36. Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Six

E lizabeth crouched low in the dim confines of the carriage, her breath shallow as she strained to catch every word of the conversation outside. Her heart pounded with fear as she heard Darcy volunteering himself to go with Wickham. The impulse to fling open the door and protest surged through her, but before she could act, her father's firm hand gripped her wrist.

"Elizabeth," he whispered urgently, his voice barely audible over the rain pattering against the carriage roof. "Darcy knows what he is doing. He is trying to protect you. Do not waste his efforts."

Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes, but she nodded, swallowing the protest that threatened to escape her lips. She watched helplessly as Darcy rode off with Wickham, her heart clenching with terror for him. The carriage remained still, both of them holding their breaths and praying on the loyalty and nerve of Darcy's men, knowing the workmen were standing guard nearby.

Through a narrow slit in the curtains and the small window just beneath the driver's seat, Elizabeth could catch occasional glimpses of Giles, Darcy's valet, and the coachman. They sat with an air of casual indifference as though nothing was amiss, but Elizabeth noticed the subtle shift in the coachman's posture. Her breath hitched when she caught the glint of a pistol lying by his side, clearly visible to the workmen. It was a silent but unmistakable warning: Stay away from the gentleman's carriage.

At first, the workmen kept their distance, but as time passed, their respect gave way to insolence. One of them began heckling the coachman and the valet. Elizabeth strained her ears to catch the crude words of the workmen as they grew bolder.

"Oi, what do you reckon a fancy gent like him keeps in that strongbox, eh?" one of the workmen speculated. "Bet it's full of gold, jewels... mayhap even some fancy trinkets from London, eh? "

The second workman chuckled. "Aye, and more than just a few coins, I'd wager. Rich buggars like him always carry more than they need. Probably enough in there to set us both up for life."

"Think they'd notice if we took a peek, eh? Wouldn't take much. Just a quick look inside. Maybe a few coins for our trouble."

The second workman laughed again, his voice dripping with contempt. "You think these soft-handed gents could stop us? Look at ‘em. They wouldn't stand a chance if we decided to help ourselves. ‘Sides, what's the worst they could do? Wave a handkerchief at us?"

The coachman's voice cut through the workmen's laughter, steady and low. "I'd think carefully before you try anything, lads. There's more than a handkerchief waiting for you if you do."

The first workman scoffed, though there was an edge of uncertainty in his voice. "What's that supposed to mean, eh? You threatening us now?"

The coachman shifted slightly in his seat, the movement drawing Elizabeth's eye back to the glint of the pistol. "I am only advising you," the coachman replied calmly, "some things are not worth the risk. A few coins will do you little good if you are not around to spend them."

There was a brief silence as if the workmen were weighing the threat, their earlier bravado faltering. But the second workman was not ready to give up so easily.

"Big talk for a man sitting up there on a box," he jeered, though his voice lacked the confidence it had before. "But I reckon you're all bluff. Gents like you don't know how to handle real trouble."

"Last warning," the coachman said, his voice colder now, more dangerous. "Keep to yourselves, lads. You'll find nothing here worth losing your lives over."

The workmen laughed, but there was a hint of unease in their voices now. They did not take the warning seriously, but neither did they approach.

Mr Bennet leaned closer to Elizabeth, his voice a mere breath in her ear. "Elizabeth, shift beside me. Quietly, now."

Puzzled, Elizabeth obeyed, moving as stealthily as she could manage. Her heart raced with the fear that any movement might betray their presence. As she shifted, the carriage rocked ever so slightly, but just then, one of the horses stamped its foot and sneezed, providing the perfect cover for her movement .

Once she was beside him, her father reached down and lifted the seat she had just vacated. Elizabeth's eyes widened as she saw the brace of loaded pistols hidden there beside Darcy's strongbox. Her father took one in each hand, his expression grim and determined.

"Keep watch through the curtain," he whispered. "Let me know if the workman on your side of the coach approaches."

Elizabeth nodded, her throat tight. She could feel every second dragging on as she kept her eyes fixed on the workmen, her heart galloping wildly. They were standing too close to the carriage now, their earlier bravado returning as they exchanged glances with each other, growing more insolent with each passing minute.

The coachman broke the silence at last, his voice steady but laced with an edge of impatience. "Much obliged if you'd begin chopping that tree, lads. Your master gave you orders, did he not?"

