“I never forced you to believe my tale of woe. You seemed more than happy to gossip about goody-goody Darcy. I just encouraged you by telling you something that tickled your ears. You also seemed ready to lift up your skirts to me just like you sister Lydia has already done.”
Before he could utter another word his head snapped backwards with the force of Darcy’s punch and he fell backwards into a rose bush, “Speak one more disrespectful word to Miss Elizabeth and I will finish you right here, and feed you to the wild dogs of Kent.”
Wickham scrambled to his feet and spat out a mouth full of blood. His scarlet military cape was now torn to shreds and there were thorn scratches all over his head and face. But before he could retaliate as he seemed intent to do, Colonel Fitzwilliam touched his ribs with the tip of the pistol then said coldly, “Darcy grab his arms, twist them backwards roughly, make sure it hurts; then tie his hands up with your cravat.”
Wickham was then taken inside and locked up in the cellar while the magistrate was called. Colonel Fitzwilliam also informed the War office about Officer Wickham and his whereabouts.
A few days later a Colonel Boyd arrived from London as well as Colonel Forster and they took him away. He was to be to be tried for desertion, as well as the theft of a horse he took to ride to Kent without the permission of his Colonel.
While George Wickham was away from his regiment an investigation was carried out and it was discovered that he had unpaid debts in Meryton alone amounting to more than six hundred pounds, along with many indecent offenses against the local female population, leaving a few young ladies expecting his bastard children.
Even before the trial it was clear that his fate was set. With such heavy evidence against him he would hang in a few days...his luck had finally run out...and that he knew without a doubt. He had played the game and come out short.
The writing was finally on the wall for Lieutenant George Wickham!
***
A few days later a new tragedy struck Rosings.
Lord Matlock was preparing to return to London, to take his sister to face the court system and the judge who would decide her fate, when Lady Catherine was found dead in her bedchamber.
She had asked her maid to ask the cook to make her a farewell cake and serve tea in the best tea set Rosings Park possessed. The cook had made her former mistress her favourite, which was a peach cake decorated with imported grapes from Spain and local walnuts.
An hour later when the maid went to clear the tea things she found Lady Catherine in the same state she had found Mr Collins a few days prior.
The poor maid had to go through the same trauma and investigation all over again so once the inquest was over she left Rosings vowing that she would never be a rich lady’s maid ever again.
She married Mr Burns, the Hunsford resident blacksmith who had been asking for her hand in marriage for almost two years. She lived happily, in peaceful poverty surrounded by iron instruments from her husband’s trade... but she never had to look upon another bloody, dead body ever again.
Lady Catherine took the coward’s way out for she knew she had no defence. She could try and claim that Mr Collins’ death was a tragic accident, which it undoubtedly was, but she couldnot defend herself against the fact that she had indeed intended to kill another.
Miss Anne de Bourgh, after her initial shock and grief, a blow that almost threw her back into the comfort of laudanum once more, became more assertive. The young landowner embraced the title of official mistress of Rosing's with gusto and compassion, unlike her mother before her. Her first act as mistress of the estate was to invite Charlotte Collins to stay and live in the manor house, since the parsonage would have to be assigned to a new parson very soon.
With Charlotte almost fully recovered Elizabeth and Jane must return home. Bingley offered to take them back in his carriage, which was accepted with gratitude.
Bingley intended to reopen Netherfield Park and his excitement was contagious. He invited all his friends to join him there.
Darcy wished nothing more than to accept his friend’s invitation, but his fear that Elizabeth would still reject him, after all the latest tragedies, was unrelenting.
Elizabeth had been avoiding Mr Darcy, as her shame in believing Mr Wickham over him was unbearable.
However the day before her departure he invited her for a walk around the woods, the stroll they had enjoyed many times before.
As they set out he offered her his arm and she took it, placing her hand lightly on his muscled and strong arm. The conversation was stale to start with as they both found it hard to broach deeper subjects, until she asked, “Mr Darcy I hate to sound impertinent but why did you not advise the members of the Meryton community about the evils of accepting Mr Wickham as a friend when you both lived among us?”
He looked at her and raised his brows, “I should have Miss Elizabeth, and this is one of my many regrets. But would they have listened? Would you?”
She paled, “Maybe not.” She bit her lower lip, “I must confess that the general prejudice against you was so violent that it would have meant the death of half the good people of
Meryton to attempt to place you in an amiable light.” She teased him, “I also have to confess that half of that prejudice was fuelled by me, in my endorsing Mr Wickham’s assertions against you, without hesitation and with alacrity.” She looked down, her face marked by regret.
“Wickham always had the gift of the gab; he could always charm people without much difficulty, my own father among them.”
“It is kind of you to lift any blame from my shoulders Mr Darcy, but I am not deserving of it. I did you great harm sir, by believing a rake over you.”
“Please do not condemn yourself Miss Elizabeth; he certainly does not deserve your self-reproach.”
“It is no use... I am utterly ashamed of my behaviour... and my sister Lydia’s... do you think he...?”
