by Jann Rowland
“If you fire on her, Wickham,” said William, “I will kill you—of that, you may be certain.”
“Oh, shut up, Darcy!” spat Wickham. “There is nothing you can do that I fear. Now, time is wasting, and I will not allow Fitzwilliam or anyone else at Longbourn to realize your disappearance before I can make my escape. Now, Miss Elizabeth, come with me or you will force me to do something I do not wish to do.”
The menace of the weapon waving in front of her was not what made up Elizabeth’s mind, for she maintained her calm and was not intimidated. It was the way William looked at Mr. Wickham, studied him as if to discover his secrets. It was apparent William did not like what he saw, for he shook his head, a slight motion, and turned to Elizabeth.
“This Wickham is not a man with whom I am familiar. It would be best not to give him a reason to use his weapon.”
“Yes, I have changed much since you betrayed me, Darcy,” said Mr. Wickham, the light of insanity shining from his eyes. “How clever of you to have noticed.”
The weapon once again found Elizabeth. “Come here, Miss Elizabeth. I shall not tell you again.”
“Oh, very well,” said Elizabeth.
With a confident step, Elizabeth made her way around Mr. Darcy, smiling at him to assure him all would be well. As she went past, she winked at him, prompting a frown from her new fiancée. But Mr. Wickham did not notice, for his gaze was fixed upon William again, his countenance triumphant.
“See, Darcy? There is nothing you have I cannot take from you. Do not follow us, or it will go ill with Miss Elizabeth.”
“You will return her to me unharmed, Wickham,” snarled William, “or the threats I made concerning Fitzwilliam will be doubly true in my case.”
“Arrogant to the last, Darcy,” said Mr. Wickham.
As Elizabeth crossed the short space to him, she noted that Mr. Wickham’s attention was firmly on William. As she reached him, Mr. Wickham held out a hand to grasp her wrist, fumbling as he did so.
“You expect the world to fall at your feet. Perhaps she is comely enough for me to dally with her. But you need not fear, for in the end, I wish for freedom more than anything else. I will return her to you when I have procured that freedom.”
As Mr. Wickham groped for her wrist, Elizabeth pulled away slightly, which distracted him, prompting him to look down and grasp it more forcefully. Seeing her chance, Elizabeth pivoted and brought her knee up between Mr. Wickham’s legs, impacting with satisfying force. The man gasped and turned his pain-filled eyes to her, his expression surprised then murderous. But before he could gather himself and take any action, William had crossed the space between them in two quick strides, hammering down on Mr. Wickham’s hand, sending the weapon flying away, and then bringing his fist in contact with the libertine’s face.
Finding her hand free, Elizabeth stepped away from the struggling men, though by now the struggle was over. Mr. Wickham dropped to the ground moaning, flexing his jaw and holding his hands to his groin, while William stood over him, making a fist and shaking his hand, looking down on his adversary with contempt. At a distance, Elizabeth saw the weapon Mr. Wickham had held lying the ground. Quickly retrieving it, she hefted it before giving it to William, knowing he would be better positioned to use it. William smiled at her before it turned to a frown.
“That was very dangerous, Elizabeth. You could have been irreparably harmed.”
“If you will excuse my saying so, William,” replied Elizabeth, “I believe I would have been in significantly more danger if I had gone along with him.”
It seemed William had nothing to say to that. Instead, he grasped her hand, gently pulled her forward and enveloped her in a one-arm embrace.
“Please, Elizabeth,” said he, his voice low and brimming with emotion, “never scare me again like that. I could not stand it if something were to happen to you.”
“Do you think I am any different?”
Elizabeth looked in his eyes, seeing the love and concern deep within them. Not caring there was still had an audience in the scoundrel still prone on the ground, Elizabeth reached up on her toes and initiated their kiss for the first time.
“Let us agree we can neither live without the other,” murmured she against his lips.
