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Darcy House

George Wickham lay on his uncomfortable cot and scowled at the guttering tallow candle set on the tiny table. A faint smell of food lingered from the unappetizing slop that he had been brought, the hunk of bread to dip in the nameless stew, which was both coarse and tasteless, with only water to slake his thirst. It had hardly been the sort of meal he was accustomed to and deserved, but it had sated his hunger.

At least the room did not smell of waste. A footman had come recently to empty his chamber pot, but the man had been silent in the face of Wickham's questions and demands for better food and living conditions, leaving as soon as his duties were done and abandoning Wickham to nothing save for his own thoughts. There was no clock, no window, no way to mark the passing of time. Wickham had no idea how long it had been since Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had dragged him here from the house on Curzon street, but his fury and resentment had been mounting with each dragging minute .

How dare they treat him in such a fashion! It was intolerable for any civilized man to be locked in a cramped garret, without cards or dice or even a book to alleviate boredom! They were treating him – him , George Wickham, George Darcy's godson – like a common criminal! Two of Darcy’s male servants stood guard outside the door. He had heard their voices as they spoke together, although they were largely quiet now. No one had even summoned a doctor to see to his wounds! They were agonizing, though. Each time he anxiously checked for signs of infection, he could at least be relieved to see no red inflammation, tight and shiny and hot to the touch.

Wickham flung himself back on the bed with a loud groan. To make matters worse, he would not be able to collect the rest of the money Lady Catherine de Bourgh had promised him. Three hundred pounds of easy money had slipped through his fingers like water!

Distant voices in the corridor intruded on his bleak thoughts, and Wickham sat up hopefully; surely they had finally come to their senses. At least one voice was coming closer, and he thought – no, he was sure – that it was Richard Fitzwilliam. His heart lifted. It was a pity it was not Darcy, who quite rightly was prone to succumb to guilt when reminded that Wickham was, in fact, his father's godson. Fitzwilliam had no such susceptibilities. But even the stern military man would have answers to Wickham’s questions, and doubtless had arrived to release him from his unjust imprisonment at last .

Wickham straightened as the door swung open. Fitzwilliam entered first, carrying a candle. No cheap tallow for the earl’s son, but good wax, and Wickham eyed it covetously. Behind the colonel came a footman, tall and looming and broad-shouldered, also carrying one of the fine wax candles. Doubtless he was here as bodyguard to the slighter Fitzwilliam. Unnecessary, Wickham thought sullenly. He was far too injured to attack anyone.

Fitzwilliam pointedly dusted off the single rickety chair with a handkerchief, then sat down, placing his candle on the equally rickety table beside him. The footman took up a position before the door, his bulky frame filling the narrow aperture, the candle held carefully in his hand. Wickham eyed the flimsy wooden door for a moment; it had shut, but he had not heard the lock click. After only a second’s consideration, he dismissed the possibility of forcing past not only the two men in the room, but the two outside as well.

“Wickham, I am rather busy today,” the colonel said abruptly, “so I advise, for your sake, that you cooperate and tell me what I want to know. First, how did you find out where the Bennets were staying in London?”

Wickham did not much like the cold look on the military man’s face, but he was not intending to give up valuable information without something in return. However, this was a simple question, and perhaps would make the earl’s son respect his cleverness.

“We had a carriage standing near Darcy House on Sunday, supposedly with a broken wheel, which provided sufficient explanation for us waiting around. We watched for the Bennets to leave and then followed them back to Curzon Street.”

Richard Fitzwilliam merely nodded and said, “I assume the ‘we’ refers to your accomplices. Who are they?”

Wickham forced himself to sit up straight, and he produced a sly smile. “Now, now, Colonel, you know that is not how it works. I will not give that information up without some promises that you will be releasing me soon.”

The colonel narrowed his eyes, glanced at the male servant, and nodded. The man pushed away from the door, stepped forward, and swung a mighty fist at Wickham’s jaw. The blow knocked him back against the wall, resulting in a sharp, agonizing pain in his jaw and a dull ache on the back of his head.

He lay there gasping with agony and fear, his eyes wide, as the footman retreated to the door, his expression stoic.

“It is obviously time to clarify the situation,” the colonel said as Wickham cautiously, painfully, fearfully pushed himself back up to a sitting position. “There will be no bargaining, Wickham. If you cooperate, I may decide to push for your banishment to Australia as opposed to a death sentence.”

