Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

July 1813, London

" C olonel Fitzwilliam, sir," announced the butler from the threshold of the study. Darcy looked up from his work, saw the expression on his cousin's face, and set down his pen.

"What has happened?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam dropped into an armchair and turned a solemn face to Darcy. "I have news of Wickham."

Wickham! Darcy had heard nothing of the man since he was at Netherfield over a year and a half ago. He had known that the villain would reappear to cause mischief eventually. He would have had plenty of time to stir up trouble in eighteen months. What kind of ruin had he caused this time? How many innocents had been harmed? He felt his stomach begin to churn.

November 26, 1811 . The day of Bingley's ball and the penultimate day he had spent in Hertfordshire. The day he had last seen her. They had danced, and she had challenged him over the blackguard.

He bit back a groan. When had he begun to measure the chronology of his life by his time with Elizabeth Bennet? He had no idea when it had started; he was in the middle before he knew he had begun. His memories of his adult life were arranged in his mind as happening either before or after he had met Elizabeth. She stood stubbornly at the centre.

He slid a weary hand over his face and sagged back in his chair. "What has he done now?"

"He is dead."

This was indeed a surprise. "Dead!" Darcy echoed in disbelief, lurching forwards. "How did you hear this news? Who told you?"

Darcy's scepticism was well-founded, as his cousin knew. Wickham had been cunning and utterly without morals, tormenting Darcy since they were both boys. It would be like him to disappear for a while, playing a long game, then ambush Darcy with a fresh scheme.

"I had it from a colonel in the __th militia. They are currently preparing for a change of quarters. They have been encamped in Hertfordshire for several years, with the exception of a summer in Brighton in 1812, but they have now been reassigned to Bedfordshire. They have a new commanding officer, a Colonel Downing, and while they were emptying a storage room, they came across some property of Wickham's. That regiment has always had a high turnover rate, so none of the men have any firsthand knowledge of him. The word is that he died in a carriage accident well over a year ago."

Darcy slowly rose, crossed the room, and stared out of the window. He had avoided that part of Hertfordshire like the plague for over a year and a half. He did not want to go there. Rather, he did, but he could not. Should not. "I had better go and see what that property is, then."

Darcy had spoken little of the months he had spent with Bingley in Hertfordshire except a brief mention that Wickham had turned up in the militia there. His cousin likely assumed that the place had made little impression on Darcy. He was mistaken .

" We had better go and see what it is. Shall we set off early tomorrow?"

The early morning sun was already warm when they walked out to the mews. "‘But now the sun is rising calm and bright'," the colonel quoted with a yawn, stretching his arms above his head.

"You remember your Wordsworth at least, not that it will help us today. Let us get this over with," grumbled Darcy, after which he went silent. They mounted their horses and rode north.

Once they left the environs of London, they urged their horses to a quicker pace, arriving in Meryton at about the time breakfast was being served to those keeping city hours.

Darcy led Fitzwilliam down the high street towards Colonel Forster's former office. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, unwavering. He would not be searching the cobbled streets for a light and pleasing figure or listening for a gurgling laugh. Even so, he realised that something was different about the town. On this brilliant July morning, the street was quiet. Few people were out, and they kept their heads down. He noticed an empty shopfront and realised that the excellent bookshop he had been so surprised to discover on his previous visit was gone. He looked around. So was a haberdasher and a sundries shop. Curious, but he would not dwell on it.

Arriving at the militia office, they were greeted by a younger man who saluted smartly then held out his hand to shake. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, I presume? I am Colonel Downing. I thank you for attending to this so quickly. Our preparations are nearly complete, and we are anxious to move to our new quarters in Bedfordshire."

Fitzwilliam introduced Darcy, telling Colonel Downing only that they had both known Wickham since they were boys but had received no word of him for a considerable length of time. They did not elaborate on Wickham's character or lack thereof. As Colonel Downing excused himself to fetch Wickham's belongings, Darcy heard the office door open behind them. He turned around and was surprised to see Sir William Lucas.

"Sir William!" he exclaimed, just barely remembering to bow.

The older man also seemed surprised to see him. "Mr Darcy." He returned the bow, and the two men shook hands.

"Sir William is the magistrate here. I have asked him to speak to you about the matter of Mr Wickham's death, as neither I nor any of my officers were assigned here at the time," offered Colonel Downing as he returned, setting a dirty, battered portmanteau on the desk. He turned to Fitzwilliam. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, may I introduce Sir William Lucas, magistrate and former mayor of Meryton."

More handshaking ensued, then Colonel Downing gestured for Darcy to open the box. Fitzwilliam and Darcy exchanged a look when they saw the pathetic contents. A stained and frayed militia uniform, some scuffed shoes, a worn pair of boots. Threadbare shirts. Stockings with holes. At the bottom, a balding velvet bag. Darcy picked it up, pulled open the drawstring, and glimpsed a few jumbled bits of metal. He held one up. "Richard, does this look familiar?"

It was a medal, the Army Gold Cross for bravery. His cousin gasped. "Lord, I have been missing that for years! I thought it had been lost when I was shipped home from Portugal on a litter, insensible most of the way."

