With Richard now departed, two men remained in the room to await and mull over the next meeting.
Darcy stood off to himself in quiet, earnest meditation, Thornhaugh examining his severe mien with mild amusement as he cozied deeper into his chair. He reached into an inner breast pocket and extracted a case of leather. "The Swedes have a saying, Darcy: 'Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow.'"
He then removed from the case a single cigar, abruptly waking Darcy from his ruminations to ask, "What are you doing?"
"Easy, ol' man. I only want to smell it." He took a long whiff of the cylinder passed under his nostrils. "Ahh, how I miss them. Would just one more make a difference?"
Darcy sighed. "If only you could stop at one."
"Aye, if only…" Again he slid the cigar under his nose, slowly savoring the aroma. "If only those before me could have stopped at just one: one glass, one wager, one contest, one shady agreement." With effort he stood and approached the mantel shelf. "Luckily the curse skipped right over John; and I do hope, sincerely, that it ends with me." Finding the tinder box, he bent and struck up a fire within moments, the lingering vapors of spilled wine fueling the blaze. Logs were added, and he stood to admire his creation, the cigar and leather held loosely in his open palms. After some moments, he let the objects fall from his grip and into the fire, releasing a long exhale as he watched them be consumed. In a far-away voice he muttered, "Seems to be less and less of me, Darcy."
Empathy walked Darcy over to Thornhaugh's side under the pretense of sharing his view of the flames. His spirit was faltering; Darcy could hear it, see it, feel it. An attempt had to be made to wrest him from despair's forceful grip and quickly, but it was hardly a man's place to comfort another.
Darcy quietly cursed his inadequacy—Damn! Would that we were half so proficient in these matters as women! No proverbs came to mind, merely a fragment of a work recently perused, a lyric of particular eloquence thus quoted, "'Their heart grew cold. They let their wings down.'"
He had pulled deep, borrowing wisdom from the ancient Greeks in absence of his own, a wisdom without context, but still relevant to the circumstances.
Neither a look nor word of response came for many seconds, till Thornhaugh finally said, quite casually, "Perhaps I shall go to London. Why not?"
"Might be fun," replied Darcy with a smirk. "Imagine the look on their faces."
This drew from him enough of a laugh to provoke a few coughs muzzled with his elbow. "Then I shall need more time and money. Dare me to make both?"
"Go on and try. I've no faith in you at all."
"That's what I like to hear."
A soft clearing of the throat from behind turned both men around to meet a face fixed in a resolute gaze directed at Thornhaugh.
Darcy paled, swallowed, and then welcomed Bingley in his usual manner in concurrence with a private prayer for him to not issue a challenge on behalf of the sister who had suffered so grievously by her former suitor's hand. A memory flashed before Darcy's eyes of an especially sad visit to Hope Valley some years ago, of poor Caroline rocking back and forth in her usual corner chair, eyes on her needlework as she muttered incoherently, her dead husband's name mentioned in perpetuity. It was a grim period under the Bingleys' roof, but Charles and Jane never gave up, never once complained as she grew worse and worse under their tender care. One spring morning in the year twenty, Caroline Bingley Cotter finally succumbed, one might say mercifully, alone and unexpectedly in her room, her cause of death ruled an anomaly, one Matthew could not but attribute to the heart's anguish prevailing over the body's will to live.
While Darcy could only watch and wait, Thornhaugh matched Bingley's stare with equal intensity, ostensibly prepared for anything. His jaw was set, shoulders squared, infirmity masked by sheer bravado. Exactly what he knew of Caroline's fate was uncertain, and Darcy's knowledge of his friend's feelings and purpose all conjecture; for Bingley spoke ill of no one, ever, and as a rule blamed himself over others when faced with misfortune. The one possible exception to this rule was now miraculously standing in the same room, his infamous demise surely all that had forbidden a regular cursing of his name in the Bingley household.
Darcy's cordial greeting was, to his surprise, answered in kind; then came Charles across the full length of the room to where the two men stood. "He lives and breathes after all!" cried he, a broad smile reaching his shining blue eyes.
Bingley's hand thrust out in offering, but then as quickly withdrew on their startled reactions, censuring his own careless action before opting for a deep bow in lieu of the preferred salutations. "Your Lordship," he said reverently.
