Chapter 14

Colonel Forster’s Office

Meryton

The Next Morning

“Well, Wickham, what will it be?” Darcy demanded, glaring at his old playmate.

Wickham, who had spent a sleepless night, gazed at his enemy with a pale, haggard face and red eyes. “Darcy, I have another idea. Perhaps if you were to arrange for a position in the Regulars…”

“Marshalsea it is,” Darcy said, beginning to rise from his seat. This provoked Wickham to reach forward with frantic hands and cry out, “No, no, I will take the berth at sea! I will!”

“An excellent decision,” Darcy said and looked over at Colonel Forster, who had been observing the conversation with a clenched jaw and frowning brow. “Colonel. I have two servants available to escort Mr. Wickham to the Guisborough . I hope that you approve the arrangements?”

“I do, though I suggest you bind Wickham’s hands. Given the situation, I suspect he will be tempted to make a run for it.”

“Surely that will not be necessary…” Wickham began with his smooth tongue, but Darcy interrupted, “I quite agree, Colonel; indeed, I was planning to request that he be bound.”

Forster nodded and gestured toward two stout privates, who approached with stolid determination. Darcy watched with some discomfort as one of them produced a fine rope, and together they bound the wrists of Wickham in front of him, even as the former lieutenant protested.

Each man took one of Wickham’s upper arms, marching him swiftly from the office and down the hall, their footsteps ringing on the bare wood and echoing off the unadorned walls. A guard stood at stiff attention at the main door and opened it at their approach. A carriage waited on the cobbles outside, which had been sent down earlier in the day in preparation for this moment; no matter what Wickham chose, he would not spend another day in Meryton.

Before the door of the coach stood two tall, burly men; twins who had been born to tenants of Pemberley and had been in Darcy employ for some eleven years now. They were well aware of the proclivities of the former steward’s son and were not overly gentle as they moved forward and took Wickham from the privates.

Darcy turned up his collar against the cold. The clouds were heavy and lowering; only a few flakes sifted down, as yet, but the sky and the wind promised more snow by the end of the day. It was a raw sort of cold, and Darcy thought, rather cynically, that Wickham would be far more comfortable in the heated carriage with its hot bricks and rugs than he deserved.

John the footman opened the door, and his brother gave Wickham a small shove. “Inside,” he ordered gruffly.

Wickham glanced over his shoulder at Darcy, open pleading in his eyes and face. Darcy stared him down coldly, not an ounce of pity in his heart. Wickham had shown no compassion toward the good tradesmen from whom he had stolen, nor the innocent girls he had ruined, nor even the besotted godfather who had loved him so.

“Inside,” Jacob echoed his brother, with a more insistent shove. Wickham took a hitching breath and teetered up onto the stair; the footmen had to hoist him in the rest of the way, his own bound hands preventing him. Jacob closed the door and turned towards Darcy, watching gravely.

“We will make sure he gets safe to Cap’n Donovan, sir,” the footman vowed.

“Thank you both,” Darcy replied, and for what was possibly the last time, his gaze met Wickham’s. Given that Donovan’s ship was destined for the East Indies and the dangers of such voyages, it was entirely possible that Wickham would not survive to return to England. Even if he did, he would no longer be the handsome, suave, well-dressed man who had tricked so many people. A life at sea did not lend itself to smooth skin and soft hands.

The twins climbed into the carriage, and the driver set off with an outrider on the front left horse. With four Darcy servants watching over Wickham, the man would not escape.

Darcy looked on as the carriage turned the corner and vanished from sight. A great weight lifted from his shoulders, and he took a deep breath, the crisp cold air filling his lungs. No more would the Darcys be haunted by the sordid antics of George Wickham. He and Georgiana were free.

Colonel Forster stepped up beside him, expression sober. “You have my thanks, sir. I am not entirely certain how I would have dealt with the miscreant without your plan and execution. I do not permit my men, and especially my officers, to cause problems for the good folk of our billeting.”

“It was both my responsibility and my honor,” Darcy responded.

/

Haberdashery

Meryton

Banks of tall broad windows with drawn-back curtains let ample amounts of sunlight into the milliner’s shop, setting aglow hats and bonnets, spools of ribbon and yards of lace and pink rosettes, and the long polished wooden counter. Elizabeth and Mary stood at the counter in the midst of this gaiety, several brown paper-wrapped parcels in front of them tied with serviceable twine.

“There you are, Miss Elizabeth,” the shopkeeper said, counting out change and handing it to Elizabeth, who smiled and said, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

“I have your packages,” Mary volunteered.

“Thank you. Now, do you wish to visit any other shops before we walk home?”

“The book store, perhaps? I would like to purchase a new piece of music.”

“You know I always enjoy visiting the book store!” Elizabeth enthused.

Mary laughed and led the way out the door of the haberdashery into the main street. The two girls took a few steps toward the book store, and then Elizabeth halted, lifted a hand in greeting, and called out, “Mr. Darcy!”

Darcy, who had just laid his hand on the rope tying Phoenix to a post, lifted the same hand to tip his hat at the two ladies. “Good morning, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary.”

“Good morning,” they chorused, and Elizabeth said, “I hope that you are well today, sir?”

“I am very well,” Darcy said, gazing at her with admiration. She did make a very fine picture, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, with her green pelisse and hat, with her rosy complexion and sparkling eyes, with her light and pleasing figure.

“Is Mr. Bingley with you?” Mary asked.

