Page 11

Chapter Eleven

F itzwilliam Darcy had never experienced such a violent tumult of emotions as he did walking beside Elizabeth Bennet along the narrow path through the Meryton woods. The morning sun filtered through the trees, dappling her face with gentle light that heightened the gravity in her expression. He stole glances at her profile, hardly daring to believe what she had just revealed to him about Wickham, about her belief in his letter, about everything that had transpired since his disastrous proposal at Hunsford.

She had read his letter, and she had believed him. Not only had she believed him, but she had planned to take action, planned to expose Wickham without endangering Georgiana, had even dared to confront the scoundrel! He could scarcely credit her courage. Most women of his acquaintance would have simply quietly withdrawn their favour from Wickham upon learning of his true character. Somehow, though, he could well believe it of Elizabeth; could imagine her facing down Wickham with fire flashing in her eyes, her contempt unconcealed.

He wished he had been there to see it. She would have been magnificent.

They approached a muddy spot in the path, and Darcy offered his hand to help her hop across without dirtying her boots or her hem, though even as he did so he remembered the sight of her at Netherfield when she had come to nurse her sister. Elizabeth Bennet did not fear a little mud. Still, she accepted his aid, and the brief contact of her gloved fingers against his sent a charge through him, reminding him of all he had lost, all he might still hope to gain.

Finally, somehow, he found the words to speak. To tell her of his cousin’s suggestion; that while Elizabeth needed to be respectably married to protect her sisters’ reputations and her family from scandal, Wickham was not the only option open to her. That he, Darcy, would take Elizabeth any way he could get her, though somehow he managed to couch that truth in less blunt words, words that would hopefully outrage her less than his first proposal had.

It was not the eloquent declaration he had rehearsed countless times in his mind. It contained none of the poetry or flowery language that other men might have employed. But it held the truth of his heart, offered simply and honestly for her consideration.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, and a flush crept across her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, but then her gaze shifted suddenly to something beyond his shoulder.

“What is that?” she asked.

Dragging his eyes from her face with great reluctance, Darcy followed her gaze to where something red was visible in a shallow ditch at the side of the path, perhaps twenty yards ahead. “I cannot tell from here,” he replied. “Shall we investigate?”

They approached, and Darcy felt his heart stutter in his chest.

The distinctive uniform of the militia was unmistakable, even from this distance, as was the unnatural stillness of the form.

“Is that...” Elizabeth’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Darcy strode forward without thinking, his long legs carrying him swiftly to the prone figure. As he drew closer, recognition struck him like a physical blow. The dark hair, the handsome features now slack and pale; it was undeniably George Wickham.

Wickham lay on his back, one arm flung out as if to break a fall, the other curled against his chest. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the canopy of leaves overhead. A dark stain spread across the front of his red coat.

Darcy reached out a trembling hand to feel for a pulse at Wickham’s neck, though he already knew what he would find. The skin was cool to the touch, the blood on his uniform long congealed. Death had occurred hours ago, perhaps during the night.

“Oh, dear God.” Elizabeth’s voice came from behind him, closer than he expected. He turned to find her standing just a few feet away, her face ashen, her eyes fixed on Wickham’s body. “Is he…?”

“Dead. Do not look, Elizabeth,” he said, rising quickly to block her view. “Please.”

But it was too late. She had seen enough to understand what lay before them. Her eyes met his, wide with shock, before rolling back as her knees buckled beneath her.

Darcy lunged forward, catching her before she hit the ground. He lowered her gently to a sitting position, supporting her back as she slumped forward, her head dropping between her knees.

“Deep breaths,” he instructed, his hand steady against her spine despite the chaos of his thoughts. “Just breathe, Miss Elizabeth.”

She complied, drawing in shaky breaths. Darcy remained beside her, acutely aware of Wickham’s body lying just yards away, of the enormity of what they had discovered, of the implications that would soon crash down upon them all.

His proposal, his declaration of love, his hopes for the future; all were now overshadowed by the presence of death. As Elizabeth struggled to maintain consciousness, Darcy realised with grim certainty that their lives had just become entangled in something far more complex and dangerous than matters of the heart.

