Truth about Mr. Darcy (31 page)

Darcy sighed. “I hardly know. I do not want to raise her hopes if it is not Lydia. In any case, the news will be distressing, to say the least. I will make our excuses to your parents in a short while. They shall not suspect anything untoward. Elizabeth is not quite herself, in any case, and I daresay my aunt has discerned as much. Then I suppose I shall wait at Darcy House for word from you. What of Wickham?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I have received no word of Wickham, but when I do, you shall be the first to know.”

***

It was nearly eleven o’clock that night when Colonel Fitzwilliam was ushered into the dimly lit back foyer of Darcy House, bearing Lydia Bennet in his arms. Elizabeth had been on edge ever since her husband had reluctantly told her Richard’s men had discovered the location of a young woman who may or may not be Lydia. Elizabeth raced down the stairs when she heard Darcy’s voice mingled with that of his cousin, barely managing to fasten her dressing gown about her waist as she went. She gasped when she beheld Lydia, who appeared listless, battered, and bruised. Holding back tears, Elizabeth instructed the colonel to carry her sister to one of the family apartments abovestairs. One of his men went off to summon the doctor; another, Mr. Bennet, who had not yet returned from Gracechurch Street.

Elizabeth saw to her sister’s comfort as best she could, assisting one of the maids with bathing her, dressing her, and tending to her battered face, which felt feverish to the touch. All the while, Elizabeth spoke to Lydia in a low, soothing voice full of tenderness and unrestrained affection. After Lydia was settled beneath the counterpane, and even when the doctor finally arrived, Elizabeth pointedly refused to leave Lydia. Indeed, even after her father had appeared by his daughter’s bedside and insisted Elizabeth rest, she would not. She was determined to stay beside her youngest sister until she was well—be it hours or days.

Darcy looked on with concern for his sister-in-law, as well as his wife. Since this was to be his wife’s stubborn decision, and since he had very little success in swaying her from it, Darcy saw nothing else to do but emulate it. If Elizabeth would not leave her sister, neither would he leave Elizabeth. The fact that he felt she was putting her own health at risk, as well as that of their unborn child, by refusing to look after herself, disturbed him. In vain did he and Mr. Bennet attempt to persuade her to retire and rest in the comfort of her own rooms. Not until the following evening, when Elizabeth finally succumbed to exhaustion—falling asleep in a chair by Lydia’s bed—was Darcy able to remove her to their bed for the night. Though she stirred and attempted to rise and return to her sister several times while Darcy eased her gown, corset, and chemise from her body, somehow, he hardly knew how, he had managed to calm her agitation, cradling her in his arms until she drifted into a heavy slumber. He did not dare leave her side, not even after the sun had risen high into the cold, gray sky.

Another week would pass before her family could be reassured of any improvement in Lydia, and before Colonel Fitzwilliam would finally receive word from his men with regard to George Wickham’s whereabouts. It was a frigid night when the cousins departed Darcy House with eight trustworthy officers, all of whom shared the distinction of having female members of their acquaintance affronted by Wickham in one unscrupulous manner or another.

The two unmarked carriages that transported the ten men rolled up to a run-down house in one of the seedier parts of London. There was a commotion coming from within—angry voices and the sound of breaking glass. Colonel Fitzwilliam took the lead, banging upon the door with a heavy fist. A frightened young girl of no more than twelve peered through a dirty window several seconds later. Upon seeing the blur of red coats assembled on her father’s steps, she threw open the door and beckoned them to enter, practically pulling Colonel Fitzwilliam by his sleeve. “Please! You must stop ’im! ’E is out of ’is mind with rage!”

“Who?” prompted the colonel.

“My Papa! Please! ’E says ’e’s gonna kill ’im! My Papa can’t go ta jail! ’Tis just my ma, my sister, an’ me. ’Ow’ll we ever live?” She dragged the colonel up a narrow staircase and into a dimly lit hall, with Darcy and the other men hard on their heels. The sound of raised voices alerted them to Wickham’s unmistakable presence in the room just beyond. All ten men drew their weapons and entered to the appalling sight of George Wickham gasping for air while suspended against the far wall of the small parlor by the hands of an irate man, much in the same manner Darcy had held him not many months before against the side of the milliner’s shoppe in Meryton, his hands closed around the scoundrel’s throat.

