Page 136 of The Difference of a Darcy
Mr. Whitlow hesitated. “It angered one of the men—Mr. Harris, who owns the mill. He told Mr. Wickham to watch his tongue. The magistrate was there as well, and he tried to calm them both, but Mr. Wickham would not have it. He began to shout—terrible things, sir. He said the whole county was against him, that everyone conspired to keep him down, that he was the godson of George Darcy and deserved better than to rot in this cursed corner of England.”
The colonel’s expression hardened. “And then? Was he arrested?”
“No, sir,” Mr. Whitlow said, his voice faltering. “He was not arrested.”
“Then what?” the colonel pressed. “Was he thrown out? Beaten? Sleeping off his drink somewhere?”
The innkeeper looked down at his hat. His fingers twisted the brim until it nearly tore.
“He is dead.”
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Elizabeth gasped. The colonel’s head snapped up, and Darcy’s chair scraped sharply against the floor as he rose.
“Dead?” the colonel repeated, his voice low and disbelieving.
Mr. Whitlow nodded, his throat working as he swallowed. “Aye, sir. Dead. I saw it myself.”
The silence stretched as Darcy lowered himself back into his seat. Then the fire gave a sharp crack, startling them all. The colonel was the first to recover.
“Explain yourself,” he ordered quietly. “What happened?”
Mr. Whitlow wet his lips. “After the quarrel, sir, no one sided with him. The magistrate warned him to mind his tongue, but that only made him worse. He ranted that we were all cowards conspiring to ruin him. He said he would not stay another hour in this godforsaken backwood county, that he was meant for better company. He boasted that he would return to London where he was known and respected.”
Elizabeth’s fingers clenched together in her lap. She could almost hear Wickham’s voice in her mind, the hate and vitriol she had witnessed from him the day before blending with the innkeeper’s words.
“And then?” Richard prompted again.
“He was told to leave,” Mr. Whitlow replied. “So he did—stormed out into the street, cursing us all. I followed to be certain he did not cause trouble. The magistrate and Mr. Harris must have thought the same as me, for they came along, too. He grabbed the reins of his horse, which seemed to almost not be very well-trained.”
“It was not,” Darcy said grimly. “I am not certain where he procured the animal, but he rode it to Pemberley when he came back from who-knows-where. When he left last night, I was half expecting the animal would throw him—it was difficult to manage, even if its rider were more experienced.”
Mr. Whitlow nodded. “That would be it, then. The horse was restless when he mounted. Mr. Wickham jerked the reins, and I think he spurred too soon. The creature danced sideways, half-reared, and Mr. Wickham just… well, he just lost control of his anger, I guess. He began to whip it—hard. The more he struck, the more it fought him. It finally reared up and kicked its front legs, then crashed down and bucked, throwing Mr. Wickham from its back.”
Elizabeth and Mrs. Reynolds gasped. “Is that what killed him, then?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Smith. His neck was broken. Clean, like a snapped twig. He did not suffer long.”
Elizabeth felt as though she might be ill. No one spoke. Mrs. Reynolds’ hands trembled where they clutched the back of a chair. The colonel exhaled slowly, the sound heavy in the still room.
“Well,” he said at last, “that saves us the trouble of deciding what to do with him. It seems the Almighty has settled the matter.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, uncertain what she felt—shock, relief, or guilt that any relief could exist at all.
The colonel rubbed a hand over his brow. “Well, William, we are fortunate indeed. He has spared your wife the from the necessity of preventing one of us from killing him.”
Darcy shot the colonel warning glance.
The colonel raised a hand in apology. “Yes, yes—poor form, I know.” Turning back to the innkeeper, he asked, “Will there be an inquiry? The magistrate will not leave it at that, surely?”
Mr. Whitlow shook his head. “There will be none, sir. The magistrate was present when it happened. He saw Mr. Wickham’s fall himself. He said it was an accident and that nothing more needed to be done. The body has already been taken to the undertaker’s.”
Elizabeth drew a steadying breath. “Then it is truly over.”
Darcy’s eyes softened as they met hers. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It is over.”
“I will go inform Georgiana,” Richard said, rising from his chair.