Thornhaugh appeared for some moments at a loss of how to respond to the gesture, as if he were assessing in his mind the odds of its sincerity, while Bingley regarded him with utter fascination. "I never could believe it," he said. "Me, a man of unwavering optimism; to a fault, one might argue. I doubted all these years, right alongside almost everyone—except Darcy. He knew you still lived, somehow, and could not be convinced otherwise."
Thornhaugh was speechless, as was Darcy, the pair of them marveling at this impassioned expression of feeling wholly opposite to what was expected.
"Lord Thornhaugh?" said Bingley when no response came. "Are you unwell? Do you need to sit down, sir? Shall I get the doctor? Darcy—"
"I am well, Mr. Bingley," said Thornhaugh, finally recovered from the shock. "Are you well?"
"I cannot complain," Charles answered in the best of spirits, "and should be unheeded were I inclined to. Happy to say even my rest is restored now that our little son is back in the nursery. Darcy, you remember Alfred's fear of storms. The last one kept him in our bed for nearly a week. Nanny swears he will grow out of this phase and constantly warns us of the dangers of coddling; but, alas! we are a weak pair, indeed. We do try to be more stringent, but then one look at his round little cheeks and sunny blonde curls and we are lost…I say, my Lord, are you quite sure you are well?"
"Perfectly well, sir, though a bit tired and sore from the day. I hope you'll not mind if I excuse myself, gentlemen."
"Not at all, sir. You must take care." Bingley looked at Darcy anxiously. "Darce, I really think Matthew ought to be summoned."
Thornhaugh rejected the notion, politely but firmly. "Your concern is appreciated, Mr. Bingley. A bit of rest is all I need. Before I go, have you anything more to say? anything at all?"
"Indeed I do, sir! I am so glad you asked; for Matthew told me everything, including what you did for little George." (Bingley hardly noticed Thornhaugh cringe at the hated descriptor as he went on) "What hell he might have suffered, had you not come to his rescue! Poor boy must have been frightened out of his wits. We were all sick with worry, the Darcys beside themselves, and in a flash you remedied everything! I know not a single man who could have done what you did when you did, which, as far as I am concerned, was entirely practical and pardonable."
Thornhaugh raised an eyebrow. "You would defend it, Mr. Bingley?"
"To my last breath, sir! That I should prefer to avoid all necessary evils means not that I begrudge them entirely. Your instincts, boldness and strength are astounding, commendable, and I simply had to take the first opportunity to express my appreciation, and extend an open invitation for you to dine or drink tea with us as your health and wellbeing allows. I thank you; my wife and children thank you. God shall reward your good deeds. Bless you, my Lord! Bless you!"
Thornhaugh appeared ready to faint by the time Charles had done. He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose as if plagued by a blinding headache. "If that is all, truly all you wish to say, Mr. Bingley, then I…forgive me, I must go now." He started out. "Darcy, I respectfully decline this evening's dinner invitation. Perhaps another time. Do pass along my regrets to the missus and…all the rest."
"A tray will be sent up to your room," said Darcy in a stern voice. "Pray let it not be returned untouched."
"Add a pudding to the menu and we shall see. Good evening, gentlemen."
And then he was gone, leaving a disheartened Bingley to inquire of Darcy, "Did I say something wrong?"
"Not really; just that he is far better equipped for heated confrontation than high praise."
"And he expected the former?"
"He and I both, to be honest."
"I see." Charles appeared injured as he then asked, "Is that why the truth came rather from your cousin than yourself?"
Darcy owned to his misconception. "I ask your forgiveness, Charles, while contending that yours is at a level beyond even my comprehension, least of all his. I know your memory is sharp, that…that you still grieve for her and suffer no incognizance of his part in—"
"Just a moment, please. You thought I meant to harm him?"
"Well…the notion of a challenge had crossed my mind, naturally."
"Naturally!" cried Bingley in astonishment.
"We are never rational creatures where those we love our concerned. Had it been my own sister, Bingley—"
"But you are not me, Darcy. And Georgiana, thank heavens, is miles apart from what Caroline was, and what she became. Nay, I cannot allow it. I cannot have you think this of me, that I have been harboring hatred for all these years, that I would travel twelve miles to challenge a terminally sick man over a disastrous fate in which he played a bit part at best."
