Chapter Twenty-Two #3
Sometime over the hours since her departure, after openly prostrating himself at Misery’s feet, he formulated a plan: a plan to die.
He knew where to find Wickham, and with the first streaks of dawn, Darcy would set out for Northumberland.
For months now, he had set his estate—his papers—in order, and everything was ready for his death.
Wickham had thrown down the challenge, and Darcy would respond.
Lydia Bennet’s seduction was a message: a warning that George Wickham would not stop until one or both of them no longer existed.
Responding in kind, Darcy would release Lydia Bennet from her eternal grave.
He owed Elizabeth that much, and if he died in doing so, his effort would be well worth presenting his Elizabeth the only peace he could.
Then his wife could go on with her life, a life without him.
Even if he survived, and Darcy held no illusions in that area, Elizabeth would never love him again.
What woman could love the man who was the means of destroying a most-beloved sister?
He wrote Georgiana a letter explaining his departure.
He left specific instructions for his solicitors to execute the dictates of his will, leaving the estate and the care of his sister to Elizabeth until Georgiana married and his sister’s children came of age.
At that time, Elizabeth would hold the dowager house.
Naturally, the possibility existed of Elizabeth’s choosing to remarry, but he felt confident she would not bring another man into his house.
If the situation were reversed, Darcy would never have another woman at Pemberley.
It would be a break in the natural order of their love.
Reaching his quarters, he stripped down to his breeches and shirt before falling across the bed in exhaustion. Tomorrow he would leave to find his enemy. After several tomorrows, he and George Wickham would face the ultimate battle: a battle of strength, of endurance, and of fate.
The shadows draped the hedgerow surrounding the community cemetery as Darcy edged along its perimeter.
The graveyard backed the land identified as belonging to Wickham.
Hot and sweaty and dust covered from his four-days’ ride, he desired a bath and a warm bed, but death waited in a place where appearance made no difference.
A deep hushed silence permeated the air.
Darcy would cross the cemetery to circle behind the house Wickham occupied.
Weaving his way among the headstones, an eddy of soft mist dampened Darcy’s boots.
The moonlight, shredded by the bare-leafed boughs, flickered off the granite, permitting him to read bits and pieces of epitaphs: Loving Father, Angel, Dearest Child, Peace.
He crept now, on all fours, to the center of the graveyard.
Resting his back against the cool stone, he caught his breath.
“Elizabeth,” he groaned. It was for her he had come—for her more than anything.
Closing his eyes, her tear-stained face rose in his memory.
Darcy hated the fact his last image of Elizabeth was one of her in tears—tears he had caused.
Storing the image of his wife deep in his heart, he shoved away from the stone while allowing his fingers to trace the engraving.
A cloud moved aside, and the words glowed: Lady Ellender D’Arcy Benning.
The irony of finding the stone that signaled the beginning of this madness rang wildly with mimicry. “Let us end this,” he whispered.
At length, he made his way through the hedge shrubs, moving cautiously through the shadows.
He would sacrifice himself for Georgiana, for his family name, but most of all, for Elizabeth.
Up until this moment, a feeling of doom had followed him, but now tranquility came.
If it was his fate to die on this day, then die he gladly would.
A window glowed faintly with light, and Darcy crawled unevenly along the ground until he crouched beneath its sill.
Unsurprisingly, the house itself smelled of old blood and bones.
Peering inside, Darcy thought it all looked eerily like an ordinary manor house, except for the fact a phantom circle moved about the room’s middle.
Trancelike, they maintained their distance from one another and from a center ornate chair occupied by Wickham.
Mumbled chanting, rhythmic and haunting, filled the air.
Darcy could see the throne chair was an uncommon furnishing.
It was made of earth, rich with decaying matter and coated with the same grey ashes he and Elizabeth had discovered at Amelia Younge’s house.
Wickham, intent on the display, simply smiled and looked all-knowing.
Then his gaze fell on the window where Darcy watched, and Darcy knew his enemy saw him as clearly as if daylight shone.
The moment they had both anticipated was upon them.
In a blink of an eye, the shades, which had moments earlier looped around Wickham, now formed a semicircle, enclosing Darcy in a ghostly prison as he kept his back to the house.
Pathetic monsters, they waited for him to react.
They anticipated the sad compulsion to attack.
Darcy recognized Lydia Bennet among them and murmured a prayer for her salvation.
Among all these, she would be his target.
He would use what skills he had to free Elizabeth’s sister from a macabre immortality.
Sounds and sensations came from the distant graveyard behind them—a graveyard full of souls dancing to an eerie tune. Wickham appeared on the periphery of his vision as Darcy surveyed the scene. “Ah, Darcy, you came.”
“You knew I would.”
Wickham nodded, a vacuous smile clinging to his lips. “It all comes down to this. I must admit you were a worthy opponent. I almost hate to see it end.”
A loud rushing in his ears told Darcy the chanting had increased.
Riveting his attention on those closest to him, he extended his arms, letting the energy flow outward, but it made no difference.
His power did not affect the dead, and Wickham’s followers pushed forward, crowding him against the wall.
“Farewell, Darcy.” Wickham offered a brief salute as he turned towards the cemetery.
Darcy pulled the iron crucifix from his pocket, holding it in his left hand, and he raised the silver sword in the other. A few of these apparitions would know heaven tonight, starting with Lydia Bennet. He angled his body to meet her assault first. The others did not matter.
From the right, he felt the skin along his arm tear as the claws of one of the coven slashed him, but Darcy did not lower the sword.
His attention rested purely on Lydia’s approach.
He held the crucifix higher and began his prayer: “Our Father, who art in heaven.” His voice rang out clearly, resonating in the night air.
Lydia Bennet’s specter moved closer, near enough for Darcy’s reach, and in a moment of triumph, he touched the relic to her forehead and continued the prayer.
The others tore at him, but Darcy concentrated all his efforts on Elizabeth’s sister.
“Hallowed be thy name.” Claws crisscrossed his cheek, tearing at his eye socket, but he steadfastly pressed the holy symbol against Lydia’s head, demanding the demons be exorcised forever.
“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.” Still he held Lydia to him.
“Deliver us from evil,” he shouted. As her scream exploded, a bloody swirl of vapor poured forth from her mouth before crystallizing and falling to the ground.
The shell of her body turned leathery and shriveled as Darcy pressed her downward.
Now, the others attacked him with full force.
He spun and turned and twisted, fighting one after another.
The sword and the crucifix took their tolls, but the combined effort was too much for him.
They tore at him, blood gushed everywhere, tongues lapped at his wounds, and still they pressed him harder against the grey stone wall.
Unable to see any longer, he leaned his head back and slid down the wall in defeat.
The ghoulish apparitions covered him, tearing away his skin and sinking in their teeth to drain away what was left of his soul.
As they smothered him, his mouth formed one last word: Elizabeth.
She bolted upright in the bed, her gown soaked with sweat.
Elizabeth brought her trembling hand to her face, shoving the hair away.
The image of Darcy’s blood-spattered face still hung in the air.
Her jagged breath was the only sound in the inn’s small bedchamber.
Elizabeth fought to control her breathing, gulping air in large mouthfuls.
A cold shiver shook her as tears erupted.
It was all so real. Unable to stop herself, Elizabeth glanced at the foot of the bed, half expecting to find Darcy lying in a bloody pool at her feet.
Shivering, she pulled the blanket around her before rocking herself back and forth, in the same rhythmic swaying of the souls in her dream.
The beating of her heart slowed, but the image did not fade.
For hours, she remained as such, seeking warmth that was not possible and attempting to wash away the dread suffusing her every thought.