Ruined Forever

by D. L. Carter

  Damn the girl. Did she not know, not realize that the family could not bear the weight of another scandal? How could she do this … oh, yes, this was Lydia, that was all that need be said. Darcy drew back, waiting to see which man he must track to his den and reprimand.

  It was not a surprise to hear Wickham’s familiar low laugh.

  Knowing that Wickham valued his own comfort as well as his lechery Darcy felt safe to leave the pair in the dim, and importantly cold, bower. Darcy backed away, carefully. It would not do to permit the lovers to know they were observed. A servant appeared around the corner of the house leading Darcy’s horse. Darcy took the proffered reins and dismissed the man back into the warm but did not depart. His gaze kept returning, again and again, to the wilderness.

  What should he do? What could he do? If he were to alert Mr. Bennet to the danger the man would have no choice but to insist on Wickham do the honorable thing and offer for the chit.

  “Mr. Darcy?” called a soft, dear, and familiar voice.

  “Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy was at her side in a moment.

  She was not dressed for the weather. She’d thrown a shawl over her dress, but had not waited for gloves or heavier cloak.

  “You should return inside, Miss Elizabeth,” said Darcy. “Before you take a chill.”

  “I will shortly but I could not permit you to leave without giving you my thanks. Not only for myself, but for all my family. You have been everything generous and kind. And helpful. I cannot describe my gratitude for all your aid.”

  “Miss Elizabeth. I…” Darcy stopped. He could not speak. His heart was too full. He wanted to tell her, her family was nothing to him for that was true, but she... everything he had done was for her, and heaven knew his desire to continue to do so. His whole life, his hand, his heart, he wanted to render into her keeping. But it could not be. Instead he lowered his gaze, coughed and tried again. “Miss Elizabeth, not for the world would I make you unhappy, but I must report, your sister Lydia is in the wilderness … with Wickham.”

  “Wickham? No! I must fetch my father.” She turned toward the house.

  “I would advise you do not. If he should discover them together he might insist on a marriage and I cannot imagine anything worse for your family than to be allied with him.”

  Elizabeth halted. “You are correct, of course. Father dismissed him as a fortune hunter, but still he seeks to join our family, with yet another sister. If Lydia and Wickham were wed mother would insist on him gaining something by it.”

  “Or if he is not permitted to marry your sister Wickham might insist on something substantial to buy his silence. He has done so in the past.”

  “Oh, that such evil exists in the world.” Elizabeth glared into the dark. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, you have saved us again. For this, I know how to act.” So saying she took another step toward the cluster of undergrowth and trees. “Lydia! Lydia, father is seeking you.”

  “Miss Elizabeth,” warned Darcy. “Have a care. If the constable finds you are outside the house he might put you in chains despite your father.”

  “Lydia is not the only one who knows the side doors of the house,” said Elizabeth, then took to her heels just as the front door opened. She was around the side of the house and gone from sight before the constable, closely followed by her father, emerged.

  Lydia came out of the wilderness, thank God, alone.

  “What is this fuss?” demanded Lydia. “I was just taking a walk.”

  “You take far too many walks all of a sudden,” said her father, catching Lydia’s wrist in a stern grip. “Inside, miss, there has been enough excitement tonight.”

  Darcy bowed to all, though for the most part they paid him no attention, and departed. Outside Longbourn’s gate Darcy loitered in a shadow. It was not long after he heard all the voices retreat into the house that a figure in Militia garb mounted a horse hidden in the undergrowth emerged and set off on the road to Meryton. Darcy did not bother with concealment. He set off immediately in Wickham’s train.

  Wickham shot a startled glance over his shoulder before driving his heels into the horse’s flanks and galloping off, despite the indifferent light of the moon.

  Darcy did not give chase. It was enough that Wickham was going back to quarters. Darcy followed at what he considered a safe pace. He had an errand to run.

  If he could not have Elizabeth in his life he could at least make certain the life she had was safe and tonight that meant a painful interview with Colonel Forster.

  Chapter Twenty

  Despite the hour, the Colonel of the Militia, Colonel Forster, was up and working in his study. He rose as Darcy was admitted.