“Very well,” said William, his voice hoarse with emotion. “At present, however, I suspect we should focus on the task at hand.”
That “task,” as William referred to him, had managed to gain a knee, though he braced his opposite hand against the ground, holding himself erect. The glare with which he regarded them was filled with hate and rage and every other ill emotion she could name. The darkness in those eyes suggested he would see them dead if he had the chance.
“Go and call for Fitzwilliam,” said William. “I shall stay here and watch Wickham.”
“And if he attempts to escape?” asked Elizabeth. “Are you prepared to prevent him from once again eluding your grasp?”
The tone of her voice startled William, and he turned to regard her, though still keeping Mr. Wickham within his vision. “I will do whatever it takes, Elizabeth,” said William. “It seems you have become hardened by your experiences with this man.”
“How could I be otherwise?” asked Elizabeth. “Perhaps Jane is forgiving enough to allow his offenses against us to rest, but I do not have her goodness. This man has threatened us, has made our lives a prison these past weeks. I have no pity for him and wish for nothing more than for him to meet his fate at the end of a rope.”
“And you shall have it, my dear,” said William. “Fitzwilliam will agree with you. Fetch him now, please.”
Nodding, Elizabeth stepped away and made her way through the branches back to the house, hurrying as she went along. Now that Mr. Wickham was within their grasp, she was not about to allow him to flee once again.
“Now that is an impressive woman.”
As the sound of Elizabeth’s retreat faded away, coupled with the sound of her voice calling for help, Darcy turned the fullness of his attention back on Wickham, noting his introspective mien. It was clear Wickham’s injuries still pained him, as they should, with the beating they had given him. His eyes, however, were trained on the place Elizabeth had been before she had departed, and there was a hint of a smile playing about his mouth.
“I am sure you well know my history with members of the fairer sex, Darcy,” continued Wickham. “If I was to give up my bachelor status for any woman, I declare it would be Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Wickham paused and chuckled. “I never expected her to do anything other than come along with me like a good little docile English gentlewoman. It seems I misjudged her.”
“That much is clear,” said Darcy, unable to keep a hint of irony from his voice.
Wickham continued to chuckle, though it had taken on a hysterical quality. He shook his head, tears running down his face, though Darcy could not determine whether it was due to laughter or pain. Or both. The sight brought to mind a madman Darcy had once seen raving in the center of Lambton’s busiest street, and he wondered if Wickham was losing all ability to reason.
“What a woman she is!” wheezed he amid his laughter. “Had she been inclined to a less upright character, I might have found myself a partner. With her at my side, there is no way I would ever have been defeated in anything I did!”
“Then it is fortunate for me she is inclined toward virtue,” said Darcy.
At once Wickham stood, all trace of pain or mirth now gone, replaced by deadly seriousness. He stood, tightening his fists rhythmically, his jaw clenched, the hate emanating from his face like the light of the sun. And his eyes—they were dead, dark pools where any semblance of light or humanity had fled, leaving nothing behind but a strange and disturbing resolve. If Wickham had been dangerous before he was ten times as dangerous now.
“Virtuous or not, Miss Elizabeth is insignificant now,” said Wickham, his voice matching the picture he presented. “It is now you and I, Darcy—ex
actly as it always should have been.”
“Perhaps it is you and I now, but soon Fitzwilliam will come. Your campaign of terror is over.”
Wickham snorted with disdain. “Yes, yes, I am certain Fitzwilliam will soon come to your rescue. But I do not mean to allow him to come between us, Darcy. This is between us, the favorite of your father, and his only son.”
It was Darcy’s turn to respond with contempt. “Do you truly believe my father favored you? That he preferred you to his own son?”
“Did he believe your tales of my excesses? I know he favored me, Darcy. I was his protégé, his favorite son. You were only the heir.”
“That proves you did not know him, Wickham. I was never insecure in my father’s love for me. And if you did not know, I never bore tales of your exploits to him.”
