Page 20 of Disarmed

“W ickham!”

Elizabeth looked round. The booming voice belonged to Colonel Forster, whose face was as red as his uniform as he pushed his way through the onlookers and marched towards his fallen lieutenant.

As if this were a cue, seemingly from nowhere young Sam Tomkins appeared.

Eyes down and cheeks pink, he touched his cap as he glanced at the colonel, then gave a series of whistles and shouts, using a long stick to herd the pigs away from the dishevelled heap that was Mr Wickham and off up the high street, looking anxiously back over his shoulder as he went.

Colonel Forster called a couple of his higher-ranking officers forwards, and grabbing Mr Wickham by his coat, they hauled him to his feet.

Still gasping with sobs, he fumbled to pull up his breeches, and Elizabeth was grateful for the length of the man’s shirt-tails, which no doubt prevented a number of young maidens from fainting.

The actions of the colonel and his men seemed to have reanimated the crowd, and soon people began murmuring to each other, uttering startled exclamations, and edging closer to the spectacle.

Elizabeth also inched forwards, too shocked by the events of the last few minutes to even begin to have a rational thought about what was happening.

But Lydia was striding out in front of her, and as she reached Mr Wickham, she planted her hands on her hips and straightened her spine to stand at her full height, staring at him with a look of defiance on her countenance.

“For I had sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.”

Elizabeth gaped. Shakespeare? Sonnet 147, in fact.

The very one Mr Darcy had recommended to her that day at Longbourn.

Had it, in fact, been Lydia who had taken her book?

Aware of Mr Darcy standing nearby, she looked up at him.

He was pressing his lips together, and his eyes were shining as he regarded her youngest sister.

Was that pride on his face? Not the haughty pride she had often condemned him for but a quiet pride in another person.

A brotherly pride, she might almost say.

Before she could reflect on it further, another shout rang out. This time it was her uncle Phillips. He was pointing to an object on the ground at Mr Wickham’s feet. One that had presumably flown from his pocket when he fell.

“That is my snuff box!” Mr Phillips cried. “This thief must have stolen it when he called yesterday!” He poked a finger into Mr Wickham’s chest. “You, sir, are a liar and a swindler. The worst sort of criminal!”

Colonel Forster was looking between her uncle and Mr Wickham, who was held in the firm grip of two burly officers.

The colonel’s face was now almost purple, but he spoke with an admirable calm.

“Take this reprobate away and see he is held somewhere secure. I shall deal with him tomorrow.” He turned to the crowd, his high colour receding somewhat as he stepped forwards to take his new wife’s arm.

“For today is my wedding day! My bride and I thank you all for your well wishes.”

And with that he led a giggling Mrs Forster to their carriage, and the still-bewildered onlookers waved as he handed her in and they drove away.

“Well, Lizzy,” Mr Bennet said as he clapped a large hand to her shoulder, “I dare say that was the best entertainment I have had in a long while. Or at least since my cousin Collins departed. And it should give your mother and sisters enough gossip to last until…well, until at least tomorrow.”

“Oh, Papa,” Elizabeth said fondly, taking his arm. “But what will happen to Mr Wickham? Did he truly steal from my uncle?”

Her father’s face sobered. “It seems he did. But those snuff boxes are only worth about a penny each. Just cheap trinkets from a pedlar. He may well get off with a lashing.” He peered at her from under his wiry eyebrows.

“But do not tell me you are concerned for him, Lizzy. I know he was your favourite once, but I believed your affections had moved elsewhere.”

Elizabeth gave a humourless laugh. “I am ashamed to say I did once believe his charm and his lies, Papa, but I have been coming to see for some time that I was utterly deceived. In fact,” she admitted, a tone of wistfulness seeping into her voice, “It was a most unexpected source that led me to recognise my error.”

Mr Bennet raised an eyebrow in question, but Elizabeth merely squeezed his arm and looked away. She was not quite ready to admit to her father that she had been shown the truth by her youngest sister, whom both she and Mr Bennet had often described as silly.

It was a few moments before Elizabeth’s mind recalled her father’s previous statement, and she turned back to him. “What did you mean by my affections had moved elsewhere ?” she asked.

Mr Bennet chuckled. “I dare say you are beginning to learn that first impressions are not always correct, child. The events we have just witnessed have certainly proved that Mr Wickham is not the charming gentleman all you ladies believed him to be when making his acquaintance.” He gave her a piercing look.

