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Darcy woke early, while it was still dark outside, and for one blessed moment, all was peaceful. It was with his second breath that the events of the previous few days rushed in upon him, and he groaned, rolling over and burying his head into the pillows, wishing for another moment or two of oblivion before being forced to confront the truth.
Anne and Wickham are married. There would be no preventing the match, for it had already taken place. Wickham was now, legally, part of his family. He sat up. Yet Anne did not seem to lament the match as he had expected. Clearly, she still failed to see Wickham’s true nature, and the thought of what a crushing blow such a disappointment would wreak upon her settled heavily over Darcy’s shoulders. It was only a matter of time. His mind raced, seeing weeks, months, years stretch on before him. The news of her daughter’s marriage would undoubtedly reach Lady Catherine’s ears before long. Darcy could no longer deceive himself with the notion that he might be able to return Anne to Kent unscathed, and Lady Catherine might never have to know what fate her daughter had narrowly avoided. No, Wickham would be welcomed as her son, and he would, at last, receive his wealth through a dowry that made Georgiana’s seem feeble by comparison. Another thought struck Darcy, and his lips turned downwards. That is if Aunt Catherine does not turn Anne out altogether. He recalled only too well how his aunt had reacted to news of his own planned nuptials falling outside of Lady Catherine’s own plans for the future. How would she take the news that Anne had done the same, and yet made a match even less desirous than Darcy’s had been?
His memory of his aunt’s reaction to Elizabeth brought his wife to mind again, although she seemed scarcely to have been a moment from his thoughts since his arrival in Scotland. I ought not to have left the way I did, he reasoned, feeling an ache of loneliness that he must face another dilemma of Wickham’s making on his own. It would have been a great comfort and support to him to have Elizabeth by his side, and not many miles away in London. She was more than willing to accompany me: why did I spurn her offer of help? He raked a hand through his dark hair. He had been so used to being master of his own concerns, and certainly never considered himself to have needed to seek another’s counsel. Now, he longed for Elizabeth’s words of encouragement, of comfort. She might not appreciate the grave error Anne had made in marrying such a man as Wickham, but she might offer some hope for the future that all was not yet lost.
“Well, she is not here. I must do battle alone,” he told himself, speaking the words aloud as if they might offer him some reassurance. Nonetheless, he felt pressed to write to her, for surely Elizabeth would be as eager to hear of his progress as he was eager to vent his frustrations with someone who would understand them.
He fetched together writing implements, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders against the onslaught of the cold highland morning, and settled into a table and chair, the familiar act of dipping his pen and beginning his letter soothing his already jangled nerves.
My dearest Elizabeth, he began, remembering they had not parted on the best of terms and suddenly eager to undo his harsh assessment of his wife. He had too readily laid the blame for this turn of events at her feet when she had not deserved his anger. If she kept Anne’s habits a secret from him it was not done out of malice, for surely Elizabeth could not imagine that Wickham was the recipient of Anne’s affections. He had cause to remind himself that Wickham, whilst not well known to Elizabeth, had certainly crossed her path. She must have noticed, even in their brief acquaintance, how readily he sought to manipulate those young women around him, and how successful he could be in such endeavours.
I hope you are well and write to inform you of my progress north. He paused, wrangling his thoughts into coherence before continuing. I reached Scotland as quickly as I could, though not quickly enough. All we feared has taken place: our dear cousin Anne is wed to Mr Wickham, so all I may have attempted to free her from his thrall and return her to us will come to nought. They are married, and we must make the best of it. I have pledged to stay here some time and ensure for myself that he is treating her well: I know not what their plans are for the future, but presume Wickham will wish to return to London or Kent before too much time elapses. Lady Catherine must be told, and I fear that she will not take the news well. If I can persuade the couple to journey presently to Kent I will accompany them, and perhaps in some way lessen the blow to my aunt by my presence there. I hope that you might consider coming too, to Kent, for, Elizabeth, dear, I feel better able to stand such a trial with you by my side. I have kept much of Wickham’s former misdeeds to myself and am glad that neither Anne nor my aunt is privy to them. Not for his sake, you understand, but for theirs. It would serve nobody well, now, to air Anne’s husband’s past indiscretions aloud. I can only hope that her goodness will work to change Wickham, for he was not always the scoundrel he became as a man. We were once friends, and whilst I do not think us able to be so again, we are now cousins, and must at least act in one another’s interest if familial harmony is ever to be restored...
A few lines more and his letter was ended, signed with a flourish, and sealed. He felt better for having written. Whilst he would rather have had Elizabeth by his side and able to discuss in person the practicalities of Anne’s marriage, writing had aided some in restoring peace to his troubled mind. The first rays of wintry sun began to lighten through his window, and he stood, determined to embark on an early start to the day. There was much to discuss and arrange with Wickham, and as he wished the task already accomplished, he might as well start on it as early as possible.
***
“I HOPE POOR COLONEL Fitzwilliam is faring better. You must assure him of my hopes for his swift and total recovery and assure him that he must not worry himself unduly with our concerns...
Richard snorted, from his seat in the corner, and Mary automatically laid a hand on his arm, bidding him still. She had read Elizabeth’s letter aloud, that both might hear the news from the north, but judging from her husband’s agitation, wondered if she might not have been better keeping her sister’s intelligence to herself.
