Page 75 of Heiress of Longbourn (Pride and Prejudice Variations)

The sun shone brightly, the clouds floated cheerfully, the birds chirped enthusiastically, the water rippled happily, and the butterflies danced exuberantly. It was the perfect setting to take down a scoundrel.

“Miss Bennet tells me that there are goldfish in this pond,” Anne de Bourgh commented, her eyes on the pool, her ears perked for any unusual sounds. She and Miss Colby were walking the path around Netherfield’s pond, with Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam hidden nearby, ready to rush to the rescue as needed. Not that their assistance would likely be necessary; Anne thought herself quite capable, with Miss Colby’s help, of dealing with a louse like Wickham.

“Oh, how delightful, Miss de Bourgh,” Priscilla Colby responded in a simpering tone. “I have never seen a goldfish before!”

“I have,” Anne said casually. Was that the nicker of a horse nearby? She lifted her eyes to meet Priscilla’s, who nodded slightly. She, too, had heard it. Almost certainly, Wickham was skulking nearby waiting to pounce, with his steed waiting.

“Yes,” Anne continued casually. “My aunt, the Countess of Matlock, is very fond of goldfish and keeps them in a pond in her backyard during the summer, and in bowls in the parlor during the winter.”

“That is marvelous! I do hope we can see them today, Miss de Bourgh!”

“Yes, but...,” Anne looked up at the blue sky and blazing sun with a disapproving frown. “It is very warm. Where is my parasol?”

Miss Colby blinked her blue eyes and glanced around vaguely, as if her charge’s parasol might appear on a bush. “I am sorry, Miss, but I believe it is back at the Hall.”

“Go and get it, then,” Anne ordered truculently. “The sun is far too warm without protection, and I mean to see goldfish today.”

“But Lady Catherine does not wish you to be left...”

“Go!”

“Yes, Miss de Bourgh,” Priscilla squeaked, hurrying back down the path.

Anne strolled a little further, keeping her eyes on the water, and then looked up in well-simulated surprise as George Wickham stepped into view a few yards away. A moment later, her startled look became genuine as her gaze dropped to her assailant’s right hand.

Wickham had brought a gun to a knife fight.

Darcy, crouched side-by-side next to Colonel Fitzwilliam behind an oak tree, cringed in terror at the sight. Where had Wickham obtained a pistol? It was not a large piece, but the metal barrel glittered menacingly in the sunlight, and it was pointed directly at Anne.

“Mr. Wickham!” Anne squealed, allowing her eyes to flare wide with terror. “What are you doing here?”

“I am here for you, my dear,” George Wickham snarled. He looked quite the vagabond at the moment, with his red coat and white trousers dirty from a night in the woods, with a day-old beard and his normally combed locks in considerable disorder.

Anne shivered dramatically. “What … what are you speaking of, Mr. Wickham? Why … is that a … a pistol?”

“It is,” the former militia lieutenant said dangerously. “Now come along, Miss de Bourgh. I do not wish to harm you, but I will if necessary.”

“I … I do not understand,” Anne shrilled. “What do you want from me? I admit I had considered a possible match between us. Is this some sort of dramatic joke?”

“I want you, dear Anne,” Wickham continued, striding forward and grabbing her by her slender left arm, though he kept his pistol pointed at her torso. “I want you as my bride, and myself master of Rosings, and I will have both. My horse is waiting nearby to carry us away.”

Anne screamed softly, as if she might be fainting, and collapsed in apparent horror onto the ground, allowing her to grab the knife attached to her right ankle. Wickham cursed at his captive and, for a brief moment, the gun’s barrel was shifted away from Anne’s body as he grappled with her sudden dead weight.

Like a cobra striking, Anne attacked. The knife blade in her right hand tore into Wickham’s right wrist as she simultaneously shifted and stood, driving one knee into the man’s most sensitive anatomy. Wickham howled in shock and pain and reeled back, dropping the pistol onto the torn up soil. Anne, freed from her assailant’s grip, threw herself hastily into the pond, sending up a big splash.

Wickham struggled to his feet, rage and pain combating in his soul for dominion. His anger gave him strength and determination, and he blinked tears out of his eyes sufficiently to observe his quarry wading across the pond toward the opposite side. He snarled; his right hand was useless but his left hand was still serviceable, and Anne de Bourgh would not escape from him. He grabbed the gun and started to straighten when two shots rang out, almost simultaneously, and he staggered and fell as lead thudded into his body.

