James bowed slightly, his reply calm and unadorned, yet touched with the quiet satisfaction of duty fulfilled. “It was only what the moment required, sir. No thanks are needed.”
“I wonder if he is the man I suspect. If so, ‘unharmed’ may not have been the wisest choice. So—who is he?”
“I do not know, sir,” James Bennet interjected. “Besides threats and swearing, I got nothing out of him. He is wicked and stubborn. But you are right—you know him. Last night you refused him the right to dance with Miss Darcy. I thought he had resigned himself. He seemed instead to want revenge. A strange man. I tied him up and locked him in the coal cellar.”
Only then did Mr. Darcy turn his attention to the mistress of the parsonage. “Mrs. Collins,” he said, his tone leaving no roomfor doubt, “would you allow the gentleman to be brought before me? I would speak with him directly.”*
Charlotte signalled to James, who exited the room, and after a few minutes returned escorting Wickham into the parlour with a grip that remained firm, though not rough. Wickham’s countenance, upon seeing Darcy, shifted from sullen defiance to wary calculation, though he attempted a semblance of his former easy manner.
“Darcy,” he began, his voice touched with forced lightness that rang hollow in the quiet room, “this is all a misunderstanding, I assure you—”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze fixed upon him with icy precision, silencing the protest before it could gather strength. “First of all, the rules of decorum must be respected. You were not properly introduced to Mrs. Collins, the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, where you now stand. These gentlemen are Mr. James and Mr. Elias Bennet of Hertfordshire. You owe them a bow. Politeness, though scarce in you, remains expected.”
He turned briefly to the others, his posture rigid with restrained anger as he regarded Wickham with cold disdain. “This is George Wickham—my late father’s godson—for whom even a Cambridge education proved insufficient to instil character,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice low and cutting, the words carrying the weight of long-held contempt that silenced the room for a moment.
“You are unjust, Mr. Darcy, and you know it,” Wickham replied swiftly, his tone shifting to one of wounded indignation as he attempted to recover his composure, though a flicker of unease crossed his features. “I meant Miss Darcy no harm—not now, nor at Ramsgate.”
“But you did nothing to help the young lady,” Elias Bennet intervened firmly, his voice steady and resolute as he stepped forward slightly, his gaze fixed upon Wickham with quiet condemnation.
“That is not true—” Wickham began, his protest rising with defensive heat.
“You lie again, Wickham,” Mr. Darcy interjected, his tone icy and unyielding as he held the scoundrel's gaze without retreat.
“No,” Wickham countered, his voice lowering to a persuasive whisper though desperation edged it, his eyes darting between Darcy and Elias as he sought to regain ground. “The truth is on my side, and you cannot act against me without endangering your sister’s reputation, Darcy—and you know it.”
“‘Alas, poor Yorick,’” Mr. Darcy said coolly. “You will speak only when addressed, Wickham. This morning has confirmed me—through enquiries with a notary—what I suspected upon seeing you last evening: your alleged marriage was never lawful; your inheritance was obtained by forgery and fraudulent mortgages upon an estate that was never yours. The papers are already secured. I did not expect to find you so quickly.”
Wickham’s bravado collapsed, colour draining from his face. “You cannot prove—”
“I can, and I shall,” Darcy interrupted. “You will be taken into custody today—not for today’s outrage, which shall remain known only to those whose discretion I trust—but for crimes of fraud that admit no ambiguity. Your schemes end here.”
Mr. Darcy turned to Charlotte. “Mrs. Collins, if you would be so kind as to send your stableman to summon the constable at once. The matter must be handled with all due discretion.”
“It shall be done immediately, sir,” Charlotte replied, inclining her head.
As she moved to give the instruction, Elias watched Darcy with deepening respect. And in the hush that followed, as Wickham stood silenced and defeated, Elias felt a stirring of hope that what had been forged in peril might yet endure.
Meanwhile, Mr. James Bennet took Wickham back to the coal cellar.
***
A perfect host as always, Mrs. Collins had done all that could be done upstairs with speed and good sense: Georgiana settled comfortably in a quiet chamber, the maid instructed in every particular of caring for the young lady, and the worst immediate disarray removed from sight with the efficiency born of long habit. Yet Charlotte’s composure, though outwardly unchanged, held a sharper edge as she returned to the parlour and found Mr. Darcy and the Bennet brothers serving tea together—three gentlemen united by circumstance, and each perfectly aware that the smallest mismanaged detail might yet be twisted into scandal by those less discreet than themselves.
She closed the door behind her with quiet precision, the latch settling with a soft click that seemed to underscore the gravity of the moment.
“Gentlemen,” she said, addressing each with a measured nod that conveyed both respect and urgency, “pray forgive my brief absence. I trust the tea is to your satisfaction?” She moved to the table with calm deliberation, lifting the pot as if to offer refills, her eyes glancing over each of them in turn. “Is there anythingfurther you require—perhaps another cup, or something stronger to restore you after the morning’s exertions?”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, his voice low and courteous. “The tea is most welcome, Mrs. Collins. Thank you. We require nothing more at present.”
Mr. James Bennet echoed the sentiment with a quiet nod, while Elias, already seated with his hands resting lightly on the arm of his chair, offered a faint, appreciative smile that acknowledged her thoughtfulness.
Charlotte set the pot down gently, her movements unhurried, yet deliberate enough to draw their attention fully to her before she spoke again. “My husband will return presently,” she continued in a lower voice that carried the weight of necessity, “and it is upon that subject that I must speak plainly, if you will indulge me.”
James’s brows rose a fraction in evident surprise, his posture shifting slightly as he absorbed the implication, while Elias did not move, though his attention fixed upon her at once with a quiet intensity that betrayed his quick understanding.
Charlotte crossed to the tea-table—not to busy herself with it in a show of domestic distraction, but to place herself where she could be heard without appearing to hold a secret council, her manner remaining calm yet laced with the quiet resolve that had ever guided her through trials greater than this. Her eyes moved from Mr. Darcy to the brothers, assessing their readiness before she proceeded.
“I must speak plainly,” she continued, her voice steady yet softened by the solicitude of one who knew the weight of what she asked, “for there is no time for circumlocution. Mr. Collins is, in many respects, an excellent man; but discretion is not among his virtues when Lady Catherine is concerned.”