Colonel Fitzwilliam advanced and ordered the man, who was slowly choking Wickham to death, to cease and desist. Unsurprisingly—or not—the man refused to release his captive. “This bloody bastard laid ’is ’ands on me eldest girl, ’e did! I ain’ goin’ ta let ’im go fer nothin’! Not until the life is squeezed from ’is miserable body! Do with me wha’ ya will after, but I ain’ lettin’ ’im go ’til ’e’s good an’ dead!”

It was Darcy who approached the angry man and, with a cold look of hatred directed at Wickham, cocked his pistol and extended it without ceremony to the irate father, who grinned. “I see ya ’ave a grievance with this ’ere fine gentleman, as well, ya rotten piece o’ filth,” the man continued with renewed vigor. “Perhaps ’e’d like ta do the ’onors instead?” Then he addressed Darcy, his eyes—and his hands—never leaving Wickham. “What’d ’e do ta ya? Did ’e ’urt one o’ yer precious girls, too?”

Darcy leveled an icy glare at Wickham and muttered in a voice devoid of any feeling, “Two of my sisters… and my wife.” Then suddenly, Darcy’s hands gripped Wickham’s throat as the man stepped back with a sadistic smirk.

“I do believe this ’ere gentleman’ll kill ya righ’ good, ’e will. An’ all the better fer me.”

The terror in Wickham’s eyes was now palpable. Darcy leaned in and, in a voice shaking with barely checked fury, said, “You touched my wife, George. You laid your filthy hands upon her and insulted her in a most vile and reprehensible manner. She has not been the same since, and it has made me very, very angry. So angry, in fact, I do believe I would now like to see you dead. I care not how or by whose hands. I only know it will not be by mine. I will not risk my wife’s displeasure by dirtying my hands with your blood, no matter how sorely I am tempted.”

He threw Wickham toward the knot of red coats clustered around them, all gripping pistols and sabers, and watched as Wickham soiled himself while his hands massaged his bruised windpipe. Tears streamed from his eyes. “Have mercy on me, gentlemen! I am certain we can reach some sort of agreement here,” he rasped, but it was too late. Eight men seized him and dragged him, screaming, from the house.

Darcy fought for control while Colonel Fitzwilliam addressed the man in front of them. “You need not fear for your family, sir, I can promise you. Every man in this room tonight has been wronged by that blackguard, and they are anxious for retribution. He will not be found.” The man nodded.

Darcy, finally feeling in better control of himself, asked, “Pray, how is your daughter, Mr…?”

“Browning, sir. She’s a righ’ mess, but she’s strong. It ain’ nothin’ she won’ recover from eventually. The dirty blackguard hadn’ the time ta do ’is worst, by God, but tha’ don’ mean I didn’ wanna kill ’im in any case.”

Darcy gritted his teeth. “No. I share your sentiments completely.” He noticed the young girl peering around the side of the door then and reached into his coat pocket. He extracted his purse and handed it to Mr. Browning. “For your daughters, sir, and for your trouble. It is not nearly enough, but if it helps in any way to ease their suffering after this horrible event, please accept it with my gratitude. If it were not for the commotion here tonight, my cousin’s men would never have discovered that scoundrel. I thank you for your assistance, though I am exceedingly sorry for the cause. If you will allow it, I would send for my physician so he can tend to your daughter.”

Mr. Browning accepted the purse and nodded. “She’s with me wife now, but I thank ya fer yer kindness.” As they moved toward the door, Mr. Browning extended his hand to Darcy and said, “Yer a good man fer doin’ wha’ ya done ’ere tonigh’. I ’ope yer wife and sisters’ll be alrigh’. I don’ need ta know yer name. It ain’ necessary. Ya can be sure I won’ be talkin’ to no one ’bout any o’ this.”

All three men shook hands and parted ways—Darcy home to Elizabeth, and Colonel Fitzwilliam into the night with his men to deal George Wickham his last and most fateful hand.

