Stronger Even Than Pride

by Gail McEwen

  “Wickham, you have been convicted in court. However do you think I can manage to procure you a pardon?”

  “That is not my concern. You and Darcy have money and influence. Do what you must.”

  “I will try. But”—he gave a worried look — “when you say money enough…how much do you require?”

  “Oh, I think I could make do with £30,000—you know, the amount I was unfairly deprived of in that certain matter you wish to keep unknown.”

  “Your price is steep indeed.”

  “But worth it, you must agree, to assure my silence. Oh, and I shall need an annulment as well. I want to start a new life, and I do not need a wife hanging about my neck. Tell Darcy he may have Elizabeth if he likes. I am done with her.”

  Fitzwilliam bit his lip to keep from speaking his mind at the outrage.

  “Very well,” he said once he had control of his feelings. “I am not sure how I will manage, but I shall do it. It will take some time, however.”

  “You do not have time. I want to be out of here today.”

  “But that is impossible.”

  “Then do the impossible, or I shall be forced to reveal the whole, unfortunate affair.”

  Fitzwilliam had had enough.

  “No, Wickham”—he stood up to leave—“you will say nothing. Keep in mind, if you speak out prematurely, neither of us shall lift a finger to help you. You may have achieved your aims, but you will be no less dead at the end of it. I would advise you to be patient and let me see what Darcy and I can work out.”

  With satisfaction, he watched Wickham’s bravado deflate. He approached the keeper, watching from the corner, and pulled him aside, speaking a few quiet words in his ear and pressing several coins into his hand as he did so. With a smile, he turned and walked out into the bright winter sunshine.

  Chapter 19

  A bell tolled in the distance. The noisy crowd jeered and hissed and spat at him; he could see their ugly faces clearly as he was marched towards the gallows. His footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs, mimicking the pounding of his heart. One step after the other and then he was on the platform, dripping with cold sweat. A rope dangled from the crossbeam, looped into a noose at the end, swaying slightly in the breeze. Even through the noise of the crowd, he could hear the ominous squeak and creak of rope rubbing against well-worn wood. A faceless man approached, beckoning to him, and he lurched forward on unsteady feet as cruel hands pushed him from behind.

  He stood on a rickety trapdoor; the faceless man took hold of the noose and brought it down around his neck. It scraped his ears on the way down and chafed and tore at the tender skin of his exposed throat.

  The chaplain prayed for his soul as a hood was jerked over his head, twisting his neck from side to side. The noose tightened with a slow scratching sound. Tears streamed down his face, and his nostrils were filled with the dry, dusty smell of rope.

  It cannot end like this, he thought, not like this, not like—

  The sharp mechanical sound of a lever, and the floor disappeared beneath him with a crash. He dropped forever, falling and falling… Was this all it — Then a sudden jerk and blinding pain. His neck snapped back, his throat was crushed, and he struggled for breath in vain. He tried to get his hands up, to tug at the ever-tightening rope, just a breath, just one little breath, but he could not reach it, his arms were tied tightly to his sides. His body moved with a will of its own, struggling, convulsing, fighting against the torment. His lungs screamed for air, his head throbbed with each heartbeat, his eyes bulged and popped with flashes of light and blackness, there was no breath to cry out. He prayed for the end, for the darkness to come, but the agony would not end. The torture would last forever…

  * * *

  Wickham jerked up with a start, covered in cold sweat, his heart pounding. Thank God, it was only a dream! Relief flooded over him, but once he was cognisant of his surroundings and realised that he was still in the condemned ward of Newgate prison, his relief turned back to cold dread.

  As the hours passed, it grew more and more difficult to keep hope alive, but still Wickham clung to the expectation and promise that either Darcy or Fitzwilliam, or both, would come through and save him. They must. Neither would risk harm to Georgiana’s reputation, and he held that reputation squarely in his hands. The longer he waited in the darkness and filth, however, the more flimsy the hand he held against them seemed, and he began to question the real power of his information.

