Chapter Twenty-Six #2
The decision had not been made with deliberation, nor had it arisen from any sudden necessity.
Rather, it came upon him gradually, as so many of his recent actions did—born of a restless thought that would not be restrained, of a question left too long unanswered.
The conversation with Elizabeth lingered still in his mind, her gentle insistence upon mercy threading through his thoughts in a manner both disquieting and compelling.
He had resisted it at first.
As the hours passed and the light faded from the sky, the impulse returned with greater force, until at last he found himself calling for his carriage, giving directions without pause, and setting out into the darker reaches of Town where respectability thinned and vice grew bold.
The establishment in question lay off a narrower street, its entrance discreet but not so well concealed as to escape the notice of those who sought it.
A pair of lamps cast an uneven glow upon the doorway, and the low murmur of voices drifted outward each time it opened to admit or release its patrons.
There was a scent upon the air—wine, tobacco, something heavier beneath—that spoke of indulgence unrestrained.
Darcy stepped down from his carriage with an air of prestige, though inwardly he felt the familiar tightening that such places inspired. Once, he would have turned away without hesitation. Now, he crossed the threshold.
The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and the hum of conversation.
Men clustered in small groups, some intent upon their cards, others upon their drink, their voices rising and falling in tones that spoke of both amusement and desperation.
A musician in one corner attempted a tune that was half lost beneath the general din.
Darcy’s gaze moved quickly over the room. He did not search long.
Wickham sat at a table near the back, his posture careless, his coat unbuttoned, his cravat loosened to a degree that bordered on neglect.
A glass stood before him, half empty, and another already waited at his elbow.
His expression was animated, though the animation carried none of its former charm.
It was the brightness of excess, of a mind too far removed from clarity to govern itself with any consistency.
Darcy approached. “Mr. Wickham.”
Wickham looked up, his focus wavering before settling with effort.
“Well,” he said, his voice thick but still touched with the remnants of his old ease. “If it is not my generous friend. Come to observe my decline at closer quarters?”
Darcy did not smile.
“I have come to speak with you.”
Wickham laughed, though there was little humor in the sound.
“Then you have chosen your moment poorly. I am not at my most coherent.”
“That is precisely why I have come.”
Wickham raised his glass in a mock salute.
“How considerate.”
Darcy did not sit. Instead, he reached forward and removed the glass from Wickham’s hand, setting it aside without ceremony.
“That is enough.”
Wickham blinked at him, seemingly uncertain whether to be offended or amused.
“Now you command me?” he asked lightly.
“I assist you,” Darcy replied. “Come. You will not remain here.”
Wickham appeared inclined to resist.
Then, with a shrug that suggested more weariness than defiance, he allowed himself to be drawn to his feet.
“Very well,” he said. “Lead on, then. I am at your mercy.”
Darcy guided him from the room, ignoring the curious glances of those who took note of the exchange.
He secured a private parlor with little difficulty, the promise of coin smoothing any hesitation, and within moments they were alone.
The door closed behind them. The silence, though relative, was a marked improvement.
Darcy directed Wickham to a chair and poured a cup of coffee from a tray that had been hastily provided. He set it before him.
“Drink.”
Wickham regarded the cup with a faint grimace. “You are determined to deprive me of all comfort.”
“Drink,” Darcy repeated.
Wickham obeyed, though not without a muttered complaint. He took a sip, then another, his expression shifting gradually from distaste to reluctant acceptance.
For a time, neither spoke. Darcy watched him closely, noting the unsteadiness of his hands, the unfocused quality of his gaze. Nonetheless, a distinct strain, independent of intoxication, remained palpable.
At length, Wickham leaned back in his chair and gave a short, humorless laugh.
“You know,” he said, “I believe I have been waiting for this.”
Darcy’s expression did not change. “For what?”
“For you.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened. “You mistake me.”
Wickham shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement. “No. I do not.” He lifted his hand, gesturing vaguely toward Darcy’s face. “You may call yourself what you like,” he went on, “and you may hide behind whatever title you have purchased or borrowed, but you cannot fool me.”
Darcy remained still. “I do not know what you mean.”
Wickham laughed again, bitterly this time. “Do you not?” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as though to focus more clearly. “Even through that beard, I can see it.”
Darcy said nothing.
