Chapter 21 Consequences
The two cousins arrived at the leased residence the next morning at nine o'clock. The thought that Wickham might have taken Georgiana and fled tormented Darcy throughout the long night. The villain would surely use her to bargain for her dowry.
Darcy sprang from the carriage before it came to a stop, Richard close behind, and both men hurried up the front steps. As they entered the house, the butler stepped forward.
“Smithers, call Georgiana down. I wish to speak with her.”
The butler replied, “Sir, the only person in residence at present is Mr. Wickham.”
“Wickham? Where is that devil?”
“Mr. Wickham is in the drawing room, sir. He...”
Darcy and Richard were gone before the butler finished. They threw open the door, entered, and stopped short.
Wickham lay sprawled across the couch, his left arm and leg hanging over the edge. An empty bottle lay on the floor beside him. He was fully dressed, and stubble covered his jaw.
Richard said, “It appears the scoundrel never made it to bed last night.”
The butler said, “In fact, sir, he did not. Mr. Wickham spent most of the previous night abroad. He returned to the house yesterday at about ten in the morning, staggering drunk, then continued drinking until he became insensible. He has not stirred since. He was in a violent temper, and I thought it best to let him sleep it off.”
Richard crossed to the couch and looked down at the man. “Darcy, I say, Wickham looks bad. His face is gray.”
Darcy joined his cousin. “He does look gray. Richard, is he dead?”
Richard stood silent, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene before him.
Darcy bent to shake the man's shoulder, then snatched his hand away. “Richard, he is stiff. I think he has been dead for several hours.”
Richard leaned over Wickham's face, then recoiled with a grimace.
“Wickham cast up his accounts at some point. He was so drunk, I believe he choked upon his own vomit. I say, Darcy, he might have drunk himself to death.”
Darcy asked, “What makes you think so?”
“If you come close enough, you can smell it.”
“Richard, all I can smell from here is the gin he guzzled down.”
Richard nudged a bottle with the toe of his boot. “And your best brandy.” He looked around the room. “There is another empty bottle of gin beneath the couch, and another beneath the table.”
Darcy spoke to the butler in a tone that admitted no delay. “Smithers, send for the physician. He may determine what happened to George Wickham. It appears he drank himself to death, but we must know whether foul play was involved.”
“Yes, sir.”
Before the butler moved, Darcy asked, “Where is my sister?”
“When Mrs. Younge saw the condition he was in, she took your sister upstairs. They did not come down to lunch yesterday, so I sent the servant to announce luncheon had been served.”
“And then?”
“That was when I discovered Mrs. Younge, Miss Darcy, and the maid had left the house. They packed lightly, sir. Most of their belongings remain here. Each took only a single portmanteau.”
Richard said, “They may have returned to London to escape this monster.”
Darcy said, “Perhaps. I will send an express to enquire. They would have reached Darcy House by ten o'clock last night by post chaise or by seven this morning, if they traveled by mail coach.”
“Smithers, we require breakfast. But first we will bathe.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
The two men had finished breakfast when the physician was shown in. Darcy explained the circumstances of Wickham's death, and then, accompanied by the butler, he and Richard escorted the physician into the drawing room.
Richard said, “He looks ghastly.”
The physician examined the body. When he finished, he said, “This man died from excessive drink. He became insensible and vomited. Unable to rouse, he choked and suffocated. Who found him?”
“I did, sir,” the butler said.
The physician asked a few more questions, then said, “Sir, I imagine you summoned me because you require a signed statement of death.”
“Yes, doctor. There is pen and paper on the writing desk.”
When the physician finished, he handed the statement to Darcy.
He accepted the document and stared at it in silence.
The single sheet recorded the death of the man who had brought a decade of misery upon his family.
Holding it in his hands was a solemn moment.
It carried relief, sorrow for all that had been lost, and the grim satisfaction that George Wickham could never again threaten those he loved.
Statement of Death
August 28, 1811
I have this day viewed the body of Mr. George Wickham and find every appearance consistent with death resulting from excessive drink and suffocation upon his own vomit. Upon examination, there is no indication of external violence.
John Pembroke, Surgeon
As the two cousins spoke with the surgeon, an express arrived. Smithers paid the messenger, accepted the letter, and entered the drawing room. Darcy took it from him.
“Richard, it is from Georgiana.”
He crossed to the window and broke the seal. The letter proved brief. He then opened Mrs. Younge's letter. The truth was devastating. He sank into a nearby chair, nearly overcome with grief. A wave of nausea rose within him.
Georgiana was ruined and might even now carry Wickham's child.
Richard drew alongside and read the note Darcy handed to him.
Darcy looked to his cousin. “Richard, what am I to do?”
“We must first learn whether she is expecting. If she is not, she will live with you and your family for the rest of her days. If she carries his child, you must do as you have done for the other women he ruined. You must find her a husband.”
“That is too cruel. She is a child and was deceived. To compel her to marry a man she neither knows nor loves, a man who would accept her only for the financial advantage, seems too heartless.”
He tossed the letter onto a table and crossed to the hearth.
“Perhaps we could emigrate to America. I have read of New York and Boston. I could purchase land and build a house. We might live there four or five years, then return with her child and say she had been widowed.”
“You need not go so far. Take her to your estate in Scotland and wait it out there. You have often said the place requires improvements.”
“I could. I could make it known that the soldier she married was killed in the war and left her a widow.”
Richard said, “This marks the end of any prospect of an attachment to Miss Ramsbury.”
Darcy stared into the fire as disappointment over his own lost hopes mingled with his grief for Georgiana's ruined life.
After a time, he said, “She is a rarity, Richard. A woman without peer, for she is as amiable as she is beautiful. I have never met a woman of good family, generous dowry, and beauty who was not also proud and arrogant. But Miss Ramsbury has a kind heart, a generous spirit, and a ready laugh. It is as you say. As things stand now, I cannot marry for another three or four years, not until this lies behind us and I know the truth has been buried. I have no wish to burden my wife and children with the stain of ruin.”
* * *
Darcy stood by the graveside, his head bowed.
“What are you thinking, Cousin?”
Darcy raised his head.
“Wickham has brought so much sorrow and trouble upon us through the years.
There has always been something to repair in his wake.
Now he has ruined the life of my innocent sister.
I should have sent him to the debtors' prison years ago so that he could never again darken our lives.
But I did not. He had been my father's favorite, and I was too forbearing where Wickham was concerned. My weakness has cost my sister dearly.”
The two men remained in the churchyard of St. George's Parish Church for another hour, speaking of their former friend. They reflected upon how they had gradually grown apart, the conduct that had estranged them from him, and, at last, how he had preyed upon an innocent child.
“Darcy, Wickham has met his own justice. Let us go, or we shall not reach London before dark.”
Darcy put on his hat and followed his cousin from the churchyard.