Page 75 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“Mama,” Anne said calmly.

“Calm down, Cathy, before you suffer an apoplexy,” Lord Matlock boomed.

“Do not call me that,” she hissed back.

“Lady Catherine,” Wickham used her preferred title. “I understand your distress, but we must be practical, and⁠—”

“Practical?! You want my nephew declared dead so you can steal his inheritance when we all know it should go to my Anne.”

“Mama, I have no interest beyond Rosings. Uncle Darcy would never name me in his will to inherit. Richard is most likely to be named.”

Darcy watched Elizabeth. She did not move or even blink, but her knuckles were as white as her skirts and her father’s face.

A sharp rap against wood cut through the chaos. “Ladies and gentleman, order!” Wrayburn declared with judge-like authority. The room settled, although Darcy heard Lady Catherine mumbling. “Lord Matlock,” began Wrayburn, “you present compelling evidence. Mr. Wickham, your solicitor makes valid points.” He paused, and Darcy sensed Wickham’s exultation. “However, before we proceed, I must be absolutely certain of the facts as you present them and as the evidence supports.”

“Forgive me, sir,” the other solicitor said, “but what more do you require? We have testimony, documentation, and physical evidence.”

“Indeed, you have been most thorough. The passenger list, a sailor’s testimony. The Darcy heir’s ring.” Wrayburn paused, letting the moment stretch. Even Darcy, who knew what Wrayburn planned to say, was anxious. Waiting until the room was in complete silence, Wrayburn held up the ring. “You are certain this was recovered from the wreckage of the Britannia?”

“The rower found it caught in the mud with the tide,” Wickham said. “I compensated him generously and presented it to the river police at once. Before I spoke to anyone.”

“Before you spoke to the reporter from The Times?”

“Of course.”

“You stand by that?”

“I do.”

Wrayburn opened the satchel beside him and withdrew a sheaf of papers, sorting through them with a frown of concentration intended to try their patience. Finally, he extracted a single document. “I have here a sworn statement from a Mr. Abraham Cole, jeweler and licensed appraiser, of 14 Cheapside. He states that on the tenth of September, 1801—shortly after Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy departed England—a young man matching your description, Mr. Wickham, presented this ring to him for valuation.” He set the document on the desk. “He recorded the transaction in his ledger on that date. He has produced the original ledger.” Another document joined the first. “I ask you again, Mr. Wickham: how did you come to be in possession of this ring ten years before you claim a rower found it in the wreckage of a ship?”

The silence in the room was absolute.

“The man is mistaken.” Wickham’s confidence sounded forced now.

“He recorded the exchange in his ledger,” Wrayburn repeated. “With the date.”

“Memories are unreliable. Ledgers can be⁠—”

“The ledger has been examined and verified.” Wrayburn set his hands flat on the desk. “I will also note that the rower whom you claim found this ring and brought it directly to you—a fortunate coincidence, that he knew precisely where to find you—has not, when approached by my investigator, been able to produce any consistent account of the discovery.”

Wickham said nothing, merely stood gaping. Lord Matlock had not spoken in some time. Elizabeth watched Wrayburn closer. She was clever. As if sensing Darcy’s thoughts, she looked about the room, searching for answers. For the truth. For him. Darcy touched the space in the bookshelf separating them.

“Sit down, Mr. Wickham,” Wrayburn said, in the tone of a man who does not repeat himself. Wickham sat.

“I have one further witness.” Wrayburn nodded toward the door, which Richard obligingly opened. John Reynolds entered and took his place beside the desk. “Mr. Reynolds, you came to my office some weeks ago with information pertaining to the whereabouts of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“I did, sir.”

“And what did you tell me?”

“That I had met with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy in person at my office at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

More gasps and a clap.

Wrayburn held up his hand, silencing the room. “You saw Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy in person?”

“Yes.”