Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Read online

  “Except for the injured woman, our plan worked better than we could possibly have anticipated,” stated Richard with a near cheerful glint in his eye. Darcy’s thoughts immediately went to the night before.

  The messenger sent to the Home Office had easily found Lieutenant Dudley Folkes and quickly told him of the information requested by his commanding officer. Shortly after he began his search, Lieutenant Folkes found Wickham’s name on the list of deserters from the militia group commanded by a Colonel Forster that had been stationed in Hertfordshire a year earlier.

  Lieutenant Folkes went with all possible haste to find his friend Lieutenant Denny, who had been at the Home Office earlier that day to initiate the process of leaving the militia group to accept a commission as a captain in the Regulars. Denny had just left to go to his temporary lodging in the barracks when Lieutenant Folkes caught up with him on the street just outside the Home Office’s main entrance.

  “Denny, hold up,” shouted Folkes to the retreating form walking down the street. As Denny stopped and turned to walk back toward his friend, Folkes continued, “Do you recall a Wickham in your militia group when you were in Hertfordshire?”

  “What has that bastard done now?” asked Denny, surprised and by no means pleased at hearing Wickham’s name.

  “I am not sure, but I need you to come with me immediately to meet with my commanding officer, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” responded Folkes.

  Thirty minutes later Lieutenant Folkes and Lieutenant Denny were being admitted to Darcy’s study.

  “Colonel,” began Lieutenant Folkes, “Wickham has been listed as a deserter for a little over a year. My friend, Lieutenant Denny, was stationed with him in Hertfordshire.”

  “Lieutenant Folkes,” replied Richard grasping the man’s shoulder, “thank you for anticipating my next request, as always, and bringing Lieutenant Denny along with you.”

  Folkes smiled and saluted the colonel who then turned to Denny. “Lieutenant Denny, you are familiar with George Wickham?”

  “Yes, sir,” Denny replied venomously, “unfortunately I am. The man is a liar, a cheat, and a murderer.”

  “Murderer?” asked Darcy and Richard in unison, as they looked at one another and then back to Denny.

  “What do you mean?” Richard prompted, his interest definitely aroused.

  “May I speak freely, sir?” asked Denny. After Darcy’s cousin nodded his head for him to proceed and directed the two junior officers to sit, he began.

  “I am loathe to admit it now, but at one time I considered George Wickham a friend. He joined the militia at the same time as my friend Carl Sanderson, about two years ago. Although I had known Sanderson for a few years, Wickham and Sanderson had only recently become friends, having met at some gambling establishment in London. At first, since he had bought into the militia with the rank of lieutenant as we had, we thought Wickham was in the same situation that we were. You know, second sons choosing the Army instead of being a clerk for some tradesman or joining the Navy and not seeing England for years at a time.”

  When the cousins each nodded to indicate that they both truly did understand, Denny continued, “But after a few months, Wickham began to tell us about how he had been cheated out of his birthright by some rich gentleman and then cheated out of a living by that same rich man’s son.”

  After he saw Darcy’s barely contained anger, Richard retrieved four glasses of brandy and passed them around, one to everyone in the study, as Denny continued his story.

  “One night in a tavern close to the encampment, Wickham had been drinking too much, and that was when he told us about a fire that had killed all of his family. He said that he had started the fire at his family’s home by accident, and he told how he had waited outside of the burning house, but not one of his family members had come out.” Looking at Richard, he went on, “I do not know about you, but I would not have simply waited outside to see if my family would come out of the burning building. I would have tried to get them out. I had kind of a chill run down my spine and thought that maybe that fire was not quite the accident that Wickham said it was. Anyway, after that, I figured that Wickham was not one to trust completely if you were in a tight spot.”

  Denny took a sip of his brandy and proceeded on with his tale, “I did not really think anything more about Wickham’s story until we were participating in a training exercise a month or so later under the command of Major Doer. It was a certain fact that Wickham did not particularly like him. To tell the truth, none of us particularly liked the major.” He looked carefully at his superior officer before continuing.

  “Major Doer had gone into the edge of some woods where it was shaded and cool while we continued to train in the hot sun. Wickham boasted that he knew a way to make the major pay for staying cool in the shade while we sweated away. Then, he snuck away from the back of the platoon on foot and worked his way around until he found a hiding place in some rocks just inside the edge of the woods. He was as close as he could possibly get to the major. A few minutes later, we heard a shot ring out. I admit that my heart leapt into my throat when I first thought that Wickham had shot the major. Then, we saw the major’s horse as it reared into the air, threw him to the ground, and bolted from the woods. Just as quickly, the major leapt up from the ground and ran from the woods, chasing after the horse to try to calm the animal and attempt to remount.”

