Chapter Twenty-Four #4
Now, as he stood in the warmth of Ashcombe House with his gloves in his hand and Elizabeth waiting somewhere across the square, another feeling rose with such force that it seemed to sweep all the rest before it.
Hope. It had been years since he had allowed himself to feel it plainly.
Once, in Ramsgate, it had come to him as naturally as breath.
His aspirations, while in her company, centered on a life defined by contentment rather than magnificence.
Walks, books, music, mornings unremarkable except for the fact of being shared.
A future that required no disguise and no triumph, only constancy and love.
He had thought that future destroyed. Now, suddenly, impossibly, it did not seem beyond reach.
The sensation of it was like returning light.
Rather than a dramatic epiphany, it presented as a subtle but significant resurgence of a cherished sentiment that had been absent.
His whole body answered it. The heaviness that had so often lived in him seemed to loosen; the sharp vigilance, the perpetual inward bracing, diminished under the sheer eagerness of what lay ahead.
At this moment, he cared nothing for vengeance. The wrongs done him remained as grave as ever, but with Elizabeth once more within his reach, love held greater power over him than anger.
He drew in a breath and felt it fill him wholly. “I am going,” he said.
Lucien smiled. “Yes. I believe you are.”
Darcy gave a brief, almost disbelieving huff of laughter, then turned and left the room with a swiftness that would have surprised anyone who knew only Count Vendicarsi.
His steps carried him through the hall, down the front steps, and out into the clear afternoon with an energy that belonged not to the man he had fashioned for society, but to the younger man who had once looked upon Elizabeth Bennet and believed the world might be kind.
That hope flooded him now, bright and ungovernable. He did not resist it. He crossed the square toward Matlock House with his heart beating not for justice, nor revenge, nor even restoration, but for her.
Hargrave did not often permit disorder to persist long enough to become a problem.
He had built too much, risked too much, and maneuvered too carefully among men of influence and consequence to allow one weak point to unravel what he had secured.
For a time, Wickham had served his purpose well enough.
He had been pliable where it mattered, ambitious without being disciplined, and vain enough to believe himself in command of circumstances that had, in truth, been arranged for him.
That illusion, however, had begun to fracture.
The reports had come in gradually at first, little observations from men who had no cause to embellish.
Wickham was drinking more heavily. He had neglected appointments.
He had shown himself in company at hours when prudence would have advised discretion.
More troubling still, he had begun to speak—carelessly, though not with precision—of withdrawing from certain arrangements, of setting matters “to rights,” as though conscience had taken hold of him at last. Hargrave had hoped his threats had been enough to convince Wickham against such ideas.
He did not believe in sudden conscience. He believed in pressure. And Wickham, he judged, was beginning to crack beneath it.
He stood now in Langford’s office, one hand resting upon the back of a chair, though he did not sit. The room was well appointed, the sort of place designed to reassure clients of order and legitimacy, though Hargrave knew better than most how much of that order was merely constructed.
“He is becoming unstable,” Hargrave said.
Langford, seated behind his desk, regarded him with continuous attention. “In what manner?”
“In every manner that signifies a man no longer in command of himself,” Hargrave replied. “He drinks to excess. He neglects his part of our…arrangement. He speaks of withdrawing from agreements he has neither the right nor the capacity to abandon.”
Langford’s expression did not change, though his fingers stilled against the surface of the desk. “He has approached you again?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He still speaks of restoring Pemberley,” Hargrave said, the words edged with disdain. “Of ceasing the extraction and repairing what he now claims to regret having permitted.”
Langford leaned back. “That is…manageable.”
“It is premature,” Hargrave corrected.
Silence followed, though it was not empty. Each man understood the nature of what was being discussed. This was no longer a matter of minor correction or temporary pressure. Wickham’s usefulness had diminished. Worse, his instability now posed a risk.
“He has always been weak,” Langford said. “That remains his advantage.”
“And now it is his defect,” Hargrave replied.
Langford inclined his head. “What do you propose?”
Hargrave moved to the window, though his gaze did not linger upon the street below. His thoughts had already moved beyond Wickham as an individual and toward the broader structure of the situation. Control of Pemberley had been secured through him, yes—but it need not remain so dependent.
“Mrs. Wickham is in Town,” he said.
Langford’s attention sharpened. “Yes.”
“She is her husband’s heir,” Hargrave reminded him. “And entirely within my sister’s influence.”
Langford considered this. “You mean to…circumvent…the obstacle.”
Hargrave turned from the window. “He is no longer necessary.” His fingers tapped once against the window frame, the only outward sign of impatience. The words were spoken without emphasis, but their meaning was unmistakable.
Langford did not immediately respond. “You propose a…permanent solution.”
“I propose the removal of a liability,” Hargrave said. “Our fortunes depend on it.”
Langford studied him, weighing not the morality of the suggestion—for that had never entered into their dealings—but its practicality. “There will be questions,” he said.
“Only if it is poorly managed. Hargrave’s expression did not change. “It will be seen as regrettable. Unfortunate. A consequence of habits long indulged.”
Langford exhaled slowly. “It would not be difficult to make such a narrative credible.”
“No,” Hargrave agreed. “It would not.”
Silence fell again, though this time it carried a different feeling.
“With Mrs. Wickham in Town,” Langford said, “and under your sister’s guidance, the transition of control could be effected with little resistance.”
“Precisely.”
“And Pemberley?”
Hargrave’s gaze sharpened. “In time, the property itself may be brought within reach. A purchase, properly arranged, at a figure far below its true value. Circumstances have a way of…compelling agreement.”
Langford inclined his head. “They do.”
Hargrave allowed himself the faintest suggestion of satisfaction. “Then we are agreed.”
Langford met his gaze. “We are.”
There was nothing further to be said. The course had been set.