The Road to Pemberley (62 page)

“'Tis not!” exclaimed Leyton.

By now, the rest of the boys had gathered around as Leyton and Darcy argued the rules of the game.

“You nominated your players, and the rules state that you cannot make a change in the middle of the match without my consent!” Darcy huffed, quite put out by Leyton's audacity.

“Darcy,” Wickham said as he smiled nervously, “give him your consent, so we can get back to the play.”

Darcy began to waver in his determination to stick with the rules, especially because he was hot and tired. He made a move to give his consent when Leyton interrupted him.

“He will never consent! Like father, like son!” Leyton quipped. Darcy frowned resentfully. “What is that supposed to mean?” Richard held onto Darcy's right arm and Edward held onto his left as the irritated boy tried to charge at his accuser.

“It means you are as unbending as a fence post,” Leyton said and smirked.

Darcy screwed his face up in revulsion, but Richard and Edward kept their hold on him. Wickham quietly moved around the outer edge of the circle, careful to stay on the side of his benefactor's son, yet also near an escape route.

“At least
I
can win
and
play by the rules, instead of cheating by
moving
the fence posts!”

Leyton's face was red with anger as he came within inches of Darcy, shoving the boy's shoulder with the tips of his fingers, “You are stubborn and absurd.”

“Here now, Leyton, there is no need—” But Edward was not allowed to finish, as he let go Darcy's arm to move Leyton's hand away. Darcy had heard enough.

With a quick jab to the belly, Darcy knocked the wind out of Leyton. A boy came flying across the line, intent on defending his captain from Darcy's attack, but knocked into Richard instead, sending them both to the ground.

Within a few moments, there were boys flying everywhere, knocking each other down and tumbling about in the grass. Girls were screaming at the horrifying scene, although in truth they thought it fairly good sport to watch the boys fussing and fighting.

There was a market at one corner of the green where local farmers sold their fruits and vegetables during the summer months. Wickham ran by one farmer's cart, trying to flee one of Leyton's supporters, but the other boy was too quick, as he reached out and caught Wickham by the coat, flinging him around.

Wickham reached behind into the farmer's cart and grasped a melon in his hands. He raised it above him and let it down hard upon the boy's head. Thankfully, the melon was extremely ripe and only succeeded in making the lad look like a salad. When he had cleared away the juice that was dripping down into his eyes, Wickham was gone. That did not much matter, though, as he grabbed two more melons and ran back to the fray. Soon boys were pulling out melons left and right, pelting one another in frenzied assault. The poor farmer tried his best to protect his crop, but every time he went to interfere, he was splattered with another of his own melons.

Darcy and Leyton were rolling around on the ground, punching and kicking each other, when Richard came up behind them with a melon.

“I say, break it up!” Richard yelled, but the boys kept punching and rolling. Richard waited until Leyton was on top of Darcy, and then let the melon crack onto Leyton's head. Darcy scrambled to his feet as Leyton rolled off, confused by the surprise attack.

“Thank you, Richard!” Darcy said and grinned.

“Do not mention it, Wills!” Richard said, laughing.

No sooner had they turned around to join the rest of the brawl than someone caught them by the scruffs of their collars.

“I never thought I would see it come to this!” bellowed the constable. He and some of his men gathered the boys that had not run off and took them back to the constable's office. They placed all the boys into a cell, including Darcy, his cousins, and Leyton. “Now, there will be no trouble out of you boys! Your parents will be notified of your whereabouts, and you shall remain here until they can fetch you!”

Darcy looked about the cell. There were battered and bruised boys everywhere, and each and every one of them was covered with melon pulp and seeds. Darcy made his way to one of the wooden
benches and sat down with his head in his hands. He thought he might cry as he imagined the anger of his father and the grief of his mother upon hearing the news that he was incarcerated.

He looked up to see Edward and Richard looking much the same way. “Father will have our heads, or worse,” Edward moaned.

“Edward, do not speak of it.” Richard's heart pounded at the thought of their father's likely rebuke.

There was a commotion at the door, and every boy in the cell stood at attention, believing that his father was about to enter the room to claim him. You could hear a pin drop as a figure entered the room and came around the corner to peer into the cell.

The constable's keys jangled as he opened the lock and called out, “Robert Leyton, you are to go.” Robert Leyton left the cell and stood next to the constable. Darcy saw Mr. Leyton come around the corner with a mortified look on his face. He grabbed the back of his son's collar and pulled him out of the room. Every boy in the cell jumped as they heard the front door slam and the driver of a carriage call out huskily to his team as the horses sped away.

It was not long before Mr. Darcy and the earl got word of their sons' whereabouts and drove to Lambton to fetch them. The earl came around the corner of the room and stood before the cell. His face was stone cold as he glared at his sons. Darcy had never seen Edward and Richard look so timid, or his uncle so furious.

The constable opened the cell door, and the earl growled, “Get into the carriage, both of you!” Both boys did as they were told, leaving Darcy still within the cell. The earl looked at his nephew, frowned, and then left the room. Darcy wiped the sweat from his palms, wondering where his father was as he turned around to look at the remaining boys.

“Darcy!” the constable's voice boomed through the silence, causing the boy to jump. Darcy turned to take leave, but froze
where he stood, upon finding his father waiting for him, ominously silent.

“Come out, boy. Your father is waiting,” the constable chastised him.

Darcy could not look up as he came to stand before his father and the constable.

“Mr. Darcy, sir,” the constable started apologetically, “your son has never before been in trouble here. If it were not for…well, sir…if it were not for his part in this mess, I'd gladly have let him go without another word on the subject.”

