Chapter Twenty
“HE’S NOT DEAD?” said Elizabeth, who was still in bed, having slept in her stays, which was one of the worst feelings ever. She was leaning up against the headrest of the bed, looking at Mr. Darcy, who’d just come into the room.
“I have word that he’s wounded and has been transported to his father’s house to recover,” said Mr. Darcy.
“When I checked his pulse, I thought it had stopped, but I suppose it hadn’t.
I did think I should shoot him again to be sure, but I did not do that.
” He fixed her with a gaze. “Shall I finish the job?”
He wanted her to decide? She did not feel like Lady Macbeth anymore. “How would you do that?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Likely smother him or something. Sneak in under the cover of darkness. Not that it would be easy to sneak in to that house. It’s very small.” He shifted on his feet. “His eyes were open. He must have seen me. He must know that I did it.”
“What do you think?” she said.
“About?”
“About whether or not you should kill him again?” she said.
He let out a helpless laugh. “How could I have bungled this so badly, really? And it’s so ludicrous, the way I was feeling so conflicted about it, and now, here I am, just feeling inept.”
It truly had been cleaner with Mr. Wickham dead.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I shall simply go to visit, go to gather information, see what I can discover. If George knows that I was the one who shot him, he’ll not conceal that in front of his father.”
“The steward,” said Elizabeth.
“The old steward. He does not work at Pemberley anymore. He’s quite getting on in years now,” said Mr. Darcy. “We have another steward who serves now.”
“I see,” said Elizabeth, who did not see what that really mattered, in the end.
“Elizabeth, if you tell me you need it done, you may count upon the fact that I shall see to it,” he said. “I need to know if you do or not. I don’t wish to worry about anything other than that.”
Her lips parted. Oh, well, it was one thing to say that Mr. Darcy had killed him for her, and it was entirely different to ask Mr. Darcy to kill a man for her.
She shook her head. “Not for me. Not at my behest. I cannot…” On the other hand, Mr. Wickham was wounded, and he might speak against them both.
He did not know about the babe, but he would figure it out, and he might think that meant he had some kind of hold over them both.
“I suppose we must find out what he knows, however. We need to know what he intends to do with what he knows.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Darcy gravely.
“I should not fault you for killing him,” she said. “For killing him again, I mean. Or, well, you know what I mean.”
He nodded. “But you do not require it of me?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t know if I have the stomach to do it again,” he said. “Some part of me is relieved he isn’t dead. I don’t know what that says about me. Perhaps it makes me some sort of sniveling coward. Perhaps it lowers me in your esteem—”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, we do not have to kill him.”
He squared his shoulders. “All right. Well, I shall find out whatever I can.” He touched his chin. “If I’m going visiting, however, I need a shave.”
She smirked. “I like it, for whatever that’s worth. But, yes, you must make yourself presentable, of course.”
He came to her, bent down over her and kissed her. “I wanted us to be preparing to get on the road for Scotland now, not dealing with all of this.”
“I know,” she said, touching his face. “We could simply leave, not worry ourselves with him at all.”
He searched her gaze. “Is that what you wish?”
“No, I think we must find out more about Mr. Wickham,” she said. “He does not know that I am with child. I do not wish him to know at all, of course. I thought that if the babe belonged to someone else, he might never suspect, but now…”
“True,” Mr. Darcy said. “Also, we may have a bit of a problem in Caroline Bingley. She seems entirely too eager to destroy us both.”
Elizabeth’s nostrils flared. “What did I ever do to that woman to make her so horrid to me?”
“We shall deal with all of these things, Elizabeth,” he said. “And we shall be married, and all will be well.”
She looked up at him, wanting to believe him. But she had not believed that all would be well for some time now.
MR. DARCY LOOKED in on his sister after getting changed and shaved.
When he told her that Mr. Wickham was, in fact, not dead, he expected her to be relieved, but she was not pleased. She whispered to him, “You did not finish what you started, then? You left him alive? It is worse than if you had not attempted it at all!”
And she was correct about that, he knew. It was, indeed, worse now.
He decided to ask her what he should do. Elizabeth had declined to order him to murder Mr. Wickham, but perhaps his sister would do it. If either of them wanted it, he thought he could do it with entirely no qualms. It would feel entirely justified, if so.
Perhaps it would not feel righteous. Perhaps it would still be a sin, a grievous one.
