Chapter Nine The Resurrection of George Wickham
The carriage ride back had the atmosphere of a revival meeting conducted in a mausoleum. George Wickham sat on the edge of the seat, still wrapped in the muddy greatcoat, staring out of the window with the wide, unblinking gaze of a mystic who has seen the face of God.
"The green," he whispered, pressing his hand against the glass. "Have you ever noticed how green the grass is, Fitz? It is vibrant. It is violent with life."
Darcy rubbed his temples. He had not slept in twenty-four hours. His coat was ruined, his cravat was lost forever, and his nerves were frayed to the point of snapping.
"It is grass, George," he muttered. "It is the same shade it was yesterday."
"No," George shook his head, a manic smile stretching his lips. "Yesterday it was merely turf. Today, it is a miracle. The fog is a miracle. The mud is a miracle. Even you, Richard... you are beautiful."
Richard Fitzwilliam, who was cleaning mud off his boots with a rag, paused. He raised an eyebrow.
"Careful, George. You survived the duel. Do not push your luck with the second. I have a sword."
"A sword of justice!" George clapped his hands. "Wielded by a friend! Oh, I shall never complain again. I shall embrace the mundane. I shall relish the rainy days. I shall write poetry about roses and spectres."
Darcy exchanged a glance with his cousin. Richard rolled his eyes, taking a bite of a pear he had produced from a pocket.
"The adrenaline will fade," Richard predicted, chewing. "Give him an hour. He will be complaining about the cut of his trousers before noon."
"Never!" George vowed, clutching his chest. "The old George is dead. He died on that field, shot by a French phantom. The new George is a man of substance. A man of gravity."
"The new George is currently wearing a dress," Darcy pointed out gently.
George glanced down at the grey wool peeking out from beneath the greatcoat. He shuddered.
"Burn it," George commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper. "When we return, we must burn it. It is a cursed garment. It smells of coal and terror."
"We will burn it," Darcy promised. "And then we will never speak of the French Spy again. It is a closed chapter."
"Sealed," George nodded vigorously. "Buried. If your father asks... I was studying. I was studying so hard I forgot to eat. That explains the pallor."
"And the smell?" Richard asked. "You smell like a chimney sweep who fell into a gin barrel."
"Research," George decided. "I was researching the plight of the common man. For a... a thesis."
Darcy turned back to the window. The city streets were waking up. Bakers were opening their shutters, sweepers were clearing the crossings. Normal life was resuming.
But for Darcy, the world felt different.
He had lied. He had stolen. He had staged a duel.
But also, he had saved the family honour.
However, looking at the manic, trembling man opposite him, he wondered if the price of the lesson would be silence, or if George Wickham would eventually forget the terror and remember only the thrill.
Captain Lindon's townhouse welcomed them back with the silent discretion of a tomb. They entered through the rear, avoiding the servants, and marched directly to the study.
A fire roared in the grate. Standing before it, nursing a cup of coffee, was Robert. He was rested, immaculate, and entirely innocent of any dawn escapades in Hampstead.
"You returned." Robert set his cup down and inspected the trio. "And George is breathing. I assume the Spy missed?"
"He missed," George gasped, collapsing onto the nearest settee. "By a hair, Robert! A whisper! I felt the wind of the bullet pass my ear!"
"Remarkable," Robert drawled. "I was watching from the ridge, but the mist obscured the finer details. I saw you fall. I feared the worst."
"I swooned," George admitted, stripping off the greatcoat. "The fear was absolute. He was a giant, Robert. Seven feet tall, possibly more. His eyes were burning coals."
Darcy coughed to cover a laugh. Robert, who was six foot two on a good day, preened slightly at the description.
"A formidable adversary," he agreed. "But he is gone?"
"Vanished," Richard confirmed, pouring himself a brandy. "Left a note. Debt absorbed."
"Then we are free." Robert pointed his cane at George. "Now, Agnes. Disrobe. The fashion experiment is over."
George did not need telling twice. He scrambled out of the maid's dress with frantic haste, tearing the hooks in his desperation. He kicked the garment away as if it were venomous.
"The corset too," Richard ordered.
George unlaced the stays, gasping as his ribs expanded. He stood there in his smallclothes, soot-stained and shivering, but free. "The fire," he pointed.
Robert picked up the dress with the tip of his cane. He lifted it high. It hung limp and heavy, a testament to the last twenty-four hours of madness.
"To the memory of Agnes," Robert toasted.
He dropped the dress into the flames.
