Page 114 of Colour My World
Something gave way. A warmth seeped down his leg. A second blow fell harder. Darkness.
* * *
Netherfield Park
Darcy entered his sitting room bone-weary, having fallen asleep while reading in the library. On his bed lay a letter, closed with a glob of wax. No embossed seal.
He set it aside, closed his eyes, and ran a fingertip along his temple.
The door opened. “Barty?” He turned, then sat on the bed.
Fitzwilliam. Just shadow and quiet tread. He crossed the room and sat in the opposite chair. “Ask your questions.”
Cobwebs filled Darcy’s head. “Why bring a cavalry squad into Meryton?”
“You know that they were not cavalry.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Because a gentleman will not always act first,” Fitzwilliam said.
“But soldiers will?”
“Always.”
“Why Wickham?” he asked.
“Some men do not stop. Not with warnings. Not with exile. Not even after ruin.”
“You said he would not trouble me. You did not say—”
“I spared you what you find distasteful,” Fitzwilliam replied.
“What did he do?”
Fitzwilliam reached into his coat and withdrew a soiled, creased letter. He held it out. Darcy unfolded it. The scent of smoke still clung to the page.
She’s near enough grown. Of a marriageable age.
Meet at the vicarage. I’ll sign our names.
She needn’t do more than stand there.
Tuckett gets his share when he produces the register.
Darcy looked up. “Tuckett?”
“Disgraced parson out of Southwark. Still wears the collar. Keeps a quiet book for men with coin.”
Darcy tasted bile. “Georgiana? She is safe?”
“Under guard. At Matlock House. She never knew. Nor will she.”
Darcy shut his eyes. “Why did you not tell me?”
“Because I knew what you would do. And it was not enough.”
Darcy leapt to his feet. “What were the years for—the bruises, the blood—if you always meant to act in my place?”
