Page 46 of I am Jael (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

George Wickham sat alone in his cell, huddled miserably under a thin blanket. He had been moved from his previous malodorous dungeon into this one, which was located directly next to ... to the yard where prisoners were hanged.

It was a dark night with no moon, following a black and dreadful day.

The previous afternoon, he had been dragged before a military tribunal to consider the multiple charges against him.

The result had been disastrous; the verdict was guilty and the recommendation was hanging.

He was going to be hanged at dawn. How had this happened?

George considered his life choices for the first time in many years.

He thought of his years growing up at Pemberley and the favor given him by his godfather, George Darcy.

He had enjoyed that favor, but had always longed for more.

Was that wrong? Had it been wrong for George to want to be blessed with the pleasures and power of the Darcys?

Clearly, his efforts to bend those around him to his will had backfired.

It was maddening, confusing and terrifying.

He had been living this life for a very long time – drinking, gambling, lying and taking women for his own pleasure.

Why now did he face dire consequences when previously he had only faced dull lectures from Darcy?

It was like a dark dream, but there did not appear to be a morning coming to wake him.

And why would Georgiana, of all people, abandon – no – assail him?

They had nearly married. Georgiana had loved him, but now she left him to face the gallows alone.

More than that, if the Colonel was to be believed, she was a driving force behind his execution!

Was it so wrong to force himself upon the maid?

It seemed harmless enough at the time. He could see that it caused hardship for the maid, but maids were mere chattel, after all.

If Jenny Reynolds had accepted his advances, he would not have needed to use force against her.

And why should the girl have turned him down?

He was George Wickham, godson of the master himself!

But appallingly, incredibly, this insignificant act had apparently led Georgiana to turn from love to hate.

He could not find it in himself to regret what he had done, but he certainly regretted the dire results.

Mayhap he could write a letter to Georgiana and express regret for his actions.

She might come to his rescue and ward off the fate that now loomed.

But no, it was too late for pleading letters. Even now, the watchman called the fifth hour of the night. Dawn was only an hour away and unless there was a miraculous pardon, he would be dead soon.

Dead? It could not be, surely not. Surely this was some last game on Darcy’s part, to terrify him into better behavior.

When had Darcy changed so? Playing together as children George had learned at an early age that he could tease and deceive Darcy in various ways and then carry on as though nothing had happened.

It had been a pleasure to manipulate his godfather’s true son.

Why must Darcy hold him accountable now, when the stakes were so high?

Why had Darcy not pressed him harder before it had come to this?

Wickham, now under military command, had never imagined that he would be sentenced to death for desertion when he had fled the terrors of Marshalsea!

Uncertainty warred with his anger. In a brief moment of clarity, Wickham realized that Darcy had paid for numerous debts and the care of his bastard children.

Wickham had never been grateful for his old playmate’s financial assistance; no, he had pressed for more advantages, for more money, for more prestige and power.

He was never satisfied, always pushing for more, believing that there were no boundaries to his own behavior.

But he had pushed Darcy too far. He had come to the edge of Darcy’s patience, and beyond it was a steep fall.

Why had he continued? He could have stopped at any time, but he had only valued what he did not have and disdained that which he did.

Darcy was highborn and powerful, but it had never occurred to Wickham that the staid gentleman would eventually turn on him like a vengeful wolf.

There was the sound of a distant door opening, and Wickham straightened in panic. Yes, there were feet approaching in lockstep, and the sound of jingling keys.

A cold sweat leaped to his brow, and he raised a shaking hand to wipe off his forehead. When a metal key touched the lock of his door, he jumped, his pulse pounding with rhythmic thumping of his soon to be silenced heart. Was it truly time?

The four men who entered the cell were dressed in military uniforms and their faces were rigid in the flickering light of the candles. He was forced to his feet, his hands tied behind him. He sucked in a pained breath and suppressed a sob of terror.

They led him out of the cell, past the other cells where other men sat on simple pallets, their own faces pale with fear as they too considered their lives. He was marched into a courtyard where a scaffold stood holding a single noose.

Wickham was numb with dread as he was led up the wooden stairs and the rope was placed around his neck. He could not bear to look at the gathered men, at the scaffold, at the sun peeping up over the horizon, so he closed his eyes tightly.

Georgiana’s face appeared in his mind’s eye. She was beautiful and proud and brave and rich, and he regretted she no longer loved him. George heard her fierce words.

“I am Jael.”

There was a loud creak, and the floor dropped away beneath him.

The End