“What should we do?” Elizabeth asked.
“I will fetch my cousin and we will take him…somewhere safe. Where he can be cared for, and protected from whoever shot him.”
“Not to Netherfield Park, then?”
Lips pressed hard together, Fitzwilliam contemplated the man slumped against the shack’s wall. “No. I will not have him under the same roof as Georgiana.” He slanted a look at Elizabeth and reiterated, “He will be cared for, and safe.”
Elizabeth nodded, but Fitzwilliam’s words would reassure her more if he did not appear so much as if he wanted to shoot Mr. Wickham a second time, and do a better job of it. Not that she could blame him. She had witnessed Miss Darcy’s sorrow. “Iwill wait with him for so long as I can, but soon I must return to Longbourn. I cannot be absent at breakfast. Especially after what Mr. Collins overheard.”
Fitzwilliam’s countenance darkened further. “You should not wait here at all. I would not have you alone with Wickham. He is not to be trusted, especially with the fairer sex.”
Elizabeth cast Fitzwilliam an incredulous look. “I have already been alone with him, and remain unscathed. He is hardly able to move, let alone accost anyone.”
Fitzwilliam’s jaws worked, his teeth grinding. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, but stay wary.”
“I will,” she agreed, more to reassure him than because she felt there to be any need.
Pivoting, every movement stiff with anger for the man sprawled on the floor of the shed, Fitzwilliam departed.
Elizabeth watched him go, then turned back to Mr. Wickham. “I believe you have behaved very badly, sir.”
He chuckled, a weak, grating sound. “Yes. I seem destined to.”
How could he find amusement in that? “I am familiar with Miss Darcy. She has suffered greatly over your defection.”
His features collapsed downward, all traces of mirth departing. “Georgiana.”
“You do not have the right to refer to her thus,” Elizabeth said stiffly, offended on Miss Darcy’s behalf.
Mr. Wickham fumbled at his coat, trying to get a hand into his pocket. “You must give her this for me.”
“I will not.” Elizabeth was surprised he would dare to ask.
He pulled free a necklace, a little heart on a chain.
The audacity of the man. “You seek to rekindle her affection?”
Mr. Wickham shook his head. “It is hers. I gave it to her long ago, and then I took it back, but it is hers.” He clutched his hand around the locket.
“I daresay she would prefer you to keep it.”
He shook his head again, sweat building on his brow. “No, she must know the truth. She must know…I love her. I…I told her I did not in order to free her. From me.” He thrust out his clenched hand, his arm trembling with the effort. “I told her I would sell it. I could not.” His eyes pleaded with Elizabeth.
With a sigh, she moved closer, and reached to accept the locket.
Mr. Wickham dropped it into her hand, but then caught her fingers in a hot, hard grip, sending fear shooting through her. “I did not do it,” he cried. “I could not. I love her too much. Not the way…notthatway. I watched her grow from a child.” He shook his head, delirious and frantic. “I could not do it.”
Elizabeth wrenched her hand away. “You did leave her, and you are speaking nonsense.”
Wide, half-mad eyes blinked up at her. “Please give Georgie the locket. I beg you.”
Elizabeth sighed, pity robbing her of much of the fear inspired by his grip, and of her indignation on Miss Darcy’s behalf. “I will think about giving this to her, but you must rest. You are not well. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy will be here soon, to take you someplace safe.”
“Fitzwilliam and Darcy?” A ragged cackle left Mr. Wickham. “They will arrive with shovels.”
“Shovels?”
“For a shallow grave. They would sooner aid Napoleon himself than me.”
