Darcy & Elizabeth (65 page)

He took her hand in his and pressed her palm to his lips.

From the back of her throat came a small sigh. Had she been granted at that moment the gift of speech, she would have assured him that in no way was his articulacy lacking. As it happened, she could not. Indeed, it was her own feelings that were so entirely inexpressible. She sat in that confounded attitude, with only the backs of her fingers stroking his cheek to tell him how very dear he was to her. In return, his hand trailed up her arm and took her earlobe, gently rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb. Within the wordless realm of a shared gaze, they exchanged vows of everlasting love.

Quietly he asked, “Have we at last put all to rest?”

Chastened, she nodded.

In time he said, “You will be happy to know Bingley is saved.”

“The business to which you were attending with Sir Howgrave—it went well?”

“Indeed, the Bingleys will take possession of Howgrave's manor directly,” he was delighted to tell her.

It was a comfort for Elizabeth to know that Bingley had indeed been with Darcy, and he had not been entirely alone when he encountered Juliette. She fully realised that it had never been her husband's intentions she doubted, but Mademoiselle Clisson's. Still, the manner in which he reassured her of his constancy she knew not how to admire adequately.

They were interrupted at that point by their driver.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but what is our destination? A crossroads awaits us.”

Darcy asked Elizabeth, “What shall it be? To Bingley's for corroboration? Or shall we hie for home?”

“Home,” she said. “It has been but a few days, but feels as if a year—I long to see my children!”

“Our children,” he corrected. “I admit to that longing as well. I have seen far too much of these streets for one day—yea, for a lifetime.”

He rapped upon the roof, calling, “To Pemberley.”

The Sweetest Thing

When Wickham threw back the door, his already jangled nerves were once again abused. For before him stood a girl. She was almost grown, but was not of his acquaintance.

“Hello, Wickham,” she said as if she knew him.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do I know your mother?” he said wanly.

“Actually,” she said, “you do.”

She brushed past him and walked in.

He had had just about enough of this. Indeed, one must draw the line at some point in accepting the paternity of every base-born infant in the country. Certainly there were other men capable of reproducing. The satisfying thought crossed his mind that his nemesis (despite the size of his hands) was barren in that department. Darcy may have a wife to covet, but he had not given her a child. Ha.

He looked at the girl before him, wondering what she might want. Her figure was trim, complexion altogether lovely, and she looked to be more than sixteen. As her age gifted her the single requisite that he had endeavoured to abide in his many seductions, he instinctively smiled.

“Don't bother shewing me yer teeth, I ain't buyin',” she announced.

Immediately, he adjusted his countenance to profess indulgent indignation. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I come 'ere on business.”

“Now why is a pretty girl like you wanting to talk business? It will put a furrow in your lovely brow,” he simpered.

Withdrawing her pistol did the office of removing any part of humour from his countenance.

“What is this?” he demanded. “A robbery?”

“Maybe just murder.”

Immediately Wickham lost all umbrage and began to inquire just what animus did she hold against him. Sally was disinclined to pussyfoot about it.

“The soldier you murdered…”

“I did no such thing,” he denied. “No such thing ever occurred, no one saw it, there was no such soldier.”

Employing the “my dog did not bite you, my dog does not bite, I do not have a dog” defence, Wickham believed himself thoroughly covered insofar as responding to the charge laid at his door. Where
had
all these people learnt of this, he worried. He had truly seen no witnesses.

Not put off whatsoever, Sally continued, “It did occur, it was witnessed, and there most certainly were a soldier. He was my brother and I aim to have you die for it.”

“Now, now, we must think this matter through,” Wickham earnestly began to try to talk his way out of it. “If I did harm to your brother, it was a most grievous error upon my part. I would
never
…”

Although the weapon made him uneasy, he had not feared Sally's accusation. If Darcy was not disposed to put charges against him himself, he must be of a mind he had not enough proof to put in him gaol. If Darcy had none, what proof could this girl have?

At that moment, another person walked into his room. It was the pint-sized lady of the night he had seen strutting up and down the walkway. Odd creature, her. Had he the time, he might have had a taste, but as it was, he did not. Upon this occasion, she did not appear ready to contract business of her usual calling. She flounced across the room and stood next to Sally.

