Friends and Enemies

by J Dawn King

  Darcy knew it was futile. Elizabeth’s father remained in his position, his arms crossed over his stomach as his shoulders shrugged.

  Elizabeth spoke without taking her eyes from her sisters. “William, I am certain Mr. Bingley’s carriage is close and can be called quickly. My family is ready to depart.”

  “Oh, Lizzy, cannot we stay? This is ever so much more fun than Gracechurch Street. Nothing ever happens there,” Miss Kitty Bennet spoke for the first time.

  Elizabeth grabbed Kitty’s ear as well and pinched hard, pulling both girls to stand next to their father. If he was too indolent to go to his daughters, Elizabeth would make certain they came to him. Darcy’s admiration and respect for her grew. Here was a woman who would not tolerate disobedience and ill manners. What an asset she would be to their home.

  “Who are you to call my nephew by name? Are you one of these…,” Lady Catherine waved her hand towards the Bennets. “These…people?”

  His aunt’s nose was wrinkled and pointed in the air as if something repugnant was teasing her nostrils. The look of disdain was somewhat familiar, and it startled him to realise it had been an expression he had worn frequently in the recent past.

  Nonetheless, his patience was at an end.

  “Mr. Bennet, have you no remorse? Have you no care when your family acts improperly, causing embarrassment to your two eldest? Are you not filled with shame when reproach is heaped upon your family name because you choose to ignore the poor conduct of your wife and two youngest daughters?” His voice rose with each word as Elizabeth returned to stand at his side, her shoulders pressed back and her eyes on fire.

  “Mrs. Bennet, until this moment I held you in derision for the vulgar conduct I witnessed repeatedly in Hertfordshire and today in my home by you and your youngest.” The lady’s mouth dropped so he quickly continued, “However, I now realise I was wrong. It is not you who bears the full weight of responsibility. I imagine you have rarely received direction and are doing all you know to see to the future of your children, something your husband has declined to do. Pray accept my apology, Mrs. Bennet, for I have no doubt you would act with decorum if you had the freedom to do so.” He bowed to her.

  She blushed and then glared at her husband.

  Turning his head to his uninvited aunt, it was Darcy’s turn to glare.

  “How dare you break into my home, into a gathering to which you had not been invited,” he started.

  Lady Catherine jabbed her cane into the carpet and launched herself towards him. “Have you forgotten who I am, young man? I am the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Louis de Bourgh, daughter of the earl of Matlock, sister to the current earl and your mother, Lady Anne Darcy. I will not be trifled with by you or by an upstart of inferior birth, with no consequence whatsoever, whose family is tied to trade, and who has no fortune. You must cease this foolishness immediately so we can announce your engagement to Anne. She is of elevated rank. She is of noble birth. She is the heir to the greatest estate in Kent. She will be your bride.”

  “I am the master of my own life, Lady Catherine. As such, I bend to no other,” he growled. “Your condescension, your selfish disapprobation of the feelings of others, including the children of a sister whom you have long claimed to admire, makes you more vulgar than I accused Mrs. Bennet of being moments ago. This is my home. My domain. I will decide who does or does not remain in Darcy House. I have no interest in your opinions. I will marry whomever I choose.”

  Darcy reached for Elizabeth’s hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. He tilted his head towards hers as he looked directly into her eyes. He hoped for tender affection. What he found was a challenge so vivid he thought back upon the words he had just uttered.

  “Pardon me, dearest. I misspoke.” It was time to send a message to his aunt and all the others in the room. He wanted no doubt where his devotion lay. “There is one person to whom I will bend, one person who owns my heart and my homes. She balances me so I stand firm. She gently guides me so I am a better man. She calms me so I know I am not alone in my troubles, and she completes me so I am content. I will marry Elizabeth Bennet. She will be Mrs. Darcy, no other.”

  “Oh, William,” Elizabeth sighed his name.

  Lifting her hand, he brushed his lips over her knuckles before turning it to kiss the inside of her wrist. A burning ache flourished inside him to drag her into his arms and carry her off so they could be alone, to demonstrate his devotion with their first kiss, to speak winsome words to reach her heart so she understood there would never be another man who would love her as he did.

  “How dare you make love to her in front of me!” His aunt’s fury was completely unrestrained. Her voice shook as she yelled at him. “You speak of shame and embarrassment, yet you act the rake. Your mother would die of mortification had she witnessed your scandalous conduct, Darcy. How dare you attempt to place blame on me when you are guilty of far worse. You are a reprobate, unfit to act as guardian to Georgiana and unfit to care for the responsibilities of the Darcy properties.” She looked to her brother. “Surely you can see this, Hugh. We need to take this to our solicitor immediately. You are consumed with business for the House of Lords. I will take control of Pemberley and Georgiana.”

  “Cathy—” his uncle started.

  “Do not answer for me, Uncle Hugh.” Darcy took in a breath and released it slowly. “We have finally, since the death of my father, arrived at the crux of the issues, have we not? You want Pemberley. But know this, Lady Catherine, you will never have control. Not while I am alive nor over my dead body.”

