by Gail McEwen
“Well, yes. But…to simply hand such a large sum to a woman with no knowledge of finance or investing? It is inconceivable.”
“Perhaps you have forgotten the circumstances we find ourselves in?”
“No…” he said thoughtfully. “No, I have not. But surely there is a better way…” He cast his eyes around the room, as if that better way might present itself through thin air.
Panic assaulted the edges of her conscience. It had all seemed so easy and straightforward while sitting at her table at home. She had not expected to encounter such strong resistance.
“Perhaps, but this is the way he has chosen, and I am only following his instructions.”
“But his instructions, madam, are madness. Matters of finance are tricky and difficult, if not impossible, for the female mind to fully understand. Indeed, I have cause to question whether Mr Wickham himself fully comprehends the consequences of his request. Surely, your solicitor can take care of the necessary arrangements and present you with a clearer picture once we have worked out the details of what is best for you.”
“There is no solicitor, and if you will forgive me, Mr…”
“Campbell.”
“Mr Campbell, if you will forgive me, there is no solicitor, and there are no arrangements to be made. I am here to withdraw the full amount as this paper states. That is what my husband has determined is best for me.”
“But that is foolishness. If no solicitor, surely there is your father, or a brother, who can advise you.”
She looked him full in the face. “Mr Campbell, I cannot fault you for not understanding the full scope of my predicament, but truly, there is no one. I am utterly alone. I would be grateful if you did not prolong my mortification by making me beg.”
He pressed his lips together and excused himself to confer with his colleagues. For nearly two hours, she was subjected to repeated admonitions from the clerk, from his superior, and from the superior’s superior to see reason, yield to greater knowledge, and heed wise counsel—two hours in which she was certain every minute that her fraud would be discovered.
“Please”—she jammed a trembling finger on the forged document in desperation—“there you see my husband’s signature. This is his wish, and these are his instructions. Now please do as he asks. I shall not be swayed by your efforts to convince me otherwise.”
By then, it was not difficult to manufacture tears of distress, and those were what won the point at last. They concurred that, ill advised as the move was, Mrs Wickham was to be commended for her loyalty and obedience to her husband’s instructions.
In fact, so unused to feminine tears in their place of business were the bankers, they not only sent her on her way as quickly as possible with a draft for £2,000 and a bundle of banknotes covering the balance left in the draft account, they insisted on hiring a carriage to convey her home safely.
And she had every intention of going straight home, but when the driver asked her, “Where to, Mum?” she said, “Old Bailey Street.” She could not say why; she did not particularly want to go, but now that the money was safely in her hands, she felt a strong need to see the trial and its outcome for herself. Alone in the hackney, she quickly hiked up her skirts and shoved the packet containing the draft and banknotes beneath her corset. When the growing crowd around the courthouse slowed their progress nearly to a standstill, she knocked on the roof to stop, thanked the driver, and travelled the rest of the way on foot, melting into the crowd and blending into the rabble as she never had at the fine balls to which George had dragged her. Even so, she felt as if every eye was upon her. Continually touching the hidden packet to reassure herself that it was still there, she found an inconspicuous spot in the far back corner of the courtroom, pulled her bonnet low and waited.
When George’s case was presented, she listened with her heart in her throat, unable to tear her eyes away from his terrified face as the testimony against him mounted. She saw him search the crowd for Mr Darcy, and when he found her instead, she dropped her head, ignoring the desperation in his eyes.
The call for an advocate came, and no one answered. Of course. No one would speak for George because she had refused to approach Mr Darcy. Guilt and fear overwhelmed her. Then Mr Potter looked around the chambers expectantly and caught her eye, and she knew what was coming next.
“Will his wife not plead for his life?”
* * *
Those same words echoed behind Darcy as he slipped from the upper gallery and quickly descended the stairs. He made his way down the back corridor of the building to the exit, telling himself he ought to secure a carriage before the verdicts were read and the courtroom emptied, making it impossible to find one in the crowd. Even though he tried not to, he listened for Elizabeth’s voice, wondering whether she would speak up in support of her husband out of duty and obligation if nothing else. She had as much, or more, reason to keep silent as he did, but such a plea in such a circumstance was nearly impossible to withstand. Simple human decency required that every effort be made to save the man’s life.
He scoffed softly. Then where was his humanity—his decency? Had he traded them for expediency?
* * *
Elizabeth stood, frozen, knowing what she should do, what duty and principle called her to do, yet with her whole being not wanting to do it. A stifling feeling of panic seized her. She had to get out of there before she spoke up against her will, compelled by the sheer force of the barrister’s commanding voice and George’s quaking fear. Heart pounding in her throat, she ducked her head, squirmed through the crowd and somehow managed to get through the door.
Stumbling down the empty hallway, her eyes focused on the rear door that meant escape, she nearly collided with a man just stepping down from the stairwell. She stepped back, ready to beg the stranger’s pardon, but instead she looked into the face of the very man George had begged her to approach—the only man who might have saved him.
“Mr Darcy! You are here?”
“You are leaving?”
“Yes.”