  Fitzwilliam was right; he dared not speak out prematurely, or any leverage he possessed was at an end, And in truth, there was no one to whom he could reveal the near-elopement with Georgiana Darcy had he wanted to. He was without money or contacts to get a message out to any newspaper or gossip sheet, and no one in the gaol knew or cared anything about the Darcys. No one there was interested. His fellow inmates had tales much more harrowing and blood curdling to share, and they told them with relish, one topping the next for cruelty and savagery. His attempt to interest them in what was nothing more than a seaside flirtation and thwarted elopement, even with the embellishments he added to make the story more interesting, only earned him a thrashing. Even as he rubbed his aching jaw and tried to staunch the flow of blood from his nose, it chafed to think that he was now numbered among those pitiless brutes. The world, it seemed, had lost interest in George Wickham and would not give him another thought until it was time watch him dangle. Then they would cling to every word he said, but he could not even think of that. Darcy would surely get him off before he ever saw that day.

  Another night of terrible dreams, and the next day passed with no word. Then came the dawn Wickham never fully believed he would see. “Any day now” became “any moment now,” and his confidence was shaken to the core. Why would Darcy wait until the last minute? He must be deriving some sick pleasure from putting him through this torture, but why did he not come? Had he asked too much? Could it be the money that was the sticking point?

  The mood in the condemned ward was subdued as the distant squeak of an opening door echoed within. Was it Darcy? Wickham squinted into the shadows, hoping against hope to discern a familiar figure emerging through the dingy light, but it was just Kemp. His stomach dropped, and his skin prickled; every eye was trained on him. Everyone knew what that day brought and for whom the keeper had come. His heart pounded. Bitter bile rose in his throat. Darcy must come. Or Fitzwilliam. Yes! Fitzwilliam! He would be standing somewhere down the way wearing a self-satisfied smirk, but no matter, he would throw himself at the colonel’s feet and tell him never mind about the money. Oh, why had he been so cock-sure of himself to demand so much? He cared nothing about money; he only wanted to live. He would promise, would swear to run as far away from all of them as he could contrive to go. But no Darcy appeared. No colonel. Only Kemp, with that sick grin, holding something in his hand.

  * * *

  Sometime in the middle of the night, it occurred to a bleary-eyed Darcy that he ought to count the hours of sleep Wickham had cost him over his lifetime, but he doubted he had the mental capacity to calculate such a large sum at that late hour. From his bedroom window, he watched the moon slowly travel along its path in the night sky. The morning would bring an ending of sorts, but not, he feared, an end to the long wakeful nights. At length, the moon set, the black sky turned dark blue, then grey, gradually lightening until the first rays of sun shot through the space between the neighbouring houses. Today was the day. Today, Wickham would… No, now that it was real, now that it was here, he could not put the idea into words.

  He waited until he heard the sounds of the house stirring to life before he rang for his man. He would dress, and one last time, he would hire a hackney to take him to the courthouse square. One last time, he would hide, lurking unseen along the edges of the crowd to protect his privacy and Georgiana’s. But after today, after this long, unrelenting nightmare was over, he would never hide again.

  * * *

  This had to be the dream again, Wickham told himse
lf as Kemp yanked him to his feet and, in a rare demonstration of humanity, thrust a tin mug in his hand with a command to drink. The whiskey was harsh; it stung his mouth and burnt his throat on the way down, triggering a coughing fit that lasted several minutes.

  “C’mon,” the keeper growled, but Wickham could not seem to move of his own volition. A rough shove sent him stumbling along, weaving through the gathered felons, standing uncharacteristically silent and watching as he was led away. A brief flash of hope flared as their route approached the warden’s office; Darcy would be there, he was certain of it! But the warden stood stiffly, arms crossed, with that disapproving expression Wickham knew so well, and hope died in disbelief when the keeper led him past without even slowing.

  His insides prickled. The whiskey was on fire in his belly, his head throbbed, and his mouth tingled. He was taken down one hallway after another, coming to a stop at a door flanked by two solemn-looking men. Neither one was Darcy or Fitzwilliam.

