Chapter 14
The Darcy carriage rolled into Lambton and stopped in front of The Rose Crown. A liveried footman handed out Lady Catherine, who then turned to receive a swaddled bundle from within. Another woman stepped down, followed by Master Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“Nurse, seek out our requirements. Fitzwilliam and I shall take a turn about the square. Georgiana would do well to join us,” instructed Lady Catherine.
“Yes, my lady.”
Darcy and his aunt strolled the village’s high street. As they passed men and women going about their business, none failed to remove their hats or render a curtsey, such was the Darcy influence on the pleasant northern village. They stopped to converse with two well-dressed ladies.
“Is that Miss Darcy you carry?” asked the older matron. “May we see her? We missed the opportunity when we paid our condolences.”
“Another time, if you please. We are being careful of her health this month,” Lady Catherine announced.
“Of course. Good day to you both,” curtseyed both ladies, who quickly departed, their heads together as they whispered.
“What was that about?”
Lady Catherine sighed. “I refuse to feed the gossip-mongers. Georgiana has more than enough to face when walking and talking.”
Darcy scowled. “It is not fair.”
“The world is unfair, my boy.”
A few steps later, he sniffed. “I think my sister requires fresh linen.”
“Let us cross the lane to the laundress.”
The well-dressed pair stepped into a small hovel. A pleasant woman, her face etched in fatigue, looked up from a washtub. Her smile removed a few years of concern. “Is that little Miss Darcy?”
“She is, Miss Wickham.”
“Let us get her changed.” From nowhere, a swaddling linen appeared in her hand. Lady Catherine laid the babe on the nearest chair.
“Fetch me another rag, George,” Miss Wickham called out. From the shadows, a boy emerged. George Wickham was a distant relation of the Pemberley steward but lived with his elder sister, the village laundress. Darcy watched Wickham stare at Georgiana, looking curious and disgusted all at once, his eyes focused on the babe’s face. He stepped to his left to block the boy’s view.
“Finished we are, my lady and if I may, Lady Catherine?”
Darcy watched as his aunt almost imperceptibly stiffened.
“Miss Darcy is all that is beautiful.”
Lady Catherine relaxed and smiled before removing from the house, her nephew following behind her. Darcy looked over his shoulder as he left to see a scowl on Wickham’s face.
A group of boys gathered the next morning at Lambton Pond. It was a sunny day in late summer, and the air was thick with humidity. They skipped stones across the pond’s surface, all but the thrower counting the effort’s success.
“Seven, eight, nine! Well done, Baxter!” The bakery owner’s son accepted his well-earned accolades with a significant smile.
“My turn,” announced Samuel Cobb, the future landlord of The Rose Crown. He practised his throwing motion a few times, then expertly flicked his wrist. The stone shot out across the water’s surface.
A chorus shouted, “Nine, ten, eleven!” Baxter and Darcy clapped him on the back, cheering. The fourth boy sneered, “You still have yet to best my score of fourteen.”
The three boys silently stared at Wickham. He scoffed, “It must be His Highness’s turn.”
“His name is Darcy,” countered Baxter
“Close your hole,” Wickham demanded. Though at thirteen, he was younger than some, including Darcy, he was the largest of the boys, his form manly and muscular where the others were still boyish and lanky.
“Well, Darcy? You scared?” Wickham taunted.
Darcy chose a stone from the ground and examined it.
“Are you going to toss it or kiss it?” Wickham asked with a sneering laugh.
Darcy practised three wrist twists, then let the stone fly. It sank after three skips. Baxter and Cobb patted his shoulder.
“You throw like a girl,” Wickham scoffed.
Darcy clenched his jaw but remained silent.
“Maybe you are a girl. You look like a girl!” Wickham said with a laugh.
Unwilling to pay the bully the compliment of recognition, Darcy turned to leave.
“Go back to your palace and hide with your monster sister.”
Darcy spun round. “What did you say?” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“Run back to your beast sister, I am?—”
Darcy leapt upon Wickham, grappling wildly, trying to hurt his tormentor. Several inches and a stone heavier, Wickham easily flung Darcy onto the ground and kicked him. Cobb intervened, only to receive a bloody nose. Baxter ran off.
Wickham squatted on a supine, bruised Darcy. “I’ll always be bigger than you, stronger than you, and smarter than you.” He slapped Darcy hard on the cheek each time he said ‘you’.
Running footsteps alerted them both that others were coming. Wickham stood, stomped on Darcy’s stomach, and ran off. Darcy turned his face and vomited into the dirt. He rolled away from the soiled grass and lay on his back. Holding his stomach, he looked to God.
“If you do not assist me in defending my sister, I shall seek help from others.” He groaned as he slipped into unconsciousness.
The magistrate entered the private room at the back of The Rose Crown, the three miscreants sitting with their heads down. Their bound hands rested in their laps. He surveyed the boys with an expression of profound gravity.
“You ruffians stand accused of attacking a young woman and causing her great harm,” he declared. “I will hear your defence, but I warn you: I have no patience for such deeds. This office will show no mercy to those who commit such acts.”
The three boys squirmed. The magistrate continued.
“I know what witnesses have reported. As you say, a small lad disabled you in seconds. He was too quick for your eyes to identify, but a larger, long-armed companion repelled you from the young lady in the aftermath.
“The young lad beat you all soundly. I have additional witnesses who report that he was the one who came to the aid of the woman you were tormenting.”
“We did not mean no harm, sir,” the largest thug whispered. “We was looking for a good time. But Wickham took it too far.”
“The law shall give you one chance,” the magistrate said, “should you provide some proof that you did not intend to harm the woman. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to see justice served.”
He levelled a gimlet eye at the boys. “Public flogging is the least of the retributions warranted.”
“George Wickham,” volunteered the smallest of the gang. He spoke with pain, bent over, his chest upon his legs.
“Things got out of hand, and we are sorry for it,” pleaded the last of the three.
The room was silent as the boys awaited the magistrate’s decision.
“I sentence each of you to two months of labour at the tenant farms. I will inform your families of my decision. I expect you to abide by it.”
The boys all hung their heads in defeat.
“Let this be a lesson to you all,” the magistrate said sternly. “Do not repeat such misdeeds. I shall see each of you here tomorrow with your fathers. That is all.”
The crown official remained in the room as others took the boys away. Minutes later, a scowling George Wickham shuffled through the door in chains.
“You stand accused of leading an attack upon a young woman,” the magistrate repeated. “I will hear your defence, but expect no mercy from me.”
Wickham remained silent, his face a mask of defiance. His snarling lip infuriated the magistrate.
“You are thirteen? Let us see how you bear up against the lash, shall we?”
The boy’s face paled. “I get flogged while the earl’s son gets nothing?”
“You are at ease making such an accusation?”
“No... I mean, yes! It was that Golem and his bodyguard.”
“What in the devil’s name are you ranting about, boy?” thundered the magistrate.
Wickham exhaled loudly. “The manservant, Villiers, is bodyguard to the Golem, Darcy’s cousin.” An exhale in exasperation followed. “Richard Fitzwilliam.”
“A fifteen-year-old lad and his bodyguard dismantled you four apes in seconds?”
George Wickham shuddered. “He hardly needed help. Richard Fitzwilliam is a killer.”