  “I apologize for calling this late,” said Mr. Darcy.

  “Thank you, sir, for calling,” said Colonel Forster. “I am required to report on the skills, intelligence and spleen of every man under my command and to tell the truth, there is little enough to report on any of them, and I welcome the respite.”

  “Sadly, Colonel, I must tell you something of one of them that is not to his credit.”

  The colonel only sighed. “I have heard around camp that there is a feud of some sort between you and Lt. Wickham. I must warn you, sir, if this is more of the same…”

  “I have just this hour routed Wickham from the garden of Mr. Bennet where the villain was attempting a seduction of the youngest girl. I followed him from Longbourn close enough to see him enter his boarding house.”

  “Miss Lydia? But the chit is barely fifteen!”

  “He has a preference for the young and naive.”

  The colonel groaned, covering his face.

  “And, sir, if you will not believe me please apply to a Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, serving in the regulars. He is my cousin and the second son of the earl of Matlock. He, also, has had much experience in dealing with George Wickham since we all three grew up together. Mr. Wickham being the son of my father's steward and educated at the expense of Pemberley estate.”

  “I will write to the Colonel, if you will forgive me, Mr. Darcy. Until I hear Colonel Fitzwilliam's reply I shall have all leave canceled for Lt. Wickham and order him confined to chambers when not engaged in drills for the crime of being out without my leave but other than that, no punishment can be levied.”

  “I thank you.” Darcy hesitated. “And, if you would be further advised by me, ask your other officers how much Wickham owes in debts of honor. He has a habit of gambling beyond his means. And inquire of the shopkeepers hereabouts as well. I would assume, since Wickham has been here more than a month he now owes close to a year's salary.” At Colonel Forster's questioning look Darcy continued. “I have a very great deal of experience in dealing with Wickham's debts. There was a time when he would enter a neighborhood and claim to be myself, run up debts and vanish leaving my man of business to clear up the matter as best he could. Since I am here in person he cannot commit that particular deception. I would urge you not to trust him.”

  “Well, thank you for robbing me of my last chance of peace of mind and rest,” groaned Colonel Forster. “It is hard enough shaping third and fourth sons into soldiers without harboring villains and rakes.”

  “Should I apologize again?” inquired Darcy in level tones.

  “No. You have done your duty and I shall do mine. Do not let me keep you from your rest, Mr. Darcy.”

  “My duty is not yet fulfilled,” said Darcy. “My next call shall be upon the curate!”

  ***

  The vicarage, a well situated fieldstone building, sat in the shadow of the church tower on the opposite side from the graveyard. Since Darcy had not bothered himself with the local clergy, he was uncertain as to where he could find the Curatage. Therefore, he called first upon the vicar.

  Mr. Prescott’s housekeeper answered the door, opening it wide despite the advancing hour. She stared at Darcy for several moments before speaking

  “I don’t recognize you.”

  “Indeed, I am Fitzwilliam Darcy from Der
byshire, visiting the neighborhood. I am seeking Mr. Fitzwallace. I understand he is the curate of Meryton.”

  “Oh, yes.” The housekeeper stepped back. “If you’ll wait a moment I’ll let them inside know you’re here.”

  “Wait. The curate resides with the vicar?”

  “Oh, yes. We have the need for a curate but not the accommodations. We’ve petitioned the bishop for funds for a dwelling. Poor Mr. Fitzwallace dearly longs for a home of his own but for the nonce he has two rooms upstairs.”

  Darcy stopped, a deeply worrying thought held him in place.

  “Mr. Fitzwallace is ambitious, do you think?”

  The housekeeper flashed a smile at Darcy.

  “What?” she said. “Bless you, sir, of course he is. I doubt me you’ve met a vicar who didn’t want to be the bishop. Or a bishop that did not want to be archbishop. And the archbishop would take the place of God himself if he thought he could. Sure and he’s ambitious. Now, if’n you just wait here I’ll let the vicar and Mr. Fitzwallace know that you’re here.”

  “By all means, ma’am.”