“Tis not undue worry,” he grumbled, but did not strive to haul himself to his feet. “I ought to be there too. Darcy will never forgive me for letting Elizabeth go alone.”
“Once my sister has set her mind to something, she is not easily persuaded from it,” Mary said, scanning the letter once more for something more positive she might share to ease Richard’s self-reproach. “And see, she does not go alone. Mr Bingley is travelling with her.”
Richard snorted once more, encompassing all his thoughts on Mr Bingley’s suitability for an escort in one derisive sniff. Mary hid the smile that crept onto her features and passed the letter over.
“I know she could hardly wish for a better escort than you, but being that you are not well enough to travel, at least we can trust in Mr Bingley’s abilities to see her as far as Scotland.”
“I suppose for that we must be grateful,” Richard muttered. He scanned the note with his own eyes, narrowing them briefly, before permitting a laugh. “But here, he brings his sister along too. I pity Elizabeth if she must travel with Miss Bingley, as well as her brother. He, I concede, would at least make the journey a relatively cheerful affair. The same can hardly be said for his sister.”
“No,” Mary allowed, pleased to see Richard’s spirits lifted at the humour of Elizabeth’s predicament, which momentarily overshadowed their shared anxieties at the reason for her sister’s journey. “I imagine she is eager for gossip, though, and as such is not too dismayed to witness it first-hand, even if it means travelling swiftly to Scotland in such a manner.
“Yes.” Richard’s smile slipped, and a frown that had surely been learnt from his cousin settled over his firm brow. “We must find some manner of silencing her. Bingley’s discretion need not be fretted over: he speaks freely and frequently but is canny at least to know when a subject is to be avoided. His sister, I fear, rather rejoices in such subjects, especially if they might be seen to somehow elevate her own position.”
Mary sucked in a breath.
“You do not think she would rejoice in such news as this? To see a friend brought low -”
“They are not friends,” Richard said, shaking his head. “Oh, I rather think Miss Caroline Bingley had pretensions to the close personal connection she might share with Miss Anne de Bourgh, perhaps she even envisaged the lady being successfully matched with Charles, thus elevating her new sister into enviable social circles. Now that that dream has died, I rather think Caroline Bingley will milk the situation for whatever profit she might glean from it, even if that is only scandalous conversation at the dining room.” He sighed. “We must be grateful my aunt remains in Kent, for it buys us some time at least. If Anne can be got home, and Wickham paid off somehow -” he winced, imagining the figure George Wickham might seek to extract from Darcy for his silence. “If it can be done, and done quickly, then Anne’s reputation might remain untarnished, and my aunt forever ignorant of the scandal.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I pray Darcy might succeed, that time will smile on him, as it did before.”
Mary reached for her husband’s hand, and squeezed it gently, the motion prompting him to look at her with a warm smile.
“I know I am a bear to you, my dear. Forgive me. It is a frustration to be bound to stay at home when one would much prefer to be of some use.” He shook his head, fiercely. “If only my damned lungs would co-operate -”
“Then you would flee to the north, as well, embarking on who knows what kind of scrape, and leave me utterly alone.” Mary tutted. “A fine gift to your wife for Christmas.”
With a laugh, Richard lifted their linked fingers to his lips, dropping a penitent kiss on the back of Mary’s hand.
“You are right. Instead, I grace you with a bad-tempered, unwell shell of a husband. And in borrowed lodgings to boot! How fortunate you are to have made such a match.”
Mary stood, snatching her hand back with a serene smile.
“I see now you are lapsing into self-pity and will point you once more to what Fordyce has to say on such behaviour. You are almost well - in fact, quite well enough to accompany me on a turn about Hyde Park...” her eyes narrowed as she shot her husband a sly smile. “That is if you can possibly raise yourself from the depths of despair you are otherwise so eager to wallow in.”
The words were a panacea and instantly Colonel Fitzwilliam was on his feet, throwing aside both the letter and the effect of ill-health.
“We must leave immediately, wife, for I am inexpressibly tired of being cooped up. I wager some fresh air is all that is needed to blow these wretched cobwebs from my head: and if it may be had with such a perfect angel by my side, rather than on horseback racing my cousin northwards, so much the better.”
Mary smiled, pleased to see her husband so cheered, and still gladder that his health was so improved. Indeed, he was not healthy enough to go haring off to Scotland, but he was more himself than he’d been in days, and her natural worries for his well-being were a little eased. They were still newlyweds, and though Richard had told her some of his exploits in the regiment, and alluded to some ill-health and injury obtained in battle, he had been scant in detail, and she worried, on those occasions she lay awake in the depths of night, that despite his hale and hearty appearance all might not be entirely well for the Colonel. Seeing her tall husband animated with the happy task of preparing for a walk, rather than irritable and anxious over the fate of his cousin, put her mind at rest, and she hurried upstairs to retrieve her bonnet: a gift from the gentleman himself, who had yet to see it adorn his pretty wife’s head. She permitted herself one moment to glance in the glass and admire its effect herself, before returning to her receive the compliment she knew would be on his lips at first glance, but as she descended the stairs there was a knock at the door. A small flurry of activity, and before Mary could enquire of their staff as to the latest arrival, she heard the unmistakable voice of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Her heart sank, along with her smile, as Richard’s aunt bustled into the house.
“Richard! At least tell me that you are at home. I came to London expecting everyone in their proper places and yet everywhere seems abandoned. Pray, where has my wayward daughter got to?”