  Darcy jumped from his chair, walked to the window, and fiercely struck the frame with his fist. Denny looked at Richard and, thinking that Darcy was upset with him for his participation and knowledge of Wickham’s actions, continued apologetically, “I know it was not right, but no one in the platoon liked the major, and since he was not really hurt we all thought it was a harmless prank.

  “Everyone in the platoon joked about it for days. After Wickham had been able to sneak back to the platoon without being noticed by the major, he laughed as he told Sanderson that one time he had killed a man that way.

  “Sir, after that, I knew that Wickham was not someone you could trust or turn your back on. So I distanced myself from him as much as anyone could, being in the same platoon with him and all, and I tried to get Sanderson to do the same. But Sanderson really liked him. He had always been sort of wild, and, for the most part, he was just harmless fun. But Wickham seemed to draw out the worst in him.”

  Denny ran his hand through his hair, and, as he became more agitated, he stood and walked across the room to the fireplace. Gripping the mantle, he began to speak again.

  “Wickham had started losing more heavily than was usual when he gambled, and it began to take most of his monthly pay to cover both his gambling loses and pay a portion on his outstanding debts with the local merchants. It was not very soon after that when Sanderson told me that he and Wickham were going to London for a few days, since they both had leave coming.”

  He walked back to his chair, sat down heavily and hung his head morosely. “That was when it happened,” he offered, looking directly but also furtively at Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  “What happened? What do you mean?” Darcy asked more harshly than he had intended.

  Denny turned to Lieutenant Folkes and continued, “I thought ‘that’ was the reason you brought me here. It was in the report I filed along with Colonel Foster.”

  “Lieutenant Denny, I am not familiar with the report you are talking about. Why not tell me what was in it?” Richard asked, as he watched Darcy turn from the window and come back to his seat behind the desk.

  “There were some young girls in Hertfordshire,” Denny began.

  “You know the type I am talking about: pretty, big breasts, too young to be out in society, but in love with anyone in a red coat.”

  Richard nodded his head. Sure, he knew the type. They were found in just about any location in which the militia or regular army camped: young daughters of the local merchants and lesser landed gentlemen. Daughters who, lacking in parental supervision, had read too many of the novels of the day and fancied
themselves to be in love with anyone who might give them more than one glance, but still remained totally naive to the ways of the world.

  Denny literally soldiered on: “Well, there was this one family that had five daughters, and let me tell you, every one of them was absolutely beautiful. The two oldest were married, but the other three still lived at the family home on Longbourn Estate. That was until their father died. Then the family all got split up when the new owner of the estate took over and turned them out, some distant cousin who inherited by entail. The two youngest of the girls, Kitty and Lydia, went to live with the oldest of the married sisters near Meryton, and the other sister, Mary, went with their mother to live with the second oldest married sister in London.”

  Darcy almost knew what Denny was going to say next before he actually said the words.

  “The two youngest girls had been meeting with Wickham and Sanderson for ‘secret’ walks into town for several months, and recently the girls had been telling them how much they hated living with their sister and her new husband. There were too many rules, and they thought that they were being treated unfairly and not allowed to have any fun.”

  Gingerly pulling at his ear, he looked around at the other men in the room before he continued, “On the night it happened, it was close to midnight, and Sanderson and Wickham were supposed to be heading off to London early that very next morning.” As he took another drink of his brandy, his hand shook. “Sanderson had had a few drinks earlier and was eager to tell me that he and Wickham were to meet with the two girls shortly after midnight. They were going to run away with them to Gretna Green, or at least that was what they had told the girls. They were really going to take them to London and then abandon them there when their leave was over.”

  Darcy placed his hand palm down on his desk and raised himself slightly in his chair. Fury was building in his chest and beginning to contort his face.

  “I know my mouth must have gaped open. I started to think about my own sister, and, before I had quite recovered myself, Sanderson left the room. When I finally got my senses back, I immediately went to Colonel Foster’s quarters and knocked on the door until he was awake. Then, I told him what Sanderson had told me,” uttered Denny, his voice dropping to a murmur.

  “He was familiar with the girls and knew their family well. Mrs. Foster had become quite friendly with Lydia, the youngest of the girls, although Lydia was only five or six and ten years old. Colonel Foster immediately sent several men to the barracks to bring Sanderson and Wickham to his office. When they could not be found, he gathered a score of men, and we rode with them to the older sister’s house.”

  He looked from Darcy to Richard to Folkes and remembered, “When we arrived and were finally able to awaken the household, we found that we were too late.”

  “DAMN Wickham,” shouted Darcy, as he slammed his fists into the desk and again walked to the window.

  Denny looked quickly toward Darcy’s figure, taut muscles silhouetted by the light from the window, and then back to Colonel Fitzwilliam, who sat leaning slightly forward in his chair.

  “We knew that they could not have gotten very far, especially traveling with two women who would undoubtedly slow them down. So, after waiting only a few minutes for the brother-in-law to quickly dress, we set off to catch them on the road to London.”

