“Very well. What will you tell Elizabeth?”
Darcy sighed. “I hardly know. I do not want to raise her hopes if it is not Lydia. In any case, the news will be distressing, to say the least. I will make our excuses to your parents in a short while. They shall not suspect anything untoward. Elizabeth is not quite herself, in any case, and I daresay my aunt has discerned as much. Then I suppose I shall wait at Darcy House for word from you. What of Wickham?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I have received no word of Wickham, but when I do, you shall be the first to know.”
It was nearly eleven o’clock that night when Colonel Fitzwilliam was ushered into the dimly lit back foyer of Darcy House, bearing Lydia Bennet in his arms. Elizabeth had been on edge ever since her husband had reluctantly told her Richard’s men had discovered the location of a young woman who may or may not be Lydia. Elizabeth raced down the stairs when she heard Darcy’s voice mingled with that of his cousin, barely managing to fasten her dressing gown about her waist as she went. She gasped when she beheld Lydia, who appeared listless, battered, and bruised. Holding back tears, Elizabeth instructed the colonel to carry her sister to one of the family apartments abovestairs. One of his men went off to summon the doctor; another, Mr. Bennet, who had not yet returned from Gracechurch Street.
Elizabeth saw to her sister’s comfort as best she could, assisting one of the maids with bathing her, dressing her, and tending to her battered face, which felt feverish to the touch. All the while, Elizabeth spoke to Lydia in a low, soothing voice full of tenderness and unrestrained affection. After Lydia was settled beneath the counterpane, and even when the doctor finally arrived, Elizabeth pointedly refused to leave Lydia. Indeed, even after her father had appeared by his daughter’s bedside and insisted Elizabeth rest, she would not. She was determined to stay beside her youngest sister until she was well—be it hours or days.
Darcy looked on with concern for his sister-in-law, as well as his wife. Since this was to be his wife’s stubborn decision, and since he had very little success in swaying her from it, Darcy saw nothing else to do but emulate it. If Elizabeth would not leave her sister, neither would he leave Elizabeth. The fact that he felt she was putting her own health at risk, as well as that of their unborn child, by refusing to look after herself, disturbed him. In vain did he and Mr. Bennet attempt to persuade her to retire and rest in the comfort of her own rooms. Not until the following evening, when Elizabeth finally succumbed to exhaustion—falling asleep in a chair by Lydia’s bed—was Darcy able to remove her to their bed for the night. Though she stirred and attempted to rise and return to her sister several times while Darcy eased her gown, corset, and chemise from her body, somehow, he hardly knew how, he had managed to calm her agitation, cradling her in his arms until she drifted into a heavy slumber. He did not dare leave her side, not even after the sun had risen high into the cold, gray sky.
Another week would pass before her family could be reassured of any improvement in Lydia, and before Colonel Fitzwilliam would finally receive word from his men with regard to George Wickham’s whereabouts. It was a frigid night when the cousins departed Darcy House with eight trustworthy officers, all of whom shared the distinction of having female members of their acquaintance affronted by Wickham in one unscrupulous manner or another.
The two unmarked carriages that transported the ten men rolled up to a run-down house in one of the seedier parts of London. There was a commotion coming from within—angry voices and the sound of breaking glass. Colonel Fitzwilliam took the lead, banging upon the door with a heavy fist. A frightened young girl of no more than twelve peered through a dirty window several seconds later. Upon seeing the blur of red coats assembled on her father’s steps, she threw open the door and beckoned them to enter, practically pulling Colonel Fitzwilliam by his sleeve. “Please! You must stop ’im! ’E is out of ’is mind with rage!”
“Who?” prompted the colonel.
“My Papa! Please! ’E says ’e’s gonna kill ’im! My Papa can’t go ta jail! ’Tis just my ma, my sister, an’ me. ’Ow’ll we ever live?” She dragged the colonel up a narrow staircase and into a dimly lit hall, with Darcy and the other men hard on their heels. The sound of raised voices alerted them to Wickham’s unmistakable presence in the room just beyond. All ten men drew their weapons and entered to the appalling sight of George Wickham gasping for air while suspended against the far wall of the small parlor by the hands of an irate man, much in the same manner Darcy had held him not many months before against the side of the milliner’s shoppe in Meryton, his hands closed around the scoundrel’s throat.
Colonel Fitzwilliam advanced and ordered the man, who was slowly choking Wickham to death, to cease and desist. Unsurprisingly—or not—the man refused to release his captive. “This bloody bastard laid ’is ’ands on me eldest girl, ’e did! I ain’ goin’ ta let ’im go fer nothin’! Not until the life is squeezed from ’is miserable body! Do with me wha’ ya will after, but I ain’ lettin’ ’im go ’til ’e’s good an’ dead!”
It was Darcy who approached the angry man and, with a cold look of hatred directed at Wickham, cocked his pistol and extended it without ceremony to the irate father, who grinned. “I see ya ’ave a grievance with this ’ere fine gentleman, as well, ya rotten piece o’ filth,” the man continued with renewed vigor. “Perhaps ’e’d like ta do the ’onors instead?” Then he addressed Darcy, his eyes—and his hands—never leaving Wickham. “What’d ’e do ta ya? Did ’e ’urt one o’ yer precious girls, too?”
Darcy leveled an icy glare at Wickham and muttered in a voice devoid of any feeling, “Two of my sisters… and my wife.” Then suddenly, Darcy’s hands gripped Wickham’s throat as the man stepped back with a sadistic smirk.
“I do believe this ’ere gentleman’ll kill ya righ’ good, ’e will. An’ all the better fer me.”
The terror in Wickham’s eyes was now palpable. Darcy leaned in and, in a voice shaking with barely checked fury, said, “You touched my wife, George. You laid your filthy hands upon her and insulted her in a most vile and reprehensible manner. She has not been the same since, and it has made me very, very angry. So angry, in fact, I do believe I would now like to see you dead. I care not how or by whose hands. I only know it will not be by mine. I will not risk my wife’s displeasure by dirtying my hands with your blood, no matter how sorely I am tempted.”
He threw Wickham toward the knot of red coats clustered around them, all gripping pistols and sabers, and watched as Wickham soiled himself while his hands massaged his bruised windpipe. Tears streamed from his eyes. “Have mercy on me, gentlemen! I am certain we can reach some sort of agreement here,” he rasped, but it was too late. Eight men seized him and dragged him, screaming, from the house.
Darcy fought for control while Colonel Fitzwilliam addressed the man in front of them. “You need not fear for your family, sir, I can promise you. Every man in this room tonight has been wronged by that blackguard, and they are anxious for retribution. He will not be found.” The man nodded.
Darcy, finally feeling in better control of himself, asked, “Pray, how is your daughter, Mr…?”
“Browning, sir. She’s a righ’ mess, but she’s strong. It ain’ nothin’ she won’ recover from eventually. The dirty blackguard hadn’ the time ta do ’is worst, by God, but tha’ don’ mean I didn’ wanna kill ’im in any case.”
Darcy gritted his teeth. “No. I share your sentiments completely.” He noticed the young girl peering around the side of the door then and reached into his coat pocket. He extracted his purse and handed it to Mr. Browning. “For your daughters, sir, and for your trouble. It is not nearly enough, but if it helps in any way to ease their suffering after this horrible event, please accept it with my gratitude. If it were not for the commotion here tonight, my cousin’s men would never have discovered that scoundrel. I thank you for your assistance, though I am exceedingly sorry for the cause. If you will allow it, I would send for my physician so he can tend to your daughter.”