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“Then, gentlemen, it appears I am the winner!” Wickham crowed, as he watched his opponents unceremoniously surrender, hand after hand, and leave him to his spoils. He hid his relief in making a show of collecting and counting his winnings. His hand had not been good, but his ability to bluff far exceeded his fellows. He set his cards down, wondering if his companions would be made to feel better or worse had they known the true nature of his hand, and how fiendishly he had played them.
“Another hand, Wickham?” the gruff Scots burr of the older man sitting next to him growled. “You’ll give us a chance to win back our pride, at least?”
“Not tonight, I’m afraid.” Wickham’s cheerful grin belied his disappointment at bidding his companions an early farewell. “You know what it’s like for us newly married gentlemen...” he trailed off, but a suggestive chuckle from his friend suggested that he did not need any further detail.
“Gentleman?” one fellow snorted, and Wickham chose to let the insult slide. The man was sore about losing so much, so quickly. A tragedy, Wickham thought, shrugging off more than one pair of eyes burning a hole in his shoulder as he stood and downed the remnants of his pint. He grimaced. The beer was weak and bitter, but it was cheaper than brandy, and far more freely available at this particular establishment. Wickham nodded farewell to his compatriots and made for the door. These fellows were pleasant enough but far lower down the social order than those Wickham aspired to call friends. Soon, he promised himself, whistling cheerfully as he made his way home with pockets that bulged with winnings, feeling the evening had been a success in more ways than one. He’d managed to prick his ears for word of any newcomers to the town, and nobody remarked on any tall, fierce-looking gentleman. He did not doubt Darcy would be after them sooner or later, but he intended on staying put until he did. They would make their way back to London and eventually, Wickham supposed, to Kent. His new wife had already dropped one or two hints at her desire to be reunited with her mother and tell her the news, but this was one interview Wickham did not relish the thought of. He wished to perfect his story before being faced with an angry, inconsolable Lady Catherine de Bourgh upon whom to practice it. Feeling the cold, he jammed his hands under his arms, teasing at a loose stitch there and grimaced. He would need a new wardrobe before facing such an ordeal. Clothes make the man, after all. Well, another night like that one and they’d have money enough to improve their situation a fraction. Their rooms were small, efficacious and inexpensive, but not exactly the sort of place the aspiring gentleman George Wickham wished to call home for any longer than was strictly necessary. He knew Anne had been disappointed, although she strove to hide it, instead marvelling at the quaintness of their abode, how cosy they would be butted up against one another within the four walls. They would move before the novelty wore off, for Wickham could not stand the thought of his new wife tiring of him just yet. She was still half in rapture at the romance of their disappearing off together into the night, and he certainly did not need a cold, brutal winter in poor dwellings to dissuade her from the notion.
As he turned into their street, his pace slowed. Something was different. Something in the air, some sound or scent that pricked at his conscience and warned him of impending doom. It was the same notion that had saved him from a beating more than once, prompting him to leave town before a certain scheme was discovered, or a certain fellow could come upon him and extract his vengeance. He tilted his head to one side as if the altered perspective might offer the clue as to what caused his heart rate to increase. Continuing towards the house, he pushed the door open, his whistle dying on his lips as he discerned not just the two feminine voices he expected but a third, a deep masculine mutter he would recognise anywhere.
“George!” Anne called. “Husband, dear! Look who has arrived. My dear cousin has travelled the length of the country to see us, can you imagine my surprise?”
“I am quite sure it cannot be matched by your husband’s,” Darcy remarked, drily.
George ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it into place, and had arranged his features into a smile of welcome that would deceive his wife, if not his oldest friend, as he strode into the small room that passed for a parlour.
“William,” he said, acknowledging how his use of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s familial nickname enraptured his wife and irritated his friend. His smile widened. “And what brings you to our humble abode? Surely you did not come all this way simply to congratulate us?”
“Congratulations was not my primary goal, no,” Darcy said, stiffly. “Although it appears they are in order.” Smiling tightly at Anne, he turned a barely concealed scowl upon George. “Surely you have found a bride far better than any you might deserve, Mr Wickham.” He cleared his throat. “That is, better than any gentleman might deserve. My cousin is quite the gentlest, kindest creature living, and I wish her every happiness in the future she has chosen.” He reached out a hand to shake Wickham’s and clenched it, tightly, forcing George to meet his gaze. “I trust you will do all you possess to ensure her safety and happiness from this day forward.”
Swallowing a yelp of pain from the pressure of Darcy’s hand around his, George nodded.
“You speak as if I had anything other than dear Anne’s happiness in mind when I pledged to marry her.”
Darcy’s hand relaxed a fraction, and Wickham was pleased to see his comment had struck home. He knew, Wickham was certain, that their marriage had been for the convenience of George’s pocketbook, at least in part. Yet it was narrow-mindedness on Darcy’s part if he thought that Wickham’s only concern. No, he had chosen the wife he wanted for himself, won her and secured her by his own wits, knowing that had he posed a suit as society dictated it would have been quashed at the first opportunity - by Darcy himself, no doubt.
Darcy smiled, then, a grim, humourless smile that cut through George’s bravado and made his heart sink.
“You will not object to my staying here a few days, then, and ensuring the newlyweds are readily settled for their future together.” It was not a question, and when George glanced over Darcy’s shoulder towards his wife, he realised this very conversation had already been had in his absence.
“You’d be most welcome, William, but as you see...” Wickham gestured around them at the cramped interior of their small lodgings.
