His observant wife turned to his sister and led her by the hand to a sofa. “Come, dear Georgiana. Let us sit by the fire. The room is chilled. We expect tea at any moment.”
Once seated, Darcy knelt before his sister and took her icy hands in his. She looked so young, so scared.
“There was…” What could he say? That it was not an unintentional accident? No, it was a brutal act of murder against the man Georgiana once admired.
He glanced at his wife, who responded with a tender look that encouraged him to continue.Mr. Bennet remained silent.
“Georgie, someone attacked your husband during the night. He did not survive the encounter.”
Her gasp went straight to his heart. Elizabeth pulled her into her embrace when every bone in Georgiana’s body seemed to melt into a puddle. Her tears at first were silent. Then, sobs racked her until it was an effort to take in a breath.
Elizabeth’s eyes closed as she gently rocked Georgiana back and forth. Darcy did the only thing he knew. He wrapped them both in his arms and held on tightly.
They were still in that position when Mr. Crosgrove and Sir William Lucas entered the drawing room. Sir William turned his face away from their grieving. Mr. Crosgrove looked directly at Darcy. Fortunately, it was not an accusation in his eyes. Rather, it was empathy for what the death of Wickham would do to the family.
Mr. Crosgrove waited until Georgiana’s wails lessened.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, and Mrs. Wickham. If we could have a moment of privacy with the gentlemen, please?”
Georgiana hiccoughed at hearing her name.
Elizabeth’s eyes hardened. “Unless my new sister wishes to avoid the details, we will hear it from you.”
Mr. Crosgrove looked at Darcy and Mr. Bennet. When neither man stopped him, he said, “Very well, then. You should know that Mr. Anders, our town’s butcher, was found an hour ago with blood on his hands, confessing his happiness at Mr. George Wickham’s death.”
How can this be?Darcy glanced at his wife’s quizzical brow before giving his full attention to Mr. Crosgrove.
“What he stated, after being warned that we could use his words against him, was that Mr. Wickham would not let up with his constant attention to Anders’ only child, a simple-minded daughter of fourteen years. Last evening, Abigail was alone in the house while Anders finished in his shop. He returned home to find her curled up in a ball, her hair in disarray, her gown ripped, and blood pouring from a fatal wound she had inflicted on herself. She left a note that read, ‘Forgive me, Papa.’” Mr. Crosgrove’s hand went to his chest. “Anders stated that he would rather hang than have Mr. Wickham hurt another man’s daughter.”
Blast it to hell and back!Darcy pressed the heel of his palms into his brows. Good god in heaven! He wanted to vomit. Every word was a blow to his chest, piercing him, burning him. Disgusted at the depths of Wickham’s fall,the deepest sympathy for the girl and her father almost ripped him in two.
Georgiana swooned, Elizabeth catching her before she fell forward to the floor.
Darcy helped his sister recline on the sofa while Elizabeth rang for sweet tea.
She turned to Mr. Crosgrove and asked, “There will be no investigation against anyone in this house, then?”
“No, ma’am. Mr. Anders voluntarily turned over his knives and continued to rant that Wickham needed to die for his sins. This was enough to see him confined until the assizes.” Mr. Crosgrove’s voice shook. “Anders confessed to never having killed anything but cows, birds, and hogs. Repeatedly, he cried that Mr. Wickham hurt his little Abigail.” Looking at his feet, he said, “I cannot blame him.”
“Nor I.” Darcy glanced at his sister. “Wickham deserved his punishment.”
Mr. Crosgrove finally looked at Darcy. “Mr. Anders will receive a fair trial. We will see to that. Even so, it is likely that he will hang.”
Darcy’s gut churned. “Maybe he could be transported instead. I would gladly bear the cost.”
Crosgrove nodded. “Anders’ only request was that we bury his daughter properly.”
Elizabeth’s chin lifted slightly. “Since the church will not accept her because of the circumstances of her death, could we not find a spot in Netherfield Park’s cemetery for her?”
“Of course,” Darcy replied, in full agreement with her suggestion.
The news barraged his thoughts with all that it wouldchange for his sister and for them. Wickham would no longer cause his sister pain by dragging his paramours in front of her. Nor would he continue wasting her dowry on frivolous purchases.
Darcy inhaled sharply. It was unthinkable, yet once the idea flickered through his mind, it nested and grew. Wickham no longer controlled Pemberley.
Like the first few drops of rain on dry land, Darcy dared not hope. Yet, as the water fell, what was once a trickle turned into a stream. Within moments, the flow became a raging torrent.
He was finally free of Wickham. Expert direction and a lot of hard work might save Pemberley.
