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“Well, Richard, Mary, come in - or must we converse in the hallway like savages?”
Lady Catherine’s shrill entreaty guided the Fitzwilliams into the inner sanctum of her London home and they found her in the sitting room, looking expectantly at the door as they entered.
“You are here alone?” She frowned. “Ah, of course. I imagine Anne will come with Mr and Mrs Darcy when they arrive.”
Mary bit her lip at the snide tone of voice Lady Catherine deployed in the words Mrs Darcy, and Richard must have noticed her reaction, for at that moment she felt his hand grip hers, unseen, and took strength from the quick squeeze.
“Actually, Aunt, whilst both Mary and I are here at your request, and because we are glad to see you, of course -” he stopped and dropped a penitent kiss on Lady Catherine’s thin cheek. “Alas, I must also be the bearer of bad news.”
Mary exchanged a look with her husband, and obediently sank into a seat near his aunt, watching her husband carefully. They had spent all day discussing how best to present what news they had of Anne’s whereabouts and that of Darcy and Elizabeth. By providence, Richard had received a note from Darcy declaring that he had seen Anne and she was as well as could be expected. Unfortunately, the note also contained the information both Fitzwilliams had dreaded: Darcy had not arrived in Scotland in time to prevent the marriage from going ahead.
“Perhaps it is a good thing,” Mary had suggested, when Richard ad spent ten minutes thrashing angrily about the study, quelling his temper only when a servant arrived, dispatched by his brother, to inquire as to his wellbeing.
“Good? How could marriage to such a man be good? Poor, foolish Anne! She has thrown away her prospects on this rake and he will ruin her utterly, and now, being wed, there is not a thing any of us may do to stop it.”
“Perhaps he will reform,” Mary said, quietly. “Stranger things do happen.”
“It would be strange indeed,” Richard had remarked, flatly. “It is probably a good thing Darcy is there and not I, for I would struggle not to throttle the fellow, were I faced with him again.” He had jabbed a poker into the fire, which flared and hissed in indignation.
“Darcy controls his temper better than I ever did, although in this instance I do wonder if that is not necessarily a good thing. If any fellow deserved to feel the repercussions of his actions it is Wickham. Perhaps if he had been thrashed once or twice in the past he might have learned to behave.”
“Recall, you are talking about your cousin, now, dear,” Mary said, laying a calming hand on Richard’s fore-arm and guiding him to a seat. His health was much improved, she was pleased to note, and he scarcely exhibited any weakness at all, yet she did not wish for him to become over-exerted, ere he felt well again.
“My cousin by marriage.” Richard groaned. “My cousin! What a disastrous turn of events. Still, Darcy will take it harder. And Georgiana!” He sank his head into his hands. “Who is to tell her? She barely recovered from the shock of her own altercation with Wickham. To hear he has seduced her cousin - and married her? It will finish her.”
“It need not,” Mary said, stoutly. “If she has friends around her, and family. Besides, there are people who must know yet, before Georgiana.”
Richard lifted his eyes to hers, the colour draining from his cheeks.
“You are right. My brother...well, he shall have mountains to say on the matter, I do not doubt. It will be one more reason for him to separate himself from the rest of the family, and consider himself our superior.”
“Yes...” Mary nodded, slowly. “Yes, of course, Philip must be told. But I meant your aunt. She is expecting us to dine, all of us. The absence cannot be hidden, not now that we know the truth.”
Richard’s response was barely audible, but Mary sensed his weary acceptance of the burden of telling Lady Catherine. They would face her together.
The faced her together, now.
“Aunt, I have some news to tell you and you must listen, for it will not be easy to hear.” Richard dropped to a knee in front of his aunt, that he might break the news in little more than a whisper. Mary caught but snatches of his words, though he had rehearsed it enough in her hearing that she well knew what he would say.
“Anne is not in London, although she was, briefly. She has fled north, to Scotland.” A pause.
“Scotland?” Lady Catherine sniffed. “Nonsense. Why would she go to such a place? Who with, pray?” Her brow knitted. “You cannot mean to tell me...”
“I can, and I do. Anne is in Scotland. She fled there in the company of a gentleman -” he ground the word out, indicating to all present that he did not, in any way, consider George Wickham a gentleman. Rake, scoundrel, demon, these were all words he would much rather have used, but they must paint him as warmly as possible for Lady Catherine’s sake, and for Anne’s. “A Mr George Wickham. They- they are married, Aunt.”
“Married?”
Mary flinched at the screech Lady Catherine let out. “My Anne, married? It cannot be true!”
She glanced over Richard’s shoulder, her eyes desperately seeking out Mary, pleading for aid, for some suggestion that her lack-a-day nephew was teasing her, playing some game she neither understood nor appreciated.
“It is true, Lady Catherine,” Mary whispered. “We just heard the news today.”
“From whom?” Lady Catherine was white, her words little more than a breath.
“Darcy is there,” Richard said. “He went - he tried -”
“They advocate this nonsense, I suppose?” She pushed Richard aside, hauling herself to her feet. “They encourage her to flee, to make a match with some nobody.” Her eyes narrowed. “And yet, he is not nobody. I fancy I recognise the name.” Her lips moved, as she turned over in her mind the details Richard had provided. “Wickham...not the young man old Mr Darcy was so foolish over?”
