by Gail McEwen
“I, myself, knew next to nothing of Lord Smythe-Hamilton until that night, and I deeply regret ever having heard of him at all. Can you tell me, sir, what is being said? After all, my involvement was quite minimal.”
“That you and Colonel Fitzwilliam have a family connection with his killer, Mr Wickham, and that you deliberately sought out and exposed the man and his villainy. The colonel is most often mentioned, and one can perhaps excuse such behaviour from a military man, who, by profession and temper, must be hot-headed and headstrong in pursuit of honour. But that you, Mr Darcy, as a gentleman, or that any gentleman for that matter, should become embroiled in such an unseemly affair concerns me.”
Darcy briefly saw red. Who was this man to think he had the right to be concerned over anything Darcy might choose to do? The answer, of course, was that he was the father of the young man who could make Georgiana happy. Darcy swallowed the indignation that threatened to surface and took a calming breath.
“As I said, my involvement was quite minimal. Mr Wickham, you see, was the son of my father’s steward. I could not help but be outraged by his behaviour. I feel it to be an affront to my father’s goodness and everything he tried to do for him, as well as to the Darcy name. It was a sense of responsibility, misguided though it was, that compelled me to involve myself.”
“Should you not have approached him privately?” The old man’s gaze was piercing.
“I should have.”
“Father, please.” Robert Franklin groaned under his breath, but he was silenced by a sharp glance.
“Robert, why don’t you and Tibbet join the ladies and leave Mr Darcy and me to visit in peace?”
The two young men exchanged uneasy glances, but there was nothing to be done but to obey the patriarch.
“Let me do us both the favour of speaking plainly, Darcy,” Franklin said once they were alone. “We both know the purpose of this dinner: your sister and my son have developed a regard for one another, and while I have no reservations about that, I am concerned about connecting the Franklin name to any breath of scandal.
“My father left me a good name; my grandfather did the same for him, as did his father before that—and on and on, going back to the days before your Norman conqueror. I shall not do less for my son.”
“And you believe a connection with my sister and the Darcy family would endanger that good name?” As much as he endeavoured to remain calm, there was no mistaking the tension in Darcy’s voice.
“Of course not. My son could do no better than to win the favour and esteem of Miss Darcy, and I have told him as much. She is a lovely girl, and the pride you show in her is justified. As I said, I have no reservations in that regard. It is the connection with the Wickham affair that concerns me. I believe the trial is tomorrow?”
Darcy nodded.
“I hope you will understand that I must delay forming a final opinion on the match until that matter is put to rest.”
“You may be assured there is no cause for concern.”
“I sincerely hope that is the case.”
* * *
“And he really said that? In so many words?” Fitzwilliam was incredulous.
“Just as plain as that,” Darcy replied. “His consent rests on the outcome of the trial. Well, not so much the outcome as my involvement in the outcome.”
“Well, that explains why we are in this inconspicuous hackney rather than your more comfortable conveyance. And young Franklin will not proceed without his father’s consent?”
“Indeed, he will not—as, I suppose, it should be. We would not want to encourage an alliance for Georgiana with a man with no regard or respect for his parents’ wishes.”
“Very true,” Fitzwilliam sighed, “and I am not one to cast stones. My entire life, it seems, has been dedicated to satisfying my own father’s wishes.”
“Ha!” Darcy snorted. “Not until those wishes came cloaked in the guise of a pretty young heiress.”
“Not all familial obligations are equally burdensome.” The colonel smiled as the carriage came to a stop before the Old Bailey. “But this news of yours begs a question, Cousin. Why are you here? Should you not steer clear of this whole proceeding? As the ‘hot-headed military man,’ I can speak to what we saw, and you need not be involved at all.”
“Quite right. Yet, here I am, nevertheless, so let us get on with it.”
There was something in Darcy’s eyes that Fitzwilliam did not entirely like — something like ambivalence.