Kneeling beside Elizabeth, he kept his hand steady against her back as she took slow, deliberate breaths. The sight of her so white-faced and vulnerable, so unlike her usual vibrant self, struck him with particular force. Behind them, Wickham’s body lay in silent accusation, a problem that would soon demand their full attention. For now, however, Darcy’s only concern was the woman before him, her dark curls tumbling forward as she kept her head lowered.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “would you like some water? I have a flask in my coat.”

She shook her head slightly, still not looking up. “No, I thank you. I shall be well in a moment.”

Darcy remained where he was, painfully aware of the impropriety of their positions yet unwilling to withdraw his support. From the lack of footprints and the untrampled undergrowth he suspected the path they had been walking was not frequently travelled, but discovery was still a risk. Perhaps not as pressing a risk as the dead man lying nearby, but a consideration nonetheless.

After several minutes, Elizabeth’s breathing steadied, and she raised her head slightly. Her face remained pale, but her eyes were clear and focused. “I must apologize for my weakness, Mr. Darcy.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he replied firmly. “Many a hardened soldier would react similarly to such a discovery.”

She nodded, glancing briefly toward Wickham’s body before quickly averting her eyes. “I believe I can stand now.”

Darcy rose and offered his hand, which she accepted with gratitude. As she got to her feet, he noticed the slight tremor in her fingers, though her grip was surprisingly firm. He did not release her hand. These were extraordinary circumstances, and he had every intention of marrying her as soon as he could contrive to do so, besides.

“What must we do now?” Elizabeth asked, her practical nature asserting itself despite the shock.

Darcy surveyed their surroundings, mind working methodically through their options. They were closer to Meryton than to Longbourn, and his carriage would be waiting for him where he had left it at the inn.

“We must alert the authorities,” he said, thinking aloud. “Colonel Forster will need to be informed immediately, as Wickham was under his command. And the local magistrate...” He trailed off, realizing Elizabeth would know who that was.

“Mr. Burnley,” she supplied, her voice steadier than he expected. “He is an acquaintance of my father’s.”

Darcy nodded. “The closest place is Meryton. My carriage is there. We will walk to town, and I will have my coachman take you home. Then I shall send the carriage to fetch Colonel Fitzwilliam while I seek out Colonel Forster and the magistrate.”

It was a solid plan, he thought, considering both practicality and propriety. Elizabeth would be safely returned to her family, and he would handle the unpleasantness that must follow.

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed, though she seemed hesitant. “That seems most sensible.”

He could still feel her hand shaking in his grasp. He looked down at her, considering whether she was strong enough for the walk to Meryton. Perhaps he should carry her? The thought made his heart race inappropriately, given the circumstances.

“Are you certain you can walk, Miss Elizabeth? I can carry you, if you think you are not steady on your feet.”

“I am certain,” she replied with a flash of her characteristic determination. “I have walked much farther on many occasions.”

“Yes, but not after such a shock,” he countered gently.

“Nevertheless.” Her chin lifted slightly. “I shall manage.”

Darcy did not press the point. They began walking away from the scene, both carefully avoiding looking back at Wickham’s still form. He was acutely aware of Elizabeth’s hand in his, of how she seemed to gain strength with each step that took them farther from the gruesome discovery.

Birds called to one another in the trees overhead, the normalcy of their songs creating a stark contrast to the unnatural scene they were leaving behind. Darcy found himself noting these details with unusual clarity, his mind cataloguing every aspect of their surroundings as if they might be called upon later to recount the precise conditions of this day.

“The authorities will want to know who discovered the body,” he said after they had walked in silence for several minutes. “And when. We should be prepared to provide that information.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, of course. We were walking and chanced upon... upon him. There is nothing more to tell.”

But there was more, much more. There was the matter of his proposal, interrupted by their discovery. There was the fact that Elizabeth was meant to marry Wickham within the month. There was the long and tangled history between Darcy and the dead man, a history that would inevitably come to light during any investigation.

