Wickham’s voice faltered slightly. “The shame would kill him, Fitzwilliam. You know it would.”
The words struck their intended target. Darcy thought of Mr Wickham—the gentle old steward who had raised him after his parents’ death, who had been more father to him than his own blood. The man who still took pride in George’s clerical position despite years of disappointment.
“How many times have you watched him weep over my failures?” Wickham pressed. “The gambling debts, the drinking, the constant need for rescue. This would be different. This would destroy what little faith he retains in his son. Fitzwilliam, he was so proud when I finally finished my studies and took on the living. Do not take that from him.”
“I am the one who takes it from him? Me?” He could not believe the audacity. Yet, Darcy closed his eyes, seeing the old man’s weathered face. Mr Wickham’s health had been declining,his heart weak. The shock of learning his son had attempted to compromise an earl’s daughter might indeed stop his heart.
“What do you want from me?” Darcy asked quietly.
“As I said, money.”
“I told you before I could loan you nothing. It is all invited.”
Wickham sighed. “I do not ask for much. I must get away for a time. London, perhaps. Or York or some other forsaken place where my name is not known. Until this all dies away and I can return to Derbyshire.”
“They will find you sooner or later.”
“Not if you do not confirm Lady Elizabeth’s tale.”
Darcy’s lips parted at this latest demand.
“When they question you tomorrow, I need you to say you’re not certain it was me who attacked Lady Elizabeth.”
“You want me to lie.”
“I want you to admit reasonable doubt. It was dark, you acted on instinct, but you cannot swear with certainty to my identity. Many men were dressed similarly. From a distance, in poor light…”
Darcy saw the logic despite his revulsion. “That still leaves Lady Elizabeth’s testimony. And the couples of the terrace. I saw them. They saw you.”
“They were engaged in their own worlds. At best, they saw a dark-haired gentleman with her. As for her. The word of a distressed young woman against uncertainty from the only true witness. Without corroboration, they cannot pursue charges.”Wickham stopped pacing. “More importantly, it muddies the waters enough that gossip dies down rather than growing. She becomes a victim rather than a scandal.”
“And you escape all consequences.”
“Do I? I cannot return to my living for some while. And my idea to join the militia or read the law shall have to wait,” Wickham’s voice dropped. “Is that not punishment enough to spare an old man’s heart?”
Darcy stared at the moonlit garden, weighing impossible choices. Justice for Lady Elizabeth versus mercy for Mr Wickham. Truth versus the peace of mind of a man who deserved neither shame nor heartbreak for his son’s crimes.
In his mind, he saw the old steward’s gentle face—the man who had taught him everything about managing land and caring for people. Who had held him when he wept for his dead parents, who had taken pride in his small accomplishments, who had sacrificed his own comfort for Darcy’s education.
Could he be the instrument of such a man’s destruction?
“If I do this,” Darcy said slowly, “you disappear completely. I will not have you return here and attempt something else of this nature. I will do nothing to besmirch his name, or mine, or Lord Matlock’s.”
“You have my word.”
“Your word has proven worthless before.”
Wickham’s jaw tightened. “I have no desire to face English justice, I would call that motivation.”
“Wait here. Do not move.”
Darcy moved towards the cottage to retrieve his savings. It was all he had outside of the money invested.
When he returned to the garden, Wickham was preparing his horse.
“The money,” Darcy said, holding out the bills.
Wickham pocketed them quickly. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. You have made the right choice.”