“No, no, I insist.” The colonel ignored the opened door. “You would be much better sitting with Georgiana this morning. I am sure she is distressed, knowing the trial is today. I shall come to you both when it is finished.”
“I spoke to her at length last night. While she, of course, feels terrible for what Mrs Wickham must surely endure, she assures me that she is determined not to dwell on it, whatever the outcome. In fact, she was more concerned about how I felt the dinner went.”
Fitzwilliam shook his head in amusement, putting his hand on the door latch. “Well, then, shall we get this over with?”
“You go. I will be there shortly.”
Giving him a narrow-eyed stare, Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to say something more, seemed to think better of it, and simply nodded before opening the door and disappearing into the milling crowd outside the courthouse.
Darcy closed his eyes and threw his head back against the seat. “Now, Darcy, what the devil are you going to do?” he asked aloud to the empty carriage.
He had no answer.
And when he was approached by a bewigged gentleman in black robes as he made his way down the marbled hall towards the courtroom, he still had none.
“I had expected to have the opportunity to speak to you before this,” Mr Potter said breathlessly, “as it is, we must hurry. The court diary is extremely crowded today, and there will hardly be any time to present our defence.”
“I am sorry, I do not understand you. Our defence?”
“Of Mr Wickham. Did not Mrs Wickham speak to you? There is virtually no chance unless someone of influence vouches for him.”
“Is that not your office, sir?”
“I shall be ready to cross-examine those giving evidence, should any one of them appear to be bearing false witness or testifying for their own gain, but you and I know, given the status of those who will speak against him, that likelihood is slim.”
“Wickham will stand before a judge and a fair and impartial jury to answer for his crimes. It takes no manner of skill to put forth a plain and honest defence; that he cannot do so is not my responsibility. I do not see why I should be involved at all.”
“The best hope for Mr Wickham is a conviction for manslaughter rather than murder. Given the circumstances, the jury will never consider it unless someone of unimpeachable character begs it of them. Otherwise, he will hang.”
“Then he will hang. What has it to do with me?”
“Are we not all our brothers’ keepers, Mr Darcy? After all, ‘to him who knoweth to do good, and doeth it not, to him — ’”
“‘To him it is sin,’” Darcy finished the verse.
“I pray you will remember that when the time comes.” Potter gave him a pointed look before rushing off.
* * *
With no money, Wickham chose not to dwell on the degradations forced upon him to ensure that his clean clothes were available to him, as well as the opportunity to change and wash before the trial. The gaol keeper was a man of unpleasant appetites, and Wickham vowed that, once he was out of there, he would find some way to make both Darcy and Fitzwilliam pay for this final humiliation.
But for now, clean and well-dressed, he was taken, along with five other prisoners from Newgate, to the courthouse to face judge and jury. He looked at the desperate faces of his fellow inmates and could not stifle a smile of satisfaction. Too bad they had no Darcy to save them.
They were ushered to an anteroom, and more quickly than he could have imagined, t
he accused were taken one by one to the courtroom, sometimes not even thirty minutes between summonses.
Speech was forbidden. The minutes and hours ticked by, and even the most hardened of criminals grew pale with the wait, jumping every time the door opened and the bailiff summoned the next man. By some cruel twist of fate, Wickham’s was the last name called. As he waited in the now empty room, his courage deserted him, and when at last the bailiff appeared, his stomach was hollow with fear.
He was led through a heavy oak door and into the hot, crowded and noisy courtroom, pushed to stand at the dock as the prosecutor sifted through a thick stack of papers on a table. Seated behind him were Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr Greyson, and—to the delight of the whispering onlookers — Lady Smythe-Hamilton. The stern young man at her side must be her elder brother, Wickham thought distractedly, and he tried to keep his courage up despite her certain testimony.
