Chapter Twenty-Three
“Where is my son?” Wickham’s voice carried through Pemberley’s corridors with the force of barely contained fury, his boots striking the marble floors with aggressive purpose as Morrison escorted him towards Darcy’s study. “I demand to see the boy this instant!”
Elizabeth pressed closer to the study door from her position in the adjacent morning room, Ambrose trembling in her arms as the sound of his tormentor’s approach grew louder.
Mrs Younge sat rigidly beside them, her face pale but resolute, whilst Mr Hartwell waited in the corner with the patient stillness of a predator preparing to strike.
“Mr Wickham,” Darcy’s voice carried the deadly calm that marked his most dangerous moods. “How unexpected to see you at Pemberley. I trust your journey from Yorkshire was not too taxing?”
“Spare me your false courtesies, Darcy. I know you have him—Mrs Younge’s disappearance along with the boy makes your complicity obvious. I demand Ambrose’s immediate return, or I shall have the constables here within the hour.”
Through the crack in the door, Elizabeth could see Wickham pacing Darcy’s study like a caged animal, his military bearing compromised by travel stains and the wild look of a man whose carefully laid plans had been disrupted.
“Indeed? And what makes you so certain the boy wishes to return to your care?”
“What he wishes is immaterial!” Wickham snarled, his mask of civility finally slipping entirely. “He is my son by law, and I will have him back regardless of any sentimental attachments he may have formed here.”
“Your concern for paternal rights is touching,” Darcy replied with cutting sarcasm. “Though I confess it seems rather sudden, given your apparent indifference to the child’s welfare during his time in Yorkshire.”
Wickham’s laugh held no humour whatsoever. “You think me a fool, Darcy? You think I don’t know what game you’re playing? This has never been about the boy’s welfare—it’s about your insufferable pride, your need to control everything and everyone around you.”
“And what of your motivations, Wickham? Surely they spring from pure paternal devotion?”
“Paternal devotion?” Wickham’s voice rose with mirth now.
“My dear fellow, I care nothing for the brat beyond his utility in causing you pain. Did you think I sought custody out of some newfound fondness for domestic life? The entire exercise was designed to demonstrate that even you, with all your wealth and influence, cannot always have your way.”
Elizabeth felt sick at this casual dismissal of their beloved child as merely a weapon in Wickham’s campaign of revenge. Beside her, Ambrose whimpered softly, and she pressed her hand gently over his ears to shield him from such cruelty.
“How refreshingly honest,” Darcy said. “And now? What do you hope to achieve by reclaiming a child you openly admit to despising?”
“The satisfaction of knowing you cannot have what you want most,” Wickham replied with vicious pleasure.
“Every day that boy remains with me instead of you will be a victory. Every tear he sheds for his precious ‘mama and papa’ will be a reminder of your failure to protect him. And before you think you might take me up on my earlier offer for financially support in exchange for the child, you may forget it altogether. Causing you torment means far more to you than money every could.”
“You would torture an innocent child merely to spite me?”
“I am hardly torturing him. I am not a monster. I simply do not care. Besides, the law gives me absolute authority over his fate, and I intend to exercise that authority to its fullest extent. Perhaps I’ll send him to school in Scotland—somewhere remote where your influence cannot reach…”
The threats continued, each more vindictive than the last, until Elizabeth could bear no more. This was the man the chancellor had deemed fit to raise their son—a creature so consumed by hatred that he would destroy a child’s life simply to wound his enemies.
“Fascinating,” Darcy said finally, his tone suggesting he had heard quite enough. “Mr Hartwell, would you be so kind as to join us? I believe you have some intelligence that might interest our guest.”
The thief-taker entered with confident strides, carrying a leather portfolio that he set deliberately upon Darcy’s desk. Wickham’s eyes fixed upon the newcomer with growing unease.
“Mr Wickham,” Hartwell began without preamble, “I have recently completed an investigation into your marriage to one Eloise Phillips, mother of the child in question. The results prove most illuminating.”
“I don’t know what lies you think you’ve uncovered, but my marriage was perfectly legal. I have the certificate to prove it.”
“Ah yes, the certificate,” Hartwell smiled with predatory satisfaction. “Tell me, were you aware that Mrs Phillips was already married at the time of your supposed wedding? To one Mr Phillips of Yorkshire.”
The colour drained from Wickham’s face, but he rallied quickly. “Impossible. She was a widow when I met her.”
“I’m afraid not. Mr Phillips only passed away a year ago. He was very much alive when Ambrose was born. She remained his legal wife until her death, making any subsequent marriage not merely invalid, but bigamous.”
“That’s… that cannot be proven…”
“On the contrary, I have sworn statements from the parish where their wedding took place, testimony from witnesses who attended the ceremony, and official records confirming the marriage’s legitimacy.
” Hartwell opened his portfolio and spread documents across the desk.
