Page 31 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

He turned then, and his eyes met Wickham’s—cold and unyielding.

“But the illusion did not survive his actions. Some months ago, in late July, this man attempted to elope with my sister—who was then but fifteen. He did so not from affection, but to secure her dowry. We were fortunate to discover it in time. He left Ramsgate without a word of remorse.”

The room seemed to narrow around the silence that followed.

Darcy’s gaze remained steady. “I state this not to provoke—but because the truth will no longer be obscured. If Mr. Wickham has anything to say in his defence, I will hear it. As will the others.”

Wickham gave a short laugh—light, almost dismissive—but it rang hollow.

“My dear Darcy,” he began, spreading his hands in a gesture meant to suggest easy charm, though his fingers curled slightly at the edges. “I had hoped we might leave the past where it lies. Must we really drag up old misunderstandings, especially in such mixed company?”

He turned slightly, offering a faint smile to Mr. Bingley, then to Mr. Denny, as if petitioning a jury.

“It is true that I once had the honour of some acquaintance with Miss Darcy. But I was young, and so was she. There was never any formal intention—only a bit of foolish sentiment, exaggerated by guardians and servants who were far too eager to assume the worst.”

His smile tightened. “If I have erred, it was in presuming upon a friendship that Mr. Darcy no longer valued. I see now that I misjudged him—though I cannot help but think he has always judged me a little too quickly, and far too harshly.”

He shifted his weight, glanced toward the window, then back at Darcy. “But of course, you have the advantage of rank, and the comfort of an audience inclined to listen. I have none of those things, only the poor fortune of being constantly accused by a man whose favour I never sought.”

He gave another brief laugh, one that died quickly in the stillness. Wickham remained standing, though he leaned now with one elbow upon the back of a chair—at ease in posture, though not in expression.

Mr. Darcy stepped forward at last, his tone measured, neither cruel nor loud—but unmistakably final.

“You squandered my father’s trust and preyed upon my sister’s innocence,” he said, “No apology can undo that—but I demand at least this: that your lies cease, and your actions at last reflect the name you bear.”

Wickham gave a small scoff and lifted one brow. “You speak of dignity as if I had not once loved your sister. Yes—loved her, Darcy. You may dress it in disapproval and call it ambition, but you cannot deny she returned my regard. Had your precious servants not interfered, we might have been—”

“You might have ruined her,” Darcy cut in, calm but cold.

“In matters of heart, a gentleman with honourable intentions does not operate in secrecy—not in Ramsgate, not in gardens, and not behind the back of her brother or her companion. Miss Darcy, Miss King, and most recently, Miss Lydia Bennet—they are not accidents. They are evidence.”

Wickham turned sharply toward Mr. Bennet with theatrical offense. “Sir, I have always held your family in esteem—”

But Mr. Bennet was already advancing, his expression pale with fury. “Hold your tongue, lad.”

Wickham blinked, clearly startled.

“I saw you,” Mr. Bennet said, his voice steady but sharp. “Not months ago, not by rumour, but with my own eyes—in my garden, with my daughter, whispering nonsense beneath the elms. You knew who she was. You knew what you meant to do. And when I confront you, you lie.”

He took another step forward. “You make protestations of love for Miss Darcy, yet here you are, circling another young girl with a fortune you mistook for larger than it is. Do not speak to me of esteem. You have no comprehension of what the word means.”

Wickham’s composure faltered, his smile stiff. “I assure you, sir, there was no harm meant.”

“No harm meant?” Mr. Bennet echoed, incredulous. “No harm, when my child is left confused, mortified—and nearly entangled with a man who attempted the same with another gentleman’s sister?”

Darcy moved between them now, firm but controlled.

“Let us speak directly. I do not wish to see you again, Wickham. We have a few options. A duel is one—but I suspect you have no taste for blades, and you know I have trained with them for years and how good I was. As for pistols... let us not pretend that choice would favour your survival.”

Wickham made no reply, though his mouth twitched.

“Moreover,” Darcy continued, stepping around one side of the table, “duelling is illegal. Your commission would not survive it—and neither, likely, would you. But there is another path.”

From the inner pocket of his coat, he drew a folded paper. “This is a bank draft. It will cover your resignation and relocation. You may go wherever you like—so long as it is nowhere near anyone named Bennet, Darcy, de Bourgh, or Fitzwilliam.”

Wickham’s nostrils flared. “You presume I would accept charity from you, Darcy?”