"A bit part? You can say that, honestly?"
"When have I not been honest? Indeed, I speak with perfect candor and without illusion. We have lived with this, Jane and I, thought on this, prayed on this for several years now. You cannot pretend my sister was made of sugar and spice before he came along, that he drove her to malice, madness, illness, in essence to her grave. We all know better, do we not? that she was always a serpent: spoiled, entitled, insufferable and ruthless. God, how it pains me to say it, but there it is. Those who cared for her were cast aside as she willfully laid out a path to her own devastation, exploiting everyone she could along the way. First she tried for you, treading lightly, delicately, and you backed away as a keen but gentle hound recoiling from a venomous viper. Then she tried for a fiercer, wilder breed, purposefully, aggressively, only to cry out in shock and anger when the hound bit back. Hard. My sister's fate was not thrust upon her, Darcy, but rather of her own choosing. You must see this, surely."
"From my own perspective, I shall admit," Darcy conceded. "But what of her husband's fate, Charles? The violence of it, and in Caroline's presence, no less! How do you not hold Thornhaugh at least halfway accountable for that?"
Bingley shook his head. "The war did Sir Alvin in long before he was caught in Caroline's web. I never talked of it, but have conducted a good amount of research over the years. He was an excellent man once, a great soldier, and a model officer. 'Twas blessed good luck to have lived through what he did. As if the carnage and cannon fire were not bad enough, all of it paled in comparison to the evil he suffered at the hands of his own comrades. It was they who disfigured him, Darcy—not the enemy. Put simply, the country he loved failed him, and amends could not be made. Even a baronetcy was not enough, at least not to his satisfaction. And for over a year he wallowed in anger and misery till its perfect companion was found in my sister. You already know she employed the vilest methods to secure him, that when he was in her power she abused it, choosing rather to nurture than battle his demons. Theirs was a noxious union of two lost, withered souls. A devoted pair they were, but Jane and I are loath to call what they had love; for we know better. Imagine a couple marinating in their own resentment, two wasted years of marriage spent plotting and scheming a man's demise, and to what end? I ask you, what in God's name did either of them hope to accomplish? What could vengeance have served that tenderness could not? And what was Thornhaugh meant to do but retaliate, especially after what was done to his ship?"
"Granted, but I maintain the duel needn't have come to such an end. I was there, and Thornhaugh was in control, completely. Sir Alvin was under his spell, clay in his hands. And when he could have diffused the situation, he opted instead to end that man's life."
"But he did not take it, Darcy."
"He might as well have!"
"Your wife was there, as well. Does she agree?"
"Lizzy is ambivalent. More than anything she is glad I was spared."
"I share that opinion. What started as a duel ended as a suicide, while an attempt on your life claimed another's." There was a heavy pause before Bingley then asked, "Is George ever to know?"
"How would we even begin to tell him? At this point, what purpose could it serve but to crush the memory of a man he's revered and honored his whole life? I have lived that pain, Bingley. I have borne the shattering blow of disillusionment, of an ugly truth exposing the father I worshipped as a self-professed adulterer who harbored a mistress five miles from where my mother lay dying. God, how I wish I could forget that accursed memoir, unlearn that which has left in my heart a chasm filled with ice and rock where my love for him once resided. I see what you are thinking, Charles, which you are too good to say aloud; that George's situation is dissimilar, that his veneration of Wickham was born of a contrivance fostered for far too long, that his faith and trust might endure upon learning the truth of a man he never actually knew. But what if it is not? What if the damage is irreparable? What if he is as resentful as Caroline, and then carries that resentment into manhood; and what if he is thus compelled to wrong others as he himself was wronged?"
"A risk you might ought to take, ol' friend," answered Bingley after little contemplation, "lest we forget the ravaging consequences of prolonged deceit. 'Twas a ball that went through Sir Alvin's heart, but a lie that killed him; for nothing—not even war—is less bearable than betrayal."
"Would you really call it a betrayal, Bingley?"
