Page 56 of Until My Last Breath

Elizabeth could easily guess how Wickham had gained the widow’s favour. She could well envision it: an old and solitary widow, and a man eager to comfort.

Mr Wickham knew how to be charming.

Liar.

A bitter taste came to her mouth at the memory of how she too had been so gullible.

“That was when I returned to gambling,” Wickham explained. “While she was alive, she had this amusing inclination to indulge every one of my whims.” He frowned. “But she fell ill after the terrible winter. Her lungs became weak, the doctor said.” Wickham lowered his eyes and, for some seconds, was silent. “She did not last three weeks. The house was closed, of course, but I kept my keys.”

His expression turned to one of sadness again. For a long time, he did not say a word, looking at the deserted port and wild sea through the small porthole.

“The doctor who attended her was the same one who attended your beloved Darcy, Miss Elizabeth. I sent him a message, asking him for his assistance again, to go in aid of an acquaintance. I told him that Brown and his friend, Smith, were having fun, trying a hunting party before the season, and that one of his stupid men had accidentally shot Smith. I told him I had offered them the use of the house due to the seriousness of the event. Dr Hayford was not aware I had left the militia, so I told him Mr Brown would be there looking after his wounded friend without me.”

Wickham proceeded to tell her all about his debts to his fellow companion in the militia, how this was connected with Brown and, finally, his current situation with the pirates.

Elizabeth felt her rage emerge like lava of a volcano. “Enough! If you expect any commiseration from my part, Mr Wickham, you can go to hell and wait it to get cold before I comply. You reap what you sow. It is a pity, though, that an intelligent man was wasted in such low designs. If you hadused your talents for a good cause, I have no doubt you would be under very different circumstances. Instead…” She stopped and looked straight into his eyes. If he was to outlive her, then he would live with the memory of her scorn. “Instead, you wasted years of your father’s hard work, just because that was not good enough for you. You did not want to work hard for anything. You wanted what was not yours. You envied position and status. For goodness’ sake! You seduced Mr Darcy’s sister and I am not sure if marrying her was ever your plan!”

“I did what I needed to survive! I am not the monster you think I am.”

“Does it matter now? Look at us. My present situation is proof enough. You are a miscreant, Mr Wickham; a scoundrel as Mr Darcy said once, and I hated him for it. You disgust me. Leave me. Now! I cannot bear to look at you anymore.”

Wickham flinched at her words, turning his back to her. He had made a mistake. She could hurt him. Deeply. She could remind him the reality of what he had been trying to forget about himself. He swallowed hard. For the first time in his life, he regretted some of his actions.

Wickham made for the door, but then turned back and fetching his knife, cut the rope around Elizabeth’s wrist, then he left, closing the door after him.

Sometime after Wickham had left her cabin, Elizabeth heard Mr Fisher talking to him. The damage to the boat had been mended, but they would not be able to set sail yet, as the sea was still too rough for their small boat. She looked through the porthole. The wind was lifting waves like walls of water, battering against their small boat.

Some hours later, she heard the clanging of keys again. This time it was Mr Fisher. He entered her cabin carrying a tray. “I suggest you eat something. That is the only meal for today. I was not expecting this storm to last this long. It’ll be dark soon, but I can’t give you a candle. I’ll come back tomorrow. There is a small pot under the berth if you need it. You can empty it through the porthole.”

He left the tray on the small table and looked at her with some guilt in his eyes, shaking his head. Whatever the man was thinking of her, it wasprobably the worst due to Wickham’s lies.

“Thank you, Mr Fisher, but—”

“I’m sorry, miss,” Mr Fisher interrupted her, raising his hand. “I can’t talk to you. It’s part of my agreement with Mr Wickham. He warned me that you would try to insinuate yourself on me to obtain my favour. I might be poor, but I’m an honourable married man,” he said as he left.

Before she could recover from the shock of such slander, the door was closed. She ran and bumped her fists against it, shaking the door handle. “Mr Fisher, please. Please!”

She spent some time holding her breath until the stinging tears abated. Walking back to the small table, she looked at the meal: something similar to a stew, two pieces of stale bread and a small jar of water — which she would lose very soon, if the up and down of the boat were any indication.

She fetched the spoon and ate, hoping the food would poison her or make her sick and die — by its appearance, that did not seem impossible.

Both thoughts perversely pleased her. It would save her from a much worse fate.

Once finished, she put the tray away and laid down, trying to find a reason to keep living.

There she stayed for minutes, hours — who could tell? Anxiety and boredom pushed her to the limit of reason.

“Why not finish it before it gets worse?” she burst out, standing up again. Her mind was now wandering, giving up as the darkness of the stormy day invaded her cold cabin — and soul. “At least, if I die, Mr Wickham would find himself with a much greater problem.” She laughed, and then she stopped.

She was losing her mind.

Her eyes darted around the cabin, imagining how to end her life in a fast and painless way. Among the many objects at her reach, the spoon caught her attention. She allowed her imagination to fly, conjuring up all the possible ways using such an object for the morbid task.

How would Mr Wickham react on seeing her lifeless body on the floor?

She allowed herself some more minutes of madness, then she sighed. She could not take her own life, and she could not simply kill Wickham in cold blood, despite all the hatred she felt towards him. She had killed Brown, granted, but the circumstances were far different.

Shivering, she shut her eyes. The feeling of utter hopelessness was breaking her spirit, slowly choking it; even the tears had dried, there was just an empty lethargy to which she finally surrendered.

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