“I would have made use of what was mine,” Wickham snapped.
“You took her to London,” Darcy said, redirecting the conversation.
Wickham nodded, pride creeping into his expression. “Mrs Younge arranged everything.”
Darcy disliked the mention of his sister’s former companion but said nothing as Wickham continued. He spoke of all the arrangements. The babe had arrived early, which explained why they had stayed in London forso long after Anne’s disappearance. After a few weeks, Anne felt she could travel, and the couple hired a coach to take them north.
“We never made it.” Wickham’s voice cracked. “One moment, we were bouncing along in a horribly sprung carriage and the next… The crash did not render me unconscious. It was clear Anne was gravely wounded. She was bleeding and fading fast. I knew there was no hope. She was not my wife. The child was born out of wedlock. I had no claim to any of her fortune. As the will said, if Anne died unmarried, everything reverted to Lady Catherine.”
“So you left them,” Darcy growled. “You left Anne to die and abandoned your child in a ditch.”
“What else was I to do?” Wickham snapped. “There was nothing left for me. No claim, no fortune, no future. I did what I always do. I cut my losses.”
Richard stepped closer, his voice filled with contempt. “And then you tried the same thing with Georgiana.”
Wickham scoffed. “Yes, well…it worked so well with your other cousin.”
Darcy’s fists clenched, and he stepped between his cousin and the prisoner.
“You are worse than the lowest blackguard and libertine,” Richard snarled. “If there were any justice in the world, you would be locked away until your bones turned to dust.”
Wickham gave a crooked smile. “Then perhaps I shall start praying there is no justice.”
Darcy shook his head slowly, his disgust plain.
“There is,” he said. “And you will not escape it this time.”
They resumed walking. Behind them, the broken remnants of Wickham’s schemes lay buried beneath the winter woods—ashes, blood, and achild’s forgotten tears. Ahead, the road led to Meryton… and a reckoning long overdue.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Elizabeth sat stiffly in the study, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her fingers ached from the tension, but she dared not relax them. Mr Darcy and Mr Fitzwilliam stood near the hearth, their coats still dusted with the dirt and brambles of the woods. Mr Bennet had closed the door behind them, shutting out the worried murmurs of the household. The clock ticked too loudly in the silence that followed.
Tommy was upstairs. Jane and the younger girls had gathered around him, offering him warmth, comfort, and a sense of safety. He refused to be left alone. Every creak of the floorboards or gust of wind sent him clinging to Jane’s hand, and his eyes still bore the haunted shadow of fear. Elizabeth longed to go to him, but she knew she must face this first.
Darcy’s face was unreadable. His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed, and his gaze fixed on the floor between them. Mr Fitzwilliam, by contrast, looked openly grave, but his presence still carried a current of strength and assurance. He and Darcy had returned not long ago, and the entire house had quieted to hear what would come next.
At last, Mr Fitzwilliam broke the silence.
“Wickham is in custody,” he said. “The magistrate has taken our sworn statements. There will be a formal process, of course, but I do not expect much difficulty. Between the evidence and the eyewitness accounts, the case against him is strong. Though child-stealing is not against the law, blackmailis, especially when one of lower class seeks to exploit a gentleman. Besides, Darcy holds enough debts to see him transported.”
Mr Bennet, seated behind his desk, nodded slowly, but there was no triumph in his expression—only weariness. His voice when he spoke was rough with fatigue.
“And what of Miss de Bourgh?” he asked. “Will you tell Lady Catherine?”
Elizabeth’s stomach turned at the mention. She dared not look at Darcy.
“We have not decided,” Richard answered. “Not yet.”
“But you will?” Elizabeth’s voice emerged before she could stop it, and the tremor in her tone betrayed her struggle. She swallowed and straightened in her chair. “She deserves to know. Miss de Bourgh—Anne deserves to be mourned.”
Richard inclined his head. “She does. My aunt may be a proud and difficult woman, but I believe it would bring her great joy to know that a piece of Anne survives. And we can lay her to rest properly now, not as an unknown woman buried namelessly in Longbourn’s churchyard.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, her throat aching with emotion. She could still see Anne’s pale, bloodless face in her memory, the way her voice had broken when she pressed the child into Elizabeth’s arms. “Take him,” she had said. Elizabeth had obeyed without question.
“But,” Mr Bennet said, “to admit the truth means my family loses everything.” His words were slow, resigned. “The entail. The estate. All of it. If it becomes known that Tommy is not my son, not my heir, then Mr Collins will inherit after all. It would be a blow after all we have done to secure it, though he does intend to marry Mary.”
The room fell silent again. Elizabeth could not breathe.
