Page 63 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Although he had fallen asleep quickly, rest had been difficult to attain—his dreams too full of images both thrilling and disturbing. Elizabeth in his arms, her lips on his. Elizabeth pressed against the wall, a pistol at her cheek. The whiplash of emotion kept him from finding peace.

Now it was morning, and further sleep was no longer forthcoming.

He dressed quickly, eager for news. There were too many loose ends. Though Elizabeth was safe and Wickham locked away, a restless tension still knotted in his chest. He needed to know it was truly over. Or at least that it had begun—the process of bringing Wickham to justice.

When he entered the breakfast room, he found Colonel Fitzwilliam already seated, fully dressed and nursing a cup of strong tea. He looked as though he had slept no better than Darcy had.

“You look dreadful,” Fitzwilliam said cheerfully, lifting his cup in salute.

“You are not far behind,” Darcy replied, pouring his own and sinking into the chair across from him. “How did everything go last night in getting Wickham settled?”

Fitzwilliam set his cup down. “It went smoothly. The gaol was empty—thank God for small mercies—and the bars are thick enough to satisfy even a Highland jailer. Wickham barely stirred. Between the blow to the head and whatever pain he was in lower down…”

Darcy arched a brow. “He did not speak?”

“Oh, he tried,” Fitzwilliam said with a grin. “But your lady struck him hard enough to break his jaw. When he did manage a sound, it was more whimper than word.”

Darcy blinked. “Truly?”

“Truly. Right at the hinge. He will be lucky if he can eat anything tougher than broth for a month. Your Miss Elizabeth has an admirable arm.” He lifted his cup again in admiration. “My compliments.”

Darcy smiled faintly, though there was little humor in it. “And what happens now?”

“A court-martial,” Fitzwilliam replied, growing more serious. “For an officer to commit such an act—even off duty—it must be handled by military tribunal.”

Darcy frowned. “I confess, I have no clear idea how such things are done.”

Fitzwilliam set his cup down with a sigh and leaned back. “Under normal circumstances, it would be a general court-martial—formal, deliberate, and conducted with a full board of officers at a fixed military station. That sort might take weeks to assemble and longer still to conclude.”

“But this is not a normal circumstance?”

“No.” Fitzwilliam shook his head. “It is wartime, and the army has leeway in such cases. What Wickham will face is a field court-martial. Far swifter. Convened near the place of the offense, using available officers. Forster will preside, of course.”

Darcy was silent a moment, absorbing it all. Then, quietly: “How long will it take?”

Fitzwilliam blew out a breath and glanced toward the window.

“That depends. A field court-martial is designed for speed. Wartime allows for it. Once Forster submits his official report, a board of officers will be assembled—three, at minimum, to make it legal, though more if they can be spared. It could be convened within days.”

“ Days? ” Darcy leaned forward. “Just like that?”

“Yes. No jury, no public gallery. Just a summary hearing, statements, and judgment. It may all be decided in a single day.” Fitzwilliam tilted his head slightly.

“That is what happens when war makes monsters out of men. The army cannot afford to linger over one disgraced lieutenant when battalions must march and ships need men.”

“Will you be one of the board?”

“No,” Fitzwilliam replied through a mouthful of toast. “I am too close to it. The board must be impartial, or as near to it as possible. I have known Wickham too long, and I will be husband to the lady he attacked.”

Darcy sat back, absorbing this. “So we are witnesses only.”

“Precisely. You and Miss Elizabeth will give written statements. Forster and the magistrate will provide theirs. If needed, witnesses can testify in person—yourself, Miss Elizabeth, even the servants. But in truth, I doubt it will come to that. The case is clear. There is no defense for what he did.”

Darcy’s fingers curled around the porcelain of his cup.

“And the sentence?” he asked again, his voice low. “There is no leniency?”

Fitzwilliam’s tone remained firm. “If he were anyone else—an enlisted man, a boy caught in a tavern fight—perhaps. But he is an officer. A gentleman, by commission. He swore to uphold the honor of the army and protect civilians. Instead, he lured a gentlewoman to a secluded room and attempted violence against her. Whether it ends in a firing squad or a sentence of transportation, I can all but guarantee you this: George Wickham will never wear the uniform again. And he will never walk freely among society.”

