by Jann Rowland
“Bad business, this is,” said Sir William, the town’s magistrate, with a disbelieving shake of his head. “I knew of the difficulty you had with the lieutenant, but I never thought he was capable of such actions as this.”
“Given the testimonies of these gentlemen,” said the constable, a man named Smith, “it appears to be a simple case of self-defense. There is no need for any further inquest.”
There had been little doubt in Darcy’s mind of any other result once the constable was informed of the events of the day. It still felt like an ignominious end to one who had been, after all, known to Darcy throughout his life.
“The question is, what would you like done with the body?” continued Smith, interrupting Darcy’s thoughts.
“The army has no claim,” said Colonel Forster. “The man so dishonored the uniform that we have little interest in his final disposition.”
“Bury him in a pauper’s grave,” said Fitzwilliam. “He deserves nothing better.”
That roused Darcy’s interest, and he turned to Fitzwilliam, saying: “I believe my father would wish his remains to be interred next to his father’s. We should transfer him to Pemberley for a proper burial there.”
“If you will excuse my saying,” interjected Mr. Bennet, “your father was not aware of what his godson had become. Had he known, he would have cut Mr. Wickham off—is that not true?”
“It is,” said Fitzwilliam. “Do not deny it, Darcy, for we both know it is true. Your father was an upright, God-fearing man, one who raised you to be the man you are today.”
“Given that fact,” continued Mr. Bennet, “could he see Mr. Wickham today, it would disgust him, for not only did Mr. Wickham waste his life, he threatened his patron’s children. Do you think your father would wish to honor such a man?”
“Let it be a pauper’s grave, Darcy,” said Fitzwilliam. “He deserves nothing more.”
“I am not thinking of him,” said Darcy, in the grips of introspection. “His father is foremost in my thoughts. Wickham was his son, the only heir to his father’s name.”
“Perhaps he was at that. But I doubt his father would be any happier with his son than your father.”
In the end, Darcy was persuaded to concur with their assessment, though inside a nagging feeling of betrayal for two men who had been so influential in his life remained. With a few final words, Mr. Smith went away, taking custody of the body and seeing to its disposition. Sir William stayed only a few moments longer, most of that time spent in earnest conversation with Mr. Bennet. When he was satisfied, he made a few comments to Darcy and excused himself to return to his home.
There was little inclination for any of the visitors to return to Netherfield that day, and those left at the estate—namely the Hursts and Miss Bingley—soon came to Longbourn, having heard of what had happened. Though their arrival could be termed an imposition, given the lateness of the hour, the mistress of the house accepted their presence with little comment, inviting them all to stay to dinner. Darcy was grateful for her forbearance, for he did not wish to be parted from Elizabeth at that moment; she was his rock, his lighthouse on a sea filled with reef and rocks to tear a ship asunder. Without her comforting presence, Darcy was uncertain what he might have done.
Throughout the rest of the day, Darcy sat and brooded with Miss Elizabeth always nearby, accepting the words of reassurance everyone in the company seemed to think necessary to say to him. Even the most unlikely of the company felt compelled to say a few words, including some he might never have expected possessed the capacity.
“What a vile man that Mr. Wickham was!” said Miss Lydia at one point. “I cannot understand how you withstood him for so many years, Mr. Darcy, for I suspected from the first moment I met him that Mr. Wickham was trouble!”
“Did you?” asked Elizabeth, fixing her sister with a pointed look.
Miss Lydia blushed, but she held her head high and replied: “Well, it was clear soon after, was it not?”
“It was,” replied Elizabeth. “Given our vulnerability when he first showed his face, I suppose we all must be grateful he did not harm us before Mr. Darcy informed us exactly what he was.”
“It is fortunate you were spared,” Darcy mustered his wits enough to say. “Even I, it appears, was not aware of the full measure of Wickham’s depravity.”
For once, Miss Lydia made no attempt to speak further; she nodded and turned away, returning to where her sister and Georgiana were situated on a sofa, speaking in quiet voices with each other. Noting Elizabeth’s look, Darcy rolled his eyes. But Miss Lydia was not the only surprising well-wisher—even Miss Bingley approached them to say a few words of comfort.
“I am grateful you emerged from your trials without injury, Mr. Darcy,” said the woman, the hesitance in her manners nothing Darcy might have expected to see. “And you, of course, Miss Eliza.”
“Thank you,” said Darcy. “Though I am heavy of heart at present, I suspect I will be well before long.”
Miss Bingley paused for an imperceptible moment and then essayed to say: “I dare say it must be difficult to accept this outcome for one your father favored. It may help you to remember that to those who love you, it is much better for Mr. Wickham to perish than to leave your sister without a brother, my brother without a friend, and so on. It seems even Miss Eliza has a claim on you. If I were to give you any advice, it would be to live for all these people, Mr. Darcy, for you would be missed much more than Mr. Wickham will had the situation been reversed.”
Then the woman curtseyed and returned to rejoin her sister, who, they noted, captured Miss Bingley’s hand and squeezed it as if congratulating her for doing well. Miss Bingley sat in her chair as proper as ever, but with more ease than Darcy could ever remember seeing. The lady at his side was similarly bemused.