The workmen scoffed. "And where do you think you're going, then?" one of them sneered, taking a step closer to the carriage. "We're not lifting a finger till we're paid. And we don't get paid ‘til Mr Wickham's satisfied."

Elizabeth's grip on the curtain tightened, her breath catching in her throat as the men edged closer. The second workman jeered, waving his axe in the air with a mocking grin. "Why don't you get down here and show us how it's done, eh? Get those pretty hands of yours dirty for once."

Inside the carriage, Mr Bennet's movements were slow and deliberate as he raised one of the pistols, his expression grim. Through the slit in the curtain behind her, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the coachman's hands tightening around his own pistol, his body tensed and ready. The workmen's patience was wearing thin, and their taunts grew more aggressive as they hovered near the carriage, their greed and frustration clearly getting the better of them.

"How long does it take to dispatch one weakling dandy, eh?" one of the workmen spat. "It's been an hour already. You'd think they'd be done by now."

Dispatch? Exactly what did Wickham want with Darcy? Elizabeth's pulse quickened, her mind racing with the possible outcomes. The situation had become a stalemate, and it couldn't last much longer. Something had to give.

Then, the sound of hooves clattering on the wet road reached her ears, growing louder with each passing second. Someone was coming .

Her father tensed beside her, his grip tightening on the pistol as they both peered out through the window. The rider came into view, and Elizabeth's father hissed in dismay when he recognised him.

"Sir Anthony Mortimer."

D arcy barely managed to find his feet as he slid off the rough-hewn workhorse when they reached Netherfield. The dizziness still swirled through his head like a thick fog and the middle fingers of his right hand twitched involuntarily, but he clenched his fist, determined not to show any further weakness. Wickham dismounted with ease, his smirk firmly in place as he motioned for Darcy to follow him inside.

As they stepped into the study, Darcy's patience was wearing thin, and his nerves frayed to the point of breaking. Wickham's untroubled demeanour only deepened Darcy's frustration, adding fuel to the simmering anger within him. Wickham closed the door behind them, then turned, a calculating look in his eyes as he regarded Darcy's taut posture.

Darcy wasted no time. "Enough of this. I have had more than I can bear of your games, Wickham. State your intentions, and let me be on my way."

Wickham smirked, clearly enjoying the power he held in the moment. "It's not that simple, Darcy. You know that." He moved to the fireplace, casually leaning against the mantel as if they were discussing the weather. "I need your support for this vote, and I am willing to do whatever it takes to secure it."

Darcy's eyes narrowed. "And what exactly do you think you have that could force my hand? We both know what I overheard."

Wickham's gaze sharpened, his smirk widening. "I'm not the only one with secrets, and you're not as inscrutable as you like to think. I've seen the way you've been hiding your little… ailment. The spasms you thought no one noticed, the way your right side betrays you when you're under strain. And the headaches—oh yes, you're not as good at hiding them as you believe."

Darcy's expression hardened, though inwardly, he felt a cold chill. Wickham had been watching him more closely than he had realised.

"I'll not waste any more time, Wickham. I want to know exactly what it is you intend. Bring out Bingley and speak your piece, and then I will be on my way. Unless you do not have him at all. You do not, do you? Else, I would have been greeted by him sitting here, bloodied and trussed up like a Christmas ham."

Wickham leaned against the mantelpiece, inspecting his fingernails with mock disinterest. "Whether or not I have him is irrelevant. What matters, Darcy, is that now, I have you. And I know you're not feeling quite yourself these days."

Wickham pushed away from the mantel, circling Darcy slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. "What is it, Darcy? Sick in the liver? No, it cannot be that. You were always a temperate fellow. It cannot be consumption, for you never coughed a day in your life. Falling sickness? That can be a blasted nuisance."

Darcy remained stone-faced, refusing to give Wickham the satisfaction of a reaction. But Wickham's grin widened, his eyes glinting. "Oh, no, it's something terminal, is it not? You're dying. What a pity."

The air between them grew heavy as Darcy kept his features schooled, but the brief flicker in his eyes betrayed him. Wickham's expression shifted into a knowing sneer. "I see I have guessed correctly."