Once it was clear that Darcy and Fitzwilliam would not call off their witch-hunt, his hope had changed from exoneration to mitigation through the petition of those same influential friends. They would have their revenge, but he was certain they would not let it go too far. They could not. He searched the crowd—there must have been hundreds of people jammed into the gallery and balconies—but, oddly enough, he could not find the one face he had been convinced he would see. Elizabeth was there; he recognised her in the back corner of the gallery, trying to be inconspicuous with her bonnet pulled down low to cover her face, but she stood alone. Surely, she had approached Darcy. Surely, she had conceded to employ any means necessary to convince him. How could she not? The risk was too great for her to allow mere scruples or squeamishness to get in the way.
The clerk rose to stand before the judge. The crowd hushed.
“My Lord. George Walter Wickham stands before you, charged with indecency and with capital murder as a result of an unlawful duelling contest.”
The room filled with whispered hisses, and still he looked for Darcy.
Mr Greyson was the first to be questioned by the prosecutor, telling the judge how the Wickhams, who were entirely unknown to him, happened to be present at his house on that fateful night.
“The invitation was at the particular request of Lord Smythe-Hamilton,” he explained, eliciting a collective gasp of surprise from the gallery. As one, they leaned forward in anticipation. “His lordship was a long-time friend and associate of my family, and he was so complimentary of Mr Wickham’s character, amiability, and general desirability as an acquaintance, I obliged him by extending an invitation to the man and his wife, despite my misgivings.”
He went on to describe the discovery of the nefarious tryst, the duel, the distress of his wife and daughter, as well as the inconvenience of having to deal with inquests, examiners, and the removal of a dead body from one’s formal gardens in the aftermath. Next, to the delight of the audience, came Gwen Smythe-Hamilton’s tearful narration of seduction.
“I loved my husband dearly. He was a kind and generous man. So gentle… I had rarely been to town before my marriage—I am a simple, country girl—and he was so happy to take me…” Her voice cracked, and tears rolled down her plump, pink cheeks. “I wanted to see plays and revues, and he promised we would attend them all. When he introduced Mr Wickham as a business associate, I had no idea…” She was compelled by a fit of sobbing to stop a moment to dab her eyes with her silk handkerchief and collect herself.
“My lord,” the prosecutor addressed the judge in the meantime, “Mr Wickham took advantage of this poor woman’s innocence in the ways of the world, took advantage of her ignorance of the dangers of unscrupulous men, and took advantage of Lord Smythe-Hamilton’s friendship and trust by enticing his wife into infidelity and adultery.”
“And he was always after my husband for money!” her ladyship volunteered, having brought her shame and sorrow under control. “And complaining about what a shrew he had married, and how she was spending them into the poorhouse! He played on his lordship’s sympathies and on my”—she took a ragged breath as the crowd watched expectantly—“on my affectionate heart. I am so ashamed,” she wailed. “My husband is dead, and I am ruined—disgraced!”
The look of pure hatred that Wickham sent to her back as she left the witness box was not designed to do him any favours, but as he watched Colonel Fitzwilliam move to take Gwen’s place, he noticed a slight movement in the upper balcony. Relief flooded through him; Darcy had come after all! Darcy would not fail to do the right thing.
“…and when we opened the door, we found Wickham seated on a chair, breeches down to his ankles, with Lady Smythe-Hamilton kneeling in—”
“That will do.”
A collective groan of disappointment filled the room when the prosecutor interrupted the scandalous testimony. “Can you go on, please, yet spare us the unseemly details?”
“Of course. Forgive me. I should say, Mr Wickham was found in an exceedingly compromising position with her ladyship.”
Loud sobs erupted from Lady Smythe-Hamilton.
“Could you have been mistaken in what you believe you observed?”
“No.”
“Is there any possibility that you misconstrued or misinterpreted the scene?”
“Absolutely not. She was most definitely…doing…The Act.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
The prosecutor turned to the judge as Fitzwilliam left the stand.
“My lord, I have presented the facts of the case. Mr Wickham’s guilt and treachery are proven beyond a doubt.”
