Page 86 of Midnight at Pemberley

“Georgiana has you, Sir. She does not require me. I am not meant for Pemberley’s grandeur. More than likely the staff finds me scandalous.”

The colonel chuckled. “Perhaps. If … if my cousin cannot be saved, as Georgiana’s only other guardian, I would be grateful if you would return to Pemberley, Mrs. Darcy. Your intuition is excellent, and I am assured my young cousin could learn much from you.”

Elizabeth was silent, but she was touched by the sentiment. Aloud, she said, “Let us not face that decision until it is necessary, Sir.”

Darcy scouted the area after his arrival at the local inn. It would be dark soon, and it was important to become familiar with the lay of the land before it was too dark to observe the details of the buildings. Several hours northeast of Chillingham, the village of Stanwick was little more than a turning-off point for Edinburgh.

Wickham’s residence could be accessed by one of two ways: through the churchyard and cemetery and then down a treacherously steep hill and through a wooded field or the direct route of over a drawbridge, across an open courtyard, and through the front door of the house. Although Darcy did not come close enough to see into the house’s windows, several carefully placed questions told him the few steps before the house led to an unadorned open hall, evidently used as the center of activity for Wickford Manor. A few of the more adventurous youths gladly told him how the pantry in the kitchen was bare and the well was only for show, because no water was ever seen within it. From the road, Darcy could observe the garden and the lawn, which displayed signs of neglect.

Thinking the churchyard a better choice for his approach, he attempted to appear casual as he strolled through the graveyard, pausing periodically to read epitaphs: Make Wisdom Your Provision for the Journey from Youth to Old Age and Ye Shall Know the Truth and True Nobility Is Exempt from Fear were mixed with The Music of My Life, Matthew Horace and Charles McDane, Loving Father and Behold the Child, Mary Adams. Circling the perimeter of the cemetery, he stumbled across the Winch-combe headstones of Mairte Rosin and Domhnall Neill. He suspected them to be those of Wickham’s parents, because they were the last ones before one exited the rear of the neighborhood’s churchyard. He would not find Wickham’s grave there. The great evil associated with George Wickham prohibited his inclusion in consecrated land. More than likely, Wickham’s house was designed to embrace his grave.

Then his eyes fell upon the dual crypts dominating the center of the site. Without reading the engraving, Darcy knew to whom they belonged. These two faced the center of the cemetery, as if they stood staring into each other’s eyes for eternity. Darcy could see them in his mind’s eye: Lady Ellender D’Arcy and Lord Arawn Benning, circling each other on the dance floor … preparing to rush into each other’s arms in a moment of passion … arguing heatedly over some domestic matter.

Slowly and methodically, Darcy made his way around the mounds until he stood reverently before the locked gate of the memorial to the woman whose renowned beauty began the madness he knew: Ellender D’Arcy Benning. “Would you do it all again?” Darcy murmured, but he knew the answer—she would. Lady Ellender executed her choice for the love of a man, the one person who completed her—the way Elizabeth completed him. Darcy had no doubt he would risk it all for Elizabeth. He was risking everything to protect Elizabeth and Georgiana. He turned to stare at the other crypt, the one belonging to Elizabeth’s ancestor. Sighing heavily, Darcy strode away from the all-too-raw memories of his wife.

He worked his way down the well-worn path leading from the graveyard towards the wooded field, which he crossed quickly. He desired to view the back of the house before the dark set in. At length, satisfying his need for information, he retreated to the inn. Tonight, while the village slept, he would return to finish the battle with Wickham.

Near midnight, dressed all in black except for a loose-fitting shirt he had purchased in the village store, Darcy made his way through the graveyard once again. Instead of hiding behind headstones and staying in the shadows of the hedgerow, he strode proudly through the center, crossing the point where the crypts marked the centuries. He carried a silver sword and wore the iron crucifix, but his true weapon, he told himself, was his determination. He had come to end the plague on his family, and, one way or the other, Darcy would know peace at last. Two hundred years of demonic hatred and fear would end with his confrontation with Wickham.

Edging his way down the steep slope, his boots loosened pebbles, which cascaded in a rain of dirt to the bottom. He cared not whether someone might hear. The living were safe in their beds, and he was confident that Wickham knew of Darcy’s approach. They held that sort of knowledge of each other.

He slowed his steps as he emerged from the woods. A dim light reflected off the windows of the central room. Darcy moved more cautiously, weaving his way to the window for a look inside. Plastering himself against the grey stone of an exterior wall, the cold shale caused a shiver to run the length of his spine. The shutters were slanted outward, but the openings between the slats provided a clear enough view of the interior. Wickham sat at the end of an expansive table, facing the window. As if on cue, he raised his hand in a salute, the way he always did in farewell, and then Wickham’s lackeys, who materialized from the mist creeping along the ground, surrounded Darcy.

