Page 55 of Lizzie’s Spirit

“Frederick, who had come to London for business, on a whim decided to join her, arriving a day or two before the intended elopement. Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, his being fourteen years her senior, acknowledged the whole to him. You can imagine how he felt and how he acted.”

“So he called him out?”

“No, not Frederick,” replied his father, sadly. “By chance, your cousin, Richard, Colonel Fitzwilliam, was in Town on leave and decided to accompany Frederick to Ramsgate. Enraged, it was he who called out Wickham.”

“But how was it that Frederick was killed? And, as you say, murdered?”

“As with most duels since their being illegal, they met on a commons outside of the town at six o’clock in the morning.

Frederick was your cousin’s second. Wickham, who was forced to attend, was seconded by an acquaintance, a Mr. Denny of the militia who supplied the duelling pistols.

I can scarcely repeat the outcome, but for your sake, Fitzwilliam, I‘ll tell the sorry tale, for it has upended all our lives.

“I’m told they stood some fifteen paces apart.

They fired together, but whether by design or chance, neither hit the other.

Richard refused to back down. Their pistols were then reloaded by their seconds.

But before the umpire gave the word, Wickham took several steps forward.

He was shaking badly, for Richard was toying with him—a dangerous sport.

Wickham retreated, but his foot stepped on a bare root, wet with the morning dew.

The smooth soles of his boots lost their grip—flailing his arms, he attempted to maintain his balance.

At that moment his pistol discharged, directly towards Frederick, who was standing to the side, facing away from him.

The distance was but seven yards. Frederick was shot in the back, the bullet severing his spine and exiting through the abdomen. ”

Darcy senior fell back into his chair, grief overwhelming him. His son was no less overcome to hear how Wickham had killed Frederick—such misfortune was too much.

His father recovered a little; he had recounted the story several times before.

“Wickham threw down the pistol and ran, taking the first horse he came across, seeking to make his escape before anyone recovered from the shock of so egregious a deed. But Mr. Denny, to his honour, immediately rode after him. He chased him down, then pulled up the horse and dragged Wickham to the ground. The cur was taken away and cast into irons. By fate, the Crown Court at Canterbury was held the next week. Wickham was charged with murder and pronounced guilty. Lord Matlock, whose interest was ensuring that his son, Colonel Fitzwilliam, suffered no blame, together with myself, attended the court.”

Darcy’s father trembled, pressed his lips together: “But he was my godson; I couldn’t see him hang even though he’d shot Frederick!

I pleaded with the judge that his sentence be reduced from hanging to transportation.

Wickham maintained that Frederick was shot by accident—but, being a duel and a man dying by his hand, the judge had no choice but to sentence him. ”

”And the outcome? I presume you prevailed and he was not hanged.”

“Matlock was all for hanging him—but the judge preferred a father’s mercy to an uncle’s vengeance, notwithstanding the latter was an earl.

The convict ship, Indefatigable , departed the 11th of September last, with Wickham on board.

Richard ensured he embarked, incarcerated with some two hundred male convicts. ”

“And Georgiana, how does she fare? Where is she now?”

“At Pemberley, with her new companion, Mrs. Annesley. A very genteel lady whom we vetted most thoroughly. Georgiana is still not recovered—I fear it will take her a long time to forgive herself, though, of course, she was not responsible for Wickham shooting Frederick.”

Darcy felt obliged to continue the conversation, although he knew it distressed his father.

Later, he would ask more of his cousin Richard when he next returned from the Peninsula.

“Do we know why Wickham would do such a thing? Though a rake and fraudster, I’d not thought him so deceitful as to attempt the ruin of my sister who had always been his favourite. ”

“That he was desperate is without doubt.” Darcy senior sighed.

“He was in debt around Town, for he was a poor gambler, owing much to the wrong people, those who extracted their repayment, if not in coin, then in broken fingers and pain. Perhaps this is mere speculation, but gaining control of Georgiana’s dowry was his last chance; without access to funds, he was in a perilous position. ”

Both men fell silent, meditating on what might have been, on what happened—and that nothing could be done to alter the past. Time passed in silent contemplation, the room became gloomy, and a footman came to light the candles in their sconces.

“Will you take dinner on a tray, sir?” Winthrop addressed Darcy’s father.

“A tray, if you will; I’m too weary to sit at table. Fitzwilliam, are you comfortable taking your repast here in the library? I fear my habits have become rather lax, as it’s only been myself to keep company with these past months.”

“After sixteen weeks of poor ship’s fare on a fast packet and then a coastal lugger, eating from a tray with dishes from your kitchen will seem a veritable feast. Please, sir, I’m at your disposal.”

** *

Following the meal, Darcy’s father pleaded fatigue, and, with Winthrop’s assistance, retired to his chamber.

Darcy himself sought the study, where documents requiring his perusal were laid out in an orderly fashion.

He sat at the wide mahogany desk; it felt wrong for him to do so, as always in the past his father was seated there.

There were several piles of paperwork: Pemberley, Darcy House, investments, Frederick’s will, and personal papers.

Atop this last pile, one letter stood out, addressed to himself in Frederick’s careful hand.

From: Darcy House, London Dear William—

You may wonder why such a letter has been written but not posted.

Do you recall, before you left for New South Wales, that we spoke often when in Town, and if you or I were away from that place, we kept up a regular correspondence?

Such was a habit I was loath to relinquish.

Thus I write to you as though you were in the next county—a very easy distance, and not ten thousand miles!

Moreover, I can write herein my true thoughts, as though you were seated opposite me at the club or the library.

My letters to the colony must, perforce, be such as not to cause you much distress.

There is little they can achieve but unnecessary worry.

