Wickham shifted slightly. “I... believed it necessary to pay a call to Miss Lydia Bennet.”
“Oh. No more than that, is it?”
“No, sir. I hoped to clarify a misunderstanding.”
“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 campperimeter—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 coathanging 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.