Darcy nodded once, slowly. “Good.”

Then, after a pause, more quietly: “It is strange. I once feared him. Or rather—what he represented. The memory of our past. The way he lingered behind me like a shadow. But now… he is only a man. And a broken one.”

Fitzwilliam’s gaze met his across the breakfast table. “Aye. And it was your future wife who broke him.”

Darcy smiled, just slightly.

“And thank God for that.”

∞∞∞

Elizabeth knocked softly on the half-open door to her father’s study, peeking in to find him at his desk, spectacles perched on his nose, a pen resting idle in one hand.

“Papa?” she asked gently. “May I speak with you?”

He looked up, brows lifting with a faint smile. “Ah. That tone. It sounds very important.”

There was teasing in his voice, but warmth too. He set the pen aside and gestured for her to come in.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

His smile faded slightly as he studied her. “How are you, Lizzy?” he asked, more seriously. “Truly. After last night.”

She shook her head, sitting across from him. “I am well, Papa. Truly. Shaken, of course, but not… wounded. I daresay it will trouble me more later than it does now.”

He nodded slowly, eyes searching hers. “The body often recovers faster than the spirit. You will let me know when the weight begins to settle?”

“I will,” she said softly. “But other things are pressing more on my mind at the moment.”

He lifted a brow. “More serious than someone attempting to kill you?”

She managed a faint smile. “Yes,” she said. “In a way. I am… wrestling with a dilemma, and I am unable to reconcile it.”

Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, folding his arms loosely. “Of course, my dear. That is what fathers are for. Wrestle away.”

She looked down, fingers curling into the folds of her skirt. “It is… that is, I know you said not to speak of it again…”

Her voice faltered, and when she looked up again, she saw that his expression had grown more grave.

“I understand the topic,” he said gently. “What is troubling you? I will do my best to answer.”

She took a steadying breath. “I only wish to know… whether Mr. Darcy ought to be told. About you. And Stephens. And the true nature of your—of his —position here.”

Mr. Bennet was silent, watching her closely.

“I do not like the idea of beginning our marriage with a secret,” she continued, more quickly now. “But it is not my story to tell. It is yours, and Stephens’s.”

He was still for a long moment. Then he asked, “Do you worry about his reaction?”

She shook her head, a little. “Not as much anymore. At first I did—fiercely. That is why we quarreled so badly. His only experience was with Mr. Wickham, who…” she paused, searching for the words, “who has been in love with him since school days. And you see how that turned out. Such a dissolute character.”

Mr. Bennet grunted. “Aye. That I do.”

“But Fitzwilliam—he wrote me a letter explaining everything, all his past, and I do not think he would react the same way again.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Ah. Is that your concern?”

She nodded. “Yes. That he would forbid me from seeing you again. Or worse, the entire family. And I—I do not think I could bear it.”

He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the desk. “But you do not wish to go into your wedding day with a secret.”

“No,” she said softly. “What if I tell him after and he feels betrayed, lied to? What if he believes I married him under false pretenses?”

“Once you are married, your loyalty does shift from your father to your husband.”

“Precisely!” Elizabeth exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “You see my dilemma?”

“I do, my child.”

Mr. Bennet was quiet. His gaze dropped to the edge of the blotter, his thumb rubbing slowly across the grain of the wood. At last, he said, “Let me speak with Stephens. This will affect him just as much as it does me.”

Elizabeth’s breath hitched with relief.

“For now,” her father continued, “let us remain silent—perhaps a week or so. Normally we would not expect callers beyond the Lucases coming to relive the ball, but I imagine your gentleman will call to check on your welfare. And after last night’s announcements, our neighbors will most likely come to offer congratulations.

” He smiled faintly. “We may be busier than usual in the coming days, and I will not have as much time alone in my study to contemplate the situation.”

She rose and came to him, and he kissed her forehead gently as she leaned over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Papa.”

“You are welcome, my child.” He squeezed her hand. “I thank God every day that He sent you—and your brother—to me.”