The statement pricked Wickham’s interest. “You did not?”
“No,” replied Darcy. “Though I despised you, I saw how my father esteemed you, how you could lift his spirits in a way I never could. I am not so blind as to fool myself concerning your admirable traits, Wickham—you have always been more affable than I, and you had a way of helping my father forget his troubles.”
Darcy’s gaze bored into his one-time friend, and he saw, for perhaps the first time in many years, a flicker of humanity behind the all-consuming lust for wealth and a life of ease and dissipation. “After my mother died, my father was a shell of a man. There was little I could do to ease his suffering. Even Georgiana, who was the light of his life in his later years, could do little to bring him cheer. I remained silent because I would not remove that one person from his life who could bring him even a little joy. Had I informed him, he would have banished you from Pemberley and cut you off to shift for yourself—do not lie to yourself, Wickham. You know I am speaking the truth.”
“You lie.”
“I only speak as I know,” replied Darcy. “You can deny it if you like, but both you and I know the reality of my relationship with my father. Yes, he esteemed you. I was his son. I know the extent of my father’s love for me.
Darcy could see in the way the tension ran out of Wickham that he saw the truth. It demolished Wickham’s carefully constructed web lies he had used to convince himself of his own worth. Had Darcy not had years of disgust for this man’s behavior, coupled with his intent to take Darcy’s beloved away from him, he might have felt a hint of pity for him. As it was, Darcy could muster nothing but resolve and disgust. Wickham had dug his own grave.
“Then I commend you, Darcy,” said Wickham. He was now loose and uncaring in his stance, which was even more threatening than what it had been before. “It seems you have had your revenge on me, and whether you believe it or no, it is more efficacious than anything I might have mustered.”
“Vengeance was never my province, Wickham,” said Darcy. “I always left that to you.”
Wickham smiled, baring his teeth. Behind Darcy in the distance, shouts rose, informing them both that Elizabeth had found Fitzwilliam and was leading the men to their current location. Darcy gave Wickham a thin smile.
“Justice, however, is something I desire. I do not need to see you punished because of hatred, or anything else. But justice will be served.”
“Perhaps it will, Darcy,” replied Wickham. “But not in the manner you think. Do you believe I would allow you to turn me over to the constable?”
“I think you have no choice.”
“There is always a choice, Darcy.” Wickham smirked. “In fact, I would be willing to wager that the memory of your precious father is enough to stay your finger on that trigger. I doubt you could kill me, especially when you could not even bring yourself to denounce me to your father.”
“You would lose that bet, Wickham,” said Darcy shortly. “I erred in refusing to speak to my father about you. Though you may not acknowledge it, I know he would be appalled to learn what you have become.”
“It would be best if you allow me to leave,” said Wickham. “I am not stupid. I know what awaits me if I should be brought to trial.”
“You should have thought of that before.”
“Perhaps I should have.”
Quick as a cat, Wickham darted forward, his hands outstretched to take the pistol from Darcy’s hands. At that moment, Darcy knew that his former friend was beyond caring what happened to him.
Chapter XXXIV
Gunfire rang out over the area, the sound of a single, sharp blast, which echoed between the house and the woods. It was like a peal of thunder, reverberating through Elizabeth’s heart, filling her with dread. Heart pounding painfully in her chest, fearful of what she might find, Elizabeth hastened forward, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Bingley, and several footmen hard on her heels. Then, when she rounded the break in the trees, the sight of William down on one knee caused her heart to skip a beat.
The truth of the matter soon made itself known to Elizabeth, for she strode forward, seeing William holding Mr. Wickham by his arms, the other man’s eyes open wide with surprise. As Elizabeth watched, she could see the mist descending over them, like the onset of night. And to her surprise, she heard Mr. Wickham utter the last words he ever would.
“It seems you were more resolved than I thought.”
