Page 76 of Heiress of Longbourn (Pride and Prejudice Variations)

Elizabeth lifted her head from her needlework and glanced around with a reluctant surge of amusement. The Bennets were, if nothing else, a loud family, and whenever two or more gathered, there was apt to be considerable noise. This moment was thus quite incredible, as her entire family was gathered in the drawing room, and all were silent. Mary and Kitty and Mr. Bennet were reading, Mrs. Bennet was staring at a wall, Lydia was gazing blankly out a window, and Jane was knitting yet another row on what was already an absurdly long scarf. They were all of them waiting, she knew, for some news for Netherfield, while it was not a certain thing that there would be news. Wickham might well have fled, after all. That would be the sensible thing to do, but Elizabeth thought it unlikely that Wickham would be sensible.

The door opened and all looked up expectantly to see Hill, the butler, enter the room with the familiar form of Mr. Darcy behind him.

“Mr. Darcy,” Hill intoned, and retreated out the door as Elizabeth jumped to her feet and hurried forward. She knew her beloved well enough for her heart to sink within her; he looked very grim.

“Is it Anne?” she gasped out in terror, reaching out her hands to meet his strong ones.

“No, no!” he assured her hastily, clasping her fingers in his own. “No, Anne is safe, as are we all. Wickham did attempt to abduct Anne and he had a gun. Regrettably Colonel Fitzwilliam was forced to shoot him.”

There was a communal gasp, followed by a sob from Kitty.

“He is dead?” Elizabeth demanded with a mixture of relief and horror.

“Not … not yet,” Darcy explained, “but he will be soon. Mr. Jones says the wounds are mortal. He is caring for Wickham in the parlor at Netherfield, with Mr. Allen providing spiritual counsel.”

“I am thankful for that,” Mary said gravely. “At least Mr. Wickham will have a chance to make his peace with God.”

“Yes,” Darcy replied simply. There was no reason to explain that Wickham’s mind currently seemed more focused on self-righteous fury than repentance.

“I am sorry, darling,” Elizabeth said, stepping closer still. “I know he is a wicked man, but this must be painful.”

Darcy was usually an extremely reserved man, but looking into the face of his love, her eyes dark with sympathy, made him blurt out, “It is most painful. We were friends once. We ran the fields of Pemberley and climbed trees and stole fruit tarts from the kitchen together. I wonder if there was something I could have done…”

He broke off as Elizabeth rose up on her tiptoes to plant a firm kiss on his lips. He reached forward to embrace her, finding great comfort in her touch, until a loud “harrumph” interrupted their caress.

He pulled back, his face flushing, while Elizabeth turned a saucy glance on her father, who was staring at the couple with a mixture of incredulity and dismay.

“We are to be married, Papa,” she pointed out sweetly.

“I think you had better be married soon,” Bennet replied, dumbfounded. “Mr. Darcy, I suggest that you arrange for a common license as quickly as possible.”

“I agree, sir,” he replied, pulling Elizabeth’s hand to his mouth and giving it a fervent kiss. “My dear Elizabeth, now that Wickham is no longer a danger, I will return to London on the morrow and arrange for the settlements and a license. I suggest perhaps we be married next Tuesday?”

“Tuesday!” Mrs. Bennet squawked in distress. “That is only seven days away, Mr. Darcy! That is far too soon! We must have at least several weeks to prepare for the wedding breakfast!”

“Nonsense, Mother,” Jane contradicted, rising to her feet. “We can all assist in preparations, and there is no reason to delay when Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are eager to wed.”

“Indeed, we are very eager to wed,” Elizabeth declared with a twinkle in her eye.

***

“It was quite dreadful!” Anne de Bourgh wailed to Sir William Lucas, who was listening solemnly. “I am so thankful that my cousins were nearby to save me!”

“I am thankful as well, Miss de Bourgh,” the justice of peace for Meryton proclaimed. “Now, did Wickham indicate why he was trying to abduct you?”

“Yes, oh yes!” Anne cried out with a pronounced shudder. “The despicable man said that he would soon be the Master of Rosings and that he intended to take me by force to be his bride! I am a great heiress, you know; I am my father’s only child, and thus will inherit Rosings, which is a vast estate.”

