Page 142 of Companions of Their Youth
Darcy turned to the footman. “Peter, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please close the door—and do not allow anyone to enter. Not even a member of the Bennet or Bingley family. If someone comes, knock. One of us will speak with them in the hall.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man bowed and pulled the door firmly shut behind him.
Darcy turned back just as Elizabeth took a deep breath. She sat forward slightly, and the torn piece of lace at the bottom of her gown trailing against the floor. Her hands were clenched in her lap, but her voice was calm.
“I will tell you everything,” she said.
Darcy sat beside her in silence as she began to speak.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth sat quietly on the settee, hands folded tightly in her lap as her voice at last fell silent. Her story had been told.
She had spoken clearly, though her limbs still trembled faintly and the aftermath had begun to creep in—her words had recounted the facts, while Darcy had supplied what had happened in the ball and corridor during his search for her. The room had been still as a church the entire time. Wickham had stirred once or twice, but his moans were low and pained, and Colonel Fitzwilliam had not hesitated to silence him with a sharp look or twist of the ropes.
When the subject of the letters came up, Elizabeth had chosen her words carefully. She said only that Wickham had sent threatening notes to Mr. Darcy, hinting at obsession and vengeance, and that he had seemed to be driven by some twisted, personal fixation. She avoided any mention of love or desire, though she could feel Darcy’s eyes on her in silent gratitude.
She turned her gaze to Sir William Lucas, standing upright and looking grave.
Grave.
She had never seen such a word fit him before. The jolly magistrate of Meryton assemblies, who so often led reels with a ridiculous flourish and delighted in proclaiming everything “capital,” now stood with tight lips and furrowed brows.
The weight of it all—the fear, the struggle, the way her gown now hung from her shoulder, the broken vase and shattered sense of safety—descended on her like a curtain.
She let out a slow, careful breath.
“I am sorry for what has happened,” Colonel Forster began, his voice low and precise, “and I assure you that I will deal with this matter quietly. Attempted murder, deceit, abduction, and assault—not to mention the damage to the army’s honor. It will lead to a court-martial.” He looked from Darcy to Mr. Bennet. “And in all likelihood, death by firing squad. His conduct is reprehensible.”
“No leniency?” Darcy asked quickly, his arms tightening slightly around her.
Forster’s jaw tensed. “This is not a drunken skirmish or a dishonorable flirtation. He lured a gentlewoman into a trap and attempted to kill her. If he were simply dismissed from the army, you would be informed—but that outcome is improbable.”
Darcy nodded slowly. “If it comes to that… I should like to send for the notes of debt I have purchased over the years. If Wickham escapes military justice, he shall answer to the civil kind. He owes more than I can count.”
Sir William, still pale, gave a stiff nod. “If he is released for any reason, I will have him arrested the moment his boots leave the gaol.”
Colonel Forster looked at him, then to Darcy and Fitzwilliam, and gave a single, grave nod. “Let us hope for a favorable outcome, then. In the meantime, he cannot remain in this house.” He turned to Sir William. “Do you have a local cell that we might use?”
“Only one, but yes. It has a lock and solid walls; it will serve for the night.”
“Good. Colonel Fitzwilliam, can you assist me in taking this…manto his new accommodations?”
Fitzwilliam glanced at Elizabeth and gave a small bow. “My lady, if I may excuse myself from your presence, I find myself eager to drag this piece of filth by the collar.”
Together, the two colonels heaved Wickham to his feet. He groaned, sagged, and had to be half-dragged toward the door. Sir William followed them, whispering directions about a side entrance, careful to avoid calling attention to the spectacle.
And just like that, the room fell quiet again.
Only three remained.
Darcy stood at her side, his arm still lightly around her shoulders, though he had said nothing. Mr. Bennet regarded them both with a steady, unreadable expression. Then he stepped closer.
“If you had not already asked permission to court my daughter,” he said slowly, “I would be most displeased to find you holding her in such a manner.”
