Saturday, the 11thof April, 1812
Darcy awoke in his bedchamber at Rosings. For a moment, all seemed well. But then the awful reality rushed in. Elizabeth’s death. He had no recollection of retiring the previous evening. Utterly undone and overwrought with grief, he had surrendered to sleep as a merciful escape.
When he first saw Elizabeth with Wickham, anger had flared at his suspicion that she might have been in Wickham’s thrall. But the flare had died once he understood that Elizabeth would not go with Wickham willingly. Now Darcy felt only woe. Elizabeth would have no more suitors, no new opportunities to break his heart or anyone else’s. He would have no chance to repair his disastrous proposal, no chance to warn her about Wickham. Only the rituals of civility remained.
He would dress, attempt breakfast, then go to condole with the Collinses.
Darcy said to his valet, “The black superfine should do well for mourning attire, Hines.” Hines first produced ordinary morning clothes, a pale blue waistcoat, and a snowy white cravat.
When Darcy explained that he had meant sombre clothes suitable for mourning, Hines seemed surprised but obeyed without question, dressing him in a black cravat, waistcoat, and gloves, as well. Darcy himself was surprised that no whisper of tragedy had reached the servants. How could they not be aware of the ruckus caused by Wickham and the colonel? Did gossip or news not spread among the servants at Hunsford and thosein Lady Catherine’s household? Perhaps they were too scared of her.
No one else was in the breakfast room when Darcy appeared. He partook of a cup of tea and a bit of bread, having no appetite, and rode to Hunsford to pay his respects. It felt strange to be heading there again, so soon after his disastrous proposal. As he approached the parsonage, unease gathered about what he would say to the Collinses and what he might write to Elizabeth’s family. He must rely on formality and polite phrases. Whatever he felt must remain unexpressed. How could he untangle his feelings about her refusal from his feelings about her death?
At the parsonage, Darcy strode into the morning room and saw MrCollins, MrsCollins, Miss Lucas…and, incredibly, Elizabeth.
Alive.
For a dizzying instant, he suspected he was hallucinating. How was this possible? Elizabeth had died in his arms the day before, yet today she sat composed upon a settee, as alive as anybody, her fine eyes undimmed.
Am I mad?Disoriented, Darcy considered the possibility that he was losing his mind. A cold sweat began to dampen his brow. Perhaps he ought to see a doctor.
He had been staring. Far too long. He bowed and greeted everyone. Elizabeth’s raised eyebrow signalled that she was not pleased to see him. She returned his greeting civilly yet coldly, seeming discomfited by the appearance of a rejected suitor. Her derisive countenance rankled him.
Darcy cast about for an opening remark. He asked after Elizabeth’s parents and then her sisters, and she gave him a perfunctory reply that they were all well. She certainly looked well. His relief was immense. Perhaps his experience of her death had been nothing but a horrible dream.
Luckily, MrCollins, eager as ever, supplied the information Darcy wanted. “How thoughtful of Lady Catherine to send you to inquire how we fare after yesterday’s news from Meryton.”
“Indeed,” said Darcy with feeling.
Collins needed no encouragement, and Darcy learned that George Wickham was once again the source of the disturbance. The shape of events shifted, and the catastrophe remained, but, blessedly, incredibly, the victim had changed. It turned out that Wickham had gone after Miss Mary King and her ten thousand pounds. He had apparently persuaded Miss King to elope with him, but her uncle discovered the plan in time to accost the pair as they were attempting to slip away. There had been a struggle, a pistol had gone off, and the bullet had hit poor Miss King and killed her. According to Lady Lucas, the source of this information, no one was quite sure who had pulled the trigger, but it was Wickham who faced the charges. He had been ordered confined to quarters while awaiting the military inquiry, but he had escaped.
MrsCollins offered tea, and Darcy gratefully took his with extra sugar, hoping to soothe his agitation at seeing Elizabeth alive. He prayed his shaking hands would escape notice.
As MrCollins continued gushing about the scandal and the related sermon he was writing on the theme of avarice, Darcy’s thoughts wandered. How was he to make sense of his certitude that he had witnessed Elizabeth’s death—had it been a dream brought on by her devastating rejection? Or a delusion of his own making? If Wickham were on the loose, he would most likely try to disappear in London. But where might he go next? Darcy feared that Elizabeth, with her thirty thousand pounds from her great-aunt, might be Wickham’s next target. And fresh from the horrific dream or imagination of Elizabeth’s accidental death, Darcy knew that he must do whatever he could to avoid a future in which that dream might become a reality.
Back at Rosings, Darcy requested lighter attire. Blessedly, Hines did not even raise an eyebrow and only gathered Darcy’s blacks to be brushed out without commenting on the tang of cold sweat that clung to them.
Still, Darcy could not quit the niggling unease about Wickham. “Hines, you remember, of course, my father’s late steward and his son George Wickham?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I seem to have been very absent-minded lately. I’ve been distracted with…erm…estate matters. Have you heard any recent news of him?”
“Sir, I have heard nary a word about MrWickham since you have been at Rosings, nor since he was seen in Meryton.”
“Thank you, Hines. And could you please tell me if you do see or hear of him?”
“Of course, sir,” the valet said with alacrity.
Darcy only wished he could ask Hines which day of the week it was.
Sunday confirmed itself by the clothing his valet had laid out for church. Thankfully, the world had not shifted into a different time or reality overnight. In the pew at Hunsford, Darcy bowed his head and prayed, both for relief from his nervous agitation and for understanding. MrCollins concluded his sanctimonious sermon on avarice by declaring God’s intention for man to act for the greater good. As Darcy listened, his countenance brightened. He suddenly realised that God must intend the strange happenings as some sort of test for him. It must be that the strange situations would continue until he did something right or learned an important lesson.
Darcy considered what acting in the greater good would mean in his present situation. Perhaps he needed to be more generous with his fortune? What else might he do? He already cared for his tenants at Pemberley, paid the poor tax in his parish, and contributed to a private charity for widows and orphans in London.
What was God telling him? Darcy reflected on the common elements of the disturbing anomalies he had experienced: Elizabeth and Wickham. All the trouble had started after he made that damnable proposal to Elizabeth. Of course, that pair of fine eyes and lively spirit had disrupted his peace, but how was that a sign of God testing his character? Wickham, too, had disrupted his life several times over the years.
Darcy had long felt that Wickham was his cross to bear, an obligation that his departed father had imposed upon him. Giving a large sum of money to Wickham had not been a permanent solution. A bad penny always turns up. Worse, Wickham’s rapacious tactics had escalated to endangering gently bred ladies.
