Hi everyone! Here's the next chapter. This is a sad one, but I hope you enjoy it :D
Chapter 25
Darcy grit his teeth at the slow pace, accompanying Mrs. Gibbs in her wagon to town. He would prefer to ride ahead, but he could not abandon a woman and two children with highwaymen about, especially as they had already proven violent.
When Richard and Darcy reached the parsonage where the wounded highwayman had been sent to have his gunshot tended, the sun was setting. Darcy had no official role in the investigation, but they respected his family in these parts, and the parish constable, hearing the announcement of his presence, waved Darcy and the colonel in.
Constable Tully said, "He has not regained consciousness. I doubt he will make it through the night."
"Has he spoken at all?" Darcy asked.
"Some nonsense in the beginning. We sent for the surgeon, but it was a waste. They could bleed him, I suppose, but he hasn't much blood to give." The constable added, "His parents are in there now."
Col. Fitzwilliam asked, "Is he local? What is his name?"
"Lucas Phillips. Troublemaker. He does odd jobs around town and sometimes helps a couple of local merchants on market day. I admit, when I saw less of him the past few weeks, I thought myself glad. Luke brought some of the local boys into his schemes." Constable Tully shook his head. "Shame. His mother is distraught, and his father… was in his cups when we told them about their son. The boy had a chance and a choice between goodness and sin, like everyone. But it was not so easy for him as for some. Seventeen years of age." The constable pinched the bridge of his nose. "Blasted waste."
Darcy and Richard caught each other's gazes.
Richard said, "Mr. Phillips would have done better to serve. But the life of a common soldier…" Richard shook his head.
Darcy said, "I would like to see him, if possible. It was my housekeeper they attacked."
"The wife, she is fragile. Her son may be going to the devil, but with a babe in arm and one clinging to her skirts, and her husband the way he is, I ask you have consideration."
Mr. Darcy did not wish to have consideration for the family of the young man who had nearly killed Mrs. Reynolds, but he was not so cold to abuse a woman with a babe in arms.
Mr. Darcy nodded.
Richard added, "We only wish to pay our respects."
Such as they were.
"The parson is in with them now."
Mr. Darcy nodded again, and Constable Tully led him and Richard to the sickroom.
The room was crowded and thick with a mix of paraffin smoke, unwashed bodies, urine, feces, and the beginning of wound sickness. On the bed, beneath homespun blankets, lay the young bandit. He was pale, sweaty, and gaunt.
A thin, red-faced woman with a bruise on her cheek sat on a stool beside the bed, holding the young man's hand. In her other arm she cradled a baby. A young girl of about three or four years with muddy brown hair curled up at the woman's skirts.
The parson, a plump, thick-featured man with thinning hair, a bulbous nose, and large hands with fingers like pale sausages wiped a handkerchief over the young man's brow. Apart from all, a few feet from the bed, sat a broad man with grizzled features. Black and gray stubble shadowed his jaw. He had an aristocratic nose, marred only by a lump along the bridge where it had been broken and healed incorrectly.
The man clutched a flask in his right hand. He looked up the door as Darcy and Richard entered, took a swig, and, wobbling, staggered to his feet.
Constable Tully said, "Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Col. Richard Fitzwilliam."
Darcy and Richard bowed.
The woman, holding her baby in one arm, started to stand, but Darcy waved her to sit. "Please, stay with your son."
Mr. Phillips said, "Luke." He waved a hand at the bed. "We named him for an apostle, but he was good for nothing."
"Edward!" The woman admonished him.
The man clenched his fist around his flask and drank again.
"Please, sir, as I explained to the constable and parson, Luke cannot cause trouble now. He has done wrong—a grave wrong—and there is no excusing it, but I cannot bear for him to die alone."
Darcy hated the surge of pity he felt towards the woman. She had raised a son who robbed and hurt people. It made her, morally at least, culpable for his crimes, but Darcy could not hate her. Witnessing her gaunt frame, the bruise upon her cheek, her husband's behavior, and her obvious love for her children, Mr. Darcy could not condemn her either. Had not Wickham been raised in Darcy's own house and given every advantage? Wickham squandered every opportunity, in the end taking the worst advantage of a young girl who had admired him as a brother.
Darcy's parents and Wickham's father had worked to instill in him proper morals, but Wickham had chosen himself and his own pleasure. There reached a point where a man's actions were his own responsibility.
Darcy could not hate her, and because he would not increase her suffering, he did not demand the young man be thrown in a barn or cellar as he clung to the fraying threads of life.
Mrs. Phillips glared at her husband. "Put that rot away. Luke was our son."
"You always coddled him. Lord Lambton will cast us from our farm, and then what will we do? How will we feed our other brats? Luke has ruined all of us. "
The woman bowed her head, still holding her dying son's hand. Tears tracked down her cheeks.
They were not even his tenants, and Darcy felt a responsibility to them.
Mr. Phillips said, "We cannot be of much use to you, Mr. Darcy. Colonel. I told Luke to go and not come back a fortnight ago when I heard he was causing trouble again about town. He went to spend time with my wife's sister, or at least that's what he told us. He is not been around since."
Mrs. Phillips swallowed. On the floor, the little girl sat up and rubbed her eye with her fist. "Mama?" She looked up at Luke, breathing shallowly on the bed. "Is Luke going to die?"
Mrs. Phillips sobbed.
Richard knelt at the girl's side. "What is your name, young lady?"
She glanced at her mother.
Richard smiled. "My name is Richard. Richard Fitzwilliam. I am a colonel."
The girl's eyes widened. "You fight the French?"
"I help protect our country.
"Do you have a pretty uniform?"
Richard's face colored. "It is very fine. You must have missed Luke, with his being away for so long?"
"Oh, he came back sometimes so Mama did not worry."
"Amelia!"
Mr. Darcy asked, "Mrs. Phillips, is this true?"
"My sister would not take Luke. Too troublesome. But he loves us. He does."
"Did he say what he was doing, or mention any new acquaintances?"
"He said he was going into service with a young lord. I know it was wrong. Luke was the sort of child who spun tales, but he gave me a brooch, a glittering thing, and it had my initials. Luke wanted to be a good son. He would tell jokes to see me smile. I knew the gift was too rich for a servant, but I wanted to believe him. You must understand, he was not a bad child. He was just hurting."
Darcy's hand clenched. "Do you have this brooch?"
"I put it in with my mother's cutlery. It was too fine to wear."
"I tried to beat sense into the boy," Mr. Phillips hiccupped. "He had a streak in him that did not mind his elders."
"Mama?"
On the bed, Luke took a deep, rattling breath.
"His time is near," the parson said. "Let us pray."
Mr. Darcy stepped away.
Mr. Phillips, who had been drinking with his back turned to his son, turned to face the boy. "Why would you not listen and stay on the farm? You had to get ahead of yourself. Lazy, always looking to take the easy way. And now, you have made your mother cry."
Mrs. Phillips sobbed.
"Mama?" the young girl tugged on her mother's skirts. "Mama!"
Mr. Phillips stood. His gait was surprisingly smooth as he walked to the bedside and put a hand on his son's shoulder. "I should have put you to more work. Forced you to make something of yourself." He took a deep breath.
The parson's prayers mingled with tears and recrimination as Luke gasped twice more. His eyes opened, and he let out a strangled whimper.
Silence.
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Thank you for reading! Next chapter soon!
V