  The room’s focus was on the woman in front of him so he did not hear the front door quietly open. None were aware someone had entered the house until a voice spoke from the doorway.

  “That can be arranged.”

  Wickham!

  Pulling Elizabeth behind him, he glanced at Georgiana to see Mr. Gardiner stepping in front of her and his wife. Richard drew his sword as he tucked Miss Knowlton to his back. Lord Matlock did the same with his wife. Bingley hugged Jane and Mr. Bennet stayed at the wall, leaving the females of his family vulnerable. Lady Catherine stood alone.

  George Wickham was a fastidious man who cared about the shine of his boots and knot in his cravat more than the lives of those he abused. The man in front of him was unshaven and disheveled. He was holding a pistol which was pointed directly at Darcy.

  “Put the gun down, George,” Darcy quietly demanded. “You only make matters worse with this threat.”

  “Ha!” Wickham snarled. “You could not leave me alone. You had to interfere, Fitzy.”

  “I did what needed to be done,” Darcy stated blandly as he tried to move closer so Richard could protect Elizabeth. If the gun should discharge, the bullet could go right through him to her. He could not stand the idea she might be hurt because of him.

  He hoped his butler or one of the footmen realised what was happening and sent notice to the magistrate. Without a weapon, Wickham would have stood no chance with Richard, Lord Matlock, Mr. Gardiner, and himself. He expected no assistance from either Mr. Bennet or Bingley, who were paralysed into inactivity.

  “Why? Why now?” Wickham pressed. “You have never dirtied your hands with me before. Why, Darcy? What did I do to you this time that I did not do before and you did nothing!” His wail bounced off the walls.

  “I am done with you. I am tired of your games and of your lies. I am tired of cleaning up the messes you leave behind, and I am tired of you.” Darcy raised his chin an inch. “What do you want?”

  “I WANT IT ALL!” Wickham yelled, taking a step forward, the barrel of the gun never wavering.

  Darcy felt beads of sweat run down the centre of his back as his pulse beat to the rhythm of a herd of galloping horses. Elizabeth needed to be safe. His sister as well. Even Lady Catherine did not deserve to have a wild man waving a gun, endangering them all.

  “Pemberley is mine, George,” Darcy softened his voice to almost a whisper, dra
wing the man even closer. “You will never have it.”

  “Well, if I cannot have Pemberley, then neither will you.”

  Darcy saw the twitch of his finger and heard the repercussion of the gun. Acrid smoke surrounded him as Wickham’s face contorted into an expression of such mad fury that Darcy knew then how desperate he had become.

  He waited for the impact. Would Elizabeth be harmed? Pray, Lord, do not let Elizabeth…Oh, God in heavens.

  CHAPTER 31

  Before the bullet struck home, Darcy spun around. He did not want the last human he saw to be his fiercest enemy. Rather he would forever keep in his memory the woman he loved. Elizabeth.

  In rapid succession, he saw from the corner of his eye his sister standing with her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide, full of fear. He wanted to run to her, to hold her, offering consolation so she would not worry. She had already been through so much at Wickham’s hands. The loss of a brother would be devastating. Richard would care for her right after he cut Wickham down with the blade of his sword. Darcy knew the miscreant would not leave Darcy House alive, although he might not either.

  Miss Knowlton grabbed at Richard’s arm, and Darcy knew his cousin would be attached to a woman who genuinely cared for him. His uncle clutched at his heart as Lady Matlock sought to ease him into a chair. Lady Catherine was as still as a statue, glaring at the man who had interrupted her rant.

  None of the others caught his attention except Lydia Bennet. For some unknown reason, she had grabbed a book off a side table and was holding it in front of her. What she planned to do with it, Darcy had not a clue. He was surprised her actions had registered in his brain under the circumstances.

  These random observations took less than a fraction of a second. He waited, almost impatiently for the impact. Wickham would have no remorse at shooting him in the back. It was the act of a coward. Any man who lacked the courage to stand up for what was morally correct, who lacked the willpower to work hard to care for his responsibilities, and who timidly ran from consequences by deserting a position he had volunteered for was, by definition, a coward.

  Darcy felt nothing. Wickham had missed? How could that be? He was a skilled marksman who had years of practise firing weapons when they hunted together as boys. While in the militia, Wickham had days upon days of target practise, as well as loading and cleaning both pistols and rifles. He stood less than eight feet from his intended target. He missed? Terror filled him as the realisation hit that someone else may have been injured or worse.

  Sulphur filled the air and the repercussion still rang in his ears. The sight before him was horrifying. Smoothbore flintlock dueling pistols were notoriously prone to misfiring, and Wickham must have put the shot in before the black powder. When the flint was struck, the flash pan exploded, covering Wickham’s face, neck, and hand with hot, burning sparks.

  Since their years in university, Wickham had regularly purchased and used Atkinson’s of London’s hair pomade to keep from balding like his father had done. Darcy had learnt not to tease him since Wickham had been particularly vain of his appearance. Additives of herbs and fragrances to improve the scent made the concoction flammable and his burns much worse.