During the weeks that followed, Lydia recuperated at Darcy House and slowly regained her strength, though her personality, once so brash and energetic, was now much subdued. Whether it was the compassionate friend she found in Georgiana, the nurturing and reassurance she received from Elizabeth and her father, or the unassuming kindness shown to her by Darcy, despite the trouble she had caused him, Lydia had begun to change for the better. In such an environment, where genuine affection, respect, and rational conversation reigned, it was easy for her to see the vast contrast between a Fitzwilliam Darcy and a George Wickham.

Lydia found Darcy’s concern genuine and his desire to please her while she remained a guest in his home, sincere. Gradually, to her chagrin, dull Mr. Darcy no longer seemed so very dull after all, but rather all that was generous, compassionate, and considerate to a fault. Nothing, however, swayed Lydia’s opinion quite so much as witnessing an unguarded moment of intimacy he shared with her sister.

While in Hertfordshire, Lydia had heard the gossip about Elizabeth and the master of Pemberley, and had even spread some of it herself, for no reason other than to have some fun at their expense. Lydia had never completely comprehended the serious harm in such gossip, and much like her mother, neither could she fathom the interest such a rich, handsome, serious man like Darcy could ever have in her impertinent sister. Even though she had never desired his attentions herself, Lydia had thought it would have been a very good joke if Darcy had taken a fancy to her, the youngest of all her sisters. After noticing his attention drawn almost exclusively to Elizabeth, however, Lydia was quick to decide that such pointed attention must be the result of a strong physical lust on Darcy’s part, and her sister’s interest in the master of Pemberley nothing more than a desire to obtain status and wealth—enough for a marriage of convenience, as was more common in society than not, but certainly nothing deeper.

After witnessing her taciturn brother-in-law engaged in an amorous encounter with his wife during a stolen moment when they had likely believed themselves to be alone, however, Lydia was forced to admit there was far more between them than mere physical desire and the pursuit of worldly riches. The words Darcy had uttered, and the fervency and sincerity with which they were spoken; the way his lips claimed her sister’s as his hands traveled tenderly, almost reverently, over her body; the way Elizabeth responded to him—unreservedly and with her entire self—would forever leave an indelible mark on Lydia. She was forced to recognize and acknowledge the differences between the way Darcy coaxed, nurtured, and caressed his willing wife, who obviously loved him, and how Wickham had simply flirted with, demanded, and then taken from Lydia that which, in spite of her earlier boldness, she had been more than a little reluctant to surrender to him when the time was at hand.

It became obvious to her that Darcy worshiped her sister—that he loved Elizabeth from his heart—and, from that moment, Lydia was determined she would settle for nothing less than a similar adoration and respect for herself. Never again would she make the same grievous mistakes she had only so recently made—mistakes that had very nearly cost her far more than her virtue, as irretrievable as that now was to her. She would comport herself with dignity and decorum and earn the respect and love of an honorable, passionate man like her brother-in-law, or she would never again give herself to any man.

As a result of her newfound respect for Darcy’s character and, more specifically, his passionate nature with her sister, Lydia’s interactions with the master of Pemberley became reserved and almost deferential. Darcy’s ardent feelings for Elizabeth seemed to humanize him far more effectively than any kindness toward Lydia ever could, and because of his open displays of admiration for his wife, Lydia’s estimation of Elizabeth also increased.

Away from the constant petting and giddy effusions of her mother, Lydia began to develop a true bond with and an admiration for her second-eldest sister, which became stronger and more remarkable the more it was fed and nurtured. With Elizabeth and even with Georgiana—whose support had proven her to be a true friend, and who also happened to be the same age—Lydia was able to speak of many things she felt she could not at home. It was to Elizabeth that Lydia eventually related the details of the horrible nightmare she had endured with Wickham. She held nothing back—not even the fact that Wickham had plotted to ruin, not only her own reputation, but Elizabeth’s, as well, and for no reason other than it would have been the most effective way to cause Darcy the deepest pain and suffering. Lydia also revealed to her sister the exchange that had taken place at Mrs. Younge’s, when Wickham had referred to her by Elizabeth’s name in a moment of unrestrained lust.

