Chapter 28 Reflections
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
REFLECTIONS
True to his word, Colonel Fitzwilliam sent word to Netherfield early the next morning. His brief note relayed that Wickham had been shot while attempting to flee custody.
As Fitzwilliam explained, the detachment had not gone far from Meryton when Wickham caught sight of him waiting ahead on the road.
The moment he recognised the colonel, he spurred his horse into a reckless gallop.
Unfortunately for him, he was never a skilled horseman.
In the same instant he urged the animal forward, he yanked back on the reins—perhaps hoping to turn sharply into a nearby field.
The poor beast, confused by the conflicting commands, reared violently and threw its rider.
Wickham hit the ground hard, but before anyone could reach him, he was on his feet again and running headlong through the open fields. Anticipating such a manoeuvre, Fitzwilliam had already ordered one of his men to stand ready. The soldier raised his rifle, took aim, and fired.
The shot rang out across the fields, and Wickham fell—struck in the shoulder. It was not a fatal wound, but it left him unable to rise. “He will live,” Fitzwilliam wrote, “but only long enough to stand trial for desertion.”
Darcy read the message twice before setting it aside.
There was nothing surprising in it. Of course Wickham had tried to run.
It was exactly what he would have expected the man to do when facing Fitzwilliam.
Perhaps, in truth, this was the best outcome the man could have hoped for.
As a deserter, he might be transported—though Darcy doubted it.
More likely, given the circumstances and the fact that he now served under Fitzwilliam’s command, Wickham would likely be shot or hanged.
That morning, Darcy did not wait for Bingley.
He rose early, dressed quickly in his riding clothes, and set out for Longbourn long before the usual visiting hour.
The road was still damp from the rain the night before, the sky grey and low—an appropriately bleak backdrop, he thought, for what must be said.
He was shown into Mr Bennet’s study at once where the gentleman looked up from his desk with mild curiosity. At Darcy’s request, Elizabeth was sent for, and within minutes she entered the room, breathless, her cheeks flushed from her haste.
“Are you well?” she asked immediately, her eyes searching his face.
“I am,” he said, his tone grave. “I asked your father’s leave to speak with you privately, but I thought it best to tell you both first—Wickham will trouble no one in Meryton again.
Richard wrote to me this morning. Wickham is in custody, having attempted to desert.
He was stopped and wounded, but will live to stand trial. ”
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth, yet she said nothing in response. Darcy supposed she would have questions for him later, but not here in front of her father.
Darcy went on quietly, steady but firm. “He will likely attempt to claim coercion or some mistreatment, as is his habit, but it will not avail him. Should Colonel Forster attempt to intervene on his behalf, he may find himself in difficulty—particularly once he learns of the debts Wickham accrued in his name. Whatever the verdict, the outcome is inevitable. He will not return here.”
Mr Bennet nodded, appearing to consider the matter for a moment before speaking.
“Then I suppose we may all sleep easier now,” he said.
“I shall maintain the restrictions I have set for my younger daughters. Still, I must thank your cousin for curing them of their foolish infatuation with the militia. They still think the officers handsome, of course,” he added drily, “but at least they now understand that such men are not suitable husbands. My own warning about their pay was, apparently, not sufficient.”
Darcy inclined his head but did not reply.
There was little more to be said—at least not here.
He meant to speak further with Elizabeth when they were alone, hoping her good sense might lessen the unease that still lingered in his mind.
Yet the present moment was ill-suited to it, and he would not burden her while her father looked on.
Still, the thought of leaving Meryton in only a few days’ time—of parting from her before she was his—sat heavily upon him.
Not for the first time, he wished their wedding was nearer.
“When I next write to him, I will tell him what you have said,” Darcy said at last, rising from his chair.
“But you may also thank him yourself at the wedding. Now, if you will excuse us, sir, I should like a few minutes to speak with Miss Elizabeth before the rest of the household is down to breakfast.”
Mr Bennet waved them off with a distracted gesture and returned to his book.
Darcy led Elizabeth into the passage, only to hesitate once they stepped beyond the study door.
For all his confidence in negotiation and command, he suddenly found himself uncertain where they might speak without interruption.
Elizabeth’s soft laugh broke the moment. “Come, William,” she said with affectionate amusement. “There is a small sitting room down this corridor that no one ever uses. When I heard you were here, I asked Mrs Hill to have a fire lit—it should be warm enough by now.”
Darcy’s tension eased, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Elizabeth had a remarkable way of anticipating his thoughts—of steadying him without a word.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said softly. “Come—there is much I wish to say, and I only hope your family will grant us enough peace to say it all.”
He followed her down the corridor into the small sitting room she had mentioned. The air was warm, the faint scent of woodsmoke lingering from the newly lit fire. When she shut the door behind them and turned the key in the lock, he blinked in surprise.
“What are you doing, Elizabeth?” he asked, his voice low.
“Ensuring we are not disturbed,” she replied lightly, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Darcy could not help the quiet chuckle that escaped him. “And now that we are safely confined,” he murmured, taking a measured step closer, “what, my dearest, do you intend to do with such privacy?”
She rose on her toes and brushed her lips against his—light, tentative, and achingly brief. They had exchanged kisses before, but this was the first time that she had initiated the contact, always before allowing him to lead.
For one wild, breathless moment, Darcy forgot the world that existed beyond her lips. All the careful restraint he had so fiercely maintained—through every long evening, every glance exchanged across a room during the course of their courtship and engagement—fractured beneath the heat of her kiss.