  This time the young officer took a long drink of his brandy before he continued, grim-faced. “We found Sanderson and one of the girls just a little way out of town.”

  He closed his eyes a moment before he spoke, grief evident in his voice and on his face. “In the darkness, Sanderson had been driving the carriage far too fast and recklessly ran off of the side of the road. The carriage had careened down a steep ravine killing both Sanderson and the girl. The horses that pulled the carriage were severely injured and had to be put down.”

  Then, lifting his head slightly, he looked to the colonel and stated, “We never found Wickham and the other girl. Colonel Foster’s men traced them as far as London, but then lost their trail in one of the worst areas possible.”

  Clearly relieved to have come to the conclusion of his sordid story, he glanced first at Richard, then back to Darcy, “And I do not know if the other girl was ever found, but we heard all manner of rumors for a few months afterward. Perhaps Colonel Foster would know more.”

  “Darcy,” Richard called, but the proprietor of Pemberley still remained standing at the window, where he seemed to be bracing himself with his hands placed firmly on the window frame, his face a deep red with anger.

  “Darcy,” Richard spoke again this time more firmly. “We should take a break to calm ourselves and gather our thoughts. I will ask Mrs. Wyatt to prepare a light, cold meal and some tea for us. We need to plan for tomorrow.”

  After a maid brought the cold tray to the study, Denny, Folkes, and the two cousins worked together for what seemed like hours to come up with a way for the military to handle Wickham without his suspecting that Darcy or his cousin was involved. Folkes knew of a particular colonel who went to White’s frequently to meet with a gentleman who was a retired military friend. He often stayed for lunch and to play a few hands of cards before returning to the Home Office for the rest of his duty shift. Lieutenant Folkes also knew that this particular colonel had an unusually strong dislike for anyone shirking their duty and a near hatred for deserters.

  It was decided that Lieutenant Folkes would approach the colonel the following morning, relating that he had discovered information that a deserter named George Wickham would be in White’s around two o’clock that day and further volunteering Lieutenant Denny as someone who could identify the man.

  ∞∞∞

  “Well, Darcy,” stated his cousin succinctly, “that was a stroke of good fortune with Mother recalling that Wickham was in the militia.” Raising his glass in salute to Darcy, he predicted, “Now you are good and truly rid of Wickham. FOREVER.”

  Richard stayed long enough to tell Darcy that the colonel and his guards had hauled Wickham’s body off to the surgeon for dissection and study. The military had closed the matter simply as the capture of a deserter, with no mention of Darcy’s involvement excepting a notation of his aid to the injured woman.

  After Richard departed to Matlock House to inform his mother of the events that had taken place, time advanced from two hours into six hours, while the woman remained unconscious. Darcy began to wonder if he might have rescued her only to have her die as his father and Amanda had, without ever waking up.

  He was again standing in the doorway of the guest bedchamber occupied by the unconscious woman, Georgiana, Mrs. Wyatt, and a maid who was seated in the far corner of the room, when the butler notified him that he had a visitor. Darcy almost told the butler to say he was not accepting any visitors, but he quickly changed his mind when he was informed that the visitor was Charles Bingley inquiring about the unconscious woman.

  As he hurriedly made his way down the stairs to meet Bingley in the foyer, he thought about how his relationship with Charles had changed over the last two years: since Georgiana and Ramsgate, since Amanda, since the birth of the baby and Amanda’s death. Darcy knew that all the change was due to none other than himself.

  The last time he and Charles Bingley had seen each other was at Darcy’s wedding, and they had corresponded only rarely over the past two years. Previously, they had been in each other’s company quite often and corresponded frequently. Shortly after Darcy’s return from his honeymoon in Cumbria, Charles had written to describe in excited terms “the angel” that he had fallen in love with and to whom he was considering making an offer of marriage.

  “Good God,” Darcy thought. He could not even remember her name, but he did recall that she was indeed now Bingley’s wife.

  Darcy had responded to Bingley’s letter with incredulity. He had pointed out her lack of dowry, her low connections, most of all that she was probably a fortune hunter, and that she would in all likelihood only marry him for his money. He
further argued that Bingley would certainly be hurt when he found out that she did not love him in return. Then, he had advised Bingley to cut all ties with her as quickly as possible and return to London: there to seek a wife from the newly presented young ladies of the “ton.”

  Now, as Darcy looked back, he could see that his arguments had been weak at best, and arrogant and boorish at worst. But most of all, he realized that he had been jealous that Bingley might have found the love match that had eluded him for so long, and still continued to elude him. He thought back to the conversation that he had had with Amanda shortly before she became ill during the last months of her pregnancy.

  They had been walking through one of the gardens at Pemberley when Darcy shared with her his concerns. “Amanda, after what happened at Ramsgate, I am very concerned that Georgiana will not be able to make a good marriage within our circle.”