Wickham, already frightened, felt bile rise in his throat as his eyes bugged out in terror.

“Death sentence?” he whispered. “You cannot be serious.”

Fitzwilliam shook his head and said, “I suppose I ought not to be surprised at your arrogance, but I am. Kidnapping is a capital crime, and you are merely the son of a steward. Did you really think you could commit such a transgression and walk away?”

“I am George Darcy’s godson,” Wickham rasped, caressing his jaw with one trembling hand, “and Miss Elizabeth came to no real harm.”

“Your other option is the Antipodes,” the colonel continued implacably. “There is a merchant ship heading for Botany Bay in a few days, and I might be convinced to have you aboard her as a novice seaman as opposed to arranging for you to die at the end of a rope, mostly because it would decrease the chance of scandal for the family. If not for that, I would have you executed within the week for desertion from the militia.”

Wickham felt as if he were suffocating. This could not be happening. It could not. Not he, godson of …

“Who assisted you in your abduction attempt?” Fitzwilliam repeated casually. This time, Wickham did not delay.

“Mrs. Younge’s two brothers,” he rasped.

“Ah, the treacherous governess! And where are they staying?”

“At Dorothea Younge’s boarding house.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam stood up and produced a feral grin. “Now that was not so very hard, was it? Come along, Miller.”

Miller was obviously the hulking manservant, who opened the door, waited for Fitzwilliam to leave, and then cast one malevolent look on the prisoner before stepping out of the door. A moment later, Wickham heard the sound of a key turning in the hole, and he found himself collapsing against his simple bed, his jaw so painful from the punch that it almost, but not quite, made the rest of his aches seem like nothing.

Worse than physical agony, though, was the emotional torment of the last few minutes. He had never imagined that he would be in this situation.

It was inconceivable! He had known for his whole life that he was destined for greater things than to be the mere son of a steward. From the moment he was told that he was George Darcy’s godson, he knew that he was bound to be a gentleman. Had he not taken care during his education to learn the mannerisms and habits of the sons of the gentlemen and nobility that surrounded him? Could he not pass in any room as a gentleman born? Then why did he languish in poverty, scrabbling for his subsistence?

Oh, Wickham knew why. It was all Darcy’s fault, of course. He had always been jealous of Wickham since they were boys running around Pemberley together. Old Mr. Darcy had greatly loved Wickham, engaged by the boy’s charming manners and respectful attention, and young Fitzwilliam Darcy, already stiff and uptight, had resented his playmate for it. As soon as they were at school together, the persecution had started. Darcy had been unable to bear being outstripped in manners and conversation by Wickham, and he had taken every opportunity to discourage and depress and moralize at his erstwhile companion.

Of course, that was nothing to the insults and offenses that started when old Mr. Darcy was barely cold in the ground. Colonel Fitzwilliam had, naturally, joined his cousin in tormenting Wickham, jealous of the other man’s handsome features and fine figure and easy charm. Doubtless, he had encouraged Darcy to deny Wickham the living that had been meant for him!

And now the cousins were once more united to torment him over this business with Miss Elizabeth. And for what? He had not done the lady any real injury. Wickham himself was the more injured party here, for he had been promised three hundred pounds that now he would be unable to claim. It was not even his idea, as he was only carrying out Lady Catherine’s orders. It was infuriating! As though that were not already quite enough, Fitzwilliam actually threatened him with…!

Wickham gagged as a sudden and vivid image rose in his eye; his own self hanging from some squalid gallows alongside common criminals. It was horrifying, no, nauseating, and Wickham swallowed tremulously at the thought of being executed. It was impossible … impossible…

He lunged for his chamber pot, scrabbling a moment at the lip, and crouched, shaking as his stomach emptied itself of bile. Wickham’s mind could not cope with the idea of being put to death, even as the possibility engrossed him like an open chasm yawning at his feet. Surely even Fitzwilliam could not be so spiteful? But as he remembered the colonel’s hard pitiless eyes, Wickham could not bite back a whimper.

He had not had much use for praying for the last several years. He had not needed to ask some higher power for help, for he had made his own luck and his own way. But now, faced with the looming specter of his own mortality, he found himself offering up a quavering, desperate plea for some way out of the noose he could already feel tightening about his neck.