Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Darcy’s eyes moved quickly over the text of the letter.
Sir,
New information has come to light. The perpetrator of the salacious whisper campaign against Miss Bennet is none other than George Wickham.
It is difficult to understand how he hopes to profit from slandering Miss Bennet, unless it is an extortion scheme.
Miss Bennet has protectors and allies, including her uncle and others who will be affiliated with the new charity.
Mr Bingley is now engaged to Miss Jane Bennet, and he has also taken part in keeping Miss Elizabeth safe.
Growling, Darcy pounded the desk with his fist. Wickham!
Would he ever be shot of that vile wretch!
He rose abruptly and walked slowly around his study, rubbing his chin.
He usually assumed that if Wickham was causing trouble, it was somehow related to himself and Georgiana.
Had Wickham learnt of his feelings for Elizabeth?
The scoundrel usually tried charming his victims first.
Darcy hoped Elizabeth had read his letter. If she had not, she would have still considered Wickham a friend. If she had read it, and believed his words, she would know better than to associate with Wickham, forcing him to use harmful methods to get what he wanted.
In any event, it was long past time for Darcy to deal with that criminal once and for all. He had been too cautious when in Hertfordshire last year. He returned to his desk, sharpened his pen, and took up another sheet of paper.
Within minutes, Darcy had written a new directive for Thompson.
Sanding and sealing it, he rang for a footman.
When the young man answered, he handed him the letter with instructions to send it as an express immediately.
The footman hurried off with the letter, and Darcy called for Talbot, his valet.
He would go to Hertfordshire. He would travel on horseback and unaccompanied, avoid attracting notice, and stay at an inn he had noticed on his long morning rides the year before.
It was small, about six miles away, between Meryton and Ware; far enough from the town to keep his presence secret and close enough for Thompson to meet him there.
It was close to a busy road, its clientele mostly business travellers stopping for the night.
No one, he hoped, would notice him, except the innkeeper.
Thompson could report his investigations in person.
Talbot would be unhappy, but if Darcy was to be incognito, he could not have a valet or a groom travel with him.
A courier could bring his mail. He would ride to Hertfordshire and take up residence at the inn, bringing with him the funds to pay Wickham’s debts.
He would also write to Mr Galbraith and have him come to the inn before he met with Mr Philips.
From close range, he would do what he could to assist and protect Elizabeth without her knowledge.
He was very glad to learn that Bingley was there and that Miss Bennet had accepted him, but he could not make his presence known to his old friend.
Bingley had never replied to the letter Darcy had sent to him several weeks before.
He might still be angry. Were his sisters with him?
Darcy would not present himself at Netherfield until he knew more.
After a bruising ride that did nothing to assuage his agitation, he arrived at his destination, determined to proceed with his business there.
The inn was as he remembered, modest and clean, with no luxury suites of rooms, no grand dining room, no private parlours.
Most of the rooms were small, just enough to accommodate business travellers who were merely passing through.
No sooner had he settled in than Thompson arrived, and they spoke of Wickham.
A short conversation, an envelope of money changing hands, and it was done. It was exquisitely simple, leaving Darcy to wonder why he had not done so years before.
Maria Lucas was breathless when she arrived at Longbourn. She found the Bennet ladies still seated at breakfast, along with Mr Bingley.
Before any of them could address her, she burst out, “You will never guess what has happened! Mr Wickham has been taken away!”
She was answered by a chorus of gasps and exclamations.
“Taken away, Miss Lucas? How so?” asked Mr Bingley, his voice carrying over the feminine response.
“He owed money to almost every merchant! Oh, so much money! A man named Mr Thompson purchased all his debts and showed them to my father! None of us have ever seen him before! He said Mr Wickham must be taken into custody and sent to prison!”
“You may recall, Mr Bingley, Sir William is the magistrate,” Jane said, recognising her beau’s obvious confusion.
“I am glad he will go to prison!” cried Mrs Bennet. “I hope he rots there!” Her impassioned remarks seemed to further confuse Mr Bingley, and Elizabeth hoped he would not be curious enough to ask questions.
Elizabeth wondered at it all. She had been disappointed that she could not punish Wickham herself, and now some unknown person had done it only a few days later.
How could this occurrence be anything other than coincidence?
Yet she felt as if some unknown force was taking her part, as she had when she had received the unsolicited letters from Staffordshire and London, which had included exactly the information she had needed to know.