“Was that Miss Bingley, or has an imposter taken her place?”
“Though I cannot say how this change has come about, it seems genuine.”
“Then I wish her the best,” said Elizabeth. “If she goes about it in a proper manner, I am sure she has much to offer a man.”
With that sentiment, Darcy could only agree. Many were the times he wished to be free of her ubiquitous attentions, but he had never wished her ill. Perhaps she would find what she was looking for.
Wickham dead! Though Mrs. Younge could not quite decipher what she felt on the matter, considering her ultimate decision to refrain from supporting his attempt to take Georgiana Darcy, inside she was a mass of contradictory emotions. While she had known for a while that Wickham was becoming more unpredictable, more violent, Mrs. Younge had never thought he would come to this end.
Their acquaintance, begun more than five years earlier because of a coincidental meeting, had been satisfying in some respects, and downright maddening in others. Wickham had been a mercurial man, one always searching, never finding, constantly on the run from one scrape or another. And underneath, the anger against the Darcy family had simmered and burned, never extinguished, always enough fuel to keep it ablaze.
Mrs. Younge had fancied herself in love with him at one time not long after they had met. Wickham had been, after all, very charming, and Mrs. Younge had not been immune to it. That she was five years his senior did not matter in the slightest—what had mattered is her growing understanding of the man he was. Heartache was the inevitable outcome for any woman foolish enough to harbor feelings for him, and woe betide the woman who fell victim to his slick tongue and effortless charm.
That she had long been aware of those simple facts did not lessen the shock she felt at his death. When she had refused him entrance into Darcy House in London, she knew she had only delayed him, switched his target, though a small part of her hoped he would divest himself of the business and leave to make his fortune elsewhere. If he moved on his own, however, it would protect her, allow her to maintain her innocence. Her resignation from the position she now held would forever remove her from any suspicion in
the matter. Mrs. Younge had no illusions what Mr. Darcy’s reaction might be if he ever discovered how she had applied for her position. He was an unforgiving man, one who could be vindictive when it came to protecting those he loved. Mrs. Younge was certain she had made a fortunate escape.
Or so she thought. Events would prove Mr. Darcy’s close cousin was far more perceptive than she might have hoped, as she was to discover before the day was through. With her charge situated with the younger Bennets, Mrs. Younge had most of the time to herself, a matter which would often be a frustration for a companion. Companions were neither family nor friends, and when Georgiana was busy with other girls her own age amid a large company, Mrs. Younge tended to find herself alone amid the commotion. Even Mrs. Garret, the Bennet sisters’ companion, kept her distance, more inclined to watch her charges than exchange pleasantries.
“Mrs. Younge,” intoned the voice of the colonel, a surprise, as she had been caught up in her thoughts. Her confusion only lasted a moment before she controlled her racing heart and responded with a cool greeting.
“There is one thing I wish to know,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, his grave manner setting her heart to racing. “When you applied to become Georgiana’s companion, did you do it at Wickham’s urging, or did you have some devilry of your own in mind?”
For a moment, Mrs. Younge only stared at him, wondering if she should attempt to deny it. It seemed he could see her hesitation, for his steady gaze never faltered, though he spoke to forestall her rebuff.
“Before you attempt to contradict, I should inform you that I had you investigated.” The colonel fixed her with a thin smile. “Imagine my surprise to learn that those you cited as references had never heard of you. Then, when I searched further, I learned of your house in London—which you have sadly neglected of late—not to mention your history with Wickham, the bulk of which I am certain I still do not know.
“I had long suspected there was someone assisting Wickham,” continued Colonel Fitzwilliam, his tone conversational. “It never occurred to me to suspect you, though now that I look back on it, I cannot understand why it was not obvious. Therefore, I ask you once again: did you attempt to get the position yourself, or did Wickham direct you.”
“If you believe Wickham had any power to direct me,” said Mrs. Younge, knowing the time for falsehood was passed, “then you did not search out my history as much as you think. I had grown tired of living in the slums of London and thought to better my position. Not all of my references were false, and my late husband was a member of the clergy, which means I understand gentle manners. I left the house in the care of an agent, who continued to let rooms out for me.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted. “And he has done well, indeed. If you do not wish to lose the property altogether, I suggest you pay some attention to it.”
There was nothing else to say, so Mrs. Younge gave him a tight nod. The suggestion she might be free to turn her attention to the house was one she latched onto. Uncertain though she was what game he was playing, any hope at all was welcome.
“So you were not in league with Wickham?”
“I was,” said Mrs. Younge, refraining from licking her lips in fear. Anyone around the room watching her would see signs of distress, and she did not wish to bring any more attention to herself. “But I soon thought better of it.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gaze bored into her. “Then you did not, for example, allow Wickham into the house in Ramsgate.”