A low, guttural sound escaped him, unbidden, as his hands found her waist, then the small of her back, pulling her against him until he could feel the quick rise and fall of her breath. Her soft gasp vanished into his mouth as the kiss deepened—tentative at first, then urgent, hungry, consuming.
His reason fled. All that remained was the scent of her hair, the warmth of her body pressed so close, the soft tremor of her hands clutching his coat, then working themselves into the hair at the nape of his neck.
He tilted his head, deepening the kiss again, his lips parting hers with a groan he could not contain.
The taste of her—sweet, intoxicating, his undoing—stole what little breath he had left.
When she sighed his name, everything within him shattered.
He gathered her up without thinking, lifting her easily from the floor so her body aligned fully with his.
She melted into him, and for one dangerous, delirious instant, he forgot himself entirely.
Then a log cracked sharply in the fire, the sound cutting through the haze like ice water. Darcy froze, the weight of what he was doing slamming into him all at once. His breath came hard and uneven as he tore his mouth from hers, his hands still trembling where they rested at her waist.
“Elizabeth—” he rasped, voice thick with restraint. “If I do not stop now, I may never again.”
He stepped back a pace, forcing space between them, his chest still heaving. The air between them seemed to burn. “Forgive me, dearest,” he said hoarsely. “I—” The words faltered as he shut his eyes, mastering himself with effort.
When Darcy finally trusted himself to look at her again, his expression had gentled, his pulse still hammering visibly at his throat in a way that betrayed just how deeply the kiss had affected him.
“We… needed to speak,” he said at last, his voice low and uneven.
“Before I forget entirely why I came here and ruin both our good intentions. Earlier this morning, I found myself wishing you might come with me to London as my wife—how simple that would make everything—but I would not have it so. I could never ask you to hasten our marriage merely because I lack the strength to wait to make you mine.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved into a tender smile, her eyes still alight with feeling.
“I confess to wishing the same,” she admitted softly, smiling at him in that way he loved.
“Mama would be most put out, and I think Papa would not approve, so it seems unlikely.” The words did little to soothe the ache already burning in him, but he at least was able to smile softly at her.
He drew a long breath, taking another half-step back before reaching for her hand.
“Come,” he murmured, leading her towards the pair of armchairs before the fire.
He drew them closer together, before guiding her into one and settling into the other beside her.
Their hands met again—hers resting lightly over his—and for a few long moments they sat in silence, the only sound the slow crackle of the fire as they sought to steady themselves.
At length, Darcy exhaled and began, his tone quieter, more reflective.
“For years, Richard urged me to act more decisively where Wickham was concerned. He thought me too lenient—too willing to clean up the messes the man left behind. My reasons were simple enough: I did not wish to see others ruined by him, and I could not bear the thought of the Darcy name being dragged through the mud by his debts and lies. It seemed the lesser evil to pay what he owed—first in Lambton and Kympton, and then later at Cambridge. In those places, it was known he was my father’s godson, and his name was often spoken in connection with ours. ”
Elizabeth’s fingers began to trace idle circles on the back of his hand, and the touch steadied him more than she could have known.
“When he tried to elope with Georgiana,” Darcy continued, his voice roughening, “I swore I was done with him. Yet, when I learnt he was here in Meryton, I hesitated. I feared that confronting him might draw more attention than his presence alone. I thought I might quietly limit his opportunities, make it harder for him to charm and deceive as he always has. But Wickham has a gift—he persuades others not by his worth, but by his words. He knows precisely how to sound aggrieved, and too many are eager to believe him.”
He paused, his gaze dropping to the flames.
“It troubles me to know his life will end in this way,” he said finally.
“He had every advantage—a living, an education, my father’s goodwill—and yet he squandered them all.
My father’s indulgence made him believe he might live as a gentleman when he had neither the discipline nor the integrity for it.
Even had he taken orders as was intended, he would have been a poor clergyman, driven by greed instead of faith.
In truth, there was no future for him that did not end in disgrace. ”
His fingers tightened around hers, drawing quiet strength from the steady calm of her touch. “I cannot rejoice in his fate, Elizabeth,” he murmured, his voice low and weary. “Nor can I mourn him as I once might have done.”
“I cannot imagine anyone feeling differently,” Elizabeth said gently. “He was once your friend, and your father cared for him, but—as you have said—he was not a good man. You may at least rest knowing he will never again have the chance to harm another.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, turning his head towards her.
A faint, rueful smile curved his lips before he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss upon it.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said quietly.
“I have tried to explain as much to Richard, but he cannot understand. He sees only justice done, while I… cannot help but feel a lingering sorrow for what was lost long ago.”
Elizabeth’s eyes softened. “No one else needs to understand, William, nor should you be ashamed of feeling as you do,” she said.
“I never knew him as you did, and while I cannot share your feelings, I can comprehend them. It is only natural to grieve—not for the man he became, but for what he might have been, had he chosen a better path.”
Darcy studied her face for a long moment, gratitude warming the ache in his chest. Her compassion and understanding never failed to steady him. He smiled then, a quiet, genuine expression that reached his eyes.
They sat together in companionable silence, the fire crackling softly as the morning light grew stronger. For a little while, words were unnecessary. When at last they heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Elizabeth rose and Darcy stood with her.
Without speaking, they left the small sitting room and joined the rest of the family for breakfast, carrying with them the quiet peace of their shared understanding.