Wickham studied him, his smile fading into something more serious. "Let me make this simple for you. You will rescind your objections to Sir Anthony and use your influence to ensure his election. In return, I will see to it that your loved ones are left unharmed once you're… gone."

He… he would dare hint at that? It was a clear threat to Georgiana, and probably even Richard, if Wickham could get to him. Darcy's jaw clenched, but he remained silent.

"What, nothing to say to that? Oh, I know you like to take your time. Think things over, seek advice from someone you trust. And who could be more valuable than Fitzwilliam? It must be difficult, knowing your cousin was reassigned to Chatham just when you needed him most. Bloody shame, that."

A cold prickle ran along Darcy's spine as the pieces began to fall into place. Somehow, this had all been orchestrated for months—since long before Darcy came to Netherfield. Wickham had taken steps to separate Darcy from the one other person who would see through his lies. But obviously Wickham had connections—powerful enough ones to pull strings at Whitehall—so why would the man now be saying he needed Darcy's help?

Perhaps Wickham had only been hedging his bets in case the one man most likely to expose his little sham should happen to discover him. Darcy clenched his fists, his temples throbbing with each passing second, Wickham's eyes boring into him, probing for any hint of hesitation.

"Why?" Darcy finally asked.

Wickham raised a brow. "Why what, Darcy?"

"Why did you invite me here to try to work upon me? Why involve me further? I haven't half the political power that you have somehow tapped into."

"Oh!" Wickham laughed. "As to that, why, I should say it was a bit of luck, finding out that Bingley was the man who tried to lease the estate first. He may not have remembered me from school, but I certainly knew who he was, and a more useful chap for my purposes was never born. Why, anyone I could not charm, he could, and I had all the benefit of the connection. As to your invitation…"

Wickham paused, pacing behind a side table to pour himself a glass of something, but he never offered Darcy one. "Well, perhaps that was my one mistake. But I could not resist, you know—the chance for you to see your old friend doing well for himself. I like to think George Darcy was smiling down at my good fortune."

"You are a fraud!" Darcy spat. "A bought man, spending another man's fortune to buy votes! You think my father would have been proud of that?"

Wickham's fingers tightened on his glass. "He wanted a gentleman's life for me. He treated me like a son, like I was his own… in every respect but one. And now I have the one thing that was denied me by birth."

Darcy flung a hand towards the outer hall. "And that is why the first thing you did was have a painting commissioned? To try to legitimize yourself?"

Wickham smiled faintly. "A masterpiece, is it not?"

"What are you trying to prove? What do you think it changes? Georgiana told me," Darcy growled. "She told me everything."

Wickham resumed pacing, clicking his tongue. "I imagine she thinks she told you everything, but the one who really learned everything was I. Fascinating girl, Darcy, truly. If she did not think of me like a brother, I think I should have pursued her."

"She thinks of you as a cheat and a liar," Darcy hissed. "And if you go within a mile of her—"

"But that is not for you to say, is it, Darcy?" Wickham rounded to face him once more, wearing a mock frown of concern. "You cannot imagine my shock the first day you turned up on Netherfield's doorstep—pale, shaking, and a full stone underweight. You looked like you had a foot in the grave already, but I will confess, you do mask it decently well—provided your audience is as self-absorbed and unobservant as most people are." Wickham paced closer. "But what will you do when time runs out, Darcy? When the secret can no longer be kept, and pretty Miss Georgie is all alone? Grieving her lost brother?" He smiled and shook his head. "You would not deny her the comfort of a childhood friend, would you?"

Darcy's pulse was drumming in this throat so tightly, he felt he might choke. He wanted to choke anyway, listen to this snake. But letting Wickham gloat was purchasing time—the time needed for Bingley to reach London, for Elizabeth and Mr Bennet to be found by a friendly face.

He took a deliberate breath, steadying himself. "Leave Georgiana out of this. If influence—respect of your peers and my name behind you—is what you seek, I will write to Matlock on your behalf," he said, his tone cool and precise.

"And say what? This is no mere game of popularity, Darcy. I am accountable for a vast deal of money, and I must see it bear fruit. You will have to offer something substantial."

Darcy clenched his teeth. "I will vouch for Sir Anthony's character and his political views. That should suffice for your purposes." He let his words hang, knowing Wickham wouldn't find them enough. It was a starting point, a calculated move.

