Page 156 of Companions of Their Youth
He glanced at her, but her face was calm, thoughtful.
“What would the purpose of such a visit be?” she asked.
“Purpose?”
“Will you go to comfort him? To condemn him? Or to punish yourself?”
He had no answer.
Then there was no more time to speak. The final chords rang out, applause filled the room, and they were swept into separate circles of conversation.
But her question lingered.
That night, Darcy stood at the window of his room and stared out at the darkened fields.
Why would I go? To see what was left of the boy I once called friend? To see the man who tried to destroy everything I loved?
He did not need the sight of Wickham’s face, ruined and furious, to carry that burden. He already carried it.
No.
He would not see him.
He would remember the Wickham who had once run through the halls of Pemberley with him, muddy and breathless, before vice and envy claimed him.
And then he would let it go.
Soon, he would have Elizabeth.
And in that future, there would be no room for ghosts.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth sat atop her bed, her arms wrapped loosely around her knees, her gaze fixed on the wavering candle flame on her bedside table. The night outside was still and quiet—peaceful in a way that mocked the storm inside her.
Mr. Wickham would be dead in two days.
She had thought she would feel relief. Safety. Vindication.
Instead, a dull ache rested in her chest, heavy and uncertain.
She had not dreamed in color since the night of the attack, but the dreams came all the same—dark corridors, his voice like a snarl, the scent of gun powder and sweat and blood. Most often she failed to reach the poker in time. In some variations she found it but was too late. Sometimes the gun fired true. She would wake with her heart pounding and her mouth dry.
Her younger sisters had brought the latest gossip to her room that afternoon, all a-titter. Kitty, trying for solemnity, had said in hushed tones that “everyone was saying” Mr. Wickham would have died anyway. The jaw was badly fractured, and he hadrefused food. Lydia, with wide eyes and misplaced enthusiasm, had added that he had lost two more teeth and was spitting out any water or broth like a baby. Georgiana just listened with wide eyes, taking it all in.
And now Elizabeth sat in silence, staring at the curve of melted wax.
Is this my fault? Did I kill him?
Not with intent. She had not meant to strike so hard. She had not wanted blood, or harm, or damage…only to survive. Only to stop him.
But it was her hand that held the poker.
It was her hand that wrote the words to provide testimony of what he had done.
Her hand helped sentence him to death, either by gun or starvation.
Does God hold me guilty?