But there was a difference between following the rule of law and doing what he needed to do for the people he loved.
Georgiana gave him a look of wild terror. “Do not ask me that, Fitz!” she breathed, still whispering, though they were alone together.
“It is a simple question, Georgiana, do you want him dead or not?”
“It is not simple at all,” she said. “As it happens, I think the answer is that yes, I want him dead, but no, I do not wish my brother to have killed him.”
He nodded. “I understand.”
“You would take any excuse to take your bloodthirsty revenge on him, I suppose?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I wished to kill him at all, truly.
I think I wished to kill the part of myself that had caused so much pain and suffering.
When I think of you, looking out at the sea, Georgiana, thinking you were worthless…
I would not have survived it if you had drowned yourself, do you understand me?
Promise me you will never do harm to yourself, promise me that you will speak to me before you ever attempt such a thing, promise me—”
“I am sorry, Fitz,” she said, swallowing. “I suppose I only thought of such a dreadful thing because I felt so lonely. Perhaps I meant it as revenge, so that you would hurt the way I hurt.”
“But then you would be dead,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Well, I did not actually do it, did I?”
“See that you do not,” he said.
It was late morning by the time he was able to make it to the Wickham house.
When he had been the steward of Pemberley, old Mr. Wickham had resided in the estate cottage on the grounds.
Now, the old steward lived a mile down the road from Pemberley in a respectable two story cottage.
As a courtesy, his grounds were cared for by the servants at Pemberley.
Mr. Darcy and the old Mr. Wickham had worked together for nearly a decade after the death of Mr. Darcy’s father.
Old Mr. Wickham was not about to leave when Darcy inherited—Darcy was an adolescent then, so it was not until Darcy was well into his twenties that old Mr. Wickham even thought about stepping down.
But the old steward well knew about the troubles with his son. He was harsher on George Wickham than Darcy himself had ever been, a great deal harsher than Darcy’s father had been.
Darcy had not ever spoken to him about the business with Georgiana, though. He could not find the words to explain that to the old steward, he had found.
Even so, old Mr. Wickham would not take it well to find that Mr. Darcy had shot his son.
If George had told his father, Darcy would expect to be barred from entering.
It might not be out of the question that the old steward would seek out a magistrate, though the jurisdiction of the crime would be in Newcastle.
It was not the way amongst gentlemen to involve the law.
They would settle things themselves, with duels.
Old Mr. Wickham was not a gentleman, but a steward was a high-ranked servant, practically on par with a tradesman in many ways.
Would old Mr. Wickham employ a proxy to duel Darcy or would he go to the law?
Likely the former, Darcy thought. Stewards were old guard, more traditional than the gentlemen they served.
But when he arrived at the house, old Mr. Wickham was only very pleased to see him.
“It is so good of you to come, sir. I know things between you and Georgie have soured quite a bit in these last years. But perhaps this is a good thing, if it prompts a reconciliation between the two of you while he still has time for it. After all, he may not recover.”
“Oh?” said Darcy, trying not to feel hopeful. “There is a danger of his succumbing to this wound?”
“You know there is,” said the old Wickham. “Anything of this nature can be infected with rot. He is already a bit feverish.”
Darcy felt a stab of guilt at his hope. This was horrid, then, if George Wickham was going to die slowly and painfully, in agony. He had not meant to torture the man.
Perhaps George Wickham deserved it?
He didn’t know.
The young Wickham was in a room on the first floor, wrapped in blankets on a cot. He was reading a book. He looked pale and wan. He was surprised to see Darcy.
“Well, then,” he said. “I must be quite ready to keel over if you are here.”
Darcy eyed him. “Yes, we have not seen each other since Ramsgate.”
“There was some seeing in Meryton,” said Wickham, chuckling. “Also a great deal of ignoring, though, pretending as if you had not seen me.”
“But not since then,” said Darcy, raising his eyebrows.
Wickham furrowed his brow. “No.”
“Who shot you?” said Darcy, lifting his chin.
Wickham struggled to sit up in the bed. “I have no notion,” he said, but his voice was stricken.
“I was summoned out to the woods near the house where the regiment was staying for the winter. I heard the shot, and then I felt it…” His hand went to his chest. “Inches off from my heart, they say. The surgeon had a devil of a time digging it out.”