Chapter 51
Lambton
Darcy entered The Rose Crown through the front door. The establishment was empty save for Mr and Mrs Cobb, the proprietors. They remained frozen behind the greeting lectern, their faces a portrait of fear—hers with fresh tears running down the tailings of earlier, dried ones; his, a rictus of defeat, his left eye purple and swollen closed.
“Good evening, Mr Darcy,” he whispered. He turned his head towards the room. “Your party awaits you, sir.” His wife whimpered.
“Thank you,” he said gently. “I shall leave you to find safety. Please do so immediately.” He watched the couple flee without hesitation, then turned to the common room.
A lone man sat in a chair at the farthest table from the door. His back to the wall, he allowed the chair to fall forward. A muted thump resonated in the emptiness.
“Well, well. Fitzwilliam Darcy, as I live and breathe. Welcome, good sir, welcome.”
Darcy remembered Reeve’s guidance. He surveyed Wickham, who was without a coat and gloves; his clothes were well-worn and tightly-fitted. Borrowed or stolen, most likely. Although the man was still tall and muscular, he had lost at least a stone and no longer held the physical advantage over Darcy that he had had years ago.
“Wickham, you called. I came. Do your worst. I am not afraid of you.”
Wickham laughed. “You should be. You may not be at this moment. But you surely shall be soon.”
Darcy raised himself to his full height and looked down his nose. “I doubt that.”
Wickham stood and stepped away from the table. Darcy prepared himself, but his pre-emptive action was for naught. Wickham seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice.
“You are not half as smart as you think you are, Darcy. For you are here, not at Pemberley.” Wickham chuckled. “It is at Pemberley where my fortune is now being secured.”
“I do not comprehend your meaning.”
“You are here with me. You are not with your sister!” He pointed upwards “I have won. You have lost.”
“What are you saying? What have you done?”
“I shall entertain you with a verse.” Wickham looked smug. “I have secured my future life, with your sister as my wife. She may return to the estate, once her dowry is fully paid.” He giggled. “Sorry, the last line was a bit of a tug.”
Darcy stared and allowed the silence to dictate the mood. The sounds from the village filtered into the room. A horse neighed as a cart rolled by. The clock at the front of the common room ticked. Wickham shifted on his feet, fidgeting in the quiet. He broke first.
“What say you, Darcy? Shall we make an agreement and spare Georgiana the pain and suffering of a carriage ride north? Will she escape the indignity of becoming Mrs Wickham? Will you trade her dowry for your life?”
Darcy kept himself from smiling. Wickham was nothing, if not predictable. “No.”
“No?” repeated Wickham. “What do you mean, no?”
“No,” repeated Darcy. “I mean it as it is generally meant.”
“You mean to fail your dear sister? You would allow her to live in perpetual misery?” Wickham’s face showed his incredulity. “Your honour would never allow it. Do you understand? I control your sister’s fate. Her happiness, her life is in my hands!”
For the first time, Darcy allowed a nasty smile to own his features. “Georgiana is not at Pemberley. She is at Matlock.”
Wickham’s eyes widened to a near immeasurable degree. “Then... who is at Pemberley?”
“The Colonel is at Pemberley.”
Darcy turned and stepped away. A moment later, something hit his upper back, then bounced at his feet. He knelt and picked up a dagger. Hit me pommel first. He looked up to see Wickham charging towards him. He responded without thinking. As Wickham leapt at him, Darcy thrust the blade forward.
It penetrated Wickham’s throat. Darcy immediately released the knife and caught him under the arms, carefully lowering him into a chair. His mind was racing, torn between the conflicting emotions of anger and horror, guilt and regret as Wickham”s life slowly slipped away.
“What have I done?” He looked at the blood on his hands. “Is this real?” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands as best he could. When he stood, his knees felt jittery. He took a few cleansing breaths to calm down before reaching over to close Wickham’s eyelids. Pulling down his sleeves, he straightened his great coat and turned to leave.