  The men stepped forward, and Kemp handed him over. Silently, one pulled his hands forward and together while the other bound them tightly with a cord. His arms were then tied to his sides at the elbow.

  He could not stop trembling.

  * * *

  Elizabeth chose that morning to return to Castle Street and pack up the rest of her belongings, hoping the monumental task of sorting through her things, choosing what to keep and what to leave behind, would occupy her mind and prevent her from dwelling on what was happening in another part of the city.

  But of course, it did not.

  Instead, she found herself folding and refolding articles of clothing, putting one after another in her trunk only to pull them back out again, unable to concentrate or make a final decision on anything. Sitting on the bed in defeat, she looked around the room she had shared with George for all of her married life, knowing this was the last time she would ever be in it and trying to put a name to what she felt.

  Although her stomach churned whenever she thought of what the morning brought for him, she did not wish him back, and she was quite satisfied to be leaving that house for good. But he would die with no one to mourn him or regret his passing. She sighed. It was all such a waste.

  * * *

  This is not real, he repeated over and over in his mind, because his tongue would not work. This is not happening. Darcy will come. Someone will come. Someone will surely come…

  The sound of a tolling bell and the door was flung open. He closed his eyes against the pain of the blinding sunlight, but not before he saw the gallows silhouetted against the morning sky.

  “No,” he moaned. His stomach rebelled, and bound as he was, he dropped to his knees, coughing and retching in the doorway, though nothing came up. He was lifted up by the shoulders, nose dripping, strings of spittle hanging from his mouth, and pushed through the door. Dimly, he was aware of the crowd below, but he could not hear them. The executioner dragged him over to stand on a trapdoor, pulling the noose down and over his head. A chaplain approached, begging him to confess his sins before God and man.

  Confess? Yes. Confess! They were out there somewhere in the crowd, watching, he was sure. If he started talking, they would stop this; they would have to! But his thoughts were scrambled, and he could not remember what it was he needed to tell. He opened his mouth to try, but to the disappointment of the eager crowd, his tongue was heavy, his throat constricted, and no sound came out.

  The chaplain prayed for his soul as unseen hands tugged a hood over his head, jerking his neck from side to side. The noose tightened with a slow scratching sound. Tears streamed down his face, and his nostrils were filled with the dry, dusty smell of rope.

  It cannot end like this, not like this, not like—

  * * *

  Sitting in the hired coach at the edge of the crowd, high above the heads of the gathered onlookers, Darcy winced as the executioner pulled the lever, opening the trap door with a crash. Wickham dropped, stopping with a sudden jerk, struggling, kicking and writhing, while a stone-faced Darcy forced himself to witness it all. Minutes passed that seemed like hours, and at last, to his deep relief, the violent thrashing ceased. It was hard to believe that the limp figure dangling from the gallows was once a living, breathing man — a man he knew. George Wickham—his father’s favourite, whom he had known from a boy—had been alive just minutes before and now was dead.

  He felt like he was made of stone and that any movement would shatter him into a thousand pieces, but he managed to raise his walking stick and knock on the roof of the carriage to signal to the reluctant driver, who was quite enjoying the spectacle, that he was ready to leave.

  Chapter 20

  In the end, Elizabeth packed every bit of clothing she owned, and even at that, the trunk was only half-full. Leaving all the bed linens and blankets behind, she fastened the lid, dragged it across the room, and bumped it down the staircase a step at a time. Looking around at the shabby rooms on the ground floor, she saw nothing there she wanted to keep. There was no part of that life she wanted to hang on to, so she sat and waited. In the distance, a church bell chimed ten times. Thinking it would take her all morning to sort and pack, she had told her uncle not to come for her until noon. He would accompany her to Hertfordshire and, with his presence, pave the way for a smooth family reconciliation.

  She had tried not to think about the reception waiting for her, but that morning, worrying over the unknown was preferable to dwelling on the events outside Newgate prison. She found, however, that she could not even worry in a coherent fashion. Fears, memories, and regrets competed for attention in her crowded thoughts, and none stayed put long enough for her to grasp any one of them. She stared blankly at the wall until a sharp rap at the door stirred her from the fog.

