Page 32 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“By sneaking out?” the colonel asked. “You were confined to the grounds, Mr. Wickham. And according to Sergeant Blakely, you were seen vaulting the fence near the south field. That makes it not only a breach of orders—but a deliberate one.”

Wickham inhaled sharply. “Sir, with respect—”

“I suggest,” the colonel interrupted, “you proceed directly to the matter of your face.”

Wickham hesitated. “An unfortunate encounter. A cat—sir.”

“A cat,” Forster echoed. “Not a young lady, as seems far more likely?”

“Yes, sir. A rather vicious creature—I must have startled it.”

Colonel Forster stared at him for a long moment.

“Where?” he asked calmly.

“Sir?”

“Where did this creature spring from? We do not have a cat in the regiment. Nor in your lodgings. Nor within the camp perimeter—which, as I remind you, you were ordered not to leave.”

Wickham said nothing.

Colonel Forster stood, slowly. “So either you were attacked by a phantom feline—or you did leave camp, as suspected. Which would make that scratch not only a mark of misconduct—but also a lie.”

Still Wickham said nothing.

The colonel nodded once, then turned and walked to the hearth, speaking without looking back.

“You will pack your things immediately. I expect you off the grounds by mid-afternoon. I advise you to settle your debts with your fellow militia men before you go. I shall not restrain them if they decide to collect with interest.”

“Sir—surely—”

“I said nothing more.”

Colonel Forster turned then, his expression grim but not cruel.

“You broke orders. You behaved dishonourably. And you have made a laughingstock of your commission.”

He gestured toward the door. “You are dismissed. Farewell, Wickham”

Wickham lingered a moment too long.

“If it was a cat,” the colonel added dryly, “then I suggest you offer it your thanks. It may have spared what little remains of your honour—though not your place.”

Wickham bowed stiffly and left, the door closing behind him with the finality of a coffin lid.

***

Later in the afternoon, Wickham emerged through the gates of the encampment with sluggish steps and a frayed civilian coat hanging awkwardly from his shoulders.

A battered satchel was slung over one side, and his cheek still bore the scratch—a faded, angry red overlaid by the dull yellow of a fading bruise.

Whatever parting gifts his former companions had left him were not sentimental.

Near the waiting carriage stood Mr. Bingley, tense and frowning, and beside him, Mr. Darcy—still, silent, unrelenting. There was no satisfaction in his stance, only finality—the posture not of vengeance, but of a man executing the last clause of a moral testament.

Wickham paused when he saw them, uncertain whether to turn back, walk past, or beg for distance. Before he could decide, Darcy stepped forward.

“Look, George. I have another proposal for you: fifty pounds,” Darcy said, his tone quiet but iron-clad. “In exchange for a signed agreement that you leave the county at once, and do not come near the Bennet family—or any person under my protection—again.”

Wickham’s lip curled. “You mean to buy my silence and my absence.”

“No,” said Darcy. “I offer you a modest, but decent, beginning. If you prefer otherwise, I will provide you with a ticket to Holyhead, along with twenty pounds. If you manage to reinvent yourself in Ireland, I shall not look for you. But do not return.”

Wickham’s gaze sharpened. “So I am to be exiled—elegantly. You offer money and passage, that you may appear noble, generous... and rich.”

“I do not do it for you,” said Darcy. “I do it for those you have injured. Do not be mistaken—my mercy is not a gift. It is a prison without walls. I want to purchase your absence. Do not make me convert it into something else.”

Wickham swallowed hard. His pride was crushed, but his mouth remained insolent—perhaps the last shield of a man entirely unarmed.

“You are more generous than I deserve,” he said bitterly. “And crueler than I imagined.”

Darcy did not flinch. “My father paid for your education. He believed in your promise. You are more intelligent than you have chosen to act. So here is my final offer.”

He withdrew a sealed envelope from his coat.

“This contains two hundred pounds. Enough to live modestly and decently for a time. You will not come near Derbyshire. If I hear of you approaching the Bennets, or returning to Meryton, you will answer to me directly.”

He held the envelope out without ceremony.

“Once you have settled in Ireland, send word. I will send one final sum—another two hundred pounds. After that, you will see no more of my money. Not out of pity, but in memory of your father, who was a good man, and of mine, who valued you far beyond your worth.”

Wickham took the envelope without a word. The fingers that accepted it trembled.

Darcy returned to the carriage.

As they climbed inside, Bingley turned to him, troubled.

“Why did you help him, Darcy? After all he’s done to you?”

Darcy looked out the window as the carriage began to move. His voice was calm, without bitterness.

“Because the cruelest revenge is not punishment—it is the truth. To force your enemy to admit, even in silence, that you were good... and he, despicable.”

He exhaled.

“That is a burden no man can carry easily.”