They passed the stile where they had met earlier, and as they continued along the wider path that would lead them to Meryton, Elizabeth broke the silence.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice low and measured, “what do you think happened to Mr. Wickham?”

Darcy hesitated, weighing his response carefully. “I cannot say with certainty,” he finally replied. “Perhaps it was an accident.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he heard the doubt in his voice. An accident that resulted in such a wound as the one he had seen on Wickham’s chest, resulting in such a great loss of blood? It seemed highly unlikely.

Elizabeth stopped abruptly, forcing him to halt beside her, and finally taking her hand out of his, a loss he privately mourned. Her eyes, when they met his, were wide with comprehension.

“You think someone killed him,” she said, not as a question but as a statement of shocked realization.

Darcy sighed, unwilling to lie to her yet reluctant to voice his suspicions. “The evidence suggests that his death was not accidental, yes.”

“Murder,” Elizabeth whispered, the word hanging in the air between them. “Someone murdered Mr. Wickham.”

“It is too early to form definitive conclusions,” Darcy cautioned, though he was thinking precisely the same thing. “The magistrate and Colonel Forster will investigate and determine what occurred.”

Elizabeth resumed walking, her pace slightly faster than before, as if she wished to put as much distance as possible between herself and the implications of what they had discovered. Darcy kept pace beside her, his arm slightly cocked, and after a few moments she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow again.

“Wickham was,” Darcy said carefully as they approached the road, “very good at making enemies.”

It was as close as he dared come to expressing his true thoughts: that there were likely many people with motives to wish George Wickham harm. Himself included, though he quickly suppressed that uncomfortable realization.

“That is true,” Elizabeth conceded, her voice troubled. “He had a talent for it, I believe.”

She glanced up at him, then away, and Darcy wondered if she was thinking of all the people in Meryton who had been charmed and then potentially deceived by Wickham. Or perhaps she was considering Darcy’s own long history with the man, a history that included significant grievances.

“Even so,” she continued after a moment, “to end one’s life in such a manner... it is too dreadful to contemplate.”

Darcy nodded, finding himself in the unexpected position of feeling both relief at Wickham’s permanent removal from their lives and genuine regret for the boy he had once known, the son of his father’s steward who had been his childhood companion before ambition and vice corrupted him.

“There will be an inquiry,” he said, his practical nature asserting itself. “It is important that we tell the authorities everything we know that might help them discover the truth.”

Everything, he thought, except the fact that Wickham had deliberately compromised Elizabeth and was forcing their marriage. That knowledge might place her in an uncomfortable position, potentially even cast suspicion in her direction. Darcy would do everything in his power to protect her from such an outcome.

“Of course,” Elizabeth agreed, though Darcy detected a note of uncertainty in her voice.

They continued their walk to Meryton in silence, each lost in private thoughts. The town came into view, the familiar buildings appearing almost surreal after the events of the afternoon. Darcy found himself studying the faces of the people they passed, wondering if among them was the person responsible for Wickham’s death. It was an unsettling thought, one that would not easily be dismissed.

As they approached the inn where his carriage waited, Darcy became aware that Elizabeth’s hand on his arm had steadied. Whatever weakness had overcome her at the discovery of Wickham’s body appeared to have passed, replaced by the steady resilience he had always admired in her. She would endure this ordeal, he knew, with the same strength of character she brought to all challenges.

What remained uncertain was how this shared experience would affect their relationship, whether the proposal he had offered before their grim discovery would be remembered or lost in the chaos that would surely follow. For now, however, such concerns were secondary to ensuring Elizabeth’s safe return to Longbourn and the proper notification of the authorities.

The simplicity of their walk had been transformed into something far more complex, a moment that would inevitably draw them into a web of questions, suspicions, and investigations. As they reached the inn yard, Darcy steeled himself for what lay ahead, knowing that the discovery of Wickham’s body was only the beginning of what promised to be a very difficult time for all concerned.

Darcy handed Elizabeth into his carriage with as much care as if she were made of the finest porcelain. The inn yard bustled with activity, curious eyes already watching their every move. He was conscious of appearances even now, maintaining the proper distance once she was seated, standing with perfect posture beside the carriage door. Yet beneath this carefully composed exterior, his mind raced through calculations of what must be done, what dangers might lie ahead, and how best to shield Elizabeth from the storm that would surely follow their discovery.