If, by chance, you are indeed reading this, it must be because I’ve passed—if so, little brother, do not overly mourn me, for I’ve had a good life, which I would not exchange for any other.

With luck, I’ll meet our dear Mother again.

Bless you, bless dear Father and sweet Georgiana.

I pray you are reunited with her. Frederick, if only you could have known …

So much for the maudlin bit—now, to business.

Firstly, I must talk about our nemesis, George Wickham.

How he ever came into our lives, I do not know—sometimes, I feel we’re ruled by a fickle god, such as Dionysus, for surely Wickham was his cult member, as his life revolves around intoxication and debauchery.

I was well pleased when he wrote to me, just after you departed, that he resolved against taking orders—for surely no one is less suited for the clergy!

From our Father, no doubt, he learned he was to be willed a preferment to the Kympton parish, and hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of such.

He said he took some interest in studying the law.

Wickham—the law! He may have heard you were judge-advocate and could see himself in such a role.

Such is his delusion. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere but was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal.

For I thought, misguidedly, it would rid us of his presence in our lives, and all connection would be dissolved.

For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living—in June, just past—he applied to me again for the preferment.

His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceptionally bad; not surprisingly, for his life was a life of idleness and dissipation.

Of course, I refused him! His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances.

He has changed, William; at one time we could engage in rational discourse.

But now, it’s all threats of revenge against not only me but also Father and yourself.

His vehemence is of an intensity I cannot fathom.

Take care, for I fear he’ll commit such a crime; if not hanged, then transported.

In the company of such villains as are sent to the colony—well you know—he and his accomplices could plot some violence against you.

But what is the crime we’ve committed against him?

Only that he was educated above his station, that he was brought up believing him our equal when, in truth, he was not a gentleman but the son of a steward.

I issue this warning to you, for in England, to seek some retribution against our family would raise the ire of our uncle, Earl Matlock, and such men are not to make enemies of.

I’ll write of this in my next letter to you in Sydney.

What cruel irony! In the colony I would be safe; my authority in the criminal courts is absolute.

And Wickham, notwithstanding his honeyed tongue, would never have been emancipated—my codicil to his docket would have ensured he lived out his miserable life in leg irons, in penury and in servitude.

I must write to Macquarie and see to it that Wickham is never released.

And now to the second part of this letter.

You may recall Richard and I visit our aunt, Lady Catherine, at Rosings, usually at Easter each year.

In reviewing the accounts this Easter past, we discovered what had previously been carefully hidden.

There’s a second ledger which she was careful not to show us, but by some mischance was left with the estate ledgers for our perusal.

Rosings is mortgaged, William, for a very large sum, possibly in excess of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds—what a prodigious amount!

On this, she’s paying interest at the six percents—that is, nine thousand pounds per annum, which sum now exceeds the income from the estate.

She had hidden this expense by manipulating her expenditures on maintenance of cottages, bridges, and roads, but the rentals are declining as the good tenants leave, and she can only lease at a reduced rent for short periods.

She may have sold some jewels, and we’re attempting to trace the whereabouts of Cousin Ann’s dowry, though I fear for the worst: that she has been using this to maintain her extravagant lifestyle.

Is Rosings heaped with so much debt? Was there anything left for Ann? She was to inherit the estate when five and twenty—in March next year.

We had no choice but to inform her brother, Lord Matlock.

This will not go well. He was incensed—not for Rosings or for Ann, but for the shame of her becoming bankrupt.

He wields much power and enjoys a strong following in Parliament.

Bankruptcy within the family would ruin his standing and dismiss him completely from politics.

That he will not countenance. Unfortunately, the Matlock estates cannot afford to pay the interest, let alone clear the debt.

Yes, you have guessed it—he looks to Pemberley to effect the same.

I resist, William, for Pemberley is built upon the hard work of many generations and should not be beggared because of Lady Catherine’s recklessness.

Yes, with retrenchments and the sale of our investments, we could clear such a sum.

But to what purpose? Do we take a mortgage over Rosings and have our aunt as an impenitent tenant, living her life of profligacy at our expense?

Father thinks not—yes, our Mother, Lady Anne, was Lady Catherine’s sister, but she understood economy and moderation.

That care of tenants, that investment in keeping their houses and buildings in good repair, as well as those of the cottagers, repaid the estate manyfold.

Just as Elizabeth told the Court of Chancery how she and Mrs. Bennet managed Longbourn…

There is much pressure on me to marry either Ann or Felicity, or perhaps the daughter of one of Matlock’s cronies—preferably one with deep pockets.

But I cannot, William. Indeed, I do not intend to marry, for I’m indifferent to the institution.

I am neither molly nor misogamist—I do not oppose marriage but am well content with my independence and solitude.

To lose what I enjoy most for the sake of the Fitzwilliam and de Bourgh reputations?

No! There is a duty to family, but marriage would be a stretch too far—marriage is for life, whereas this crisis will pass, either to Lord Matlock’s satisfaction or not. The fates will decide.

How the circumstance is to be managed, I do not know.

But Father has forwarded to Matlock sufficient funds to cover the interest over the next four and twenty months, to July ‘14. That is enough time to find what project Lady Catherine has invested in and to locate a buyer for her share. She’ll not admit to what she has done, but her brother Matlock will force some admission out of her.

‘Tis likely you’ll hear her hollering in such outrage as to scare the kangaroos and emus.

Take care, little brother—Frederick.

Carefully, Darcy folded the letter—the last words of his beloved brother—a letter from the grave.

Much disturbed of heart and mind, he retreated to his chamber, which was aired and refreshed—he had not slept there for several years prior to his departure to New South Wales.

The bed was large—a luxury after four months cramped in the packet’s tiny cot—but the linens were cold and uninviting.