“I presume, George,” said Mr. Darcy coolly, “that you are a man who values money over honour. I offer this as a solution—not charity. It is the price of your absence.”

Wickham glanced at the draft, and for a moment, temptation flickered in his eyes. He stepped slowly around the table, until he stood directly opposite Darcy, as if prepared to reach for it.

But pride—or defiance—overruled him.

“I do not take bribes.”

“No,” said Mr. Darcy. “You prefer allowances from young women.”

A flush rose on Wickham’s face.

In the midst of the discussion, the half-open door gave a faint creak—just enough to signal a new presence.

Sophocles, the Longbourn cat, slipped into the room with his usual quiet assurance.

Unbothered by the tension in the air, he padded toward Mr. Darcy and, accustomed to remaining near him, leapt gracefully onto the sideboard.

There he settled with dignified ease, tail curled neatly around his paws, observing the men with luminous, impartial eyes—as though appointed to bear witness with feline composure.

“Take the money,” Darcy said evenly. “And leave. Or refuse—and justice will take its course. I shall write to your commanding officer, your colonel, and half the county. Your reputation is already cracked. I have only to press.”

“Also,” said Mr. Bennet coldly, “you need my silence, Wickham. And I shall not keep it if you remain. The very day I see you again in Meryton, I shall speak to Colonel Forster—and if Mr. Darcy chooses discretion, I shall not. Ramsgate. Longbourn. The way you slink into young women’s affections like a fox into a henhouse.

I will not permit you near my daughter again—nor anyone else’s. ”

“You would wish to avoid a scandal, sir,” Wickham said, with a touch of bravado.

“Do not count on that, you reckless man,” Mr. Bennet snapped. “You have far more to lose. Take my advice—go!”

Wickham gave a dry laugh. He knew very well that proving anything concrete would be difficult. He leaned over the table to look Darcy in the eye and jabbed his finger hard against his chest.

“You, Darcy, are to blame for all of it. You need me to go. I do not need you to stay.”

But before Darcy could reply—or before Wickham could repeat the gesture—there was a sudden blur of motion.

Sophocles leapt from the sideboard to the table in one fluid movement and, with a second bound, launched himself at Wickham’s face. A flash of claws—silent but precise—and he was gone again, landing with remarkable poise atop a chair.

Three long, narrow claw-marks and a fourth, shorter one trailed across Wickham’s cheek—visible, stinging, and scarcely bleeding. It looked for all the world like the footnote of a feline insult.

“The cursed thing scratched me!” Wickham cried, clutching his face.

“Ugly scratches,” Mr. Bennet observed, not unsympathetically. “Here, take a handkerchief.”

“You’re in trouble now, friend,” said Mr. Denny darkly. “No one will convince Colonel Forster that those are not the marks of a lady defending herself from unwanted attentions.”

Wickham paled. His bravado cracked at last. Denny was right.

He cast a sideways, sullen glance at each man in turn, then turned sharply on his heel and left the room—without a word.

“You may keep the handkerchief as a farewell token, Wickham!” Mr. Bennet called after him, with a touch of theatrical cheer.

Sophocles, his mission complete, returned to his perch near Mr. Darcy and let out a single, measured meow—the calm declaration of a creature wholly satisfied with the restoration of justice.

“Well then,” said Mr. Bennet, dusting his hands and turning to Mr. Denny with a benevolent smile, “I believe it is time you came to the library and selected the books you wish to borrow.”

He gave a small nod of satisfaction in Darcy’s direction.

Mr. Bingley, still seated, blinked at the door through which Wickham had vanished, thoroughly perplexed by all that had just unfolded.

***

Wickham presented himself at the appointed hour, outside Colonel Forster’s quarters, collar straight, face stiff, and the faint red streaks of a healing scratch visible across his left cheek.

He had done what he could to conceal them with powder, but the marks remained—three sharp lines and a shorter one beneath, like punctuation from some merciless editor.

Colonel Forster looked up from his writing desk and gave Wickham a long, unreadable glance. He did not ask him to sit.

“You were ordered to remain within the camp perimeter, officer,” the colonel began, voice clipped. “And to report to me daily.”

“I am here now, sir,” Wickham replied smoothly.

“Yes,” said the colonel, folding his hands. “But you were not here yesterday afternoon. Nor last evening. You were seen on the road to Longbourn. Care to explain?”

Wickham shifted slightly. “I... believed it necessary to pay a call to Miss Lydia Bennet.”

“Oh. No more than that, is it?”

“No, sir. I hoped to clarify a misunderstanding.”