As he anticipated, Wickham snorted. "A letter? That's all you offer, Darcy? Don't insult me. I need more than words on paper."

Darcy's gaze remained steady, hiding his satisfaction at Wickham's predictability. He needed to press Wickham further, making the next concession seem like a reluctant step. "What more, then? My name, spoken publicly in endorsement? A grand display of support?"

Wickham's eyes gleamed as he sensed a victory. "Exactly. Your presence, your words. You will stand beside Sir Anthony and myself, convincing your acquaintances—especially that meddlesome Bennet—that Sir Anthony is the right choice. Your voice must be heard, Darcy, your influence seen and felt."

Darcy's gut tightened, but his face remained stoic. "Very well," he replied, allowing a trace of fatigue to colour his words, as if conceding reluctantly. "I will use my connections with Matlock and speak to Mr Bennet, Sir William, and whatever other gentlemen you deem necessary. I will arrange the meetings and make the necessary introductions in London, as well."

He paused, his eyes locking with Wickham's, and added with a firm edge, "But you must bring them here to Netherfield yourself to secure their initial support. Immediately."

Wickham laughed. "Darcy, I think you forgot! You are in no position to make demands."

Darcy allowed a faint smile to crack his features. "And as you so astutely pointed out, I am also in no condition to gallivant about the countryside. Time is, as you have guessed, of the essence. If you want my help, go to Longbourn in person and ask for Mr Bennet. Then bring Sir William and Mr Philips and Mr Purvis and Mr Long and whomever else you like to join us here."

Wickham studied Darcy's face, his expression sceptical. "Why not just send a servant?"

"Because you do not understand an academic cynic like Bennet. I do. If you want the man's support, you will not get it without showing up in person," Darcy shot back, his voice edged with irritation.

Wickham hesitated, clearly weighing his options. "No," he decided after a few seconds. "You shall come with me. What better way for you to prove your sincerity?"

That… that was not possible. Mr Bennet would not even be at Longbourn, but if Wickham had gone there on an unsuccessful attempt to invite the gentleman to Netherfield, the delay might have been enough for Darcy's needs. But why would he expect Wickham to just conveniently agree to his plan? He needed some other impetus, some means of forcing Wickham's hand…

Darcy blinked hard, trying to clear his vision as a familiar wave of dizziness swept over him. The telltale signs were there—the increasing tremor in his right hand, the sudden pounding in his skull. Another episode was imminent; he could feel it creeping up on him, threatening to rob him of control.

Panic clawed at the edges of his thoughts, but with it came a sliver of inspiration. He could feel the weakness overtaking him, but he was not yet helpless—he could use this. Wickham thrived on exploiting vulnerabilities, but perhaps, just this once, Darcy could turn his own frailty to his advantage.

He let himself sway slightly, his hand rising to his forehead as if succumbing to the pain. His vision blurred, the room spinning ever so slightly, but he steadied himself just enough to make it look intentional. If he could make Wickham believe he was losing control, perhaps he could prompt a decision before his body truly gave out.

Darcy groaned softly, letting his knees buckle a fraction, his hand gripping the edge of the mantel for support. The movement was small but deliberate, a calculated performance that played on Wickham's curiosity. If he could keep Wickham focused on him, on his supposed decline, he might still have a chance to influence the outcome.

"Darcy?" Wickham's voice hinted only at mild interest. "What, er… what say you?"

Darcy looked up, his face pale, his breath ragged. "I do not have time for this, Wickham," he rasped. "If you want my support… you need to act quickly. My condition… I cannot waste what little strength I have left."

Wickham's gaze flickered with calculation. "So, you are closer to the grave than I thought," he muttered under his breath, half to himself.

Darcy seized the moment, letting himself sink further down, making his body appear weaker, more vulnerable. "Make your decision," he urged, his voice strained. "Go to Longbourn and Lucas Lodge and the other principal houses in the area; bring the gentlemen here. I will do as you ask… but only if you act now."

The urgency in his tone, combined with his feigned collapse, seemed to sway Wickham. He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Darcy's face. "Very well," he said, finally relenting. "I'll go myself. But know this, Darcy—if you're playing me, you'll regret it. I promise you that."

Darcy managed a weak nod before he collapsed utterly. His ploy had worked. He had bought himself a little more time, and with any luck, it would be enough.