“And perhaps not all poor first impressions are to be relied on either,” he added, his gaze leaving her face and crossing the street, to where Mr Darcy stood, his features hardened and his expression dark as he watched Mr Wickham being dragged away by his superior officers.

“Well, Lizzy, shall we return home? I imagine your mother and sisters have much to say about Mr Wickham’s downfall, and the sooner I am locked away in my book-room with a brandy, away from their conjectures, the happier I shall be!”

“I am not sure I am ready for their speculations either, Papa. Would you mind if I walked back to Longbourn instead of taking the carriage? I have had no exercise yet today, and you know how I rely on it to keep my nerves steady and my mind sharp,” she replied with a nudge to her father’s side.

He laughed. “I should have known you would ask that, Lizzy. Very well. See if Jane and her Mr Bingley would like to accompany you. I do not suppose they wish to join in the gossip either.”

He patted her hand, and with a kiss to his cheek, Elizabeth trotted away to speak to her eldest sister.

∞∞∞

In the end, it was Elizabeth, Jane, Mr Bingley, and Mr Darcy who walked back to Longbourn. They took a longer route, crossing through some of Mr Bennet’s farmland rather than taking the road or the path through the woods. None of them were in any hurry to be in company again so soon.

Jane and her betrothed walked ahead, while Elizabeth followed, Mr Darcy at her elbow.

They were largely silent. She cast a glance at him from time to time; he did not appear to be entirely at ease, but neither did he seem particularly angry or concerned.

If anything, she would say he was relieved, but it was taking some time for him to become accustomed to the idea.

She placed a hand on his arm, and he startled, looking down at her as though he had forgotten her presence. “Are you well, sir?” she asked.

He gave a heavy sigh but then smiled. “I do believe I am. Wickham has been a burden to me for so long. I finally feel that other people, too, can see him for who he truly is.”

Elizabeth gave a dry laugh. “They certainly can. It was a rather shocking lesson to many, I believe, but I had already begun to suspect he was not so honourable as he proclaimed himself to be.” She looked down at the floor, kicking at a stone and watching it roll away into the grass.

“I fancy his stories about his dealings with you were utterly false. I am so disappointed in myself for believing him.”

They walked on a few paces before he spoke. “I know not the details of what he told you, but if it was the same tale he usually spins to new acquaintances, there is a modicum of truth in it, as there so often is in the most effective lies.”

She looked up at him in surprise, and his dark gaze bore down into her, as if he were searching her soul to know whether he could trust her with his story.

Then he cleared his throat and began, telling her of the childhood friendship he and Mr Wickham had shared, the fondness his father had for the boy, and the man’s blindness to the changes in the adolescent.

She listened in silence as he told her how Mr Wickham had grown cruel and jealous, of his gambling and carousing, and finally of his rejection of the living offered to him in his godfather’s will and his acceptance instead of three thousand pounds in lieu of it.

Shame engulfed her. How had she been so credulous, so stupid?

She had accused Mr Darcy of pride, but was it in fact she who had been the proud one—too proud in her judgment of two men whose characters she had wholly mistaken?

She had allowed one insult, for which he had apologised, to prevent her from believing anything good of Mr Darcy, and one story of woe, which had just been revealed to be fabricated, to convince her of the goodness of Mr Wickham.

Then Mr Darcy spoke again.

“But the worst of his character was still to be exposed. Few know what I am about to reveal to you, but I fully trust in your discretion. It is not an easy thing to speak of…” He paused, looking away from her for a moment. “This past summer, he attempted to elope with my sister, Georgiana.”

Elizabeth gasped softly, her hand rising to her mouth.

“She was but fifteen at the time,” he continued, his voice rough with the effort of restraint.

“He convinced her she was in love with him, that he would marry her in secret before I could intervene. It was only by the greatest fortune that I arrived at her lodgings in time to prevent it. Had he succeeded…” He drew in a ragged breath.

“It would have ruined her. That was his aim. To ruin her and injure me. And to gain her fortune, of course.”

He fell silent then, staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched against the pain of the memory. Elizabeth could find no words. The wind whistled through the grass around them, but the only sound in her ears was the thundering realisation of how deeply she had erred.