“Your union with Mrs Phillips never had any legal standing whatsoever.”
Wickham stared at the papers as though they might burst into flames. “But that means…”
“It means that even if you are Ambrose’s natural father, you have no legal claim to him,” Darcy said with quiet triumph. “A child born to a married woman belongs legally to her husband, not to any supposed lover. Ambrose is, in the eyes of the law, Mr Phillips’ son.”
“But the Court of Chancery accepted my certificate! The Master of Chancery ruled in my favour!”
“Based on forged documents,” Hartwell said calmly. “Tell me, how did you manage to procure such convincing paperwork? It must have required considerable creativity.”
“Come now, Wickham, even you cannot have been so stupid as to marry a woman already wed. You know bigamy is illegal,” Darcy taunted now. “Or did she not tell you? Were you fooled?”
Wickham’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish, his mind clearly racing as he tried to find some escape from the trap that had closed around him.
“I was not fooled. We were wed. She was a widow. She said so. We… She… the parish records were… there must have been some confusion in the documentation…”
“Or perhaps,” Darcy suggested. “You bribed a clerk to falsify the records? Paid someone to forge a marriage certificate that would stand up to cursory examination? Such actions would constitute serious crimes, Wickham—fraud, bribery, perjury before the Court of Chancery. The truth is, you had no interest in Ambrose. You left when you found out she was with child. You only wanted him when you found out he had come to me. To hurt me. So you had the records forged. Pray, did you forget she was married? Had it slipped your mind?”
“You cannot prove…”
“Actually, I can,” Hartwell interrupted cheerfully.
“Timothy Fenton, the clerk you suborned, proved quite talkative when faced with the choice between confession and transportation. He’s prepared to testify about the five pounds you paid him to create false entries in the parish register.
He told me that you came to him, telling a woeful tale about how you wanted your son but were not married to his mother, therefore needed a record to back you up in court.
He felt badly for you and did this for you. And for the payment, of course.”
Wickham’s composure cracked completely. “He’s lying! I never… that is, even if some payment changed hands, it was merely to expedite…”
“To expedite the creation of fraudulent documents,” Darcy finished. “How very obliging of you to confirm Mr Fenton’s testimony.”
The realisation of what he had just admitted struck Wickham like a physical blow. He staggered backwards, his face ashen with the knowledge that his own words had sealed his fate.
“This changes nothing,” he said desperately. “I am still the boy’s father. Biology trumps legal technicalities.”
“I’m afraid not,” Hartwell replied with satisfaction. “Ambrose is, for all legal purposes, Mr Phillips’ son, not yours.”
“But that’s impossible! The man died! You said so yourself.”
“Quite true. But he died after Ambrose’s birth. Which makes young Ambrose an orphan in need of proper guardianship—a role admirably filled by Mr and Mrs Darcy, who have already provided him with a loving home.”
Wickham stood frozen in the centre of the study, the weight of his complete defeat finally sinking in. Not only had he lost his weapon against Darcy, but his own admissions had provided evidence of serious criminal behaviour.
“You planned this,” he whispered. “You set a trap…”
“On the contrary,” Darcy replied with cold precision. “You destroyed yourself through your own greed and dishonesty. I merely provided the rope.”
The sound of approaching footsteps announced the arrival of Darcy’s men, summoned at his earlier signal. Wickham’s eyes darted towards the window, then the door, calculating his chances of escape, but Hartwell’s solid presence blocked any hope of flight.
“Blythe, Roberts,” Darcy said as two of his most trusted servants entered the study.
Both men possessed the solid build and steady demeanour that made them invaluable members of Pemberley’s staff, and their presence seemed to fill the room with quiet authority.
“Please escort Mr Wickham to secure quarters whilst we await the arrival of the constables. He is not to leave the estate under any circumstances.”
“Very well, sir,” Blythe replied, his weathered face betraying no emotion as he took in Wickham’s increasingly frantic appearance. He took Wickham’s arm with a firm but not brutal grip. “Come along now.”
“This is not over, Darcy!” Wickham burst out, his voice rising to a pitch that bordered on hysteria. You may have won this battle, but I will find a way to—”
“You will find nothing but the justice you have so long evaded,” Darcy replied with finality. “Take him away.”
The sound of their footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving Elizabeth and her husband alone in the sudden quiet of the library. She sank into the nearest chair, her legs trembling with the aftershock of confrontation and the profound relief of knowing their tormentor would trouble them no more.
“Is it truly finished?” she whispered, hardly daring to believe that their long nightmare might finally be ending.
Her husband moved to her side, his hand warm and steady on her shoulder. “The legal proceedings must still run their course, but yes—I believe our family is finally safe from George Wickham’s schemes.”
Through the tall windows, she could see Ambrose playing with his wooden soldiers on the terrace, his childish laughter carrying on the morning breeze. The sight of their son, secure and content in his rightful home, brought tears of gratitude to her eyes.