Despite the danger, Darcy smiled. Such was why he had come. Wielding the sword in his right hand, he kept his back to the wall. When the first apparition stepped menacingly before him, Darcy simply swung the sword, arcing in a downward movement, hacking at the woman’s neck. A second whack from the opposite direction took off the head a few inches above the shoulders.Years of removing the heads of Wickham’s victims had provided him enough practice to be somewhat efficient in the motion. A shrill cry of despair filled the air as the body turned to a skeleton. A bloody mist, smelling of decaying waste, floated upward before congealing and drifting away like fiery embers in a breeze. “One down,” he said as he smirked.

Boldly reciting the Lord’s Prayer as he stepped now to the left, Darcy swung the crucifix he carried upon a chain, keeping the next set of attackers at a healthy distance. A parry and a basic thrust through the heart sent another soul to heaven. The crucifix smacked an abandoned spirit, and a repugnant somnambulist screamed out, as if burned, and then followed the fate of those struck by Darcy’s blade.

Inflamed now with success, Darcy attacked more diligently, striking first with the sword and then with the holy relic, but with each release, two more dusky fiends took its place. “It is too late, Darcy,” a cold breath whispered in his ear, but still he fought on. He was desperate to stave off the encroaching army, but a vaporous stench surrounded and smothered him, and a blow to the back of his head, one violently snapping his neck forward, sent him first to his knees and then into complete darkness.

He did not know how long he remained unconscious, but when he opened his eyes, grey ones, only inches from his face, stared back at him. It took several blinks of his lids before the reality of his situation became evident. He was not dead, but he was Wickham’s prisoner. His arms ached from the battle, and Darcy attempted in vain to move them, only to find them secured behind him. Wickham’s face withdrew, and Darcy struggled to right himself.

“That was a fine display, Darcy.” Wickham applauded in amusement. “You took more than a dozen of my favorites with that exhibition of your swordsmanship.”

Darcy licked his lips, tasting his own blood. “I would have preferred twice that many.” Darcy forced himself to return Wickham’s smirk. “I hoped you would be among them, Wickham.”

“I apologize, but I could not accommodate you.” His enemy sat upon an ornate chair, leaned back in it, and crossed his legs at his ankles.

Darcy looked about him. “Where am I?”

“In the house’s root cellar.” Wickham gestured at the bare walls. “I am afraid I entertain so very little, and my lack of hospitality must be evident.”

Darcy looked over his shoulder to view what bound him. He shook his hands and heard the rattle of chains. “And why am I restricted? Do you fear me, Wickham?”

“Since your alliance with Mrs. Darcy, your power has increased. Your once-latent interest in your abilities blossomed with the appearance of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Wickham appeared to be amused again. “Unfortunately for you, and I suppose fortunately for me, you chose not to refine those innate skills.” He gestured towards the chains binding Darcy to the wall. “I took note of your ability to manipulate time. I also noted that to do so, you must extend your arms to the sides; therefore, your current bonds.”

Darcy nodded in a respectful acknowledgment of his opponent’s intelligence. “How long will I be here?”

“I am not assured. I suppose it will be at least until your lovely wife and mayhap your sister make an appearance. Someone is certain to attempt to save you. I will wait until I capture the whole lot. Then you will receive the pleasure of witnessing my repeatedly taking the two of them and claiming your loved ones as my own.” Wickham paused suddenly and looked off wistfully. “I wonder, Darcy, if you know how much your sister resembles Ellender?” He seemed momentarily sad, but then he returned to his threat. “You will beg me to permit you to die, seeing Mrs. Darcy and the innocent Georgiana willingly coming to me to feed, and only then will I grant your wish.”

Staring absently at the void between them, Darcy looked off, seeing something Wickham would never recognize: the love of a fine woman. He returned his gaze to his opponent. “Elizabeth will not come. She abandoned me. You will be satisfied to know your maneuverings were quite successful. When Elizabeth discovered you took Miss Lydia and would continue to torment those she loved because of me, she turned on me. She could not love a man who brought such evil into her life.”

Wickham allowed his eyes to betray his true pleasure. “But it was I who brought the evil.”

“Because you hated Ellender D’Arcy for what she did to you,” Darcy retorted. “My family brought on Elizabeth’s grief.”

“I never said I despised Lady Ellender,” Wickham corrected. “Moreover, it was as much your wife’s family as it was your own. Arawn Benning claimed everything I desired, and then, because of his treachery, I was sacrificed. It was not enough that he had won Ellender. He took away my hope of finding another, and then he caused the death of my parents.”

“The village?” Darcy probed.