Chapter 20
“I do not see why I cannot go to the inquest,” Lydia pouted, her pretty face marred by a frown. “It will be terribly exciting!”
Mrs. Bennet sighed sympathetically but said, “I know, my dear, but it is not proper for gentlewomen to attend inquests. We will find out what happened when your father returns.”
“But everyone will know before us! I do not see why our older sisters are permitted to accompany Father to Meryton and not Kitty and me. We have not gone anywhere since the ball last Tuesday night! I am so bored!”
The lady of the house sighed again and said in a placating tone, “My dear Lydia, Father is most insistent that we remain quietly at home until this dreadful business with Mr. Wickham is settled. The only reason that the older girls are going to Meryton is that Mary wishes to consult with Mrs. Allen about something or other, and Jane and Elizabeth have some shopping to do to acquire lace for Jane’s wedding dress. ”
“Why can we not have new dresses for the weddings?” Kitty demanded petulantly from the corner where she was laboring away at needlework.
“Jane and Mr. Bingley are insistent on marrying soon, my dear, but since Mary will not wed Mr. Collins until January, we will be able to have new dresses made up for you all. Indeed, we should talk about what colors would best suit you!”
This had the happy effect of cheering up her youngest daughters, and the talk quickly turned to fabrics and colors and lace.
Mrs. Bennet, while fully engaged in this most important discussion, was vaguely aware of an unaccustomed sense of peace and joy.
Jane’s engagement to Mr. Bingley had fulfilled the greatest goal of her life, to have at least one daughter well married.
Then Mary; dull, plain Mary; had succeeded in capturing Mr. Collins and with him, Longbourn! It was the very best week of her life!
***
“Come inside, come inside,” Mr. Philips ordered, gesturing to the twelve members of the jury who were standing uneasily at the door of the stable located behind the Meryton assembly hall.
The men did so obediently, and the coroner followed them into a large area in front of two rows of wooden stalls.
A simple, sturdy table had been placed there and on that table resided the earthly remains of George Wickham in all their wrecked glory.
There were convulsive gulps from the assembled men and young William Simpson, who had attained his majority only a few weeks previously, rushed to a wooden bucket and vomited into it.
“Mr. Jones,” Philips said, kindly ignoring the young man’s distress, “would you please describe the situation as you see it?”
He stepped back and listened as the apothecary pointed out the injuries on the corpse and how they matched a scenario wherein Wickham was crushed by a horse.
The horse in question, the stallion Phoenix, was bedded down in the nearest stall with Jerry, one of Longbourn’s stable boys, in eager attendance.
Philips noted that the young man was staring with avid curiosity at Wickham’s battered form, and he smiled a little.
In his role as coroner of Meryton, he had spent more than a little time with dead bodies, though never one as destroyed as Wickham’s.
On the other hand, Wickham had been gracious enough to die in winter, and thus the body did not smell, nor had it decomposed.
In any case, Philips had a strong stomach, which apparently Jerry shared.
The men crowded around the table were not so blessed, and though none of the others vomited, all looked relieved when they were allowed to turn away and inspect the horse, whose left foreleg, while partially healed, still showed where Wickham had slashed him.
Philips waited patiently for the jurors to finish their examination and then gestured for them to follow him back out into the noon day sun.
“Please enter the hall and take your places,” he directed.
***
“What do you think of this lace, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth, who had been staring out of the milliner’s shop at the front of the Meryton assembly hall, jerked in surprise when her elder sister touched her shoulder. “What?”
“This lace,” Jane repeated patiently. “Which of these do you think would be best?”
Elizabeth looked at the swatches of pale yellow lace in her sister’s hands and forced herself to think about Jane’s prospective wedding gown. “I think that this middle one would be best.”
“That is the one I like as well. Now we should freshen your blue gown with some white lace. Do look over these selections.”
Elizabeth cast another anxious glance out the window before following her sister to a display of white lace.
“Please do not worry about the inquest, Lizzy,” Jane said reassuringly, “I am quite confident that Mr. Darcy will be well.”