  Shortly thereafter Mr. Prescott came into the hall rubbing his glasses and appearing quite puzzled.

  “Mr. Darcy, sir? Ah yes, now I that I see you I recognize you. How can I aid you this evening?”

  “I am here to speak, at length, with your curate on the subject of his communication with my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

  “Have you an aunt in the neighborhood, Mr. Darcy? I was not aware.”

  “No.” Darcy paused, looking up. Mr. Fitzwallace had appeared at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Fitzwallace could tell you. Like as not he heard about it all from Mr. Collins. About the wealth of the neighborhood of Hunsford. Of Lady Catherine’s direct patronage. Of the value of the living that is in Lady Catherine's gift.”

  “Why, yes?” said Mr. Prescott when Mr. Fitzwallace remained silent. “Mr. Collins was a frequent visitor and proud he was of his good fortune he could talk of little else.”

  “Yes,” Darcy continued to stare up at the curate. “The foolish, not very educated but perfectly servile and unctuous Mr. Collins received a preferment of which many would be envious. Mr. Collins knew his duty to his patroness - to be a community gossip. A posturing, grateful, sycophant. A nose-to-the-ground busy-body who would bring all the local gossip to Lady Catherine's ears so she might better interfere with another's private business.” Darcy moved to stand at the bottom of the steps. “Those are the characteristics of the perfect clergyman to serve my aunt.”

  “Indeed,” said a very confused Mr. Prescott. “One would rather those with a gift to bestow to look for more moral and uplifting characteristics.”

  “Not my aunt. Lady Catherine will now be seeking another such, since she is rather set in her attitudes. Three clergymen came and went in the year prior to Mr. Collins receiving the living.” Darcy’s jaw set. “And now, I believe, that Mr. Fitzwallace is attempting to ingratiate himself with Lady Catherine de Bourgh in order to gain that living for himself.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Prescott looked around. “I was not aware you were considering a move.”

  “Ah, but he was not,” said Darcy. “Not until Collins bragged to him. Not until Collins conveniently died and the living fell vacant!”

  “What are you saying?” demanded Mr. Prescott.

  “I think … no … I am accusing Mr. Fitzwallace of spreading lies, malice and gossip about a family in his care in this parish in order to ingratiate himself with a foolish old woman - to his material gain!”

  “Oh no, that cannot be,” began Mr. Prescott but Mr. Fitzwallace descended calmly.

  “You say that as if it is wrong.” Mr. Fitzwallace smiled. “I wrote only to extend my sympathy to a grieving woman. From his speech I knew that Lady Catherine valued Mr. Collins and would desire to know all that happened in the last few days of his life. She is grateful for my words. How can that be wrong?”

  “I have been here a few weeks only but I have heard you speak from the pulpit of the dangers of gossip several times,” said Darcy. “But as Robbie Burns said quite clearly in his poem dedicated to that small, irritating biting insect, The Louse,

  An' would some Power the small gift give us,

  To see ourselves as others see us!

  It would from many a blunder free us,

  And foolish notion:

  What airs in dress and gait would leave us,

  And even devotion!

  You, Mr. Fitzwallace teach us clearly all the harm that comes from irresponsible gossip by your very ill actions. Your malicious, destructive, tongue wagging. Because of your letters, your ignorant gossiping letters, Lady Catherine de Bourgh has sworn out a warrant for murder against a woman entirely innocent. Elizabeth Bennet is in danger of losing her life because of your malicious, self-serving gossip!”

  “My God,” cried Mr. Prescott.

  Mr. Fitzwallace remained superior and silent.

  “Be assured, Mr. Fitzwallace,” continued Darcy. “I may not have many livings in my gift but I have power that my aunt does not. My uncle, the Archbishop of York, likes me almost as much as he despises Lady Catherine. He listens to my opinions when it comes to assessing the worth of a man. I would be happy to describe you to him!”

  Now Mr. Fitzwallace’s smile faded. “That means little to us. We are under the auspices of the Bishopric of Canterbury.”

  “Do you think the Bishops do not talk to each other?” inquired Darcy.