  Swiveling his head quickly, Darcy scanned the room for casualties as the reality of his own safety hit him. Mrs. Bennet and Miss Kitty had swooned, though he did not entirely trust Elizabeth’s sister’s faint to be genuine after her actions in Meryton. Bingley was holding Miss Bennet. Richard had broken away from his intended and was approaching quickly. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner held a sobbing Georgiana, and the Matlocks were soothing each other. Lady Catherine, Mr. Bennet, and the two other Bennet girls appeared unharmed. None had red blooming from the front of their garments.

  Elizabeth? No blood. His knees threatened to buckle as he pulled her to his chest. Running his hands down her arms and back up to her shoulders, he squeezed her tighter, resting his head on her soft curls. “Elizabeth,” he chanted quietly as his arms gently embraced her.

  Her hands were also on the move. She patted the length and breadth of his back then brought her hands around his front to do the same. “Will, oh Will,” she answered as her fingers moved up his chest to search his neck and face.

  He could stand no more. He needed her more than his next breath. His passion, his fears, his need poured from him as his lips met hers in a kiss that went from tender to inflamed in a breath.

  She tasted of ripe fruit and sunshine, of blue skies and joy. Her slim fingers wound into the hair at the back of his neck and tugged him even closer. All his senses centered on where his mouth met hers, over and over as they gasped for air before returning to his new favourite position.

  Richard’s announcement that Wickham was alive drew him back to the moment. Before he could break his hold, Elizabeth’s eyes danced over every inch of his face.

  “You are well? Truly?” She apparently needed the words to believe what she was seeing.

  “I am,” he replied for her ears alone.

  He did not expect her reaction. She planted her feet and pushed his chest, resting her fists on her hips.

  “Do not ever scare me like that, Fitzwilliam Darcy. I mean it.” She poked him in the chest. “If you do, you will pay dearly, sir.”

  The anger seemed to come from mid-air, and he was confused. Then he saw her tears.

  “I am sorry, William. I do not know what has come over…” She sobbed into her hand, her eyes never leaving his.

  His heart melted to a puddle at her feet. As footsteps moved in and out of the room, voices yelling for the magistrate and a surgeon, Darcy again wrapped her in his arms. Georgiana ran to him, and he welcomed her into his embrace. His world, although knocked off-kilter by the man lying on the floor behind him, was suddenly in balance.

  “We will be well, my dears. This I promise you.” And he meant it with his whole soul. He knew then that he would become whatever Elizabeth and his sister needed to see them happy.

  Richard had poured the pots of cooled tea over Wickham’s face and hair where he had hit the floor. Kicking the weapon out of reach, the Colonel welcomed the Bow Street runners who had entered the room, the magistrate himself close on their heels.

  “Help me,” Wickham begged between wails and sobs.

  Before Darcy or the colonel could reply, the magistrate spoke.

  “Pick him up, men,” he commanded the three men who had apparently followed Wickham to Darcy House. “You have done enough damage here, Mr. Wickham. From now until justice is served, you are mine to do with as I choose. Mr. Weston of Weston’s jewelers has filed a report against you, and Colonel Forster is standing by waiting for us to deliver you into his hands. What happens now is no longer Mr. Darcy’s choice. You have broken laws of society where the penalty is death by hanging. You will not live to see another day.”

  “Help me.” Wickham’s pitiful cries became louder.

  They touched a deep place inside Darcy’s heart, a place that stored good memories of their youth, before ambition took root and rotted Wickham’s heart.

  “Sir,” Darcy began, only to have the magistrate raise his palm to stop him.

  “No, Mr. Darcy. This man, independent of any claims to justice you may have, is not your concern. Had he never trespassed on you or caused you harm, he still would go the way of the noose. Your conscience can be at rest. Nothing you say or do will change his outcome. He committed the crimes. He will pay the price.”

  With that said, the men carted Wickham away. Like the mixed feelings when his sister lost the babe, sorrow for a child not living long enough to know love and guilty relief that Georgiana would not have to suffer from the birth of an unwanted child, Darcy felt that same guilt and relief for George Wickham. Wickham’s death would not be at his hands.

  Lady Matlock insisted on taking her husband home, despite the expected arrival of Darcy’s personal physician. With a sheer force of will, her husband commanded his sister’s presence. He left Lady Catherine no room for argument as he issued th
reats of what he would do to her reputation if she resisted. Head held high, she left the room behind them.

  Bingley left Miss Bennet to tend her mother and approached.

  “I say, Darcy. I think it best we return to Gracechurch Street. I believe we are in the way. I want you to know I do not fault you or Miss Darcy for cutting Caroline. It was time she learnt where her true place in society is and I am grateful to you, my friend, for executing a task I should have performed years ago.” Bingley rocked up on his toes, his hands at his lapels. “I say, Darcy, I beg your pardon for leaving the job to you.”

  Before Bingley could step back, they were approached by a pale Mr. Bennet.

  “He had the gun pointed close to my daughter. I could have lost my Lizzy,” Mr. Bennet stammered, his emotions running so deep they hampered his speech.