The men of Lambton filled the common room. All stared at him, awe upon their faces. He searched for recriminations. Finding none, he respectfully bowed. The townsmen stepped aside, creating a pathway for him to exit. They removed their hats and nodded as he passed each of them. They had prepared his horse.
“We seen it all, sir,” said Mr Baxter. Darcy heard the crowd murmur their support.
“Thank you. I regret I leave you in this state,” he replied.
“The magistrate be along soon, Mr Darcy. None you worry,” replied Mr Cobb.
With a grunt, Darcy levered himself upon Hercules and walked him off. Once he was free from the village, he picked up the pace; the stallion—the fleet-footed son of Goliath—ate up the five miles as if he were a winged Pegasus. It seemed they were in front of Pemberley’s door within minutes.
Darcy pulled up hard on Hercules’s reins, leaping off only to stumble once before righting himself. He ran up the front door steps and stopped. A long-armed, uniformed man stood at the top. Darcy raised his arms and showed his palms; the soldier sheathed his sword.
“Welcome back, Mr Darcy,” called out Sergeant Villiers, the Colonel’s batman.
Darcy nodded as he climbed the stairs. “How do you fare?”
“As well as can be, sir. We do beg your pardon for the disorder, though ‘tis mostly on the lawn.”
Darcy nodded, thankful he had sent Mrs Reynolds and the female servants to Lambton’s inn. “A thousand pardons granted for your service. Where may I find my cousin?”
“Look to your study, as it has the lone fire.” Villiers put a hand on Darcy’s arm as he neared. “Begging your pardon, sir. You will want to be cautious and announce yourself at a distance. The colonel acted without reserve.”
“Any prisoners?” asked Darcy, unsure of why he was asking.
Villiers looked at him oddly. “May I remind you, sir, the Twenty-Fifth does not take prisoners.”
“Well met. I shall heed your warning. And I thank you for your service to our family.” Darcy hastened towards his study. He knocked on the open door several times. A shadow shimmered in the firelight. “What ho, Cousin?” he asked.
A hand appeared in the air from the far chair in front of the hearth and waved. Darcy walked to the nearby chair, sat, and looked at the colonel. He sat in silence; blood splattered his coat and he held a full glass of whiskey. Fitzwilliam nodded towards a second glass, filled to the brim. Darcy picked it up. They clinked their glasses, the sound initiating their conversation.
“Villiers informed me this horror is over. Dare I ask how many corpses I shall find?”
“All of them.”
Darcy sipped his drink. “Any injuries?” he asked.
His cousin scoffed. “Two armourers were an excess of men. Your purse will be lighter for little reason.”
“I do not begrudge you the expense. Georgiana and her safety deserve no less.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. Darcy stared into his glass. Was he now a killer like his cousin? Like Reeves?
“You brood over that which was not yours to avoid, Cousin.”
Darcy drank deeply. “I killed Wickham.”
“In cold blood?”
“You would call it self-defence.” Darcy shrugged. “It was.”
Fitzwilliam lit the taper between them. The light reflected off his coal-black eyes.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Good God, no!” Darcy shouted.
“Then you are not a killer.” Fitzwilliam sat back, drink in hand.
Darcy now had dozens of questions. Does Fitzwilliam enjoy the killing? Is that why he remains affiliated with his men? Refusing to sell his commission? Does repetition numb the shock of the act? Does it get easier? He decided the answers would provide him much angst and no resolution. But the moment called for gratitude.
“Mrs Reynolds will appreciate you respecting the rugs and upholsteries. The lawn, however, is a different tale.”
Fitzwilliam laughed. “As is your kitchen’s cutting garden.” He drained his glass. “I did exorcise some demons, though. Mother suspects, but she is too good to raise the question.”
They reverted to silence. Darcy shuddered as he recalled Fitzwilliam’s wartime tactics—burn everything; leave nothing the enemy could use, including the wounded. He exhaled.
“Thank you for not burning Pemberley.”
Fitzwilliam stood and stretched. “Did you truly believe I would raze the home of my best friend and brother of the heart?”
Darcy shook his head, unsure of what to say. So, emulating his cousin, he chose silence.