“Anne!” Darcy cried out, rushing forward and holding out a helping hand. “Are you hurt?”

“Not at all, Cousin,” Anne said coolly, climbing out of the pond to stand, rivulets of water running off her dress. “I am entirely well. Priscilla, thank you.”

Miss Colby nodded, the lady’s pistol in her hand still smoking. “The Colonel also shot at him. I am not sure which one of us missed.”

Anne nodded, thinking it unlikely Miss Colby had missed, and strode around the pond to the fallen form of Wickham, who was being inspected by Colonel Fitzwilliam. The steward’s son was lying supine, his eyes blinking in blank astonishment, a red stain spreading across the white cloth of the left leg of his trousers.

“He was hit but once?” Darcy asked, bending down with a mixture of satisfaction and disquiet. He loathed and despised Wickham for what he had become, but long ago, when they were boys, they had been friends.

“Twice,” Fitzwilliam corrected, pointing to a spot on Wickham’s coat. Darcy reached out a hesitant hand and noted the wet blotch darkening the red cloth covering the man’s abdomen. He raised his eyes to his cousin’s and lifted one questioning eyebrow, provoking an answering shake of the head.

“I believe we must call for assistance to have him carried to Netherfield,” Anne declared, stepping up next to the men. “He will probably not survive this, but we can neither morally nor legally leave him here to bleed to death over the next few hours.”

“I will run to Netherfield for assistance,” Fitzwilliam offered.

“Very well,” Darcy replied, looking down into his nemesis’s pale face. “Thank you, Richard.”

***

Caroline Bingley stepped into the drawing room with two guests at her heels and said to the occupants, “Sir William Lucas and Mr. Allen are here to see you.”

“Thank you,” Richard Fitzwilliam said gratefully. “Miss Bingley, could you arrange for tea and toast to be sent to Miss de Bourgh? She has had quite a fright.”

“Of course, Colonel.”

Darcy, who was staring blankly at a random wall, shook himself and said, “Sir William, Mr. Allen, I appreciate your willingness to come here on such short notice. May I please introduce my cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam of the Regulars?”

The men exchanged bows and Darcy spoke again. “Mr. Allen, would you be kind enough to provide spiritual counsel to Mr. Wickham, who is being cared for in the parlor? The apothecary has done what he can, but Mr. Wickham’s injuries are mortal ones; it is unlikely he will survive until evening.”

Mr. Allen, the rector of the church at Meryton, nodded gravely. “I understood from the message that his wounds are serious. I have brought the Sacrament. May I inquire whether Mr. Wickham is a true son of the faith?”

“He tried to take my cousin, Miss de Bourgh, in order to force himself upon her and trap her in an unwanted marriage,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said coldly. “He was shot during the attempt.”

Mr. Allen sighed deeply at these words. “Thank you for your honesty. I believe the parlor is this way?”

“I will take you,” Darcy offered, suddenly seized with a need to make sure that the fangs of the viper had truly been drawn for the last time. He was not a man who rejoiced in the suffering and death of others, but Wickham had squirmed his way out of so many desperate situations in the past it seemed incredible that the man had finally been stopped.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Sir William said when they were left alone, “I am the justice of the peace here in Meryton. Please, can you not tell me the details of this dreadful affair?”

The colonel nodded and gestured to a nearby seat, indicating that his visitor should make himself comfortable. He himself took a chair near the window and leaned forward, his face grave. “Mr. Wickham is, as you know, a lieutenant in the militia regiment currently stationed in Meryton. My cousin, Mr. Darcy, called on Colonel Forster, Wickham’s commander, with debt receipts of over three hundred pounds, whereupon Forster agreed to place the man under arrest for debt upon his return from London yesterday. Unfortunately, Wickham was warned by someone, probably a friend in his regiment, of the arrest warrant and fled from Meryton yesterday, hiring a horse to aid him in his flight. We thought it likely Wickham promptly returned to London, but given his attentions to my cousin, Miss de Bourgh, we kept a careful eye on her. About an hour ago, Miss de Bourgh wished to take a stroll around a pond to the north of this house, accompanied by her companion, Miss Colby. Mr. Darcy and I were waiting nearby in case there was any trouble. When Miss Colby was sent back to the house to fetch my cousin’s parasol, Mr. Wickham stepped out of the foliage and attempted to abduct my cousin at gunpoint. Miss de Bourgh struggled and leaped into the pool to escape her assailant and, since Wickham had a gun in his hand, Mr. Darcy and I realized he must be taken down; thus, he was shot.”