“Indeed, I do know,” Sir William concurred, “since my daughter and son-in-law dwell in the parsonage at Hunsford. Miss de Bourgh, I am most grieved that you should experience such a heartrending experience while sojourning here in Hertfordshire.”

Anne lifted dewy eyes to Richard, who was regarding her appreciatively, and said, “I was safe enough thanks to my brave and noble cousins, sir.”

“Very good,” Sir William declared, rising somewhat ponderously to his feet. “The situation seems quite clear; Mr. Wickham, under threat of arrest for considerable debts, tried to carry you off, but was fortunately stymied by Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. I do not believe there will be any need for an inquest if Wickham does, in fact, die.”

Richard nodded in relief; he had no fears of an inquest, but it would take time and they all had other, more important, fish to fry.

“Do you wish to speak with Mr. Darcy on this matter, Sir William?” he asked courteously.

“I think not. Wickham is clearly a miscreant of the first order. If he survives his wound, he will hang.”

“He will not survive the night, sir,” Richard said solemnly.

“I see,” Sir William mused. “Well, I will speak to Mr. Allen after the rogue passes away. Something will need to be done with the body, and given that the man is dying under a cloud … well, we will see.”

He bowed to both Anne and Richard and hurried away, leaving the twosome alone. As soon as the sound of Sir William’s booted feet faded away, Anne leaned casually back into her chair and smiled. “That went well.”

“Anne, I thought Lady Catherine was the actress in your family, but you are at least her equal. That was a most convincing performance.”

“Mother taught me all I know,” Anne declared complacently. “The key is to get into the mind of the person I am trying to emulate. If I had been a na?ve heiress, I would have been quite horrified by being attacked. It is simple enough to get inside the intellect of such a woman.”

“You are most adept, Cousin. Now, what shall we do next?”

Anne rose to her feet and strode vigorously over to the window to gaze out at the western sky. “Wickham will not last the night, I understand. Once he has passed, my purpose here is at an end. However, I daresay Elizabeth and Darcy will marry soon, and I plan to be here for the ceremony. Darcy will send for Georgiana now that Wickham is no longer a danger, and I would like to spend time with her. I believe I will remain here for at least another two weeks so long as Mr. Bingley is willing to host me.”

“It would be my honor,” Bingley said fervently, stepping into the room with a solemn Darcy at his heels.

“Is there any news?” Richard asked sharply.

Darcy nodded gravely and said simply, “Wickham is dead.”

***

“I fear that Mr. Wickham did not avail himself of my spiritual counsel to make peace with his Maker,” Mr. Allen said sadly as he prepared to depart Netherfield for the parsonage.

“I appreciate your attempt, sir,” Darcy replied, helping the rector into his overcoat. “I regret that Wickham was unable to accept his own culpability in the tragedy of his life.”

“He is not the first man to have such an attitude,” the reverend pronounced. “I hope, sir, that you do not take any guilt upon yourself. Based on our short conversation, it is obvious that the Darcys treated Mr. Wickham very well.”

“To the point that he believed he deserved the blessings of sonship. But no, Mr. Allen, I refuse to accept culpability for his wrongdoing, though I admit to sadness at witnessing his descent. Now, before you go, I wish to inform you that I intend to make Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn my bride exactly a week from now, by common license. I hope that you will be available to preside over the ceremony?”

The parson’s grim expression shifted to one of open delight. “That is wonderful news, Mr. Darcy. I am indeed available and will be honored to preside over your nuptials.”

***

“Mr. Jones,” Bingley said as he shook the apothecary’s hand, “thank you for coming in haste to help Mr. Wickham in his final hours.”

“I too thank you,” Darcy added.

“It is my role in life to assist all of God’s creatures, both the unrighteous and the righteous,” Mr. Jones replied, carefully packing the tools of his trade into his leather bag. “By the way, I have chosen not to mention the knife wound in Mr. Wickham’s right wrist to Sir William Lucas; I believe it would confuse the situation unnecessarily.”

