Wickham’s lids twitched, and Darcy realized he struggled for the strength to open them. They pried up to narrow slits. “Do you believe she will thank you for not letting her see me?”
“I believe that she is finally coming out from under the cloud of misery in which you left her.” His words growing more strident, Darcy continued, “I believe that she is only sixteen, and even if you did marry her, she is my ward, my younger sister, and that even if she hates me for it, I must keep her safe from you.”
White fingers plucked at the blanket. “What danger am I to her now?”
“I do not know, and I will not learn.”
“I want only to tell her that I am sorry.”
“A message I can easily pass along.”
They locked gazes, then Wickham’s lids dropped back closed. His breath left him in a long sigh, and he seemed to shrink even further, flat and unmoving under the blanket.
Darcy’s heart shuddered. He leaned forward.
Wickham drew in a breath. “I escaped them. Talk put you here, with Bingley. I took the coach. A woman realized I’d been shot. She started screaming. The driver cast me out on the sideof the road.” A weak cough left Wickham’s mouth. “I tried to reach you.”
To reach him. For safety? Aid? Forgiveness?
Did it matter?
“It did not have to end this way,” Darcy said softly. He leaned back in the chair, training his gaze on the plaster ceiling.
“It did. There was never room for both of us in my life.”
Darcy closed his eyes against sudden, scalding tears, and shook his head.
He remained there, in that chair, all afternoon. Wickham’s breathing grew shallower. He did not speak again. Darcy knew not if he lay awake or slept, and did not ask. He didn’t wish to intrude.
Richard came and went, as did Patrick and some of Richard’s men, but Mr. Jones didn’t return. There was no point in summoning him. The afternoon waned, and Wickham’s shallow breaths grew far between.
The front door to the cottage slammed open, starting Darcy awake and permitting inside a caterwaul of, “…will permit me to see him,” in Georgiana’s voice.
Darcy blinked, looking about in the gloom. He sat up straighter, grimacing at the pain in his neck.
“I do not believe—” Richard began.
“I do not care what you believe,” Georgiana interrupted, her voice and footfalls moving closer, crossing the main room of the cottage. “You know I have every right to see him.”
Darcy’s gaze dropped to Wickham, taking in how still he lay.
The door flew open.
Darcy surged to his feet to bar Georgiana’s way.
“You,” she snarled as she barreled up to Darcy, angrier than he’d ever seen her. “How could you keep me from him? How dare you make that decision for me?”
He stared down at her, struggling for words, painfully aware that Wickham no longer lived.
“W-what is it?” Georgiana stammered, color draining from her face as she looked up into his. “What has happened?”
Raising his gaze, Darcy met Richard’s where his cousin stood in the doorway. Richard looked the question. Darcy shook his head.
“What has happened?” Georgiana repeated.
Richard sighed, sorrow adding sudden years to his visage.
“I must see him.” Georgiana’s voice came out small and clenched.