Fitzwilliam was quite pleased with this explanation. It was almost completely true, while leaving out a few sensitive details.

Sir William’s usually flushed face was blanched with dismay. “Mr. Wickham attempted to ... to take Miss de Bourgh by force? I can hardly fathom it, Colonel! The man has always seemed the perfect gentleman!”

“He is a complete reprobate,” his companion growled. “Back at Pemberley, he ruined several young women, and ran up debts in nearby Lambton, and ... well, suffice to say that his attempt to force my cousin, who is a great heiress, into an unwanted marriage was no surprise at all. It is regrettable that he paid what may well be the ultimate price, but he brought our response on himself.”

“I understand completely,” Sir William declared and then, mopping his sweaty brow, continued nervously, “With all due respect, Colonel Fitzwilliam, in my role as magistrate, I must also interview the other individuals involved in this regrettable affair. Might I speak to Mr. Darcy and Miss de Bourgh? If Wickham survives, I will, of course, need to speak to him as well.”

Richard Fitzwilliam lifted a surprised, slightly impressed eyebrow. He had pegged Sir William as the sort of man who would grovel before the son of an earl, but it seemed the man had some backbone.

“Of course, Sir William!” he proclaimed. “I believe Darcy is attending to Wickham, and Miss de Bourgh must change out of her wet clothing. I will order some tea while we wait.”

***

“How is he doing, Mr. Jones?” Darcy asked softly. The parlor had been hastily changed into a sick room, and Wickham lay on a couch, his upper body propped up by several pillows, his eyes closed, his breathing quick and shallow. The blanket which had been carefully placed over his body was stained red, with blood seeping from his torso.

“Mr. Wickham is fading, sir,” Jones replied softly, placing a hand on his patient’s forehead. “His skin is clammy and his heart rate is tumultuous. I have staunched the bleeding from his leg, but I fear the bullet which penetrated below his ribs struck some vital organ.”

Darcy nodded and took a few steps closer to Wickham, whereupon the injured man opened his eyes.

“Darcy!” he hissed between pale lips. “So you have come to rejoice over my suffering.”

Darcy clenched his jaw and took a deep, slow breath. “No, Wickham, I am not. You remember Mr. Allen, the rector of Meryton? He is here to provide spiritual counsel and comfort.”

Wickham’s eyes rolled upwards briefly, and he managed a slight shake of his head. “I do not need spiritual counsel,” he rasped, his words coming out slowly between painful gasps. “If there is a God in Heaven, He knows that I am the victim. You ... this is your fault, Darcy. You always envied me, always tried to ... to destroy me because ... because your father loved me more... You cheated me of my due, you persecuted me...”

Darcy took a step backward, but his expression did not hide the pity he felt for the wreck of a man in front of him, his physical form finally a reflection of the state of his spiritual condition. Wickham’s eyes were pools of nearly insane hatred. How had it come to this?

“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Allen said gently, touching the tall gentleman’s arm in a comforting way, “I believe Mr. Wickham and I can converse more easily if you are not present.”

“Of course,” Darcy agreed, withdrawing into the corridor outside the parlor. The door swung shut, and he found himself leaning against the wall, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

“Darcy?”

He looked up to see Bingley standing nearby, his face contorted in worry.

“I just returned from riding the estate with my steward. Is it true? Wickham attacked Miss de Bourgh and was...”

“Shot, yes,” Darcy replied baldly but quietly, though the parlor door should be thick enough to prevent his words from penetrating within. “Mr. Jones says the wounds are mortal; he will likely not last to evening.”

“I am sorry, my friend,” Bingley murmured. “The man deserves death for what he has done, but it must be difficult that his demise comes at your hand.”

Darcy hesitated briefly and then murmured, “In truth, I am at peace that Wickham has met this fate, though I find it quite troubling to have watched the fall of a boyhood friend over the course of many years, and to observe the final blow with my own eyes. Bingley, I must ride to Longbourn immediately to speak with Elizabeth and her family. They must know what has occurred, that they are safe.”

Bingley opened his mouth eagerly, obviously desirous of accompanying him, and then closed it. A moment later, resolve set new lines of maturity on his face. “I will stay here. As master of Netherfield, I must oversee what is happening under my roof.”

Darcy grasped the shorter man’s hand gratefully. “Thank you, Bingley.”