“I am afraid, however, that I will be forced to add this morning’s transgression to my next report for my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She has already been informed of your prior misconduct. She will know the proper steps to take.”
Elizabeth cared less about what his esteemed Lady Catherine did or did not know than she did about Mr. Collins’ opinion, which was to say less than not at all.
“And I will have to tell Mama,” Mary added, rallying to a disdainful look of her own.
“To whom I will explain that you are both daft.” With that, Elizabeth marched right at them. As she expected, they stepped back, moving aside rather than collide with her. Her chin high, she strode down the hall, but worry filled her. Her only hope nowwas to explain things to her father, so he could curtail whatever madness Mrs. Bennet might contrive from Mary and Mr. Collins’ accusations. That was, were he willing to do so once he learned all that Elizabeth had failed to confide ere now.
Chapter Nineteen
Darcy paced the main room of the small cottage they’d found for Wickham, not looking at Richard, who leaned against the wall alongside the bedroom door. Today was Wickham’s first day of lucidity, after days of fevered ramblings, but his skin stood out a stark white, except for the rings of purple around his eyes, and he seemed almost too weak to breathe. When they’d arrived that afternoon, Darcy had been hopeful, for at least sense shone in Wickham’s gaze, but Mr. Jones, the local apothecary who had been caring for Wickham alongside Darcy, Patrick, and members of Richard’s troop, appeared quite grim. He’d ushered Darcy and Richard from the room.
Finally, the door opened and Mr. Jones stepped through, drying his hands on a clean white cloth. Darcy came back across the room, his steps rapid, and Richard straightened from his slouch.
“Well?” Darcy demanded, reaching the small, balding gentleman.
“I have lanced the wound again, and bled him, but his body does not rally. The infection has too firm a hold. Maybe if we had removed the leg when you first brought me here…” Jones trailed off with an apologetic grimace.
Darcy answered with a scowl. Both the apothecary and Richard had been for removing Wickham’s leg, saying it would save his life, but even in his fever-induced confusion, Wickham had pleaded with them not to. Darcy had sided with him. George Wickham was not a man who would ever recover from losing a limb.
And Wickham was hale. Never sick a day in his life. Darcy had truly thought he would rally. Be ill and weak for a time, but then rebound to his usual irritating self.
“He is asking for you,” Jones added, looking at Darcy.
Darcy nodded. Pulling his shoulders back, he adopted a neutral expression, then took a deep breath to gird against what he would find inside. Another breath, and he moved past Jones and into the room.
The sharp tang of blood, almost a relief compared to the more repugnant undercurrents of decay and stale sweat, slammed into Darcy, but he did not pause. He went to the bed, where Wickham lay in a wan rectangle of afternoon light. Darcy wished they could open the window, offer some relief from the rancid odors, but Mr. Jones had cautioned against any chill. To further stave that off, a fire roared in the grate, baking the room.
Darcy settled into the chair drawn up beside the bed. Wickham lay flat and somehow small beneath fresh white sheets that Richard’s men changed daily. An untouched cup of tea rested on a small table beside the bed, and Wickham’s eyes remained closed.
“George?” Darcy asked softly, not wanting to wake him if he’d found the blessed relief of sleep.
“Fitz.”
Darcy cleared his throat. Wickham knew he hated that nickname. “You asked to see me.”
“My coat.” A shaky hand rose, gesturing vaguely before dropping back to the covers as if Wickham could manage no more movement than that. “In my coat.”
Reaching into his own, Darcy pulled free a folded page. A document stating Georgiana and Wickham’s union, signed and witnessed, and folded about a small key. “This?” Patrick had found the items when laundering Wickham’s garments. Garments he was unlikely to ever don again.
Wickham pried an eye open to take in the somewhat crumpled page. Dropping the lid back closed, he nodded. “The key is to a box at a bank in Edinburgh.” Voice weak, he rattled offan address. “The only other copy is there. Once both are burned, my union with Georgie will never have happened.”
Shock slammed into Darcy, gripping his chest. Wickham knew he was about to die. He’d given up. “Will you not require at least one copy in order to keep extorting money from me?”
Wickham smiled faintly. “My days of tormenting you are done.”
“Do not be absurd. I will never be rid of you.” A hard lump formed in Darcy’s throat.
All the times he’d railed against Wickham, the times he’d hated him… Had they all come to this? His childhood best friend dying before him?
Memories welled, dredged up by sorrow. Wickham daring him to cross a stream on a fallen log. Wickham stealing sweets from Pemberley’s kitchen and persuading Darcy to eat some even though stealing was wrong. Long summer days spent climbing, running, exploring. Hours of chatter, of Wickham’s dreams and imaginings filling the empty spaces in Darcy’s life. The life of an active boy with a sickly mother, an always busy father, and, eventually, a doted upon sister who was too little and young to come play.
He gripped Wickham’s shoulder. “You have to fight this. You must—”
“I am sorry about the bounty.” Wickham’s quiet murmur cut off Darcy’s frantic words. “I did not mean for that. I…I found myself barred from most establishments. My own doing, I imagine. I thought that to have a Darcy’s money would see me treated like a Darcy, but I forgot about the Darcy manners. The hauteur and restraint.” He shook his head, his eyes still closed but his expression rueful.
“I am certain a word or two would see you allowed back in.” Sorrow choked the words. Darcy cleared his throat. “You could behave better. You have always been able to.” Wickhamhad certainly charmed Darcy’s father, and Georgiana, and many others.
His eyes flicked open, the whites an unhealthy yellow. “Let me say my piece, Darcy. Let me seek your absolution.”