Bingley’s eyelashes flickered in confusion, but Darcy merely nodded gravely. “Thank you, Mr. Jones, for your discretion in this matter.”

The man nodded, lifted his bag to his shoulder and said, “I have daughters, Mr. Darcy, and am thankful that a man like George Wickham is no threat to them. Good day, sirs.”

“Good day.”

***

“So tell me about Miss Bingley,” Colonel Fitzwilliam ordered as the Darcy carriage lurched into motion. He waved cheerfully out the window at Mr. and Miss Bingley, who were standing on the steps leading up to the great front door of Netherfield.

Darcy, who was sitting across from his cousin with his eyes gazing forlornly toward Longbourn, turned in bewilderment. “Miss Bingley? What of her?”

“What is her character and situation?” his cousin continued. “She seems like quite a catch to me, and yet she is still single.”

Darcy’s dark eyebrows raised dramatically. “A catch?”

The colonel matched eyebrows for eyebrows. “Certainly! She is quite handsome, wealthy, and an excellent hostess and organizer. Except for her regrettable ties to trade, she is the perfect match for the second son of an earl, and given my own practical disposition, I am not concerned that her father was a wealthy merchant.”

Darcy realized his mouth was gaping, and he closed his jaws with a click. “You are serious?”

Richard tilted his head curiously. “I am. Do you find the lady so repugnant?”

Darcy grappled with his thoughts for a full minute before managing a coherent speech. “I have found her a challenging and, frankly, annoying individual for some time, Richard. She is an inveterate social climber, and the most selfish of creatures. I find it unlikely that you would be happy together.”

“Perhaps you do not know what would make me happy,” his cousin retorted. “I do not intend to make you feel badly about your blessings in life, but you are Darcy of Pemberley and vastly wealthy; as a second son, you know that I have far fewer pecuniary resources. I am tired of fighting, Darcy. If I do not sell my commission soon, I will find myself in the Peninsula by the beginning of next year, and I...”

He trailed off and Darcy leaned forward to grasp his cousin by the knee. “You know you are always welcome to stay at Pemberley, Cousin, for as long as you like.”

“I know,” the Colonel replied, placing his own hand on his cousin’s wrist, “but I will not be your pensioner, Darcy.” He shook his head, and then continued wearily, “All the same, I hardly wish to marry a shrew. No, I daresay Miss Bingley is not a reasonable possibility for me.”

“What of Anne?” Darcy asked diffidently.

Richard hesitated, his face downcast, and Darcy felt a stab of concern. He had seen that very look on the countenance of the lovelorn Bingley.

“You care for our cousin?” Darcy asked delicately.

Richard groaned softly and nodded. “I do, very much, but Darcy, she was out of my reach before as heiress of Rosings, and now that I know of her considerable skills as an actress and warrior, I feel she is all the more remote. I must look elsewhere for a wife.”

Darcy stared at him intently. “Have you asked her whether she returns your feelings, Richard? I have come to realize that we rarely know the minds and hearts of women around us. Perhaps she is waiting for an offer from you.”

His cousin blew out a slow breath. “She is an amazing and impressive woman, and devoted to the League of the Golden Daffodil. It is extremely unlikely that she would be willing to accept me.”

Darcy snorted and slapped his cousin firmly on the shoulder. “You are many things, but you are not a coward. Ask her, and if she says no, accept it. Or do not. I did not accept Elizabeth’s first refusal and am thankful.”

Richard Fitzwilliam focused on the floor of the carriage breathing in and out for a full minute before lifting his chin. “You are entirely right. I will pursue the lady I love.”

***

Mrs. Younge opened one eye and groaned softly as dawn’s light filtered through the drapes of her bedroom. This was the second night in a row she had slept ill, plagued by worrisome dreams of pursuit and ignominy and even arrest. She knew the source of her fears; Wickham was on a rampage, and if he failed in his attempts to ensnare Anne de Bourgh, Mrs. Younge would doubtless be dragged into the resulting mess. Curse the man! Without a doubt, the world was an unfair place, but it was far better to accept that reality than to openly oppose the Darcys and de Bourghs.