***

They had spent an exhausting afternoon reliving Lydia’s terrifying experiences, and it was not until early in the evening that Elizabeth finally left her sister’s room so they both might rest for a while before supper was served. Elizabeth retired to her own rooms, her head pounding. She hardly knew what to do, for it was only now—after all that had come to pass, and in spite of his imposing himself upon her at the Lucas’s—Elizabeth fully admitted to herself she had grossly underestimated Wickham’s malicious intent, as well as his frightening propensity for exacting revenge upon her husband. She felt she had been an ignorant fool to have erred so greatly in her assessment of the danger to herself and her family, and thanked God that Colonel Fitzwilliam had managed to find Lydia before Wickham’s hateful wrath had claimed far more than her sister’s virtue. Indeed, Lydia very nearly
had
been lost to them forever.

For more than an hour, Elizabeth sat at her dressing table and stared, unseeing, at her reflection in the elegant mirror that adorned it. She was close to tears and dropped her head into her hands. Darcy found her thus when he entered to dress for supper.

He approached her with trepidation and laid a hand upon her shoulder. “Elizabeth, are you well?” he asked.

She nodded, grasped his hand, and gave it a squeeze as she wiped the moisture from her eyes with her other. She lifted her head, and their eyes met in the mirror. “Will you not tell me what has become of Mr. Wickham?” she asked.

Darcy started. He had not been prepared to receive such an inquiry and averted his eyes. “Why do you wish to hear of his fate?” he asked. “Surely nothing can be gained by your knowing.”

“No,” she agreed, “but then, it might just bring me a certain peace I have not felt in a long while, do not you think?”

Darcy shrugged and glanced at the floor. Elizabeth took a deep breath and said, “I spoke with Lydia today at some length. She told me in great detail about Mr. Wickham and his cruelty to her, as well as his determination to hurt you irrevocably through me. It sounded very much as though he intended to do me great harm. You must have known this, yet you never saw fit to tell me of it.”

“No,” he said, his voice hoarse as he released her and strode to the window, where he looked out over the darkened square. “I did not see the need of alarming you. It is of little consequence now, in any case. Lydia has been recovered, she is well, and Wickham is gone. He is no longer a threat to us… nor to anyone.”

Elizabeth rose and joined him. “Did you kill him?” she asked in a trembling voice.

Darcy shook his head. “I knew you would not want me to act in such a violent manner, even for the crimes he committed against your family,” he murmured. “I will never forget the horrified look on your beautiful face, nor my tortured thoughts that day in Meryton after I nearly strangled him to death with my bare hands. Though I was again tempted to do just that when I came face-to-face with him, I could not bear your disappointment in me.”

Elizabeth laid her hand upon his arm as she contemplated his words. It was not long before she inquired, “What happened to him, then, Fitzwilliam? Surely Mr. Wickham did not simply disappear into the night like an apparition. I am not so naïve as to believe some form of retribution was not exacted for his crimes.”

Darcy was silent for a long while. “There was a duel,” he finally admitted, “and eight angry officers—friends, or brothers, rather, of Richard’s—who demanded satisfaction for crimes Wickham had perpetrated against ladies of their acquaintance: sisters, wives, lovers. I understand he was made to face each man in turn until each had exacted punishment upon Wickham’s person, one wound at a time. Fitzwilliam informed me that, though there were no serious injuries to his officers, Wickham did not survive. It is not common knowledge. Duels are illegal. There is far too much at stake.”

“Oh,” she said, tightening her hand upon her husband’s arm.

“I did not wish to further distress you by burdening you with such particulars. It is why I never told you. A husband does not usually share such things with his wife.”

At this, a wry smile flickered across Elizabeth’s lips. “I believe, Fitzwilliam, much has already passed between us that does not usually pass between a husband and a wife in this proper society of ours. I would not wish for that to change in any way, even after hearing of the awful things you have just related. I value our honesty, our forthrightness, our intimacy far too much for that.”

Darcy turned his head and met her eyes. “As do I. Should I continue to worry over you, Elizabeth?” he asked as he slipped his arms around her waist. “It would pain me to know I may have upset you further by what I have just related.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and shook her head. “No. Not anymore. I can hardly explain it, but I feel better now.”

