“William,” breathed Elizabeth.
She stepped from the earl’s embrace, and soon she was in his arms, their tears mingling together as Darcy repeated in her ear: “Thank God!” Though Elizabeth said nothing, she trembled inhis arms from the ordeal, pressing herself so tightly against him that Darcy could not tell where he ended and she began.
“You are unhurt?” asked Darcy after a moment of sheer bliss holding her in his arms.
“I am well, William,” said Elizabeth.
“On your feet, cur,” snapped a man standing around the figure prone on the ground, his voice identifying him as Fitzwilliam.
The two footmen grasped his arms, holding them behind his back, while they lifted the man—Wickham—to his feet. To Darcy’s surprise, Wickham did not curse or struggle. There was a gleam in his eyes, a wildness that told Darcy he had not given up, but that on some level, he recognized the end of his schemes. Not only had this man attempted to kidnap a gentlewoman and hold her ransom, break into a house, and who knew what else, but they also had a strong suspicion he had executed the murder of a man in cold blood. Given the earl’s expression of disgust for the libertine, Darcy knew it was only a matter of time before he met his end at the gallows.
“Hold him in the stables,” Fitzwilliam instructed the two men. “Truss him up and do not allow him to escape. Coordinate with Mr. Gates—there is never to be less than two men watching him.”
“Yes, colonel,” said one of the footmen
Several men from Darcy’s estate took charge of George Wickham and marched him to the stables with barely a fight. When they were gone, Fitzwilliam turned to Elizabeth and, with exaggerated slowness and unmistakable regard, he bowed to her.
“I am gratified that you are well, Mrs. Darcy. Your quick actions resulted in the capture of that libertine. Most men I know would not have been so courageous.”
“Thank you, colonel,” said Elizabeth, her voice soft and hesitant. “It was instinct, nothing more.”
“Perhaps it would be best to take the explanations inside,” said Lord Matlock. “Mrs. Darcy appears to need a restorative draught.”
Darcy nodded and turned to guide Elizabeth into the house with the two men flanking them. It may have been easier to walk had she pulled away from him, but Elizabeth would not have it, walking with her arms clasped around him; Darcy did not protest. In truth, Darcy had little more desire than she to allow her to stray two paces away from him.
When they arrived back at the house, the entire family had gathered, waiting for their return. Though no one understood yet what had happened, even the younger girls understood it was something significant, given the long faces and confusion. Mrs. Bennet took one look at Elizabeth and took charge.
“Bring her into the sitting-room, William,” said she, her manner businesslike. “I have asked Mrs. Reynolds to provide a tea service. Stories can wait.”
Grateful to his mother-in-law for her calm demeanor, Darcy did as she asked, guiding Elizabeth into the room. Bingley and Miss Bingley were already standing next to Jane, who appeared frightened out of her wits. The moment she saw Elizabeth, she hurried forward, inspecting her and grasping her hand—if Elizabeth had not been attached to Darcy’s side, he knew Jane would have thrown her arms around her sister.
“I am well, Jane,” said Elizabeth, smiling to prove she was telling the truth. “It has been a trying evening.”
“Come, Jane,” said Mrs. Bennet, steering her eldest daughter away, knowing that Elizabeth needed her husband more than any other. “Let us allow them to settle, then William and Elizabeth can tell the story we are all desperate to hear.”
Jane acquiesced, though she would not allow her mother to lead her far from Elizabeth. When Darcy settled on the sofa, drawing his wife down next to him almost in his lap, Jane sat nearby, took Elizabeth’s hand, and would not let it go. The rest of the company filtered in thereafter, taking seats nearby or standing according to their inclination. Several approached with a few words of comfort or asking after Elizabeth’s state, including Mr. Bennet, who offered a few jests and moved around the sofa to take a position behind them, appearing not unlike a sentry. Not long thereafter, the servants entered bearing several trays laden with tea, cakes from earlier in the day, biscuits, and other comforting morsels that would help the family regain their composure. Soon after that, Fitzwilliam and Lord Matlock entered the room, having changed their clothing. Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow at Darcy upon seeing Elizabeth’s position next to him, but when Darcy shrugged, he grinned and nodded, understanding the comfort only spouses can offer to each other.
“Now that we are all here,” said the earl, taking control without hesitation, we should speak of what has happened.”
“That would be for the best,” agreed Bennet. “The sooner we discuss it, the more quickly it becomes the past.”
The earl gave him a tight nod. “Only a few in this room have the full story, and there are a few details we should leave out. The first thing you should know is that Wickham is in custody and will not escape justice.”
“I beg your pardon, Lord Matlock,” ventured Mrs. Bennet, “but who is Mr. Wickham?”
“Mr. Wickham is the son of my uncle’s steward,” said Fitzwilliam, taking up the narrative. “Old Wickham was an excellent man, one who discharged his duties with honor and care. Though unfortunate, the younger Wickham never inherited those traits from his father, in part because of theinfluence of his mother, who always lusted for more than she had.
“My uncle was attached to Wickham, and my cousin chose not to reveal Wickham’s character to him. When my uncle died, he left Wickham a bequest of one thousand pounds and paid him an additional three thousand pounds to leave his life forever. It seems Wickham had no intention of fading into history.”
“Anthony,” the small voice of Georgiana interrupted the account, “was Mr. Wickham complicit in my brother’s death?”
The room went silent at her question, and Fitzwilliam did not answer for several moments, searching Georgiana’s face for what Darcy did not know. The information was never to reach Georgiana’s ears, or at least not like this. Fitzwilliam, however, must have decided that Georgiana’s suspicions constituted enough justification to tell her the truth.
“He was, Georgiana,” said he, striding to her and holding one of her hands in his. “Darcy and I discovered evidence of Wickham’s guilt the day I left for London. The reason I left was to confront Mrs. Younge again.”
Georgiana offered a nod, finding no words to say what she felt. Darcy did not blame her—there was nothing about this entire affair that was comprehensible.
“When I heard the commotion was because of Mr. Wickham’s audacity...” Georgiana paused and swallowed. “It seemed likely his schemes were deeper than just abducting Elizabeth.”
