Chapter 27
Elizabeth watched as the thin innkeeper shifted nervously upon the threshold, twisting his cap between his hands. His eyes darted from one face to another before settling at last upon Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Sir, I was asked to bring you news—though Heaven help me, I would rather be anywhere else than bearing it.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his tone brisk but not unkind. “Then speak, man. Out with it.”
Mr. Whitlow cleared his throat. “Last night I was at the tavern across from my inn. I do not often join their games, but with the weather turning, there are fewer travelers. We pass the time playing for pennies, no more.” He gave a nervous glance at Mrs. Reynolds, as if uncertain how such talk would be received in Pemberley’s drawing room.
“Go on,” she said gently. “No one will think ill of a man for keeping company on a cold night.”
The innkeeper nodded gratefully. “Well then—about an hour before midnight, Mr. Wickham came in. He had been drinking elsewhere, I think, for he was loud and unsteady. He called for ale, teased the serving girls, that sort of thing.”
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. Even after all she had seen, it chilled her to hear his name again.
“No one dared confront him,” Mr. Whitlow continued, lowering his eyes. “You know how it is. He holds sway over so many livelihoods in these parts. The girls laughed it off, but they were frightened. They may serve in the tavern, but they are good girls, sir.”
The colonel made a sound of impatience. “I can well imagine it. Get to the point, if you please.”
“Yes, Colonel. He saw us playing and insisted upon joining. We tried to discourage him, but he would not be denied. He sat himself down, wagered heavily, and lost almost at once. After the third hand, he slammed his cards on the table and accused us all of cheating.”
Elizabeth could picture it too easily—the flushed face, the sneer, the arrogance.
“What then?” Darcy asked quietly.
Mr. Whitlow hesitated. “It angered one of the men—Mr. Harris, who owns the mill. He told Mr. Wickham to watch his tongue. The magistrate was there as well, and he tried to calm them both, but Mr. Wickham would not have it. He began to shout—terrible things, sir. He said the whole county was against him, that everyone conspired to keep him down, that he was the godson of George Darcy and deserved better than to rot in this cursed corner of England.”
The colonel’s expression hardened. “And then? Was he arrested?”
“No, sir,” Mr. Whitlow said, his voice faltering. “He was not arrested.”
“Then what?” the colonel pressed. “Was he thrown out? Beaten? Sleeping off his drink somewhere?”
The innkeeper looked down at his hat. His fingers twisted the brim until it nearly tore.
“He is dead.”
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Elizabeth gasped. The colonel’s head snapped up, and Darcy’s chair scraped sharply against the floor as he rose.
“Dead?” the colonel repeated, his voice low and disbelieving.
Mr. Whitlow nodded, his throat working as he swallowed. “Aye, sir. Dead. I saw it myself.”
The silence stretched as Darcy lowered himself back into his seat. Then the fire gave a sharp crack, startling them all. The colonel was the first to recover.
“Explain yourself,” he ordered quietly. “What happened?”
Mr. Whitlow wet his lips. “After the quarrel, sir, no one sided with him. The magistrate warned him to mind his tongue, but that only made him worse. He ranted that we were all cowards conspiring to ruin him. He said he would not stay another hour in this godforsaken backwood county, that he was meant for better company. He boasted that he would return to London where he was known and respected.”
Elizabeth’s fingers clenched together in her lap. She could almost hear Wickham’s voice in her mind, the hate and vitriol she had witnessed from him the day before blending with the innkeeper’s words.
“And then?” Richard prompted again.
“He was told to leave,” Mr. Whitlow replied.
“So he did—stormed out into the street, cursing us all. I followed to be certain he did not cause trouble. The magistrate and Mr. Harris must have thought the same as me, for they came along, too. He grabbed the reins of his horse, which seemed to almost not be very well-trained.”
“It was not,” Darcy said grimly. “I am not certain where he procured the animal, but he rode it to Pemberley when he came back from who-knows-where. When he left last night, I was half expecting the animal would throw him—it was difficult to manage, even if its rider were more experienced.”
Mr. Whitlow nodded. “That would be it, then. The horse was restless when he mounted. Mr. Wickham jerked the reins, and I think he spurred too soon. The creature danced sideways, half-reared, and Mr. Wickham just… well, he just lost control of his anger, I guess. He began to whip it—hard. The more he struck, the more it fought him. It finally reared up and kicked its front legs, then crashed down and bucked, throwing Mr. Wickham from its back.”
