Colonel Forster stood by the window of his quarters, arms folded behind his back, the faint light of the overcast afternoon catching on the brass trim of his epaulettes. Mr. Richard King’s written complaint lay open on the desk behind him, weighted by the infamous note—a folded square of paper that had nearly undone a young woman’s reputation. He turned only when the door opened to admit Mr. Wickham, who entered with his customary elegance, though the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed unease.
“Colonel Forster, sir,” Wickham said with a bow, “you requested my attendance?”
“I did, Mr. Wickham,” the colonel replied coldly. “You may close the door behind you. Mr. Denny, kindly remain as witness.”
Denny, already present and leaning against the mantelpiece with folded arms, inclined his head but said nothing. He had not addressed Wickham since the day’s gossip had reached him.
“Mr. Wickham,” the colonel began, his voice measured but unmistakably severe, “it is with reluctance that I find myself addressing an offence of this nature. You should know that Mr. King, a respected gentleman of Meryton, has lodged a formal complaint against you. This complaint is accompanied by written proof—your note to Miss Mary King, proposing elopement this very night. Have you lost your mind, Wickham?”
The officer’s brow furrowed in a performance of concern. “Sir, if I may—”
“You may not,” the colonel cut in. “You will listen first. This is no idle scolding. I should also inform you that Miss King has been removed from the county by her family, and I am told she is now safely in Liverpool, out of the reach of your attentions. You have endangered her name and embarrassed this regiment. What you have done is despicable, Wickham—and it leaves you scarcely a shadow of honour to stand upon.”
“Sir, if I may, I never intended—”
“You intended precisely what your letter outlined,” the colonel snapped, striking the folded note with the back of his hand. “What excuse can you possibly offer for such ignoble conduct?”
Wickham hesitated. He was pale beneath the healthy colour of his complexion, and his hands twitched slightly behind his back. “I confess,” he said slowly, “that my judgment was… clouded. I had come to believe Miss King returned my affections, and I—well, I imagined we might find happiness in our own way, away from interference.”
Denny scoffed quietly, but the colonel’s gaze did not waver.
“Happiness?” Forster repeated. “By tricking an orphan girl into leaving her guardian’s house in the dead of night? That is not happiness, sir. That is exploitation. And in light of other matters, your claims of affection are poor defence indeed.”
Wickham shifted uneasily. “Other matters, sir?”
“You know of what I speak—or at least you should, Wickham. Debts. Money owed to your fellow officers—Denny among them, I believe. Dice, cards, wagers. You have behaved, sir, not as a gentleman, but as a rake in uniform.”
Denny straightened. “He owes me thirty pounds, Colonel. Promised me twice he would settle it. That was three weeks ago.”
“I have every intention of repaying—”
“Good. And I have every intention of maintaining discipline in this regiment,” Forster thundered. “I have tolerated morethan I ought. You are not dismissed—not yet, Mr. Wickham—but understand this: from this day forward, you are under restriction. You will not attend any assemblies or social gatherings without my written approval. You will report daily to my office, and any further whisper of impropriety, no matter how minor, will result in your immediate removal from the militia under formal disgrace.”
Wickham’s voice, when it came, was low and controlled. “I understand, sir.”
“Do you?” the colonel demanded. “Because I assure you, my leniency is exhausted. One more offence, and I will not shield you. Consider yourself fortunate that Mr. King has not chosen to press charges.”
A long silence fell. Mr. Denny looked away, ashamed of the man he had once considered a friend.
At length, Wickham offered a stiff bow. “I regret that my conduct has disappointed you, Colonel. It shall not happen again.”
“For your sake,” said Colonel Forster coldly, “I hope that proves true. You may go.”
Wickham left without another word, his face a rigid mask. Outside, the grey afternoon seemed to match the chill that clung to his shoulders. He walked quickly, head down—no longer the golden officer of Meryton society, but a man freshly marked by suspicion.
Within the colonel’s quarters, Mr. Denny exhaled and shook his head. “It was bound to come to this, sir.”
Colonel Forster folded the note and placed it back inside the letter he was to send Mr. King in answer to his complaint. “I only hope it ends here,” he said grimly. “But somehow, I doubt it.”
***
The late-autumn light at Pemberley was fading into a quiet gold when Mr. Darcy withdrew from his study desk, a single letter resting on the blotter like a leaf drifting on still water. He had read it more than once—carefully, then again, as if it might reveal something deeper with each pass. But no—the truth had been clear from the first reading.
It was Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s second letter.
He had not known what to expect when he broke the seal. Her first reply had been thoughtful and proper, yet reserved. But this—this one had caught him unawares. It was not full of sentiment, and yet he had never read a page that moved him more. It was honest. Open. Not a confession, but a door slightly ajar.
Your letter did not fall upon an indifferent mind, and it has not left an indifferent heart behind it.