“It is no matter,” Darcy said, his grim smile fading into a determined scowl. “I have already secured rooms at an inn in town. The Pale Horse. I do not doubt you already well acquainted with it, as you seem adept at finding your way to such places wherever you land.”
***
DEAR MARY,
We have made good progress: pausing for breaks en route as Mr Bingley deems necessary to the continued health of both myself and his sister. I do not doubt, were he travelling alone as Darcy is, that he would make far swifter progress, yet whilst he is most attentive to our needs I trust he has not lost sight of the urgency of our flight. Still, he makes our progress of chief concern and I have every faith in his ability to ensure our arrival in Scotland as soon as is safely possible.
Here, we have stopped to rest overnight before going on in the morning. I retired early, claiming a headache, but the answer was only a partial truth. I wished to write, for you know I can so rarely make sense of my thoughts until I set them to paper, and I thought of none better to write to than you, my dear sister, who is already so well-versed in my concerns.
Lizzy paused, lifting her pen and chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. That in itself was not entirely truthful. Her first thought for a confidante had been Jane, but then the consideration of having to pour out the entire scandal to her sister seemed utterly overwhelming to Elizabeth and she had chosen the more expedient course by addressing her letter to Mary. Mary knew what had transpired between Anne and Mr Wickham and had known of Elizabeth’s desperation to follow her husband to Scotland, although she felt sure her sister would be surprised to hear that she travelled in company with Mr and Miss Bingley. Her reason for writing, then, was two-fold, for she wished to reassure Mary, and by extension Colonel Fitzwilliam, that his inability to travel had not unduly hindered her plans. Dipping her pen in her ink, she continued with her letter.
“I hope poor Colonel Fitzwilliam is faring better. You must assure him of my hopes for his full and swift recovery and assure him that he must not worry himself unduly with our concerns. I have complete faith in Mr Darcy’s ability to resolve the situation satisfactorily and trust Anne enough that she will not have succumbed to too great a danger.
She frowned. Surely running to Scotland intent on marrying a man your family disapproved of could not be considered anything other than folly? Yet, if Anne truly loved him - and of the two who fled, Lizzy placed far less doubt on the depth of Anne’s affections than those of Mr Wickham - then perhaps it was good that she acted in accordance with her heart, rather than her head? Romantic nonsense! Lizzy cautioned herself. It is notions like this that prevented you from intervening and stopping this whole mess from occurring in the first place. Foolish Lizzy!
She leaned back from her desk, sliding the paper to one side. She had wanted to write to Mary, to pour out her jumble of thoughts on the page and find some hope there, but she found herself too restless to sit still long enough to write more than a few lines. She squinted out of the window, cursing the darkness that already enveloped the small posting inn. It was too dark to walk, and she was agitating for some exercise. Travelling was exhausting, but it did not produce the same kind of peaceful tiredness that a long walk might. Lizzy’s mind raced on, bidding the horses to drive ever faster. She felt certain she would find no peace of mind until she saw Darcy again and could reassure herself that he no longer blamed her for Anne’s predicament. And Anne! Dear, dear Anne. She would be alright, would not she? Lizzy bit tight on her lower lip, wondering how she would feel if it were not Darcy’s relative but her own who had fled the country with a man she scarcely knew. Yet that was not entirely the situation as it stood, either, for Darcy did know Wickham, knew him well and judged him harshly. Surely that made it still worse? For Anne had not fled with anyone that they could believe a good person, a gentleman who had acted flightily and foolishly but could otherwise be redeemed. No, Wickham was a rake, with a mind for Anne’s money and little care if her reputation and prospects were forever ruined.
Yet, if that were truly the case, why flee for Scotland? They might have set up home in London, surely? Anne was not young, as Georgiana had been, and the pair might have wed even without Darcy’s direct approval: for he was not her brother and unable under the law to prevent such a thing. They need not even marry! Why flee to Scotland if it was merely ruin and recompense that was behind George Wickham’s scheme? Lizzy sighed and turned towards the bed. She might have manufactured the headache that allowed her to retire early but she was tired: mentally exhausted from running through scenarios as they travelled. Would Darcy be pleased to see her? Would he welcome her at all? And how were they even to find him? He might be anywhere. Suddenly the foolishness of her plan encroached upon her, and she blew out her candle, finding her way to the bed in the dark.
“We have come this far,” she whispered aloud. “I will not allow us to be turned back by my own thinking. I can be of some assistance, I am sure. For Anne considered me a friend, she must consider me a friend still. And perhaps I can help her, can help Darcy convince her to act wisely, though it may cost her. And he...” she shivered, pulling her blankets up to her chin. She feared Darcy’s action without herself there to steady his nerves. He would be angry – he had been angry. She had never seen the depths of rage that he barely concealed as he had read over Anne’s hastily-written letter and seen the name of the gentleman she had fled with written there. He would not act too rashly, would he? Not call Wickham out in a duel, not get himself wounded?
Blinking back hot tears, Elizabeth stared up into the darkness and willed the morning to come. She would not be able to rest, nor set aside her worries until she saw him again. They would find some way forward together, and whatever happened there would be some solution, she knew it. Dear Anne would rally again, and Wickham would be brought to bear for his cruel and scandalous behaviour. She just hoped that it would not cost Darcy too greatly to do so.
“I have already cost you much,” she murmured, thinking back over the family rift that had begun with Darcy’s choosing to marry her, in defiance of his aunt. “I could not bear to cost you any more because I chose to keep Anne’s secret to myself instead of trusting you.”