But the old steward well knew about the troubles with his son. He was harsher on George Wickham than Darcy himself had ever been, a great deal harsher than Darcy’s father had been.
Darcy had not ever spoken to him about the business with Georgiana, though. He could not find the words to explain that to the old steward, he had found.
Even so, old Mr. Wickham would not take it well to find that Mr. Darcy had shot his son.
If George had told his father, Darcy would expect to be barred from entering. It might not be out of the question that the old steward would seek out a magistrate, though the jurisdiction of the crime would be in Newcastle. It was not the way amongst gentlemen to involve the law. They would settle things themselves, with duels. Old Mr. Wickham was not a gentleman, but a steward was a high-ranked servant, practically on par with a tradesman in many ways. Would old Mr. Wickham employ a proxy to duel Darcy or would he go to the law?
Likely the former, Darcy thought. Stewards were old guard, more traditional than the gentlemen they served.
But when he arrived at the house, old Mr. Wickham was only very pleased to see him. “It is so good of you to come, sir. I know things between you and Georgie have soured quite a bit in these last years. But perhaps this is a good thing, if it prompts a reconciliation between the two of you while he still has time for it. After all, he may not recover.”
“Oh?” said Darcy, trying not to feel hopeful. “There is a danger of his succumbing to this wound?”
“You know there is,” said the old Wickham. “Anything of this nature can be infected with rot. He is already a bit feverish.”
Darcy felt a stab of guilt at his hope. This was horrid, then, if George Wickham was going to die slowly and painfully, in agony. He had not meant to torture the man.
Perhaps George Wickham deserved it?
He didn’t know.
The young Wickham was in a room on the first floor, wrapped in blankets on a cot. He was reading a book. He looked pale and wan. He was surprised to see Darcy.
“Well, then,” he said. “I must be quite ready to keel over if you are here.”
Darcy eyed him. “Yes, we have not seen each other since Ramsgate.”
“There was some seeing in Meryton,” said Wickham, chuckling. “Also a great deal of ignoring, though, pretending as if you had not seen me.”
“But not since then,” said Darcy, raising his eyebrows.
Wickham furrowed his brow. “No.”
“Who shot you?” said Darcy, lifting his chin.
Wickham struggled to sit up in the bed. “I have no notion,” he said, but his voice was stricken. “I was summoned out to the woods near the house where the regiment was staying for thewinter. I heard the shot, and then I felt it…” His hand went to his chest. “Inches off from my heart, they say. The surgeon had a devil of a time digging it out.”
Old Wickham spoke up from the doorway. “Just appalling, truly, that such a thing could occur. You’d expect it in the fighting abroad, I think, but not here, in England.”
“You said,” George said to his father, “that you thought I must have made an enemy of someone. Stole his girl or something.”
“Sounds like you, Georgie,” said his father.
“Perhaps,” said Wickham, looking at Darcy. He swallowed. “Papa?”
“Yes, my son,” said old Wickham.
“Could you give Fitzwilliam and I the room?” said Wickham.
“Certainly,” said the old steward, chuckling. “Talk of whatever you need to talk of without me, then.” He left, shutting the door behind him.
Then, the old man gone, it was quiet.
Wickham surveyed him, still looking stricken. Eventually, he grimaced, hand to his chest again. It was a grimace of pain, Darcy realized. Carefully, Wickham lowered himself back down onto the bed. He let out several pained breaths as he gazed at the ceiling. “I told not a soul about Georgiana, you know? And I had chances. All sorts of chances. But I kept it to myself. Why now, then, Fitz, hmm? Why did you do this now?”
“Do what?” said Darcy, who was not here to give Wickham information, but rather to get it, and he had obviously done a poor job with that thus far. Wickham had not known who shot him until Darcy arrived.
“You meant to kill me, clearly.” Wickham’s voice was thick. “I suppose I understand it.”