Elizabeth fought back tears and said, “I hope so, Jane. I hope so.”
***
Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, held the Bible in his right hand and vowed, “I swear by Almighty God to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
Mr. Philips took the Bible back from him and gestured toward the chair. “Please sit down, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy did so, carefully protecting his injured left arm which was reposing in a linen sling.
He glanced around the room, his mind shifting back to the last time he had been in this assembly room.
It had been his first night in Meryton, and Bingley had dragged him to the dance, whereupon he had acted the fool by standing in corners looking haughty and insulting Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
It was both sad and ironic; sad that he had been such a proud idiot, and ironic that he was now ardently in love with Miss Elizabeth.
Still, he must not think of that now. The time had finally come.
The jurors for the inquest were seated to his left in two rows.
Mr. Philips, the coroner, took his seat behind a small wooden table, on which were placed paper, pen, and inkwell.
In addition, a knife, stained dark red with blood, was sitting on a piece of clean white paper.
In front of Darcy and the coroner were some fifty chairs, with the front row set aside for witnesses, the second for militia officers, including Colonel Forster, and the rest for avid curiosity seekers from Meryton and the surrounding region.
Darcy was annoyed, but not surprised, to observe Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long, both gentlewomen, in attendance.
It was neither decent nor refined for ladies to attend an inquest, but both women were enthusiastic talebearers and would not wish to hear the results of the inquest second hand.
At least none of the Bennet ladies were present, which was a profound relief.
Georgiana and Anne, of course, were safely back at Netherfield, while Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins had departed early for Rosings as the lady was eager to achieve her home by nightfall.
That too, was a tremendous comfort; he had been afraid that Lady Catherine would insist on attending the inquest, but by some miracle, the residents of Netherfield had managed to keep her from learning about the legal proceedings of the day.
Darcy suspected that Lady Catherine could not so much as conceive of an inquest involving her nephew, the master of Pemberley.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Philips said, drawing Darcy’s attention to the coroner, “before you describe your encounter with George Wickham last Wednesday, kindly tell the jury of your previous relationship with the gentleman.”
Darcy nodded and began speaking, telling of Wickham’s position as godson of his father, of their friendship as boys, of Wickham’s decline into unprincipled behavior, of Wickham’s unpaid debts, of the matter of the supposedly stolen living, of the payment of three thousand pounds.
The jurors, one and all, looked surprised at this last detail, and Mr. Philips interrupted Darcy’s discourse to ask, “Three thousand pounds, sir? You paid Mr. Wickham three thousand pounds to give up all rights to the living?”
“Yes, sir.”
Philips lifted his eyebrows and declared, “I understand that George Wickham accused you of having deprived him of the living and thus must inquire, do you have proof of your monetary agreement with the man, Mr. Darcy?”
“I do. Colonel Fitzwilliam, my cousin, brought the document with him from my house in London.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Mr. Philips inquired, looking out at the sea of redcoats.
Richard Fitzwilliam stood up from his position in the front row, bowed, and carried the legal papers up to the table, where he handed it over to the coroner.
Philips looked over the document with care, pushed his spectacles up higher on his nose, and then looked at jury.
“I have here a document in which Mr. George Wickham, godson of Mr. George Darcy, signed away all rights to the living at Kympton, in return for which he was given three thousand pounds.”
There were soft murmurs from the spectators in the audience, and the foreman of the jury frowned portentously.
“So, Mr. Darcy, when Wickham claimed that you denied him the living, he lied,” Philips stated.
Darcy compressed his lips and said, “Not exactly, no. Wickham took the three thousand pounds I gave him, along with an additional thousand pounds left to him in my father’s will, and gambled and frittered it away over the course of a few years.
When the incumbent of the Kympton living died, he approached me, informing me that his circumstances were very bad, and demanded that I give him the living.
I refused, of course; his behavior had been such that I knew he would not be a faithful clergyman to his parish, nor had he obtained orders.
He was furious with me, however, and slandered me to new acquaintances by claiming I had deprived him of the living. ”