Briefly she considered trying to sleep again but no, with the most recent nightmare still hovering, it was best to be up and about the house. There was always more cleaning and cooking to do.

She rolled with a groan out of her bed, not bothering to tidy it, and threw her hair into a serviceable bun. A few minutes later, attired in a light gray day dress, she walked quietly out of her room and down the stairs into the main living areas. A quick glance at the front window revealed a cloudy, misty day, which quite matched her mood.

With a sigh, she marched into the kitchen and then stopped in anxious shock. Her boarder, Mrs. Jamison, was busy cooking eggs on the stove, and a tall man, dressed in a red military uniform, was sitting at the small breakfast table drinking tea.

“Mrs. Jamison?” she sputtered in confusion, darting a second glance at the seated gentleman. He looked vaguely familiar for some reason, but she could not quite place him.

“Mrs. Younge,” her boarder replied calmly. “You are up very early.”

The landlady took a few steps in, her eyebrows raised. “You are up even earlier! May I inquire as to the meaning of this? It is not part of your board to take over my kitchen, nor do I appreciate you allowing an unknown individual into my house without my permission.”

Mrs. Jamison flipped the eggs onto a plate and carried them over to her male companion, then turned to face Mrs. Younge, who felt a strange quiver in her chest. Mrs. Jamison had always been a quiet, peaceable tenant, but there was something in her expression which provoked alarm.

“We will both be gone shortly,” the woman stated. “My remaining rent is on the mantelpiece in the parlor.”

“You are … moving out?” Mrs. Younge asked in a puzzled tone.

“Indeed, I am, as my purpose here is complete.”

“Your purpose?”

“To retrieve Miss Darcy’s letters, Mrs. Younge.”

The former companion of Miss Georgiana Darcy staggered in place and might have fallen if she had not grabbed onto a convenient chair nearby, even as she gasped, “You … you…”

“Yes, my real name is not Jamison, and I work for the Darcys and the de Bourghs. Colonel Fitzwilliam here is the second son of the Earl of Matlock; he may be familiar to you, as he played the part of son to the drunken mother who came sobbing about her Phoebe.”

Mrs. Younge turned a horrified gaze on the man, who was grinning openly. Yes, now that she knew where she had seen him before…

“You had a beard,” she said stupidly.

“A false beard, yes,” the gentleman concurred, taking another bite of eggs. “These eggs are marvelous.”

“Thank you, Colonel. I did add a few pence for the eggs, Mrs. Younge; I would not want it said that I robbed you of anything but blackmail letters and false references. By the way, my employers are … curious … as to where you obtained such well fabricated documents.”

Mrs. Younge gulped convulsively and admitted, “I purchased them from a man in the East End, who arranges for such things…”

“We will need his name and address,” the Colonel commented, rising to his feet. He was not an especially tall man, but he was well built. Mrs. Younge had no intention of being a heroine; she gave the man’s name and direction up immediately, and watched wretchedly as the woman in front of her wrote them down in a little notebook, which she then stowed in her sleeve.

“I have another question, Mrs. Younge. I overheard you swearing creatively in French the day after Wickham called, and gathered from your words that he stole some items from your bedroom. Did he, by any chance, take away a pistol?”

Mrs. Younge passed her tongue between her lips and admitted, “Yes, among several other valuables. The pistol was my husband’s.”

“That answers the question of where he obtained a gun!” the woman said brightly, “We will leave you now, but I will say one last thing. We are taking no further action against you because you sensibly refused to take any part in Wickham’s attempt to snatch Miss de Bourgh; if you had involved yourself in that plot, you would have found yourself hanging at the end of a rope. Keep that in mind, if you take it into your head to move against the Darcy and de Bourgh families again.”

Since a chair was readily available, Mrs. Younge sank down hastily, all her fears and terrors of the previous night rushing to the forefront of her mind. “Was Wickham … did he…?” she asked fearfully.

“George Wickham was shot attempting to abduct Miss Anne de Bourgh, and is now quite dead,” Mrs. Jenkinson said coldly.