“You are certain you feel well enough to travel alone?” he asked, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Elizabeth nodded, though her complexion remained paler than usual. “Yes, quite certain. The fresh air has restored me considerably.”

Darcy studied her face, searching for signs of lingering shock. Finding none beyond the understandable gravity in her expression, he gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

“My driver will take you directly to Longbourn,” he said, then hesitated before adding, “Miss Bennet, I must ask that when you arrive home, you inform only your father of what we have discovered. It is crucial that news of this nature come from the proper authorities, not through neighbourhood gossip.”

Her eyes widened slightly at his request, but she nodded in agreement. “Of course. I shall speak only to Papa. He will know how to proceed.”

“Mr. Bennet is a sensible man,” Darcy acknowledged, thinking of the few interactions he had had with Elizabeth’s father. Despite his sometimes sardonic manner, Bennet struck Darcy as a man of intelligence and discretion. “He will understand the delicacy of the situation.”

Darcy glanced toward the inn, where several patrons had gathered near the door, watching their exchange with undisguised curiosity. He knew how it must appear: Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, known for his pride and aloofness, in close conversation with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, returning her home in his personal carriage. The gossip would begin immediately, but it was a small matter compared to what would follow once Wickham’s body was discovered.

“I shall call at Longbourn tomorrow, if I may,” he said, “to ensure you have suffered no ill effects from today’s shock.”

“That would be most kind,” Elizabeth replied, her voice steadier than he might have expected, and she even offered him a smile. A faint thing compared to the smiles he had seen light up her face in happier times, but nonetheless, it warmed him slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”

He bowed slightly, then closed the carriage door and stepped back. “To Longbourn,” he instructed the driver, “with all haste, but take care on the roads. Miss Bennet has had a trying morning.”

The driver nodded his understanding, and Darcy added, “Once you have delivered Miss Bennet safely home, return immediately to the Rose and Crown and seek out Colonel Fitzwilliam. Tell him I require his presence at Colonel Forster’s residence without delay.”

“Yes, sir,” Thompson replied, touching his hat respectfully before turning his attention to his team.

As the carriage pulled away, Elizabeth leaned slightly forward to look out the window. Their eyes met briefly, and Darcy was struck by the complexity of emotions he saw in her gaze: confusion, concern, and something else he could not quite identify. Then she was gone, the carriage turning onto the main road toward Longbourn.

Darcy remained where he stood for a moment, collecting his thoughts before he began the difficult task ahead. With a deep breath, he turned and began walking toward Colonel Forster’s residence, a modest but respectable house not far from the inn. As he walked, Darcy found himself acutely aware of his connection to the dead man, a connection that went well beyond their chance encounter today.

I shall be a suspect, he thought grimly. How could he not be? His history with Wickham was long and fraught with conflict, from their childhood at Pemberley to the incident with Georgiana, and most recently, his revelations to Elizabeth. Wickham had been merrily slandering his name to all and sundry for years. And now, conveniently, it was Darcy who had discovered the body.

The thought was disquieting but not enough to deter him from his course. Justice demanded that Wickham’s killer be found, regardless of how uncomfortable the investigation might prove for Darcy personally. Besides, he had nothing to hide. He had not killed Wickham, though there had certainly been times when the thought had crossed his mind.

Colonel Forster’s house came into view, distinguishable by the regimental flag discreetly displayed beside the door. Darcy straightened his already impeccable posture and approached with measured steps. A housemaid answered his knock, eyes widening with recognition as she curtsied and asked his business.

“I must speak with Colonel Forster immediately,” Darcy said, his tone brooking no argument. “It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

The maid hesitated only briefly before nodding and showing him into a small parlour. “I shall inform the colonel of your presence, sir.”

Darcy remained standing as she left, unwilling to sit while the knowledge of Wickham’s body lying in the woods weighed on him. He moved to the window, looking out at the street beyond, wondering if the killer walked freely there, perhaps unaware that their crime had been discovered.