  She opened it to discover Mr Darcy standing in her doorway; before Elizabeth could wonder at his being there, with three words, he ripped away the protective blanket of bewilderment in which she had wrapped herself. Suddenly, she was exposed, cold, and confronted with a truth she had not wanted to face.

  “It is done.”

  Darcy watched Elizabeth immediately grow pale, and instinctively, he took her arm and guided her to the sofa. To his surprise, she complied without resistance.

  Thinking he ought to keep his distance, he stood back, watching to assure himself that she would recover, but she shook so violently that he was compelled to sit beside her and then to put his arm around her shoulders and pull her close. Again, she did not resist as he expected.

  * * *

  The last time she felt his arms around her in that very room, it had been all Elizabeth could do to pull away, to resist the temptation to loosen the grip on all the worries and troubles she had held so close for so long and, for even just a moment, to let them fall — to allow someone to help her shoulder the burden and tell her that everything would somehow be well in the end. She was so very tired of always being strong, and this time, she found she did not have the wherewithal to resist the comfort he offered.

  Without thinking, Darcy raised her chin with his finger and turned her face towards his, and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in for a kiss. When their lips touched, the dam burst, and every feeling carefully held at bay for so long poured out in an uncontrolled flood. His kiss was hungry and insistent, and her response was equally demanding. He pulled away long enough to ask her an unspoken question. Her eyes met his unflinchingly in reply as she raised her hand to the back of his head and pulled him in to kiss her again. And thank goodness she did because he did not know that he could have stopped. When he took her mouth once more, both knew there would be no turning back. They both conquered, they both surrendered, and neither gave any thought to the consequences.

  Over the fabric of her gown, she felt his hands explore the contours of her body, sliding down her sides, cupping her bottom. He moved over her, pressed against her, hard with desire. One hand rose to stroke her breast while the other slid between her legs, causing a rus
h of heat and moisture that turned her insides to jelly.

  She slid down on the sofa, her skirts pushed up past her hips. He was above her, fumbling at the buttons of his trousers. When he freed himself and moved in, she opened to him without question. With a groan on his part and a gasp on hers, he plunged inside her, moving swiftly and with a mindless urgency. It was everything she had imagined but so much more, so much better. She did not have to conjure up tender caresses, the whispered words of endearment, the strong embrace; instead, she could surrender herself to them. He felt so warm, so strong, so tender… She gave in fully and welcomed his burning passion. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him in closer, deeper—urging him on faster and harder.

  He complied; indeed, he could not have done otherwise. At the moment, self-control was not within his grasp. His breath came in rhythmic grunts, and he thrust into her, single-mindedly, building and building until, all too soon, he spilled over into utter oblivion.

  It took some minutes before he knew anything but complete peace and satisfaction, and once awareness slowly seeped in, his first thought was regret that it was over so quickly. His next was to wonder whether she had reached her fulfilment in spite of his haste. He lifted his head and saw her eyes were closed, her face flushed with a contented half-smile. Relieved, he rested his forehead in the soft, damp skin at the curve of her throat, falling into a contented half-sleep as she absently combed her fingers through his hair.

  * * *

  Elizabeth was beyond thought, lost in the beautiful fulfilment of those dark, forbidden fantasies. She would have lain forever in that place where the soft fog of contentment kept reality at a safe distance, and she was disappointed when she felt him rise on his elbow and take a deep breath. She opened her eyes to find him watching her, and then he smiled, shook his head and chuckled softly.

  “Why do you laugh?”

  “I was just thinking that…”

  He stopped, and his smile faltered. To her disappointment, Darcy moved off her, started to say something, then he looked down and hastily buttoned his trousers. His expression was closed and guarded. When he spoke again after several more false starts, his voice was stilted and formal. “It is no matter. This is not an occasion for flippancy. I owe you an apology.”