Darcy and Elizabeth were asked to submit written statements, which they drafted separately—though Darcy noted, with no small satisfaction, that Elizabeth’s handwriting was nearly as neat as his own.
He reread his own statement twice before sealing it, omitting no detail yet careful with his tone. He wanted no sympathy—only justice.
The court-martial was coming. And with it, the last tie to Wickham would be severed.
z
At last, a week after the ball, Fitzwilliam returned late, his coat dusted with travel and his expression unreadable. Darcy met him in the library at Netherfield, rising from a chair the moment his cousin entered.
“Well?” he asked.
Fitzwilliam nodded once, slowly. “It is done.”
Darcy’s breath caught. “Guilty?”
“Guilty on all charges,” Fitzwilliam confirmed, sinking into a chair. “The testimony left little doubt, and Wickham did himself no favors. He tried to escape the gaol two nights ago—used a cracked piece of his chamber pot to loosen one of the bolts. Made it as far as the yard wall before he collapsed.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “Collapsed?”
Fitzwilliam exhaled. “He cannot eat. His jaw was worse than we realized—dislocated, fractured in two places. He’s starving slowly, and the surgeons say it would take months to heal. He refuses broth—they say he only spits it out.”
Darcy was silent.
“It will be death by firing squad—two days hence.”
Darcy exhaled slowly. He had known it was likely. Still, to hear it confirmed…
“He will be given a priest on the final morning. But until then, you are permitted to see him—if you wish.”
That gave him pause.
“I do not know,” Darcy said after a long moment. “I do not know what I would say.”
“You are not obligated,” Fitzwilliam said gently. “But I thought you should be given the choice.”
Darcy nodded once, distantly.
That evening, the Bennets hosted a small gathering. A few of the Lucases and other families were there, and the parlor swelled with music and conversation. Elizabeth stood at the pianoforte once again, helping Georgiana quietly turn pages while the younger girl played a simple English song.
Darcy took the opportunity.
He stepped closer, speaking low enough that only Elizabeth would hear.
“It is to be the firing squad,” he murmured. “Two days from now.”
She turned toward him just slightly, her brow furrowing. “So soon?”
He nodded. “They say it is mercy… and safety. He cannot eat. He tried to flee. They believe he is beyond reason.”
Elizabeth’s lips parted as if to speak, then closed again.
“They have given me permission to see him,” he added, not quite looking at her. “Before he is… taken.”
She turned another page, her voice calm and quiet. “Do you want to?”
“I am not sure. I thought I might. But… I do not know what good it would do.”
She turned a page for Georgiana, then said, just as quietly, “What you choose to dwell on will shape how you move forward.”