“Ye told 'im yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Then git on with it!”

Sally nodded, “I was jest remindin' 'im of 'is crimes.”

Thereupon, Sally handed the gun to Daisy and put before him the piece of vellum that had dropped from Mr. Darcy's waistband. Sally was truly very sorry for taking it as she had done, but she had not been altogether forthcoming with Mrs. Darcy. She knew more than she let on about Wickham's parentage. Indeed, Mrs. Hardin knew the tale and was willing to share the particular irony that Major Wickham had unknowingly killed his own son. It made for a much better story too. No one bothered to do anything about it since Major Wickham was thought dead. In light of the improbability of Wickham ever returning, any number of folk announced they would have been happy to do justice by that boy had not it already been done by Nappy.

“The soldier you killed was my brother—my half-brother,” Sally told him. “My mother's name was Abigail Christie.”

“For that you have my sympathy,” Wickham said testily, not at all happy to be held at bay by a pair of females sporting a pistol with a barrel the size of a blunderbuss.

But then an alteration overspread Wickham's countenance. One could see the wheels of his brain turning with precision as if he had a hole in his cranium. As Daisy was unwitting of all that Sally knew, only she saw them as the little cerebral pistons performed, assessing, cogitating, and then, at last, eureka.

“That soldier was Abigail Christie's son? My son, you say? No, it cannot be!”

Slowly, to make the realisation as painful as possible, Sally nodded her head.

“Bloody hell!” Wickham stamped his foot. “I have the worst luck!”

Immediately, Wickham appreciated the full extent of his jeopardy. He had largely thought of the young ladies with the pistol as all in good fun. A trick—a game of wits. The expression the younger girl wore was exceedingly solemn. Nothing at all seemed amusing.

Wickham recalled that he had a bargaining tool. He made his play for his own pistol, but Daisy raised the gun menacingly. Sally found the tiny pistol and held it on him too.

Hastily, he began babbling, “I have money. I can pay. I have more money than you ever imagined. Here, here…”

Grasping the canvas bag by its bottom, he gave a yank, sending neatly tied packets of notes spilling across the table top, one skittering onto the floor. He made a move to retrieve it, but Sally raised the end of her weapon menacingly at him when he did. Hence he stood—arms raised, palms out—certain they would make for the money. The only question would be whether they would kill him or not. He had seen men killed for a groat in these parts of London. The only hope he had was that the sight of this money would make them drunk enough with delight to leave him alone.

Whilst Daisy eyed the money, Sally ignored it. She handed the pea-shooter off to Daisy and strode to the table. With one swoop of her arm, she swept the money aside and slapped down a document before him. Having two documents to sign in one evening was altogether a singular occurrence. He knew not what to make of it. This time, he did read it. He read it carefully. He did not understand.

“This paper states that the signee swears that he is not Major George Wickham. That George Wickham died in battle on the sixteenth of June in the year '15. Why would I sign such a thing?” He looked at Sally, “Moreover, why would
you
want me to sign it?”

Daisy juggled the pistol whilst merrily picking up the notes and stuffing half of them in Wickham's canvas bag, the other half in her bodice. She had pulled the rags out that had held office of her undeveloped bosom and thought this a divine replacement.

Showing Sally, she laughed, “What ye think, Sal? Better'n the real thing?”

Sally only allowed herself to smile a moment. She returned her attention to Wickham's question.

“I figure there are worse things for some men than killin',” she answered. “Get to it!”

Reasonably, Wickham inquired, “What am I to sign? If am swearing that I am not George Wickham I must have a name.”

He was genuinely perplexed—as was Sally. She had not given that much thought, but Daisy thought anointing Wickham great fun.

“I know,” she said, “I know! How 'bout Harry Butts? Or…or,” she thought more, “Dick Flaccid?”

“Could not we just use Dusty Rhoades?” Wickham said dejectedly.

Laughing to herself into near hysteria, Daisy suddenly stopt.

“You thought of something, Daisy?” Sally asked.