The door opened behind him, and Darcy turned to find Colonel Forster entering the room. The militia commander was a steady man of middle years, his face weathered by campaigns in Spain and Portugal. They had been introduced at various social functions in Meryton but had exchanged little more than pleasantries.

“Mr. Darcy,” Forster said, his expression curious but composed. “This is an unexpected honour. My maid says you have urgent business?”

“I do, Colonel,” Darcy replied, seeing no benefit in delaying the news. “I regret to inform you that approximately an hour ago, while walking in the woods not far from here, I discovered the body of one of your officers. Lieutenant Wickham is dead.”

Forster’s face drained of colour, his composure momentarily shaken. “Dead? Are you certain it was Wickham?”

“I am,” Darcy confirmed. “There can be no mistake.”

“What happened?” Forster demanded, already moving toward a desk. “Was it an accident?”

“I cannot say with certainty,” Darcy replied carefully. “The circumstances suggest his death was not accidental, but I am not qualified to make such determinations. That is why I came to you immediately.”

Forster looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Not accidental? You mean murder?”

Darcy met his gaze steadily. “I mean only that there are aspects of the scene that warrant investigation by the proper authorities. The local magistrate should be informed without delay.”

“Yes, of course,” Forster agreed, pulling a bell cord to summon a servant. “Burnley must be notified. And I shall send men to secure the body.” He paused, studying Darcy with new intensity. “You said you discovered him while walking. Were you alone?”

The question was precisely what Darcy had both anticipated and dreaded. To mention Elizabeth’s presence would draw her further into this unpleasant business, yet to conceal it would be dishonest and ultimately futile, as the truth would inevitably emerge.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet was walking in the same area,” he said, choosing his words with care. “We encountered each other on the path and shortly thereafter discovered Wickham’s body.”

Forster’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I see. And Miss Bennet? Where is she now?”

“I arranged for my carriage to take her home,” Darcy explained. “She was understandably distressed by the discovery.”

“Of course.” Forster nodded in understanding. “A most distressing scene for a young lady, I suppose.”

A servant appeared at the door, and Forster issued rapid instructions for messages to be sent to Mr. Burnley and for a detachment of soldiers to be prepared immediately. Once the servant had departed, he turned back to Darcy.

“You will need to show us precisely where the body lies,” Forster said.

“Of course,” Darcy nodded. “I shall guide your men to the location.”

“And Mr. Darcy,” Forster added, his tone more formal, “I must ask that you make yourself available for questions as the investigation proceeds. You and Miss Bennet are key witnesses.”

“I understand,” Darcy replied, recognising the subtle shift in Forster’s manner. Already, the colonel was viewing him not simply as a gentleman who had reported a tragedy, but as someone connected to the deceased, someone who might have information beyond what he had shared.

Or someone who might have had reason to wish Wickham harm.

The thought settled heavily in Darcy’s chest as he waited for Forster to make his preparations. He had known this moment would come, had anticipated the suspicion that would inevitably fall upon him. Wickham had made it clear to all his acquaintance that there was enmity between them.

Yet he could not regret his decision to come forward immediately. Concealment and deception were Wickham’s tools, not his. Whatever difficulties lay ahead, Darcy would face them with the honesty and integrity that had always guided his actions.

His thoughts turned to Elizabeth, now presumably arriving at Longbourn to share the grim news with her father. Would Mr. Bennet question Elizabeth about her knowledge of Wickham’s character? How much had Elizabeth told her father about Wickham?

These questions and a dozen more crowded Darcy’s mind as he stood in Colonel Forster’s parlour, waiting to guide the militia to Wickham’s body. Whatever else happened in the days to come, he knew with absolute certainty that the peaceful morning walk during which he had proposed to Elizabeth for the second time had marked a turning point in both their lives.

Whether that turn would lead them toward or away from each other remained to be seen. For now, all Darcy could do was adhere to the principles that had always governed his life: honesty, duty, and the protection of those he held dear, foremost among them Elizabeth Bennet.