“The scar,” Wickham clarified. “Here.” He gestured toward his own chin. “From when we fought as boys. You remember it. I struck you harder than I intended, and you—” He broke off, his expression shifting. “You would not yield. You never would.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“And then there was the river,” Wickham went on, his voice taking on a distant quality. “I nearly drowned. Foolish boy that I was, I thought you quite the hero for pulling me out. I suppose…” He gave a crooked smile. “I suppose I owe you my life.”
Darcy met his gaze. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I did save your life.”
A silence followed.
“And how did I repay you?” Wickham asked, his tone altering once more. “With loyalty? With gratitude?” He shook his head slowly. “No.” The word fell heavily between them. “With treachery.”
Darcy felt it settle, though he did not allow it to show. “Why?” he asked.
The question was simple. It required no elaboration.
Wickham let out a breath that seemed to drain some of the animation from him.
“Why?” he repeated. He looked down at his hands, turning them in a manner suggesting examining something unseen.
“I was a fool,” he said at last. “Blinded by envy. By resentment. You had everything I did not, and I…” He laughed faintly. “I told myself I deserved it more.”
Darcy did not interrupt.
“I thought I could take it,” Wickham murmured.
“Take your place. Your fortune, your future. I convinced myself it was all within my reach, if only I were bold enough to grasp it.” He looked up then, meeting Darcy’s gaze directly.
“And I was bold,” he said. “Bold enough to betray the one man who ever treated me as a brother.”
Darcy maintained a composed countenance, yet a subtle alteration took place internally.
“I begged them to spare you,” Wickham added suddenly.
Darcy’s attention sharpened.
“I did not wish your death,” Wickham said. “Not truly. When the moment came—when it was no longer a matter of speculation, but of action—I…hesitated.”
Darcy recalled, with a clarity that sent a faint chill through him, the words that had been spoken to him in that dark cell so many years before.
You would be dead if I had my way… but my partner insisted… He had not understood it then. He did now.
“I asked them to spare you,” Wickham repeated. “I told myself it was a kindness.” He laughed again, though the sound was hollow. “A kindness,” he said. “To condemn you to something worse.”
Darcy was silent for a long moment.
“At least you have the truth now,” Wickham said, his voice subdued. “Such as it is.”
Darcy drew a breath. “And Georgiana?” he asked.
Wickham’s expression shifted once more, the sharpness of his earlier speech giving way to a more subdued intonation. “She is…good,” he said. The word seemed insufficient, but he did not amend it. “She is more than I deserve,” he continued. “I know that. Every time I see her, I am reminded of it.”
Darcy studied him. “By all accounts,” he said, “she loves you.”
Wickham closed his eyes briefly. “Yes,” he said.
“And that is the worst of it.” He leaned back, his head resting against the chair.
“I do love her,” he said after a moment.
“In my fashion. Such as it is. But I cannot bear to be near her. She looks at me like she believes I am worthy of her affection, and I…” He shook his head. “I am not.”
Darcy did not speak.
Wickham opened his eyes again, his gaze unfocused. “I have everything I once thought I wanted,” he said. “And now—” He did not finish the thought.
Darcy rose. “Come,” he said. “You will return home.”
Wickham did not resist.
The journey passed in relative silence, broken only by the occasional, disjointed remark that Wickham did not seem to expect an answer to. Upon arrival at Darcy House, his initial vivacity had been replaced by a more subdued demeanor.
Darcy assisted him from the carriage and guided him inside.
He experienced a subtle emotional reaction to the customary setting, but he maintained an unreserved demeanor.
The hall, the arrangement of the furnishings, the very air of the place—it all bore the imprint of a life that had once been his.
Wickham gave a faint, unsteady laugh. “You do not require direction,” he said. “That is evident.”
Darcy did not respond. They ascended the stairs, Wickham leaning more heavily upon him than before. At last, they reached the bedchamber, where a servant stood ready.
Darcy paused. The man who stepped forward was not unfamiliar.
Brisby.
The valet’s eyes widened as he took in Darcy’s face. The recognition was immediate, unmistakable. Darcy met his gaze. He lifted a finger to his lips. Brisby hesitated only a moment before inclining his head in silent acknowledgment. Understanding passed between them without need of words.
“See that he is attended,” Darcy said. “Then come to me at Ashcombe House.”