The wool hissed. Smoke billowed up the chimney. They watched in silence as the garment blackened, curled, and finally turned to ash.
"Gone," George breathed. "The evidence is gone."
"Not all of it." Darcy walked to stand opposite George. He looked at him with intensity. "The Emerald box is safe. I will put it in Father's hands tomorrow. And you will be standing next to me when I do."
"Anything, Fitz. But first, I need a bath," George declared, rubbing his face. "I need to scrub the coal from my pores. I need to smell of sandalwood. I need to forget."
"Go," Robert waved a hand. "I asked the servants to draw a bath. Use the rose soap. It masks misery better than sandalwood."
George fled the room, leaving a trail of soot on the carpet.
When the door closed, Robert sagged against the mantelpiece. The mask of indifference dropped.
"That," Robert exhaled, "was the most exhausting performance of my life. The cape was incredibly heavy and unfashionable."
"You were terrifying," Richard grinned, raising his glass. "Seven feet tall?"
"The hat added five inches," Robert confessed.
Darcy stared into the fire, watching the last of the frock crumble.
"He believes it," he said quietly. "He truly believes he survived a duel."
"Let us hope the belief lasts." Robert lifted an elegant eyebrow. "Because if he gambles again, I am not wearing that mask a second time. It smelled of mildew."
Friday morning arrived with the relentless precision of a ticking clock.
Darcy House was scrubbed. The windows gleamed. The servants moved like a well-oiled machine.
In the drawing room, Darcy stood by the window, watching the street. He wore a fresh coat of sombre blue. His cravat was tied with mathematical perfection. His boots were polished to a mirror shine, every inch the responsible heir.
Behind him, George Wickham paced the rug.
He was clean. The soot was gone. He wore a suit of modest brown—a choice Robert had advised to suggest humility. He held a book in his hands (Sermons of Fordyce), though he was holding it upside down.
"Is that the carriage?" George asked, jumping as a cart rattled past.
"It is a milk cart." Darcy did not turn. "Calm down, George. You are vibrating."
"I cannot help it. The phantom sensation of the pistol grip remains on my palm. Am I sufficiently scholarly? Robert said brown suggests a contemplative mind."
"You look fine. Just do not mention the French. Or the Butcher. Or coal."
"I shall discuss only the weather," George vowed. "And perhaps the price of corn. Is corn expensive? I feel I should know."
"Read the book, George. It helps if you open it."
The sound of heavy wheels on cobblestones drew Darcy's attention. A black carriage, bearing the Darcy crest, turned into the square.
"He is here." He felt the air leaving the room.
George dropped the book. "Oh God. My heart. It flutters."
"Stand up straight," Darcy commanded, turning to face the room. He walked to the mantelpiece where the Emerald Snuffbox sat. He picked it up and inspected the catch and the polish. He put it in his pocket.
It was perfect.
The front door opened below. Mostyn's voice drifted up, respectful and welcoming. Heavy footsteps ascended the stairs.
Darcy turned to his friend. He saw the terror in George's eyes, the raw, unfeigned fear of judgment. It was the same fear Darcy felt, buried under layers of duty.
"We did it," he whispered. "It is over."
The drawing room door opened.
Old Mr Darcy was not old at all. He was in his fifties, and he filled the frame. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and imposing, with the same dark eyes as his son. He leaned on a cane which he did not need to walk, but carried nonetheless.
"Father," Darcy bowed.
"Sir!" George bowed so low his nose nearly brushed his knees.
"Darcy," Old Mr Darcy rumbled, stepping into the room. He stripped off his gloves. "George. You both are pale. London air does not agree with you?"
"We have been studying, sir." Darcy tried for deceptive earnestness. "Late nights."
"Diligent," the patriarch nodded approvingly. He walked to the fireplace to warm his hands.
Then, he turned.
"Well? The box, George. Did the jeweller do a good job?"
George froze. He opened his mouth. No sound came out.
Darcy stepped forward. He held out the box.
"It is here, Father." He steadied his hand discreetly. "George retrieved it this morning. It is flawless."
Old Mr Darcy took the box and opened it. He inspected the hinge and the shine of the emeralds. He nodded.
"Excellent," the older man smiled. He clapped a hand on George's shoulder. George flinched violently.
"Nervous energy," Old Mr Darcy chuckled. "You always were high-strung, boy. Good work. Your father will be pleased."
George let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. "Thank you, sir. I live to serve."
Darcy exhaled. He looked at his father, then at his friend. The lie held. The scoundrel was safe.
And school was dismissed.