Darcy shook his head, somewhat perplexed. “I thought that he was visiting Miss Bennet at Longbourn.”

“Oh, very likely he is,” Elizabeth said quickly. “We walked to Meryton as soon as the shops were open. Kitty and Lydia did such a wonderful job helping with the tenant boxes that Mary and I wished to purchase some additional presents for St. Nicholas Day.”

Darcy nodded and said, “It was very kind of all of you to assist Miss Bennet in that matter.”

“It was our pleasure,” Mary said. “Now, if you will excuse us, we are going to visit the bookstore.”

“Might I come with you?” Darcy asked impulsively and then, at the startled looks on both faces, continued, “I have already purchased a small gift for my sister for St. Nicholas Day, but I am certain a few novels would be appreciated as well.”

“Given the state of Mr. Bingley’s library, I daresay she would like that very much,” Elizabeth said, her eyes twinkling. “By all means, join us.”

Darcy chuckled at the memory of Bingley’s mostly bare bookshelves, and the threesome made their way across the street and into the bookstore. Darcy looked around as they entered; it was not a large establishment, especially given that it also served as the lending library, but it was a pleasant one. A substantial fire roared, well-contained, in the stone fireplace, filling the room with a welcome heat. The carpets covering the floor were all done in swirls of blue and green, and emerald drapes hung at the windows. In appearance, the shop was not at all like Hatchards in Town, but the smells were the same; ink and paper and leather.

A stooped, bespectacled man behind the counter looked up from an open crate before him. “Good morning, Misses, sir. Is there aught I can do for you?”

“We are well, Mr. Jennings, thank you.” Elizabeth smiled, and the librarian nodded, returning to his crate and the books he was lifting carefully from inside it.

Darcy moved towards a shelf to inspect its contents and discovered a number of weighty, theological treatises. The shelf itself was a sturdy oak, not ornate, but eminently serviceable.

“What kind of book does Miss Darcy enjoy?” Elizabeth asked, drawing his attention. “Poetry? Histories? Perhaps,” and here she lowered her voice dramatically, “Gothics?”

Darcy grinned and said, “She is particularly fond of Gothics and has read all of Ann Radcliffe’s books several times. Do you enjoy Radcliffe’s novels?”

Elizabeth tilted her chin in a beguiling way and said, “I like the lady’s books quite well, though the plots move a little slowly for my taste. I appreciate her description of scenery, but at times she spends too many paragraphs describing forests and streams.”

“You prefer a more rapid series of events, then?”

“I do. I think that is why I enjoy Shakespearean plays; the plots generally move along very rapidly.”

“In spite of the penchant of both heroes and villains to stop whatever they are doing and expound at length?”

Elizabeth chuckled and said, “It is not very realistic, true, but I enjoy some of the soliloquies very much. But come, Mr. Darcy. Let me show you the section of Gothic novels.”

Darcy obediently followed the lady into a corner and then, under cover of searching for a book for his sister, said softly, “Miss Elizabeth, Mr. Wickham left only a few minutes ago, accompanied by several of my servants, to Portsmouth, where he will board a ship of the line as a seaman. He will no longer cause any trouble for you.”

Elizabeth felt her body relax, and she smiled. “That is excellent news.”

“Indeed it is,” Darcy replied, smiling in return.

/

Drawing Room

Longbourn

Later

The drawing room hummed with voices, feeling rather smaller and more crowded than usual. Even Mr. Bennet had emerged from his library for the festivities, seated in an elegant wingback a little ways apart from his womenfolk, the collection of Marlowe’s plays from Elizabeth in his lap. Lydia and Kitty clustered together on the love seat, rejoicing delightedly over lapfuls of ribbons and bows and lace and some pretty new muslins. Elizabeth’s fingers brushed over the tooled leather cover of a book of poems, while Mary happily sorted the sheets of music tied with red ribbon. Mrs. Bennet had donned her new bonnet and now stood exclaiming at her reflection in the small mirror beside the door; it did flatter her quite well.

Tucked into a corner sat Jane and Bingley, side by side, not fully in the light filling the rest of the room. Jane lifted a neat little square of folded white linen and passed to her fiancé.

“They are not much,” she said, blushing, and Bingley, his eyes full of love, inspected the handkerchiefs before promising, “I will use them every day of my life.”

She laughed. “I will need to embroider more if you wish to use one every day; either that, or you are far more tidy with your handkerchiefs than I am.”

Bingley smiled at her, his heart speeding up as he reached into his coat pocket and withdraw a small bag. “And this, my dear Jane, is your St. Nicholas Day present.”

Jane accepted the bag with some hesitation. She already recognized the fine make of it and the shape that declared it a jewelry bag. Lithe fingers made short work of the ties, and she slipped one hand in to draw it out, her fingers wrapped with a fine gold chain. An ornate little cross dangled from it as she held the necklace up, and gasped a little in amazement. The cross itself was also gold, with fine small pearls inlaid in it.

“Oh Charles, you should not have!” she exclaimed, though her eyes glowed with enthusiasm.

“Of course I should, my dear Jane,” he replied. “You are my darling fiancée and my angel, and I love you. Indeed, I promise to shower you with far more beautiful jewelry than that.”

“Only after we make certain that the tenants are well cared for, Charles,” Jane said with comic severity, and then she leaned forward and planted a loving kiss on the man who would soon be her husband. “Thank you very much. It is lovely.”