Elizabeth and Mrs. Reynolds gasped. “Is that what killed him, then?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Smith. His neck was broken. Clean, like a snapped twig. He did not suffer long.”
Elizabeth felt as though she might be ill. No one spoke. Mrs. Reynolds’ hands trembled where they clutched the back of a chair. The colonel exhaled slowly, the sound heavy in the still room.
“Well,” he said at last, “that saves us the trouble of deciding what to do with him. It seems the Almighty has settled the matter.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, uncertain what she felt—shock, relief, or guilt that any relief could exist at all.
The colonel rubbed a hand over his brow. “Well, William, we are fortunate indeed. He has spared your wife the from the necessity of preventing one of us from killing him.”
Darcy shot the colonel warning glance.
The colonel raised a hand in apology. “Yes, yes—poor form, I know.” Turning back to the innkeeper, he asked, “Will there be an inquiry? The magistrate will not leave it at that, surely?”
Mr. Whitlow shook his head. “There will be none, sir. The magistrate was present when it happened. He saw Mr. Wickham’s fall himself. He said it was an accident and that nothing more needed to be done. The body has already been taken to the undertaker’s.”
Elizabeth drew a steadying breath. “Then it is truly over.”
Darcy’s eyes softened as they met hers. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It is over.”
“I will go inform Georgiana,” Richard said, rising from his chair.
“No, not yet,” Elizabeth said firmly. “She has had too many shocks already.”
“Yes, let the dear girl sleep,” Mrs. Reynolds agreed.
“Very well,” replied the colonel. He rubbed the back of his neck, and Elizabeth could see the weariness settle over him like a weight. “Truthfully, we should all do the same. There will be enough time later to decide what steps we should take next. For now, let us rest.”
Elizabeth rose, feeling the exhaustion in every limb. The tension that had held her upright through the long night drained away, leaving her hollow but lighter than she had felt in days. “A sensible plan at last,” she murmured.
The colonel gave her a faint smile. “A soldier learns to sleep when the battle ends, even if the smoke has not cleared.”
One by one they parted—Mrs. Reynolds to the servants’ wing, the colonel to the guest chamber prepared for him, and Darcy and Elizabeth to the quiet refuge of their room.
The morning sun had risen high in the sky and shone in through the windows as they walked along the corridor, but to Elizabeth it felt as though the dawn had only just come.
For the first time since that terrible night began, she felt safe.
When they reached the small chamber that had been given to them, Elizabeth closed the door behind them and stood still for a long moment.
The house had fallen silent. The only sounds were the whisper of wind along the windows, and the quiet seemed almost unreal after the chaos of the past day.
She crossed to the narrow bed and sat down heavily.
Her limbs felt heavy, her eyes burned, yet her mind would not rest. Every nerve still hummed with memory—the echo of hooves on the gravel, the crash of splintering wood, Georgiana’s frightened face.
It was over now. Truly over. Mr. Wickham was dead.
Relief washed through her in slow, unsteady waves. It seemed impossible that the long night was truly ended—that the danger which had shadowed every hour might now be gone forever. Her body trembled as though it had only just remembered how to feel.
Darcy moved about the room without speaking, lighting a candle and drawing the curtains against the pale light. When he came to lay down in bed beside her, she looked up at him.
“He cannot hurt her again,” she said quietly.
“No,” he answered, but his voice held a note she could not name. There was relief there, and sorrow as well.
She wanted to ask, yet she was too weary to form the words. Instead, she reached for his hand and held it between both of hers, feeling the warmth of him seep slowly into her cold fingers. The simple contact steadied her at last, and she closed her eyes.
For the first time in many days, there was no need to listen for footsteps or fear a shout from the hall. The silence of safety felt almost as fragile as glass.
∞∞∞
Darcy watched Elizabeth’s head droop against his shoulder, her lashes heavy with sleep. For her, the end of fear had brought peace; for him, it had brought only weariness and a strange, aching regret.
He should have rejoiced that Wickham could not harm anyone again. Instead, he felt hollow. Memories flew through his mind of a laughing boy with sun-browned hair and quick wit, the companion of his youth.
How much promise there had been then—how much good might have come of it, had he chosen differently. It was a wasted life, and Darcy could not help but mourn the friend that had died long before the man.