Darcy breathed a sigh, and though he told himself he would have to wait to determine whether they would prove true, he was heartened to see, before even a full day had passed, several telling signs that indicated that the same teasing woman he had married would soon be restored to her former impertinent self.

***

Not a week later, Lord and Lady Matlock came to call. They were most anxious to discuss the ball they had determined to hold in Darcy’s and Elizabeth’s honor. Though Lady Matlock felt such a celebration was now long overdue, Darcy and Elizabeth could not bring themselves to echo her sentiments. It was decided, however, it would be held in two weeks’ time, and though Darcy wanted no part of a large assembly, his aunt insisted as she stressed the necessity of including many, if not all, of the most prominent families and notable personages of the
ton
for her new niece’s official introduction into London.

As Georgiana was not yet out, and considering the ordeal Lydia had recently overcome, Darcy was adamant that neither of his sisters would attend the ball. Georgiana was disappointed to have to miss Elizabeth’s debut, but to everyone’s surprise, Lydia did not appear distressed by the prospect of spending the evening quietly at home. Elizabeth and Darcy had discussed the merits of treating Lydia—who seemed to be earnest in her endeavor to improve herself—much as they would any young lady who was not yet out. Anticipating fierce resistance from Elizabeth’s youngest sister—especially after they had made it clear the unrestrained freedom she had enjoyed at Longbourn would not be permitted at Darcy House—the couple barely managed to contain their surprise when Lydia not only accepted, but adhered to, their restrictions.

And adhere to them she did, for the more Lydia heard Georgiana speak of her own coming out—which Darcy’s sister had never done before her newfound friendship with Lydia—the more Lydia gave thought to the possibility society might yet come to consider her to be a worthy young woman, much like her two eldest sisters. She was determined to learn to comport herself with dignity and grace, and make Darcy and Elizabeth proud of her efforts in the meantime.

Jane and Bingley returned the following week in order to attend the ball with the Gardiners, whom Lord and Lady Matlock had grown to like very much. As Elizabeth’s nearest and dearest relations, they would be given the distinction of standing with Darcy’s family in the receiving line. As Mr. Bennet did not care to make the trip from Hertfordshire—he had returned to Longbourn just two weeks earlier—neither he, his wife, or their two remaining daughters were expected to attend, much to Kitty’s consternation and Mrs. Bennet’s displeasure. Darcy, who had long dreaded his mother-in-law’s introduction to the illustrious London
ton
, breathed a sigh at the news. It did not go unnoticed by his wife. Elizabeth gave him a disapproving look and pinched his arm, though her false display of ire was belied by the teasing smile that quirked the corners of her mouth.

As could be expected, the ladies passed much time at the modiste and other such shoppes in preparation for the upcoming affair. Though Darcy could not confess to a fondness for shopping, he did accompany his wife and sisters to Bond Street, if for no reason other than to ensure Elizabeth received the proper deference and attention owed to her as his wife. Satisfied by her positive reception, he excused himself for an hour or so to peruse the nearby bookseller and, on impulse, a local jeweler, whose stunning variety of unique items happened to catch his eye.

Rather than waiting for the evening of the ball to present his recently acquired purchase to Elizabeth, Darcy chose to do it that very night after they had retired to their rooms. Elizabeth sat brushing her hair and, unable to resist the urge to perform the task himself, he offered to assist her.

Elizabeth sighed as she surrendered her brush to his hands. She watched him in the mirror, a soft smile of contentment upon her lips as she enjoyed his gentle ministrations. Afterward, as Darcy placed the brush upon the dressing table, he retrieved a prettily wrapped box from one of the drawers and laid it before her with a smile.

“And to what, my dearest, do I owe such a lovely surprise?” she asked with a grin, touched by his unexpected gesture.

“I did not think I needed a reason to present my wife with a token of my love,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

Elizabeth laughed. “I daresay you do not. It is, however, quite unnecessary. You know I have no need for trinkets, Fitzwilliam. You are enough. Mmm… more than enough,” she added as Darcy swept her hair aside and leaned in to nuzzle the curve of her neck.