“The facts seem to be clear if you give credit to the witnesses.” The judge turned to the esteemed gentleman seated at the table. “Mr Potter, have you any reason to question the honesty of the testimony or the validity of the evidence presented?”
“I have none, my lord.” Potter shook his head, but searched the faces in the crowd expectantly. “I can only implore that someone, some friend or acquaintance, speak on Mr Wickham’s behalf, to testify to his good character and give reason for this court to show the mercy it so bountifully possesses and so graciously bestows.”
The onlookers waited expectantly, but no one came forward. Wickham watched in disbelief as Darcy, after giving him a cold glance, shrank back into the shadows of the balcony and disappeared from view. The one thing he had literally staked his life on was the Darcy compulsion to do right. Would he not speak? How could this be?
“Will his wife not plead for his life, then?” a desperate Potter cried out. “Mrs Wickham, step forward and speak for your husband!”
But Elizabeth, too, was gone. Wickham tried to call out to her, to Darcy, to anyone, but all he could manage were breathless monosyllables. In his fear and disbelief, all power of speech deserted him.
“The facts are undisputed, and the witnesses have been deemed trustworthy,” the judge proclaimed then addressed the jury. “If you find no foundation to discredit them, and no extenuating circumstances for mitigation, you must be the judge of his guilt.”
Wickham was sent to wait with the five previous defendants at the dock while the jury huddled together to deliberate. Within ten minutes, six verdicts of ‘Guilty’ for crimes ranging from thievery and fraud to manslaughter and murder were announced, and the prisoners were brought to stand before the judge to hear their sentences. Each man was offered the opportunity to address the court before his punishment was read, but when his turn came, Wickham could only look frantically at Mr Potter, who then stood up and approached him. After a quick, whispered conference, it was the barrister who addressed the court.
“My Lord, Mr Wickham has full confidence that a patron can yet be found to sponsor his petition; therefore, I respectfully request the imposition of a reduced sentence of either imprisonment, or if need be, transportation.”
The judge looked Wickham up and down with a jaundiced eye. “If and when that patron is found, I shall consider his petition. Until then, George Walter Wickham, you have been found guilty of indecency and capital murder, the latter carr
ying with it the sentence of death by hanging. In accordance with charity and compassion, the penalty will be carried out with dispatch, your body then to be delivered to the surgeons for dissection and anatomisation, and your soul delivered to face the judgement of Almighty God. May He grant you mercy and true repentance.”
The blood rushed from Wickham’s head, his face blanched, and his limbs trembled. Dark spots circled in front of his eyes, roaring filled his ears, and suddenly his legs could no longer support his weight. He dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
Chapter 18
Elizabeth originally had no intention of attending George’s trial that morning. Instead, after dressing with particular care, choosing the best of what her limited wardrobe held, she left the house with only one mission in mind—to get to the bank before any notoriety attached to the trial or verdict could damage her chances of getting her hands on what little money was left.
She stood outside the bank building for quite some time, trying to work up the courage to walk through the door of what was obviously an exclusively male enterprise, watching men go in and out, and envying the calm assurance with which they went about their business, giving no thought to the appropriateness of their presence. At last, she took a deep breath and stepped through the forbidden doorway. Ignoring the surprised face of the clerk at the front desk, she approached him with what she hoped was authority and gave him the papers she had so carefully prepared the previous evening.
If he looked shocked before, that was nothing to his expression when he saw the name on the document.
“Wickham? George Wickham? Is not he the one who—?”
“Yes. Him. He had these papers drawn up yesterday,” she lied. “Please execute them according to his directions.”
The clerk read, his eyes growing wide in dismay.
“But this cannot be—‘withdraw all funds from my account and give to the custody of my wife, Mrs Elizabeth Wickham,’” he quoted then looked up, clearly affronted. “Such a thing is simply not done!”
“And why not? Is it not his money to dispense as he chooses?”