Darcy’s voice remained calm, measured. “Your present state is of your own making. Had you proven yourself worthy, I would have granted the living. Instead, you cursed me and then sought to abscond with my sister.”
Wickham’s jaw tightened. “I was owed that living. Your father promised—” He advanced a step, rage darkening his features.
“My father trusted you,” Darcy cut in, his gaze hard. He did not flinch. “But trust is not blind. Your conduct broke every claim you had to his good opinion, and to mine.”
“You sanctimonious—” Wickham came nearer, fists clenched. “You think yourself superior because you hide behind duty and pride. You know nothing of what it is to have no portion, no prospects.”
Darcy’s tone grew colder. “You had every advantage—a generous patron, an education, opportunity. Portion and prospects. Bah! You squandered them on gambling, dissipation, and vice. Do you comprehend what one of my tenants would give for the interest on four thousand pounds? One hundred sixty a year, man!”
The silence stretched between them. Wickham’s breath rose white in the frosty air. He offered no reply, though for a moment Darcy thought he discerned regret upon his countenance; or perhaps it was only self-pity.
“I came here,” Darcy said at last, “to give you a choice. Leave England and begin anew elsewhere, far removed from those you have deceived. Or remain and face the consequences. Debtors’ prison is not merciful, George.”
Wickham’s expression flickered—anger, calculation, and for an instant, fear. “I shall escape Meryton before the collectors come to call,” he seethed.
“I will not see another innocent suffer from your schemes,” Darcy pressed. “Not my sister, nor anyone in Meryton. You forget, I hold enough of your debts to see you confined for the rest of your miserable existence.”
At this, Wickham paled. “You would not dare,” he choked, his eyes bulging. “Your father—he would disapprove! What would he say, were you to send his favorite into that filthy den? I should die there, Darcy!”
“My father would be ashamed of the man you have become.” Darcy’s reply carried the weight of sorrow. “I thought the world of you when we were boys. I believed we should stand side by side for life. You might have applied your learning and managed Pemberley when your father died. Our own children might have grown together.”
Wickham’s laugh rang hollow. “I would not want a child of mine, especially a son, to suffer the humiliation of living beneath the shadow of Pemberley’s heir,” he spat. “Second best, always less. Never good enough.”
“You were more than equal, George. My father would not have sponsored your education otherwise. But you looked ever at what you lacked, rather than what you had.”
“That is easily said by one born to everything!” Wickham’s voice rose, startling a bird from the hedge. “Blast it all, Darcy. Can you not see? One day, something will strike you from your high horse, and then you will know why men turn to dishonorable means.”
If only he knew.Elizabeth had already done so. She had humbled him as none other, and he had not grown less honorable for it, but more. Why could Wickham not see that path? Darcy stepped forward then, his words low and firm. “You have three days. Choose.”
He turned to go, but Wickham called after him.
“You know I must accept. I need no three days.”
Darcy faced his former friend once more. “Very well. I shall write a draft. My man will see you to London. He will give you enough to begin anew. Go where you please, but if you ever return, I shall call in every debt I own and see you locked away forever. Am I understood?”
“Yes,master,” Wickham sneered. “As the great man commands.”
“Careful, Wickham.” A mirthless smile crossed his face. “Debtor’s prison is still an option. At least then I should know exactly where you are.”
Wickham blanched, swallowing hard. He said nothing.
“Be at the Netherfield gatehouse at dawn.” Darcy turned his back on Wickham for the last time that day and went to his horse.If all goes as planned, Wickham will be gone by tomorrow.
Chapter Sixteen
December 31, 1811
Netherfield Park
Darcy
AliveriedfootmanfromDarcy House had arrived at Netherfield the evening before bearing the seventh gift of Christmas. Though Darcy had wrestled with indecision over the selection, a sincere conversation with the Gardiners a few days earlier had offered inspiration. Their warm praise for the fine wares of Gardiner’s Emporium—their pride in quality and uniqueness—had settled his mind. The seventh gift would come from the very heart of her family. Something beautiful, practical, feminine—and personal.
Darcy had penned a note to his steward with careful instructions, detailing precisely what he wished to be procured and how it was to be prepared. The task was not lightlyentrusted. He had selected each piece by description, size, and material, requesting that all be wrapped individually in fine cotton squares—items useful in themselves, yet chosen to display forethought.
The footman, Jameson, tall and broad with the air of a seasoned soldier, had delivered the package to Darcy with solemn efficiency. His greater purpose, however, had not merely been to carry a parcel to the Gardiner household, but to stand ready for another mission: to escort George Wickham to London and, ultimately, out of England. Darcy had not forgotten his vow—to Elizabeth and to himself—that he would put an end to Wickham’s threats and misdeeds.
Later that night, in the solitude of his guest chamber at Netherfield, Darcy sat at the writing desk with the delicate fans spread before him, inspecting each one with painstaking care. They were exquisite—crafted of varied materials, painted and gilded with refinement. All were perfect for a lady of wit and grace, suitable for assemblies or evenings at the theatre.