“I did not,” replied Mrs. Younge. “His plan was to meet Miss Darcy by chance, ingratiate himself into her heart, propose an elopement when the time was right. When she suspected his motives and foiled his designs—it surprised him to learn Mr. Darcy had spoken to her of him—he conceived a plan to compromise her and force her hand. I had nothing to do with his second attempt.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to consider this. “In some ways, your original plan was more insidious. Had Georgiana fallen for his charm, she would have been heartbroken by the knowledge he did not care for her.”
Mrs. Young nodded slowly. “But in the end, it kept her safe.”
“Then you did not know of his actions since then?”
“Some of them, I did,” replied Mrs. Younge. “When he joined the militia, I knew of it, but I knew nothing of his attempts with the young lady here. I thought I was rid of him once he joined, but when he discovered Mr. Darcy’s presence, he fled to town and inserted himself again into my notice. His anger was terrible, provoking him to threats against your cousin—I have never been so frightened by a man’s behavior. He proposed to again spirit Miss Darcy away from London, and for this, he requested my help.”
“Did he attempt to distract me away from London?”
“He did. He told me after you went away and then returned, that the next time you went in Hertfordshire, he would come and make his move, and that I was to allow him to enter the house. He provided me with a powder to put into the evening meal which would cause the entire house to sleep until morning.”
“Then he moved too slowly,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, remaining thoughtful. “I might have thought he would not be so tardy, but it seems we arrived before he could.” Colonel Fitzwilliam paused and then fixed her with a stern glare. “Unless that was the reason why you were gliding through the halls the night we returned to retrieve Georgiana.”
“As you have guessed, he arrived before you did. But I disposed of the powder and would not let him in.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Mrs. Young, seriously, “not only did I believe his plan was doomed to failure, but I had learned to be terrified of him, for his moods were growing ever more violent. I, myself, felt the sting of his hand, though he begged my pardon after, claiming his hatred of your cousin had caused his loss of control.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam fixed her with a searching look. “I do not recall any evidence of an injury.”
“Do you think he would be so lost as strike me where a bruise might show?” When the colonel’s countenance darkened, Mrs. Younge replied with a thin smile. “It was the only time he struck me, though I knew then he was capable of more. Wickham was calculated in his brutality—far more than even you or Mr. Darcy know. Had I done as he asked, it would only have been a matter of time before he betrayed me, leaving me destitute and at the mercy of the denizens of whatever hole in which he had hidden himself.
“But this is not all. Though you may not credit it, I have grown fond of Miss Darcy and did not wish to harm her. Had Wickham successfully spirited her away, I know not what manner of cruelty to which he might have subjected her. Miss Elizabeth was in even more danger, for Wickham hated her beyond reason.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam regarded her, his thoughts a mystery. “That is nothing less than I expected. What of this business of you resigning your position?”
“Just as you said,” replied she with a shrug. “My house has suffered since I have not been there to manage it myself. My late husband left it to me, and I would not lose it because of neglect. And it is the one possession in my life with which I may support myself.”
“I suppose the thought of being discovered also played a role in your decision.”
“You are not incorrect, though by now I considered that a distant possibility.”
The next few moments were difficult for Mrs. Younge’s nerves, for Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to consider her and, for all she knew, judging her future, whether she was to be incarcerated for her crimes or sent to a penal colony. For those moments, Mrs. Younge cursed the circumstances which had led her to make Mr. Wickham’s acquaintance, while lamenting she had not lived up to her husband’s example of goodness.
“Very well,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Then if you carry through and resign your position and, furthermore, never attempt to pass yourself off as a gentlewoman’s companion again, we will consider the matter closed.”
A wave of relief passed thro
ugh Mrs. Younge, as she fixed him with an incredulous gaze. “You mean to allow me to leave Mr. Darcy’s employ and go my way?”
“Revealing the truth of the matter would only harm Darcy now, for he would blame himself for hiring you. It would also hurt Georgiana, for I know she is fond of you. Your association with the late and unlamented Wickham is a heavy mark against you, but your refusal to assist him when it mattered most is also a factor I must consider. I cannot condone what you have done, but I believe it would be best to allow you to step away as you already planned to do. If you had not already spoken of your intent to resign, I might have judged differently.”
“That is what I shall do, Colonel,” said Mrs. Younge. “You shall never have reason to concern yourself for me, for I shall not bother you again.”
“See you do not. If I hear anything spoken of my cousin, I shall know where to look for the source. Remember, Mrs. Younge—I have a long arm and very little tolerance for those who willfully hurt my family.”
Then with a final significant glare, the colonel turned and departed, leaving an elated, but determined woman behind. The feelings rushing through her were akin to that of the condemned being pardoned at the last moment. Mrs. Younge vowed she would foreswear all dealings with scoundrels of Wickham’s ilk and never again have any dealings with members of the gentry. When displeased, they had much more power to harm than the lower classes.
After enduring William’s poor spirits for the bulk of the afternoon, Elizabeth decided it was enough. “Mr. Darcy,” said she, drawing his eyes to her, as if startled she had spoken. “I had hoped I would not have suffered the loss of your attention so quickly, but there it is. Since I have accepted your proposal, I cannot imagine how dull the days will be, for it seems I am far from first in your thoughts.”