“Since failing to extort me through Lydia and then marrying into money, he proved himself to be more ruthless than I had ever thought possible. He put forth every effort to have the fashionable world think you a fallen woman. Wickham refused to acknowledge his child, and he wanted all of us to suffer. He has wished to punish me for his own failings all of his life, and he realised his best revenge on me was to ruin your reputation.”
“What would respectability matter to me if you were dead? Did you not think of me at all?”
“I thought only of you!” His temper blazed in indignation.
Elizabeth finally met his gaze, and Darcy regretted his loss of equanimity. She had believed him dead. Shock and ire at her needless grief would be powerful emotions raised by his sudden appearance. He could remember the withering heartache facing a future in which Elizabeth would have no part, and that was only when he knew she did not like him.
“Had we not anticipated our vows, Wickham would not have been able to provoke you so easily,” she whispered into the silence.
“I cannot deny that, but I do not regret what you and I have shared. Our actions, proper in our eyes but inappropriate in the eyes of others, did not justify Wickham seducing Lydia and slandering your reputation, nor his desiring to kill me.”
Darcy pulled off his gloves and reached out to hold her small, cold hands in his own. She seemed recomposed at this tentative contact and clung to his fingers.
“I ought to only think of how grateful I am that you returned to me,” Elizabeth said. “You met Wickham and defended our honour, such as it is, and now it is over. You were both unharmed, so it little matters now.” She leant into him and exhaled a shuddering breath of relief.
He was quiet for a long time while he embraced her and rested his chin on her head.
“No, we did not escape unwounded.” He felt her stiffen in his arms. “For the briefest of moments, I wanted to kill Wickham, to prevent him from ever being in a position to harm my family again. But, by the time our arms were raised, my sense of justice would not allow me to kill another man, even one as terrible as George Wickham. I could not aim with the intent of hitting him, although by some stroke of fortune I inflicted enough injury to satisfy all the witnesses and force his concession.”
“How severe was his injury? Did he hurtyou?”
“Only a graze.” He hoped that the wound on his side healed before Elizabeth had the chance to see for herself his close brush with death. “Fitzwilliam would be beyond delighted to regale you with the finer details, should you ask him. Suffice it to say, my shot was severe enough to end our meeting with our reputations preserved. Given the gossip surrounding the duel, it will all be known before long.”
“A vindictive spirit has overtaken my charitable feelings, and I think he deserves greater punishment,” she replied with a bitterness Darcy had not previously heard. “But I am grateful you did not kill him. He has caused us suffering, and he is a cruel man, but you would never have forgiven yourself had you ended his life. So Wickham is known to be culpable regarding Lydia, but will return to being someone of consequence in Bath and gamble away the fortune of his ill-gotten wife.” She shook her head. “How is that justice?”
Darcy sighed heavily and held her tighter. “Wickham is dead.”
She gave a start of surprise while she gaped at him. “You said that you did not inflict a mortal wound! What happened?”
The thunder of another pistol blast, so soon after the first, rang in Darcy’s ears. He was disoriented, and he could not explain how he found himself on the ground. There was a crushing weight against his chest that made it difficult to breathe. After the turbulent distress of the morning, he gave up struggling against it, rested his head on the grass, and once again closed his eyes. He was grateful for a moment’s respite against thinking about pistols, death, revenge, and fear.
“Darcy? Darcy!” Fitzwilliam’s voice was all around him, at first muffled, and then louder, but at least the pressure was removed from his chest. The frantic tone of the voice made Darcy realise that whatever was happening, it would not be proper for him to rest and forget about the day’s burdens. He sat up and saw that Fitzwilliam was in the process of rising to his knees, his face filled with terror.
Darcy then realised how he must have come to be lying on Kingsmead Field. His cousin had rushed toward him and tackled him to the ground. With a sickening turn of his stomach, he realised why Fitzwilliam had thrown him aside. Wickham, appallingly, had grabbed the pistol and, in a fit of rage, attempted to murder him.
“I am well; I am not hit,” he said as he rose to his feet, pulling Fitzwilliam up with him. Gratitude, loyalty, and fraternity were expressed through grasped hands and a poignant stare.
Darcy looked toward Wickham, his blood boiling and his eyes blazing. A righteous anger and the desire to see the wretched man punished overpowered him. However, when his mind ultimately comprehended the scene in front of him, his anger dissipated. The sight he beheld was so implausible that he turned to his cousin in disbelief. Fitzwilliam had no reply. He stared agape at the man on the ground and the man with the gun, looking between the two in silent confusion.
George Wickham was flat on his back, his pistol dropped at his side and a splatter of red staining the front of his waistcoat. Since Wickham’s eyes were open, Darcy thought he might be alive, but then he saw the dark pool of blood slowly spreading wider. His stomach lurched, and he had to close his eyes to regain his composure. When he blinked, he focused his eyes on Mr Lockwood, who stood looming over Wickham, a pistol still in his hand.
“It is unfortunate that your aim was too far to the right, Mr Darcy. You might have saved me the trouble of having to shoot the scoundrel myself.” When Darcy could only doubt and stare, Lockwood continued with more of the courteous unease that marked their previous interactions. “You need not express any gratitude to me, sir, for saving your life. Dispatching Mr Wickham was as much to my benefit as yours,” he said with a slight bow.
“Why?” Darcy asked in a voice that was not quite his own. “Your benefit? Why, why would—”
He heard a carriage door slam, followed by the noise of dragging feet and a plodding cane. A plain-featured, impeccably dressed woman limped toward the men clustered around Wickham’s body. Without a glance toward the body on the ground, she threw herself into the doctor’s arms, crying, “Edgar!”
He returned her embrace, dropping the pistol to wrap both his arms around her. “I asked you to stay in the carriage, Cathy.”
“We have to leave now!”
“It is a justifiable homicide. He might have killed Mr Darcy.”
“You cannot take that risk. I will not be parted from you now that we are finally rid of him. You could be hanged!”
“I do not understand. Who was the woman?” Elizabeth interrupted. “And why did the surgeon bring a pistol of his own?”
Darcy thought back to the confusion and chaos that followed the arrival of Mrs Wickham onto Kingsmead Field. “It took us time to sort out the details of the sordid business. I was grateful for Fitzwilliam’s interest in society gossip, although perhaps we ought to have been suspicious when Mr Lockwood eagerly offered his services.” He paused in his narrative, and Elizabeth did not prompt him to speak. She settled into his arms, her fingers still entwined with his own, and waited for him to continue.