“Yea,” she said solemnly, “I did.”

Sally raised her eyebrows, waiting.

“Sign your name
Thomas Reed
,” she said.

When Wickham hesitated, she put the barrel of the pistol against his head, demanding, “Write.”

Wickham shrugged his shoulders and did as he was told. His position was firmly on the side of doing whatever it took to remain alive. His signature was exacted with none of the foolish antics that he had employed with Darcy. When he compleated writing, Sally whisked the paper from beneath him, handed it to Daisy to witness, and when this office was compleat, rolled it like a scroll.

“Am I to be told why I signed such a document?”

“Ye shouldn't be bothered with signing away that name,” Sally told him. “It ain't what it ought to be anyhow.”

“Oh no?” said Wickham flippantly, certain Sally was barking mad. “What should it be? Harry Butts?”

“No,” she said, “it could've been Darcy.”

So incredulous of such a statement, Wickham did not even bother to appear so. He simply awaited her to attempt to explain such a ludicrous notion.

“Folks that know say that yer a bastard to Mr. Darcy's father.”

Wickham's attitude did not alter. Not for a moment, at least.

“Mr. Darcy knows it, too. I don't blame 'im fer not wantin' to claim yer.”

In an aside to Daisy, Sally said, “Ye should see that Mr. Darcy's little babies—two of 'em, like two peas in a pod!”

“Twins? Son of a bitch! I bet they keep 'em busy!” Daisy exclaimed, both temporarily forgetting themselves.

Wickham, however, had not.

“What…? How…?” Wickham attempted to form a question.

Recollecting herself, Daisy explained, “There's so much talk, ye were bound to find out anyhow. That old housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, said it's so.”

“What does that have to do with you? Why would you tell me this and have me sign that document? What is it to you?”

“Well,” she explained, “I was gonna kill ye, but I got to thinkin' sorry as ye are, that was too good for ye. I thought that would hurt ye worse—well, that and this.”

With that, Sally took Lydia's pea-shooter, drew her bead, and shot. Her aim was quite good. Wickham fell to the floor writhing, both hands over his crotch, screaming, “You bloody bitch, you bloody bitch, you bloody bitch!”

Daisy stood looking at Sally in wonder. She did not ask the question, but Sally chose to answer it all the same.

“I figured that getting' shot in the nuts was the other thing that would be worse than dyin' for him. That'n 'e'll never sire another bastard.”

She stepped over Wickham, who, in one last desperate move, tried to grab her ankle. She shook him off like a playful pup and she and Daisy betook themselves out the door without looking back.

As the door shut soundly behind them, they could hear Wickham's screams in the background—even over the sounds of the ale house below.

Sally raised her voice over the din of it all, “Tell me, Daisy, why'd ye pick that particular name?”

“It was my brother's name,” she said. “Tom escaped from Newgate. If 'e uses it, they might nail 'im fer it.”

Sally pursed her lips and nodded as if she understood. “I see.”

Shaking her head, Daisy said, “Ye don't see, really. Tom Reed was my brother what Mr. Darcy kilt. Fer that matter, Tom got my brother, Frank kilt by Mr. Darcy too.”

Sally's countenance was then quite astounded. “Mr. Darcy killed yer brothers? Don't ye hate him fer it?”

To hear such a thing of proud Mr. Darcy was altogether astonishing for Sally. She could not imagine such an occurrence—nor could she imagine that Daisy had a pistol in her hand and did not exact retribution when she had the chance. Indeed, she had even aided Mr. Darcy.

Daisy shrugged her shoulders, which caused a slight shuffling of her note-filled bosom. As she retucked her stuffing, she had only one further comment upon her long-dead kin.

“Seems there was bad blood. Knowing Tom,” she observed, “he had it comin'.”

Peeling off one note from her many packets, Sally stuffed it under Wickham's door. He had stopt bellowing and had begun to whimper.

They passed Mrs. Younge heading up the stairs as they strolled down. Sally looked upwards momentarily before she offered an agreement to Daisy's conclusion.

“Don't they all 'ave it comin', Daisy? Don't they all?”