Twenty-Two
Hertfordshire
Darcy
Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam reached Hertfordshire on the afternoon of the fourth day after leaving Pemberley.
They drove directly to Colonel Forster’s headquarters in Meryton, where every arrangement had been made in accordance with the letters Fitzwilliam had dispatched ahead.
Wickham had been quietly detained upon his return to the town, while Mrs. Younge, apprehended at St Albans by the Bow Street man following her, had been conveyed under escort to Hertfordshire earlier that morning.
Colonel Forster received them in his office without ceremony.
The gravity of Fitzwilliam’s correspondence had persuaded him that the matter extended far beyond an unpaid debt or an offence against military discipline, and he had already examined the note of hand Darcy had purchased.
The signature had been compared with several specimens of Wickham’s writing held amongst the regimental papers, leaving no question of its authenticity.
The room prepared for the examination lay at the end of a narrow passage, removed from the bustle of the headquarters.
It was plainly furnished, containing little beyond a stout oak table, six chairs, and a fire that had been allowed to burn low against the chill of the December afternoon.
Two narrow windows admitted what little daylight remained, though the gathering dusk had already begun to cast long shadows across the floorboards.
Darcy paused upon the threshold before entering.
It had been more than five years since the first blow had been struck, followed by years of persistent attacks upon his reputation, his estate, his connections, and almost even his sister.
He had imagined confronting the person responsible countless times, although he had never supposed Wickham and Mrs. Younge would be part of the conspirators, and he had always believed anger would master him when the moment came.
It did not.
The fury that had once consumed him had settled into something colder and steadier. He desired neither revenge nor satisfaction, only the truth. Every unanswered question of the past five years seemed to have gathered within those walls, waiting for someone to give it voice.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stood beside the table, arranging several folded memoranda in deliberate order.
Wickham’s note of hand lay uppermost, beside the reports submitted by the Bow Street Runner and the account of Mrs. Younge’s movements from Meryton to Buxton.
Nothing had been placed there by chance, for every document was intended either to persuade or intimidate, and Darcy suspected his cousin knew precisely which effect he hoped to produce with each one.
When all was ready, Fitzwilliam looked first to Darcy and then to Colonel Forster. “They are to enter together,” he said quietly. “Neither has been told the other is here. I should like to observe what passes between them before either has time to compose a story.”
Forster gave a single nod and crossed to the door, where he spoke a few words to the sergeant waiting in the passage. A moment later, measured footsteps sounded upon the boards, approaching slowly until they halted on the other side of the door.
Wickham was brought in first, his hands unbound, though the sergeant at his shoulder deprived him of his customary swagger.
Darcy felt his whole body tighten at the sight of that familiar, easy countenance, and some old, unreasoning part of him desired nothing so much as to cross the room and strike him.
He kept his hands still at his sides by force of will and watched Wickham halt as soon as he perceived the room’s occupants.
Surprise crossed Wickham’s face before he concealed it beneath the careless smile he had worn for most of his life.
He had not yet spoken when Mrs. Younge was brought into the room, and her reaction told Darcy more than Wickham’s false composure ever could.
She started upon seeing him, but her gaze did not remain upon Darcy; instead, it moved swiftly over Fitzwilliam, Colonel Forster, and the papers upon the table before settling upon Wickham.
For the briefest instant, her expression held no pleasure seeing him. There was only calculation, as though she were already determining what his presence meant for her own position and whether he would prove a protection or an additional danger.
“Well,” Wickham said, recovering his voice before his composure had entirely returned. “I had wondered what this was about. I did not know Darcy had contrived to use his influence against me once again.”
“Sit down, Mr. Wickham,” Colonel Forster commanded, indicating the chairs opposite the table. “Mrs. Younge.”
Mrs. Younge obeyed first, arranging her skirts over her knees with hands that trembled despite her efforts to still them. Wickham hesitated before following her example, lowering himself into the neighbouring chair with an air of careless resignation that did not convince Darcy in the least.
“I confess myself at something of a loss,” Wickham said, glancing between the three men. “I cannot imagine what business requires my presence here, Colonel. I have committed no offence against the regiment, and any private disagreement Darcy may suppose exists between us can scarcely concern you.”