“You did not speak?”
Elizabeth shook her head with a quick jerk.
“I thought you would.”
“You did?”
“But you did not.”
“No. Nor did you.”
“No.”
She drew in a breath as if she had something more to say, but just then, the door flung open, and Lady Smythe-Hamilton burst from the courtroom, followed by her very unhappy escort, arguing as they passed.
“But I don’t care if the coach is waiting, Andrew! I simply must stop by before you take me away forever. To say goodbye. Madame will never understand — ”
“Absolutely not! No shopping! We are going straight to Ferncross. Father was quite explicit—”
“But she has such a lovely shop… With you taking me away to exile, when am I ever going to have the chance again?”
“Likely never. Now do be quiet, Gwen.”
“But surely there’s time for one little…”
The cross words were drowned out as more people poured out of the courtroom, talking and shouting excitedly about the dramatic end to the day’s events.
Darcy’s eyes darted from the crowd to the exit, and he quickly backed away from Elizabeth.
“If you will excuse me.” He increased the distance between them with each word. “I really must be…” and he said nothing more but bowed stiffly and turned for the door, closing it behind him as the crowd swarmed around her.
He jumped into the closest hackney he could find. Fitzwilliam would have to forgive him, but he must leave immediately. He only hoped he had moved quickly enough that no one who might recognise him had seen him with Elizabeth.
* * *
Mouth hanging open in shock, Elizabeth watched Mr Darcy disappear without so much as a goodbye, though with another look at the press surrounding her, a sad understanding dawned.
He did not care to be seen with her in public.
Of course,
she could not blame him, but still, the knowledge gave her pain, and not just to her pride. She touched the bundle carefully hidden close to her breast, remembered her earlier resolve, and joined the surging tide of humanity out of the courthouse. The walk to Castle Street was filled with recrimination and self-reproach for things done and things left undone. She had committed forgery, lied repeatedly, remained silent when she should have spoken, and yet, her great sadness was centred on the fact that Mr Darcy could hardly wait to be out of her sight.
“Lizzy!” a voice called the moment she turned the corner. “Where have you been? Your poor aunt is worried sick!”
Elizabeth was stunned to see Mr Gardiner waiting outside her door. Although shame had kept her away, she missed Mr and Mrs Gardiner terribly, and today of all days, no sight could be more welcome than the open and friendly face of her uncle, full of concern and compassion.
“We have been beside ourselves,” he was saying as he hurried up the walk to meet her then ushered her into a waiting carriage. “No, no, we shall come back for your things later,” he interrupted when she started to protest.
“This dreadful news is everywhere, and we hoped to hear from you…” The door closed, and the carriage lurched into motion. “And then we learned in a letter from Jane just this morning that you were not with them in Hertfordshire as we thought…” He mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “You will pardon me, but I told Mrs Gardiner at breakfast, ‘the devil with her pride and stubbornness,’ and I set out to fetch you myself and bring you home to your family.”
All she could do was smile at him through tears of gratitude and relief. When they arrived at Gracechurch Street, her aunt rushed out to greet her even before the coach came to a full stop.
“Oh, Lizzy, thank goodness you are here! I have been on pins and needles all day. I am so glad that your uncle was able to prevail upon you. Come.” She took her firmly by the elbow. “Supper is waiting.”
The meal was taken in relative silence, and Elizabeth was grateful for the reprieve. She needed the time to recover from the chaotic ups and downs of the day and to decide just how much of her life of the past year to share with her relatives. After supper, they retired to the sitting room, and at last, her aunt came to the point.
“Why did you not contact us in all this time? We learned what we could of you from Jane, but knowing how you value your privacy, we were as hesitant to press for news as Jane was to volunteer it. We struggled to understand why you would cut yourself off from your friends and family, but we did our best to respect your wishes.”
“I am sorry now that we did not push more,” her uncle added, “but we had no idea what your life was until the newspapers and gossip. We thought Wickham was an imprudent choice on your part, but we had no reason to think his character was so very bad. We pictured you poor and proud, and perhaps a little reluctant to face your family, but we never thought… Lizzy, how much of what they say is true?”
With a sigh, Elizabeth confirmed that all of it was true. Although she kept many of the private details to herself, what she chose to reveal made it clear that she had married a womaniser, a gambler, a spend-thrift—a thoroughly thoughtless and self-centred man.
“And now he has killed a man.” Mrs Gardiner shook her head.
“And will hang for it,” her husband finished.
“But how are you faring through all this? I know your life has not been what you wished, but he was your husband, and this cannot be easy for you.”
“No, it is not,” she admitted. “I am sorry for him, but I cannot help but look back and see how foolish I have been. How my mistakes have hurt so many—my family, myself, my friends, and…others who have cared for me. Even George. There is so much to atone for and so much to be ashamed of.”
“You made a mistake, Lizzy, a foolish decision, but you do not have to pay for Wickham’s sins.”
“No, I suppose I do not”—she smiled sadly—“but I have so many of my own to rectify.”
