“Who?” Lydia demanded sharply, her face contorting into a grimace, unwilling to hear anything that might spoil her pleasure in the officers’ company.
“I do not know whether we should bore our guests with such local tales,” interjected Mrs Bennet.
“No, pray tell!” said Mrs Reynolds unexpectedly. “It is essential that young ladies understand the dangers of the world.”
Elizabeth thanked her with a smile, wondering whether she had once been a governess before becoming a housekeeper.
“It is about Mr Wickham—”
“Wickham?” exclaimed Mr Balfour. “Surely not the same—”
“Indeed, it is,” said Elizabeth, immediately grasping the meaning of his astonishment.
“The son of Pemberley’s former steward?” he asked, still incredulous, for the coincidence was remarkable.
“Yes, the son of Pemberley’s late steward,” Elizabeth confirmed, casting another glance at her uncle, who appeared to know more than what her father had written to him.
“And what has that scoundrel done now?” asked Mrs Reynolds, her contempt for him unmistakable, making Elizabeth suspect that she knew of the incident at Ramsgate, where Wickham had attempted to seduce Miss Darcy.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr Phillips in surprise. “Then you in Derbyshire are also acquainted with his misdeeds.”
“Misdeeds is too mild a term,” declared Mrs Reynolds. “He is a scoundrel, and I am astonished that the militia does not select its men more carefully.”
“The militia is not the army,” Mr Phillips explained. “Almost anyone may join, provided they meet certain requirements, none of which pertain to character or morality. Colonel Forster summoned me only a few days ago to witness something unpleasant. Wickham was taken under escort to London—to debtors’ prison. It appears he has amassed enormous debts.”
“To Fleet Prison?” asked Elizabeth, so shocked that all at the table noticed her distress.
“Most likely. The Fleet is where most of those unable to pay their debts are held, particularly those from certain social ranks,” replied Mr Phillips.
Elizabeth realised she must immediately offer an explanation for her agitation, especially to her family, who knew that she had once regarded Mr Wickham with favour. Under no circumstances did she wish them to believe she harboured any regret.
“I am shocked because Mr Darcy, too, suffered greatly at the hands of this man, whom I now consider not only a villain but a dangerous one.”
Immediately after dinner, her uncle made a discreet gesture, and they withdrew to a corner while the others conversed over a glass of sherry.
“Why were you so shocked?” he asked.
Elizabeth hesitated for a moment before deciding to tell him the truth. She trusted him; after all, he was a solicitor well-versed in the law and its applications.
“Darcy’s cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, captured the man who shot him—”
“My goodness!” Mr Phillips exclaimed in astonishment.
“But the story does not end there. It seems he was paid to do it.”
Her uncle’s expression turned to utter shock, and she continued.
“He was a deserter from the army…but here the tale grows strange. He and others had hidden themselves in the woods around St Albans—”
“And Colonel Forster and his regiment were tasked with searching for them?”
“Exactly. It appears they found them, but this one escaped. He was helped by an officer—the very one who paid him to shoot Darcy.”
Silence fell between them, heavy as murky water, for both were deeply disgusted. The same thought that had crossed Colonel Fitzwilliam’s mind now occurred to Mr Phillips.
“The villain who fired the shot is at Fleet Prison,” Elizabeth whispered as the others interrupted, inviting them to share one last drink. But Mr Phillips needed no furtherexplanation. To him, everything was clear—Wickham had been taken to Fleet Prison, likely to be identified by the assassin.
Elizabeth remained silent, incapable of joining in the merriment around her, for she knew not what would come next, nor whether Darcy or Georgiana remained in danger.