“Yes,” Richard’s voice was hoarse. “Yes, George Wickham grew up in common with Darcy, so, Aunt, it is not so very bad -”
“Not so very bad?” Lady Catherine cried. “Oh, ho! Richard, you may think nothing of marrying as you please, and choosing a wife from nowhere, as Darcy does, as well, throwing away your prospects and your position with one foolish match after another. But Anne - my Anne!” She let out a wordless wail and lurched towards the door. “I will not take visitors this evening. Good night!”
The door slammed closed behind her, and Richard sank back on his heels, his chin to his chest.
“Come, Richard.” Mary stood, crossing the room to her husband, and laying her hand on his shoulder. “We ought to go home.”
“Home?” Richard’s response was a bitter hiss of a word. “To have the same conversation over again, with my brother and his wife? Can you foresee it going any better?”
“No,” Mary said, as Richard rose to his feet. She snuggled into his side, offering strength from her embrace. “But, my dear, I cannot imagine them taking it any worse.”
***
WICKHAM LAID HIS HAND down with more grace than he felt. Inside, he raged against the loss: his third that day, and already more than he could afford.
“Another hand?” His companion grinned wolfishly at him, and Wickham resisted the urge to lash out, to wipe the smile off the older gentleman’s face. The fellow nodded towards Wickham’s purse, which lay, undisturbed, on the table near his elbow. “You’ve enough in there to stand another game, surely?” The challenge in his voice was inescapable, and Wickham knew the words that lay behind the invitation. You’ve spent a week winning our money from us: now it is our turn for revenge. You’ll not act so much the Master if your purse is bled dry.
Wickham closed his hand over the pouch, moments away from asking to be dealt in, for this hand would be different, surely. This time his luck would change. He’d win back all he’d lost, and more! Before a single word was uttered, though, another voice broke through the low din of the pub, and his blood flared hot in his veins.
“Alas, Mr Wickham has no more time for cards. We were due to meet, were we not? I am late: my apologies.”
Wickham did not need to lift his head to recognise Darcy, knew the tight smile he would see on his former friend’s face, the look of disappointment that would pin his features immovably in place. Still, he had offered Wickham an out, and a chance to escape with his dignity intact and a few coins still about his person: he would not allow his own pride and irritation to prevent him from taking the opportunity that was open to him.
“Indeed, Mr Darcy.” He winked infuriatingly at the man opposite him, a little cheered to see his companion’s face slide momentarily into a frown at losing such easy quarry. “Well, chaps, I’ll bid you farewell.”
“For now,” his companion muttered, reaching for his tankard. “You’ll be back ‘afore the day is out.”
“Maybe.” Wickham shrugged, easily, his confidence faltering only slightly when he stood face to face with Darcy, whose disappointment was not a mere disappointment, but anger, frustration, rage. Wickham had the fleeting notion that, had Darcy a weapon, he would be very close to using it. As it was, Darcy was a gentleman through and through, and would not lower himself to common brawling, particularly in such an inn as this. Small mercies, Wickham thought, with a wince.
“Let us walk outside,” Darcy said, pointing him towards the door. As they burst out into the pale frigid light, Wickham saw another tall fellow standing to one side, recalling his name to mind almost immediately. Mr Bingley. Of course: that would explain the presence of the man’s sister here, they must have come all as one party. Wickham glanced momentarily back towards Darcy, wondering if he had underestimated his old friend, for, with Bingley as second, there was little chance of Wickham escaping any sort of duel.
“Listen, William, I do not know what you propose -”
“Nothing,” Darcy said, his voice dripping with disdain. “If I wished to see you suffer injury, I’d have left you to your friends.” He jerked his head back towards the inn. “How long do you think they would have played before discovering your cheating?”
“Cheating?” Wickham roared with laughter that was more bravado than anything. “If you saw my losses you’d know I was not cheating well if I was doing it at all.”
“Perhaps not today, but your wins were not all of your own doing, I’ll wager.”
“I did not take you for a betting man,” Wickham said, sourly. “And anyway, what did you mean by pulling me out of there? If it is lecture, only, then I shall bid you good day and continue home.”
Darcy exchanged an irritated glance with his friend, but it was Bingley who spoke next.
“I hear I am to congratulate you, Mr Wickham,” he said, in a sober tone. “On the occasion of your marriage to Miss Anne de Bourgh.”
“Indeed,” Wickham sniffed. “Mrs Anne Wickham, as she is now.” He could not resist a glance at Darcy as he said this, but his old foe’s features did not flash with anger the way Wickham expected. It was almost as if he had made his peace with the situation, and it no longer rankled him as it once had. Peculiar.
“Well, I thank you for your congratulations, Mr Bingley. At least certain people know how best to respond to news of a wedding.”
“It is hard to offer genuine thanks for a match made under duress,” Darcy muttered.
“Duress? My dear fellow, Anne was as eager as I was to wed. Has she not told you as much? We are in love, what else is a young couple to do but seek to marry?”
“One might consider the blessing of one’s family before one does.”
“As you have done?”
This question was dropped so innocently that it was almost missed by Mr Bingley, but not by Darcy, whose ears it was intended for. He made no visible show of hearing, but a nerve twitched in his jaw and Wickham felt the glee of his shot finding its mark. Yes, William, I know your secrets as well as you know mine, do not forget it.
Darcy said nothing but started walking with energy towards the small cottage Wickham called home. Bingley hesitated, but eventually, he fell into step too and Wickham, in spite of himself, followed suit.