"Your name is inscribed on the back. That is why we sought you out, Colonel," said Sir William. "We had no idea that you were related to Mr Darcy."

Darcy turned the bag upside down over the desk and shook it gently. A few coins, a pocket-knife with a broken blade, a quantity of lint, a paste jewel, and last of all, an old-fashioned ring with a cracked emerald landed with a heavy thump.

"Great-uncle Preston's ring!" Darcy picked it up and examined it. "I have not seen it since I was a boy."

Fitzwilliam peered at it. "The stone is cracked, and the shank has been cut. Do you suppose he was trying to remove the emerald?"

A criminal to the last, thought Darcy. "What happened to him, Sir William? How did he die?"

"Quite simply, he deserted the regiment and chose the wrong night to abscond. It was late in January of the year twelve. He hired a horse and an old dogcart from the livery stable, and it is believed he was bound for London. It was after dark. The night was a fearsome one. There was sleet and heavy rain that turned to ice when it met the ground. He must have been driving at a dangerous speed when a wheel broke, sending him flying into a tree and the cart off the road. The only reason the accident was discovered was because a nearby farmer heard the horse screaming. They had to put the poor beast down."

Sir William let out a breath, shaking his head. "Wickham was barely alive when help arrived. He was badly injured and in great pain. He died before we could have him moved. The portmanteau was found the next morning and turned in to Colonel Forster, who put it in storage and apparently forgot about it in the preparations to move to Brighton."

Darcy thought of his father. How grieved he would have been that his favourite had ended thus. Desertion! The walls must have been closing in on him, and he had tried to evade justice one last time.

Sir William had not yet completed his tale. He pulled an unusually fine-looking purse out of his large coat pocket, along with a sheaf of papers covered in figures. "Now this is very strange, Mr Darcy. Wickham had a large amount of money on his person." He handed the purse to Darcy, who opened it, then stared at the older man.

"There must be somewhere around two thousand pounds here!" he gasped.

"What! Let me see!" cried Fitzwilliam, and Darcy handed him the purse. "Where would Wickham get two thousand pounds?"

"Two thousand, one hundred and seventy-seven pounds, four shillings and thruppence, to be exact," said Sir William. "When the purse was discovered on his person, it contained exactly three thousand pounds. After Wickham's death, it quickly became evident that he had left behind a mountain of debt. Merchants, tavern keepers, innkeepers, debts of honour, not to mention the cost to replace the horse and cart. I convened a meeting of local merchants and required that all complainants bring in their account books to prove what Wickham owed. Since the man seemed to have no family, we paid all his debts with the money."

Sir William, looking uncomfortable, cleared his throat. "We also paid the families of two young women, a maid and a farmer's girl, who had been seduced and abandoned by him, so that their families would have the funds to secure husbands for them." He shook his head sadly. "Everyone thought him so charming when he arrived. When it was learnt how much harm he had wrought in three short months of residence here, it was agreed that he should be buried in the old potter's field down the road from the smithy. He did not deserve a grave in the churchyard amongst our friends and relations."

He handed the papers to Darcy. "Here are all the accounts of the money paid out. You will find them in good order, sirs, if you wish to examine them."

Darcy took them and shook his head as if to clear it. "I thank you, Sir William. We have complete faith in your honesty."

The two men took the portmanteau, purse, and accounts, and left. Colonel Downing looked curiously at Sir William. "Why did you not tell them about the girl who died in the accident?"

The older man sighed heavily. "Mr Darcy was briefly acquainted with her family. He was the guest of his friend, a Mr Bingley, who leased the Netherfield estate just two miles away from here during the autumn of 1811. During their stay, Mr Bingley paid marked attention to the eldest daughter of the Bennet family, who have lived in the neighbourhood for many generations. Indeed, so open and obvious were his attentions, it was generally expected that Mr Bingley would propose marriage to her, but then their entire party left without notice, never to return. The girl who perished was the youngest daughter of that family.

"If I had told Mr Darcy of the girl's death, and the subsequent ruination of the entire Bennet family, word of their scandal and humiliation might have spread to people they were once acquainted with in London. I wished to prevent that. They have suffered enough. In truth, I am perhaps too protective of them, but our families were close. My wife was friends with Mrs Bennet, who died of a fever within weeks of the accident. Mr Bennet and I enjoyed many a lively discussion over port, and our children grew up together. I would prefer to visit them again, but my wife is too frightened of censure to renew the connexion for now. This small omission is one way for me to protect my old friend's family. And Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, so wholly unconnected to the Bennets, do not need to know any of this."

Darcy tied the portmanteau to the back of his saddle, and the men turned back towards London. He was again silent, deep in thought. His cousin understood that he must not ask about Wickham, or anything about Meryton, so he also rode silently, biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to probe further. Darcy was unlikely to be grieving his perfidious former friend. Something else had happened here in Hertfordshire.

As they reached the end of the high street, Darcy reined his horse in and stared down a lovely wooded lane, dappled with sunlight and lined with wildflowers, for several long moments. Slowly, he brought a hand to his chest as if he could not breathe, and visibly swallowed. Fitzwilliam could contain himself no longer.

"Is that the path towards the potter's field?" he asked.

"No," Darcy answered, and not another word was spoken all the way back to town.