No matter what the past had hidden, the future would be faced together.
Elizabeth stood with Darcy, her heart pounding with a mixture of relief and love. As they turned to leave, her father’s voice stopped them at the door.
“Lizzy,” he said, his voice unexpectedly warm. “You have chosen well.”
Elizabeth could only nod, too overcome to speak. She followed Darcy into the hall, her hand still in his, their fingers entwining naturally, as though they were always meant to fit together.
And as they walked side by side towards the quiet parlour, Elizabeth thought to herself—I love him. I love him more than I ever thoughtpossible.
Wickham returned to Meryton with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips. The late autumn sun cast a pale golden glow across the village rooftops, but it was not the beauty of the day that lightened his mood—it was the weight of power resting comfortably in his hands.
He strolled along the high street, the heels of his boots tapping a jaunty rhythm against the cobblestones. With each stride, his thoughts became grander. He peered into shop windows, imagining what he could soon afford. A pair of polished Hessian boots here. A tailored coat with velvet lapels there. He paused before a haberdashery and admired a cravat of fine Irish linen embroidered with silver thread. It was elegant, bold—fitting for a gentleman of means.
Ten thousand pounds. The number glowed in his mind like a beacon. It was more than a windfall—it was freedom. With that much, he could quit the militia and never look back. He would purchase a house in town, well-appointed and close enough to the Assembly Rooms that his evenings would never lack for amusement. Then, he would commission a new wardrobe—every waistcoat cut to perfection, every coat lined in silk. He would dine at the finest establishments and secure a box at the theatre.
He would, at long last, be treated as he had always deserved. No longer a hanger-on, no longer scraping together favours from men like Darcy or bowing to the commands of imperious colonels. No, George Wickham would rise in the world, and all it would take was the ruin of one family. The thought made him grin.
And Darcy. Darcy would lose the woman he clearly adored. Wickham had seen it in every glance, every protective gesture. His old friend—so smug, so full of pride—would be brought low. That alone was worth the price of the game. Taking Elizabeth from him, even if only temporarily, would be a satisfying blow.
But the best part? If the money ever ran low, Wickham could simply threaten to reveal the truth again. A letter here, a whisper there. The Bennets would live under his shadow until the day he died. Unless, of course, they were brave enough to test his bluff—and from what he had heard of Mr Bennet’s inaction, that seemed unlikely.
He stepped into the inn with a flourish, letting the door swing shut behind him. The room was warm, smelling of roasted meat and spiced cider. The fire crackled in the hearth, and a few officers sat playing cards at a table in the corner. Wickham ignored them and made his way to the bar.
“A pitcher of your strongest ale,” he said with a wink to the barmaid, “and the best meal you can muster.”
The barmaid, a pretty brunette with wide eyes and a knowing smile, batted her lashes at him. “Yes, sir. Roast beef and parsnips today. I’ll bring it right over.”
As she turned, Wickham’s gaze lingered on her swaying hips. Yes, the life of luxury certainly suited him. With money in his pocket and a woman on his arm, he would be unstoppable.
He slid into a corner booth, stretched out his legs, and sighed contentedly. In his mind, he was already in London—already wearing his new coat, already basking in admiration from those who had once scorned him. All he had to do was wait.
Elizabeth had two days. Wickham would give her until the morning of the second day. Then he would send a note. Just a simple letter—clearinstructions, a meeting time and place. Once the money was in his hand and the letter to Darcy secured, he would vanish.
By the end of the week, he would be riding towards London, his pockets full and his future wide open. And the Bennets? They would be left in terrified silence, praying no more secrets ever surfaced.
Wickham leaned back as the barmaid brought his food, his expression one of smug satisfaction. The aroma of roast beef filled the air, rich and savoury. He carved a slice, savouring the first bite like a man already dining at a nobleman’s table.
“Here is to new beginnings,” he muttered with a smirk, raising his tankard in an invisible toast. “And to getting everything one deserves.”
The moon hung high over Meryton when he finally left the inn, its pale light spilled like milk across the empty streets. Inside the inn, the bustle of the day had quieted. The fire burned low, casting flickering shadows on the plaster walls. Laughter and music had long faded into the echoes of boots clomping up the stairs and doors shutting with varying degrees of care.
One such door banged open with little regard for stealth.
George Wickham stumbled out of the inn and towards his modest lodgings in the barracks, his coat askew and his cravat dangling loosely from his collar. His cheeks were flushed, and his breath reeked of brandy, ale, and whatever spirits the innkeeper had been willing to serve to a patron with coin and charm to spare.
He leaned heavily on the doorframe for a moment, blinking blearily around the small room. The single candle on the washstand had long since burned out. He did not bother to light another.
“Too good,” he slurred with a lopsided smile, kicking the door shut behind him. He tossed his hat vaguely in the direction of a chair—missing—and collapsed onto the narrow bed, boots and all. “They will never know what hit ‘em…”
The room tilted as he rolled onto his back, one arm flung across his eyes to block out the moonlight spilling through the curtainless window.
Tonight had been a victory. Cards with the officers, drinks with the innkeeper, teasing the barmaid into promising him a private breakfast… and the sweet satisfaction of imagining the panic that must now be gripping the Bennet household.
He chuckled to himself, low and slow.
“Ten thousand,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “Free of the militia… Darcy alone… Elizabeth heartbroken...”
He trailed off, his thoughts muddled and blurred by too much drink and too many indulgent dreams. Sleep crept up on him without resistance, dragging him under like a heavy blanket. The room stilled.