Darcy glanced up to find his father glaring at him, “Are you responsible for this scuffle, Fitzwilliam?”

Darcy searched his father's eyes, desperate to find any hint of leniency as he justified his involvement. “Papa, I had no choice! Leyton insulted me…our family…” The smoldering anger in his father's eyes told him his defense was useless. Hanging his head in dismay, Darcy admitted quietly, “So I hit him.”

The constable cleared his throat before venturing tentatively, “Aye, sir, and there's more to the story, if you please.”

Mr. Darcy frowned darkly as he pointed his son to a bench along the wall, “Fitzwilliam, sit yourself down. I will hear out the constable.”

While trying to appear disinterested, Darcy strained to hear the conversation taking place across the room, but all he could hear were snatches of information.

“…came running for me…reluctant to say…said he'd be getting someone in trouble whom he'd rather not…”

“Where is he?”

“Sent him home, like a good lad…what else am I to think… Master Darcy standing in the middle of it all…”

“…lost the entire cartful?”

“That he did, sir. I cannot let your son…”

Unfortunately, as his father turned toward him, the last was pronounced with great clarity: “You have my assurance that he will be thoroughly punished. Please see that Mr. Landers receives this.” Mr. Darcy took out his money clip and handed a five-pound note to the constable. “And please accept my apologies for the trouble you have endured.”

Darcy stepped into the Fitzwilliam carriage and slipped quietly into the space next to his cousins as his father took his place beside the earl.

“Brother, Fitzwilliam has admitted to starting the fight,” Mr. Darcy informed the earl sadly. “And according to young Wickham, Fitzwilliam was also the first to raid the farmer's cart.”

Young Darcy exchanged wide-eyed looks of disbelief with Edward and Richard before sputtering an objection: “But Papa, I did not—I never—”

Edward, feeling the responsibility fell to him as the eldest among the boys, interrupted his cousin: “Father, it is not right—what Wickham told the constable.”

“You are in no position to judge Wickham's actions,” the earl growled, believing his son to be condemning the boy for telling on the others. “I want to hear nothing more from you—from either of you,” the earl said, eyeing his sons sharply.

Mr. Darcy rapped the ceiling of the carriage with his walking stick, and the carriage began its silent journey to Pemberley.

Darcy and his father walked in the front doors of Pemberley house. Lady Anne was waiting for them in the hallway, and Darcy stood before her, trembling as he saw the grief on her face.

“Oh! Fitzwilliam, are you injured?” Lady Anne cried as she knelt down to her son, immediately using her handkerchief to wipe away
the grime left by the dirt and pulp. The gentle strokes of her cloth revealed a small cut on his lip and a tenderness on his cheek. “My dear boy, you
are
injured,” his mother pronounced with alarm as she scanned his person for other signs of injury.

Suddenly, Lady Anne turned ashen and teetered dangerously as she grasped for her husband's aid. Relying on the support of her husband's arms, Lady Anne fanned herself with her handkerchief until realizing it to also be a source of her distress. Casting it away from her, she fanned herself with her hand to rid her senses of the smell causing a consuming wave of nausea. “Mr. Darcy, that odor… I am unwell.”

As he gently led his wife to a place to lie down, Mr. Darcy shot his son a stern look. “Get to your room, Fitzwilliam, and clean yourself up. I shall be up in a moment, and we shall have a talk.”

Darcy let go the crumpled cloth of his shirt he had been worrying with his hands as he looked up at his father. “Talk” was most likely not the correct phrasing for what his father had in mind, but he would not argue the point. With one last look of concern for his mother, he did as he was told.

That night, young Darcy lay on his bed, smarting from the punishment his father had inflicted, while also dreading what was yet to come. What also stung was the lesson in human nature he had learned that day. He was angry with Robert Leyton for provoking his anger and speaking ill of his father. He was incredulous that George Wickham should implicate him when he had never been anything but forthright with him. He was upset that his father had taken the word of the constable and assumed his guilt without giving him a chance to explain. But mostly, young Darcy was disappointed in himself, for being the cause of such misery to his parents.

Elizabeth looked over at Darcy. “Melons?” she asked and laughed.

Darcy smiled slightly and nodded his head, “Indeed, it was quite a scene.”

“How so like Wickham to behave in such a way, Fitzwilliam. It is a wonder you have tolerated him all these years. How did you know it was really he who owned the guilt?”

“Richard told me later, after the length of
his
punishment was fulfilled.”

“Was your uncle severe?” Elizabeth asked.

“My uncle would not tolerate having felons for sons.” He added, “Mention the Lambton honeydew affair if you want to see the colonel blanch.”

“And you? Was your punishment indeed thorough?”

Darcy shifted unconsciously in his chair, remembering his father's words and the licks of the birch branch that had followed.
You are a
Darcy,
not some hooligan who goes brawling about. There will always be some windbag challenging you.
The now-grown Darcy smiled momentarily at his father's inadvertent admission of his opinion of the Leyton men.
Use your head, Fitzwilliam. Choose your battles carefully or you may wind up at the point of some fool's sword.
Darcy sighed as he admitted, “I was banned from the green for the remainder of the holiday.”

Elizabeth pondered her husband's demeanor. For a moment, she thought that he looked just like that eleven year-old boy he once was. The blunt end of the sword he held had fallen to the floor as he contemplated some thought with a broodish push of his lower lip. “And?” she pressed, with unspoken mirth, wondering that there was not something more.