Then his eyes closed, and his head slumped forward, his weight pulling him to the ground below, and to Elizabeth’s eyes, the sight of a rapidly spreading patch of crimson in the middle of his chest came into view. Slowly, almost carefully, William lowered him the rest of the way, his own hands and coat stained with Mr. Wickham’s lifeblood. On his face, he bore an expression of intense sorrow as if this man had not been the source of much misery throughout the entirety of his life.
“Darcy,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, first motioning for Elizabeth to hold back. “Come away, Darcy—it seems Wickham has made his final miscalculation.”
“It was no miscalculation this time,” came the dull sound of William’s voice. “He knew he was bound for the scaffold.”
“He would have been a simpleton if he did not,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Wickham was not a good man, but he was not devoid of intelligence.”
William shook his head. “No, he was not. Knowing he would face trial and execution if he should be captured, he had no choice.”
“There is always a choice, Darcy. The choices Wickham made in his life led him to this.”
“I suppose they did,” said William. “It is a tragedy—a life wasted when it might have been so much more.” William looked up, gazed in his cousin’s face. “Am I not allowed to grieve for that which might have been?”
“If you must grieve,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “let it be for that. Wickham deserves nothing else.”
Nodding his head, William turned back to his contemplation of the body—it was odd, Elizabeth decided, but Mr. Wickham did not look like his violent death had occurred only a few moments before. He looked almost at peace. Colonel Fitzwilliam motioned to the footmen nearby, and one returned to the house, presumably to fetch Mr. Bennet or perhaps acquire some instrument with which remove the body. Elizabeth noted this with detachment. The sight of William well, though sore of heart and mind, dispelled the fear, replacing it with compassion.
Carefully, Elizabeth sank down to her knees close to William, and he glanced at her, his expression turning from heartache to love in an instant. Elizabeth did not know whether she reminded him of life and love in a time of sorrow, but she used whatever he felt to her advantage, reaching out and grasping his hand to provide support. It did not surprise her that William attempted to pull away.
“There is blood on my hands, Elizabeth.”
“Yes, there is,” said Elizabeth. “It will wash off, I am sure.”
William turned to her, wonder in his eyes. “You are a singular woman, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I cannot imagine another woman who would not run and scream at the sight of so much blood.”
“Trust me, William,” said Elizabeth, fixing him with a wr
y smile, “A large part of me wishes to do just that. There are more important matters to consider at present, and I refuse to allow my instincts to get the better of me now when you need me.
“I must insist, however, on your remembering one very important consideration.” When William arched an eyebrow, Elizabeth continued: “Remember there is blood on your hands in a physical sense. But there is none staining your soul. Mr. Wickham did what he did. He forced you to defend yourself.”
“Listen to Miss Elizabeth,” urged Colonel Fitzwilliam, throwing a grateful look in her direction. “There was nothing else you could have done, for if you think Wickham would not have exchanged your life for his, you are fooling yourself.”
“Was there nothing else I could do?” asked William, his tone distant. “Perhaps you are correct. I cannot say for certain what I would have done if he had instead attempted to run.”
“If you will listen to my opinion,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “It is better he made the choices he did, though I am not happy you were forced to take his life. With his passing, an unhappy element of your family’s past has now concluded.”
William bowed his head and might have stayed there had his cousin allowed him. But Colonel Fitzwilliam would not, putting his hand under William’s arm and urging him to his feet.
“Come, Cousin, let us get you back to the house. We shall send for Snell and a change of clothes. Once you are cleaned up again, you will feel much better.”
Though his cousin had promised healing, Darcy continued through that afternoon, feeling as if a thick fog enveloped his head, which allowed for no thought and little light through its swirling mass. Snell arrived soon after, clucking about his master’s state, informing him the clothes ruined by Wickham’s blood would be burned as soon as could be arranged. Then he went away, returning to Netherfield when Darcy informed him his services would not be required for the rest of the day. Soon the magistrate had arrived along with the constable—and Colonel Forster—and Darcy was forced to focus as much as he was able.