“Who among us is without sin?” Mr Gardiner asked. “It is what you do now and how you choose to atone for them that matters.”
“And on that subject, have you given a thought to what you will do, once…once it is over?” her aunt enquired.
“I have tried to think a little, but mostly I have tried not to think. So much is still up in the air, and somehow it does not seem right to make plans when George is… It feels so callous. But I do think, when the time comes, I would very much like to leave London and all these unhappy memories behind me.”
“I cannot blame you. May I make a suggestion as to where you should go first?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Go home. Go to Longbourn and make amends with your mother and father.”
* * *
“Come.” Fitzwilliam fidgeted in his chair. “Let us go to the one place we shall not be bothered while we drink.”
“I was not being bothered here before you appeared.”
“Undoubtedly, and that is why I am here. I knew I would find you sitting alone and brooding.”
“I am not brooding,” Darcy said. “I was simply enjoying a quiet evening alone. I thought you might be doing the same.”
“After such a victory as we won today? How could you doubt I would want to celebrate?”
“I can understand feeling a sense of satisfaction in today’s outcome, but I do not see any cause to celebrate. A man will die as a direct result of your words.” He emptied his glass and added under his breath, “And my lack of them.”
“I knew it!” Fitzwilliam swirled his glass and squinted at Darcy through the amber liquid. “I knew that conscience of yours was troubling you. I do not mind telling you that you had me a little worried today.”
“I already explained the reasons behind my hasty departure. I thought you would be happy that I took your advice to avoid being seen with Mrs Wickham.”
“You know very well that is not what I mean. I am perfectly capable of hiring my own carriage. I have even done so once or twice when you were not in town to look after me, you know. Made it all the way home in safety, too.” The colonel rolled his eyes. “It was what showed in your face on the way to the courthouse that concerned me.”
“And what was that?”
“A distressing mixture of doubt and apprehension, along with a liberal helping of guilt. As much as I have tried over the years, I can rarely predict what you will do in any given situation, and today, that inability gave me no little concern. I had all but braced myself to hear your voice calling out for leniency at the end.”
Darcy stared at his cousin for a minute, wondering whether he should delve into this unwelcome subject in light of Fitzwilliam’s celebratory mood.
“I considered it,” he finally said.
“I know.”
“And despite all my consideration and deliberation, I could not say with certainty what I would do when it came to it. I truly did not know. In the end, I walked out before the time came.”
“Thank God. And I am equally relieved that Wickham himself could not manage a coherent sentence when given the opportunity to speak for himself.”
“That indeed was a blessing. I do wonder what kept him silent.”
“Aside from a great deal of satisfactory terror? No doubt he said nothing because he still holds out hope that you can be prevailed upon to deliver him from his fate. And if that is what keeps him quiet, we must keep him hoping until the end.”
“That may buy us a few days, but I doubt that hope will long survive the feel of the rope around his neck as he stands on the scaffold. He will have another opportunity to speak then, and to an audience hungry for sensation. He is still dangerous.”
“True, true,” Fitzwilliam said thoughtfully. “Leave it to Wickham to use his dying words to seek revenge rather than absolution.”
“It appears that a celebration right now would be premature. We must still worry about him. He cannot be allowed to speak. There is no telling what he might say, and any hint of t
he Ramsgate affair… He could do much damage to Georgiana still.”
“That will not happen.” The colonel threw back the rest of his drink and slammed the empty glass on the table. “I shall see to it myself.”
“How?”
The two men sat in grim thought; then Fitzwilliam shook his head, gave a short laugh, and stood up.
“I will sleep on it. My best stratagems come to me in the night anyhow, but be assured, it will be done. In the meantime, let us go to Ce Lieu and, if not celebrate, at least enjoy today’s victory.”
Darcy just shook his head, and the colonel could tell his cousin was in that implacable mood where urging would get him nowhere.
“Suit yourself, but I am off. We shall speak again tomorrow once I have worked it out.” He paused with his hand on the knob. “But what you said earlier—that Wickham will die as a direct result of my words?”
“Yes?”
“You are wrong. It was not my words that killed Smythe-Hamilton. It was Wickham’s bullet. And it was not your silence that convicted him. It was the evidence that damned him. Try to remember that, will you?”
* * *
The next morning, Colonel Fitzwilliam took a detour by Newgate on the way to his cousin’s house. The prisoner was brought to him, and unlike Darcy or Elizabeth, he did not even take the trouble to notice Wickham’s appearance. He did, however, detect a gleam of hope in the man’s eyes. It was his intention to feed that hope until the very last second.
“I am here,” Fitzwilliam said as he sat down, doing his best to look anxious, “to beg your discretion about a certain matter that concerns me greatly.”
The glimmer of hope turned into a confident stare.
“Is that so?” Wickham managed a smile. “I can be discreet, but that discretion will cost you. And after what you have put me through, the price has gone up considerably.”
Fitzwilliam did his best to hide a smile of his own. Did this man truly think he was in a position to bargain?
Nevertheless, he humoured him. “And what is your price?”
“A full pardon and money enough to live in comfort for the rest of my life.”