  Mr. Fitzwallace stiffened. “It matters not. The bishop cannot prevent the bestowing of a privately held living.”

  “Oh? Then by that I assume you have already been invited to temporarily fill the pulpit of Hunsford.”

  “As it happens, the subject has been raised.”

  “When were you going to tell me, Fitzwallace?” demanded Mr. Prescott, becoming angry.

  “I requested some time away from my responsibilities yesterday.”

  “But that was to visit family,” protested the vicar. “You said nothing about seeking another placement!”

  Mr. Fitzwallace only shrugged.

  “You have done a great deal of damage with your gossip and tale carrying, Mr. Fitzwallace,” said Darcy. “I require you make a full confession of your actions before the congregation and before Mr. Jeffers, the coroner. You must tell them you exaggerated the matter in order to inflame my aunt's sensibilities.”

  “Indeed not,” said Mr. Fitzwallace. “Nothing I have done is outside my remit.”

  “I say you shall,” said Mr. Prescott. “Do you not see the harm you have done? Never in my career have I seen Meryton buzzing like an overturned hive. A good and respected family has become outcast due to words declared from the pulpit. I require an apology be rendered, and I shall write to the bishop to inform him that I do not judge you ready for full responsibility for a congregation. Unless the bishop approves you cannot hold even a private living.”

  Mr. Fitzwallace straightened, his head unbowed, his expression haughty and nothing in his demeanor suggested self-consciousness or shame. “I shall face the bishop should he call on me but for now, I declare I had done nothing wrong by the rules of our doctrine. I pointed out a sin in our community…”

  “A sin of which you can be called the greatest participant,” said Darcy.

  “I do not share your opinion,” declared Fitzwallace.

  “If you will not offer an apology, in person to the family you have harmed and on Sunday coming,” said Mr. Prescott, “I shall have no choice but to dismiss you from this post. And before you rejoice thinking yourself free to receive preferment from Lady Catherine de Bourgh, only think. This is the third time you have been thus dismissed.” The vicar turned to Darcy and said, apologetically. “When he came to me the bishop warned me that Fitzwallace was better able to make enemies of his congregation than friends. That is why I kept him close, here in my house, thinking I could guide him to more charitable and empathic manners.”

  “You seem to have failed,�
� said Darcy, with heavy sarcasm.

  “I acknowledge it. Please assure Mr. Bennet, if you see him before I do, that the requested apologies will be rendered.”

  “But I shall not!” declared the curate.

  “Then pack and leave, Mr. Fitzwallace,” said Mr. Prescott. “But, be assured, when I speak to the bishop I shall be quite clear on my reasons for your dismissal and I shall bear with me copies of the last three sermons you prepared.”

  “You delivered them.”

  “You wrote them.” Mr. Prescott sighed. “We are both responsible. You have been ordained Fitzwallace but it is within the power of the bishop to see that is undone.”

  ***

  Darcy approached Netherfield with the least amount of enthusiasm since his friend had impulsively taken the lease. His aunt was waiting for him and with her the dreadful prospect of a future wedded to Anne. It was not so much poor Anne with her perpetual ill health and unpredictable manners filled him with revulsion but the certainty of Lady Catherine as a mother-in-law that sank his heart.

  She made such a fuss about being his nearest relative as if Georgiana did not exist and his uncle and other aunt were of no consideration.

  It was not as if he were merely taking on a poor shadow of a good wife but acquiring hell’s own worst mother-in-law. He was certain that even before the banns were called Lady Catherine would have moved herself, lock, stock, and collection of yappy dogs into Pemberly. She might be in such haste that she would forget to bring Anne along.

  The greatest disappointment of Lady Catherine’s life to date was that George Darcy had chosen the younger daughter of the Earl of Matlock to take to wife, rather than the elder and Catherine had schemed from the moment her sister gave birth to a boy and herself a girl to wed them and thus gain the estate of Pemberly to rule over.

  He was barely dismounted when Bingley hurried down the stairs toward him.

  “Darcy. How did you leave the Bennet family?”