had planned.
He had gone to the ball with the intention of seeking out some amusement, perhaps to steal a moment with a particular young lady he had been grooming for his next grand scheme.
The idea of their elopement was already in motion.
It was a fortune easily gained, a marriage secured before anyone could intervene.
But Darcy’s unexpected appearance had soured the night.
Just as it had done his last attempt to elope.
He hadn't anticipated seeing him there. Darcy, of all people, had made Wickham’s blood run cold the moment their eyes met across the crowded room.
There was something in Darcy’s expression—a quiet intensity, a restrained fury—that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
And then Darcy had challenged him, he was forced to put up a front, a defence.
"What was I to do?" Wickham muttered to himself as he neared his door. "Stand there and let him outshine me once again?"
No. He had defended himself, as he always had. He had countered Darcy’s cold arrogance with charm and wit, ensuring that all eyes in the room saw him as the wronged party. It was a performance he had perfected over the years.
Yet as he reached for the key in his pocket, a nagging feeling of unease prickled at the back of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping the street. Empty. Silent. Still.
Wickham had never believed in tales of the so-called Darcy curse.
To his mind, such notions belonged to the realm of idle gossip, invented by those with too little sense and too much time.
When the officers had cautioned him upon their departure from the ball, murmuring dark warnings about Mr Darcy’s supposed deadly touch, he had laughed it off with careless ease.
“Folly,” he had called it, shaking his head.
He had no patience for superstitions, nor did he truly believe Darcy capable of murder.
He had only accused him of being a killer to sully his reputation, to plant seeds of doubt in the minds of others.
After all, why not drag Darcy’s name through the mire when his own had long been tarnished?
The Darcy he knew, though reserved, cold, and impossibly proud, was no more likely to kill a man than he was to dance a reel at an assembly.
No, Darcy might deliver a cutting remark, but he would never wield a blade in anger unless his sister’s honour was at stake.
And as for the recent murders, Wickham dismissed them as tragic coincidence.
Darcy had quarrelled with him often enough in the past without resorting to violence. Why should he turn killer now?
Yet, despite his easy dismissal of such fears, a lingering unease crept upon him as he walked through the deserted streets. The night air bit at his skin, carrying with it a chill that seemed to seep into his very bones. It whispered of something unseen, something waiting in the shadows.
He shook his head, chastising himself for indulging in foolish thoughts. Nonsense, he told himself firmly. The night is merely cold, and I am weary from the day.
Still, the chill lingered, as if the darkness itself were watching.
The door creaked faintly as he pushed it open and stepped inside.
The parlour lay in shadow, the hearth cold and dark.
Wickham shut the door firmly behind him, bolting it with a practiced hand before shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the hook by the door.
He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair.
Yet the nagging unease did not abate.
He crossed the room to the staircase, his boots tapping lightly on the wooden floor. As he placed a foot upon the first step, a faint noise from the parlour stilled him. He paused, head cocked, listening intently.
"Mrs. Prynne?" he called softly. No answer came.
Shaking his head, he chastised himself for the foolish thought of calling out to a woman who was deaf. What good would it do? Perhaps it was the stable boy, he reasoned, his mind grasping for a more rational explanation.
Resolving to investigate further, he took another cautious step up the staircase, his footfall barely making a sound on the worn wooden boards.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was a man cloaked in darkness, his presence as silent as the grave. Wickham spun, his breath catching in his throat. Before he could react, the figure advanced with swift precision, a handkerchief in one hand, a blade gleaming faintly in the other.
"Who—?" Wickham began, but the man was already upon him.
The handkerchief pressed over his mouth and nose, a sickly-sweet scent filling his senses. He struggled, his fists pounding weakly against the man’s chest, but his strength ebbed with each breath. His legs buckled beneath him, and his vision blurred, the room spinning into darkness.
The last thing he saw was the flash of the blade, inscribed with a name he knew all too well—Fitzwilliam Darcy.