So intense had Elizabeth’s concentration been on Wickham and the carefully choreographed scene unfolding in the room, she startled when an apologetic Hill announced another caller. “Mr. Collins, sir,” he said, standing aside to allow the clergyman to pass.
Mr. Collins bowed and creaked, impervious to the interruption he had caused. What on earth was he doing at Longbourn? Why was he still lingering at Lucas Lodge, for that matter?
Ignoring Mr. Collins completely, Fitzwilliam cut through the silence. “What took you so long to arrive?” he demanded.
Knowing his words were certainly not meant forhim, Mr. Collins crept across the room and slinked into a chair.
Wickham’s eyes hardened. “I came as soon as I received word. I rode as quickly as I could, but you more than anyone are aware of the distance.”
“You maintain that you were with your regiment when you received word?”
“Have you become an inspector, Darcy?” Wickham scoffed. “Where else was I supposed to be?”
He was sticking with his story. Elizabeth was glad. The more he insisted, the more satisfying it would be to catch him in his lie.
“What happened to your hands?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“I am a humble soldier on insufficient pay. My lodgings suffer from unwelcome guests. Another reason I wished to remove Lydia from the unhealthy surroundings.”
“You look agitated, Mr. Wickham,” Papa said, calling for Mrs. Hill. “Pray fetch some of the nerve tonic my dear daughter praised before her premature demise. She would want him to take comfort in the elixir he so kindly provided.”
Wickham squirmed in his chair. “That is hardly necessary.”
“You are in denial, my boy. It is perfectly normal for grieving husbands to partake of something other than spirits to ease the pain.”
Mrs. Hill returned, bearing Lydia’s prettily painted bottle on top of a silver salver.
Wickham swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the liquid sloshing half-way up the glass. He made no move to take the bottle.
Papa instructed, “Pour Mr. Wickham a generous amount. He is greatly distressed.”
Mama took the tonic, shaking the dark liquid and moving closer to Wickham, the soup spoon filled to the top. “Lydia said you had this specially made for her.” She held the spoon in front of him, poking his lips with the silver like a mother coercing a child to take his cod liver oil.
The room held its breath, its occupants on pins and needles as she prodded, and he squirmed away.
“Why do you not drink the tonic?” asked Mary, her question sounding like a scold.
Fitzwilliam’s patience tired quicker than Wickham and Mama’s little game of joust and jab. ”Tell us why you refuse to drink.”
With a huff, Mama dribbled the spoonful back into the bottle.
Wickham said nothing.
“Desist with this despicable disguise. You will not drink because you know it is poisonous. When your wife did not succumb to your scheme, you attempted to murder her in her sleep with a hive of angry bees.” Fitzwilliam’s sharp words shattered Wickham’s defense. He blanched.
“Before this room of witnesses, we charge you with the murder of your wife and unborn child,” Bingleypronounced.
Papa stood, pointing his finger at Wickham. “Along with the attempted murder of my Lizzy.”
Eyes white with terror, Wickham looked about the room for a supporter, and found none. “I swear … I swear on my own life … I had nothing to do with any assault against Miss Elizabeth.”
“You deny it?” demanded Darcy.
“I would never bring harm to anyone connected with you,” Wickham insisted, rising to his feet.
Fitzwilliam released his hold on Elizabeth’s shoulder, stepping closer to Wickham. “You are mistaken in your reasoning. Do you think I could treat Mrs. Wickham as anything less than my own sister? Any attack against Elizabeth’s family is an assault against me, and my loyalty prevents me from sheltering you from the consequences.”
Wickham’s eyes widened. He held his hands in front of him, a flimsy barrier. “I swear on my life. I never meant to harm anyone. It was an accident.”