“No?” Fitzwilliam drew one of the papers nearer but did not yet open it. “You will not object, then, to explaining your meeting with this lady not eleven days past at the Mantell Inn upon the outskirts of Meryton.”
Darcy watched Wickham consider his answer. He had always possessed a quick mind, though he had rarely applied it to any honest purpose, and Darcy could almost see him discarding one falsehood after another before settling upon something nearer the truth than either he or Fitzwilliam had expected.
“I know Mrs. Younge, certainly. I should be a poor liar to deny it.” Wickham inclined his head towards Darcy, and the familiar ease of the gesture made Darcy’s jaw ache from the effort of remaining silent.
“That two old acquaintances should encounter one another in the same small corner of England strikes me as unremarkable rather than sinister, whatever importance you may have chosen to attach to it.”
“An old acquaintance,” Fitzwilliam repeated. “Or a co-conspirator?”
“Conspiracy?” Mrs. Younge stammered. She looked first at Fitzwilliam and then at Wickham, but the latter offered her neither reassurance nor warning. “I know nothing of any conspiracy.”
“What I accuse you of is connivance,” Fitzwilliam replied, fixing his attention upon her. “The very habit of mind that made Ramsgate possible in the first place. I now suspect something far worse, namely a sustained design against Mr. Darcy, his family, and his estate.”
Something crossed Wickham’s face, quick and involuntary, before he mastered it once more. He settled farther into his chair and gave a quiet laugh, though the sound contained little amusement. “You accuse me of a great deal upon very little proof, Colonel.”
“We shall come to the proofs.” Fitzwilliam placed the first document upon the table between them, turning it so that both prisoners might read it.
“This is one of several notes of hand bearing your signature for debts long overdue. Mr. Darcy might have enforced them years ago, yet he chose not to do so out of regard for your late father and respect for the affection his own father bore you. That indulgence, Mr. Wickham, has now come to an end.”
Wickham glanced down at the paper. “Debt is not a conspiracy.”
“No, but it provides a lawful means of detaining you while other matters are examined.” Fitzwilliam laid a second memorandum beside the first. “This report details your meeting with Mrs. Younge at the Mantell Inn. The man who followed you saw enough to know that your encounter was neither accidental nor entirely friendly.”
“I cannot answer for what some hireling imagined he saw,” Wickham replied. His voice remained smooth, but his hand had closed over the arm of the chair. “Mrs. Younge and I discussed matters of mutual interest. There is no crime in that.”
“Then perhaps Mrs. Younge will tell us what those matters were.”
Mrs. Younge’s gaze remained fixed upon her lap. “I had not seen Mr. Wickham for some years. Our conversation concerned old acquaintances and nothing more.”
“Did those old acquaintances include Mrs. Vane?”
Fitzwilliam spoke the name without emphasis, but its effect was immediate.
Wickham’s smile did not so much disappear as empty, every trace of careless confidence draining from it before he forced it back into place.
Mrs. Younge became perfectly still beside him, her fingers tightening upon the folds of her gown until the fabric pulled taut beneath them.
Darcy observed them both, and for the first time in five years, something within his breast eased. They knew the name. Whatever falsehoods they might yet invent, that much was beyond dispute.
“I do not know the woman,” Wickham said.
“I did not ask whether you knew her,” Fitzwilliam replied. He drew out a third paper and placed it upon the table. “This is an account of Mrs. Younge’s journey from Meryton to Buxton, where she met a man in Mrs. Vane’s service.”
Mrs. Younge’s head rose. “You have no right to follow me.”
“The Bow Street men had every right to investigate a woman connected with an attempted elopement and suspected of obtaining employment through forged testimonials,” Fitzwilliam answered.
He did not raise his voice, yet Mrs. Younge shrank from the words as though he had struck the table before her.
“The references you presented to obtain the position of companion to Miss Darcy were cleverly forged. Had Mr. Wickham not personally vouched for you, the fraud would have been discovered before you ever accompanied my cousin to Ramsgate.”
“That proves nothing,” Wickham interposed. “Even were the references false, which I do not admit, you cannot make me answer for them.”