That is ridiculous. The scoundrel must have had enemies all over the kingdom, and one of them finally caught up with him. You must simply accept your good fortune and be grateful. She closed her eyes briefly and sent a silent prayer of thanks up towards the heavens.
Jane relaxed as Bingley drove his matched pair of greys briskly down a country lane.
The sun was warm and bright, yet the lane was lined by massive oaks and elms, littering the path before them with spots of gold among the shade.
The dapples of sunlight shifted as if in a dance created by the breezes in the branches above.
A small brook ran along the side of the lane.
Their courtship had proceeded without a hitch.
Even Mrs Bennet had been calmer, quieter, and less apt to intrude.
The promise of the dower house and the possibility of one daughter married had soothed her.
Now they were engaged, allowing them the freedom to go without a chaperon.
Finally, all was right with their world.
They had an entire day to spend as they wished, and Bingley had allowed his horses to take them farther afield.
“I do not think I have ever travelled this way. It is lovely,” Jane mused, as the horses briskly followed the lane through the trees. Woods, fields, and meadows flew by them.
“This would be the opposite direction from the way you would take to London. Have you never travelled north?” asked Bingley.
“I have not. Only to London to see my aunt and uncle, and once, long ago, to the seaside. I barely remember it.”
“There is a junction with a busier road near here that I believe runs all the way up to Manchester—Lord! Do my eyes deceive me or is that Darcy?” he cried as they shot past a small inn.
Jane craned her neck to look behind them. “I believe it is! One cannot mistake his height and that dark hair. Are you not going to stop and greet him, Charles?”
Bingley’s lower lip jutted out slightly. “He kept me from returning to Netherfield.”
Jane concealed her smile. She wondered if their children would wear that same expression when they were being scolded. “Yet he apologised to you and admitted his error. And you could have come back to visit Longbourn at any time on your own,” she added gently, fully meeting his eyes.
Bingley flushed pink. “You are right, my dear. And I have missed our friendship. Let us stop and speak with him at least.” At the next wide place in the lane, he wheeled the curricle around, and minutes later they were back at the inn.
The yard of the inn was very busy. Horses and carriages of all types were arriving and departing at the same time. They spotted Darcy near the building, engrossed in conversation with a younger man as they approached him.
Darcy was saying, “His offices are near the high street, on a smaller street that ends in a blind alley near a stand of plane trees.”
The two men shook hands. The younger man mounted his horse and, with a wave, rode off in the direction of Meryton.
Darcy turned towards the inn and stopped short. There stood Bingley and Miss Bennet, not ten feet away from him. He wondered if they had overheard him speaking to Mr Galbraith.
“Bingley,” he managed. “Miss Bennet.” He bowed before her and extended a tentative hand towards his friend. To his relief, Bingley took it.
“Darcy, I am surprised to see you here.” He gestured at the inn. “This is unlike your usual haunts.”
“No. Or yes, I mean. It is. I have some business in the area.” Darcy knew he was possibly England’s most pathetic liar.
Bingley would see through him immediately.
Even as a child, he could never carry it off.
At that time in his life, he had envied Wickham’s easy facility at it.
But that facility had in the end carried Wickham to the Fleet.
Bingley studied him. His eyes flicked once in the direction Mr Galbraith had taken.
“You should have written, Darcy. You are welcome to stay at Netherfield, you know.”
Miss Bennet, standing next to Bingley, said softly, “Mr Bingley is there alone and would welcome your company. Miss Bingley and Mr and Mrs Hurst did not accompany him. He does not entertain.”
Darcy regarded his friend for a long moment. “I did not expect to be welcomed at Netherfield,” he said quietly.
Bingley huffed. “Though I have reason to hold a grudge, I shall not.” He held his hand out to Miss Bennet, and she took it, her eyes alight, smiling beatifically at him.
“My betrothed does not wish it. And I have too much to be grateful for. We are out for a drive, but I will return to Netherfield in the afternoon. I hope to see you there.”
Darcy watched Bingley hand Miss Bennet up into the curricle, and they drove away.
Elizabeth had spoken the truth when defending her sister.
Miss Bennet had spent a sad, lonely winter in London but had accepted Bingley’s return and entrusted him with her heart once again.
Darcy wondered if Elizabeth had confided his proposal in Hunsford to her sister. Was there pity in her kindness to him?
He stood in the inn’s yard, watching them go.