"Not I, ol' friend. What matters is how George perceives it. But you know what is best, Darcy, as I know you would do anything to prevent him from following in that man's footsteps, and therefore must have faith in your judgement. Sir Alvin was not so lucky in his allies, and in his union supremely unlucky. On that field he made a choice, to bear this world no longer, to end the pain she intensified." Bingley sighed. "No indeed, Thornhaugh was never the cause, but merely a symptom of the disease which consumed and finally, inevitably claimed them both; that of pride, envy, wrath, half the sins we are warned against lest we rot from within before suffering the ultimate penalty. What I mourn the most, Darcy, is that she never redeemed herself, never repented. I know there was some regret, but was it enough? Was she forgiven? We pray nightly that she has been, her husband as well, and shall now add Thornhaugh to that list. I recommend you do the same. You do still pray, do you not?"
"Every now and then, but less than I should. And again, forgive my ignorance of your true feelings. I had not an inkling you and Jane had given the matter such…introspection."
"Why, because we smile so much? because we are merry? Do you reckon those who wear a perpetual frown the wisest? that enduring suspicion hints of a superior mind, of true enlightenment?"
"Certainly not, just as I know those who frown are not all miserable. Some shroud their happiness in armor, or their love, as if leaving it vulnerable is an invitation to destroy it. But yours is worn proudly on your sleeve. Jane's, too. Lizzy and I continue to marvel at the both of you. It is a special courage we envy and admire."
"You admire us?" Bingley laughed. "What have we ever done but lead the simplest and blandest of lives, the height of our day spent birdwatching as we stroll about the gardens? Lord, if anyone is deserving of tribute, I daresay it is him." He pointed out of the room.
"Who, Thornhaugh? Now that is laughable; for I assure you he has far more to remit than to collect."
"Oh, come now, Darcy. Don't be so pig-headed. Why else would you name your third born after him?"
"I lost a coin toss! You saw it! It was your coin!"
"Very well, you stick with that reason if it pleases you, as if I believe for a moment you would let a shilling decide such a thing. You, a man who gives nothing over to chance, who plans twenty years ahead—"
"I am bored now, Charles, and must therefore change the subject lest I nod off. Shall you stay for dinner?"
"Blimey, you needn't be so dismissive. If nothing else, I would have thought his survival alone enough to earn your respect."
"It is earned to that degree, I suppose, however much more I respect Thornhaugh's swimming prowess than the man himself."
"Swimming? You still believe that was his means of escape?"
"What do you mean? Matty witnessed the whole thing, swore it in writing. Him and a three-pack of Runners confirmed before the magistrate and the courts that Thorn…why are you looking at me that way?"
"Then Matthew still has not told you?"
Now bored and indignant, Darcy answered him with a heavy sigh. "Told me what, Charles?"
Thornhaugh, sluggish and winded, had just reached the second landing of the grand staircase when Darcy called out to him from below: "You never dove in!" His voice rang loudly through the entrance hall. "Did not swim your way to freedom at all; did not even get your hair wet!" He was hastening up the stairs, Bingley's slower steps falling way behind.
Leaned upon the banister, Thornhaugh met Darcy's apparent vexation with a weary roll of his eyes. "Everything is my fault, even your belief I actually plunged headfirst into that foul, murky, shit-suffused river. Don't tell me you believed it, too, Mr. Bingley."
"Well…" Bingley caught up to them short of breath. "I confess I had believed the official story—that is, until the more accurate version was revealed to me just hours ago."
"Bloody landlords," Thornhaugh murmured, and then said to them, "I am just as amazed, gentlemen, that you accepted with so little study a right farcical fabrication, and that you spent so many years in ignorance of a truth that could have been divulged to you at any time. The Thames, indeed! Disgusting!"
"Mr. Gardiner was to get you onboard that Company ship, and he said you never showed up to meet with him."
"I made a quick inquiry about your Mr. Gardiner and learned the man was entirely legitimate, that he built his business from the ground up and had not a transgression to his name. Wife and four bloody children, Darcy. What in blazes were you thinking?"
"There was precious little time for thought or planning. You needed a ship to America; I provided the connection."
"And put a good man at risk, but never mind. Luckily I managed on my own, was able to secure a separate vessel."
"How did you manage that?"
"Is that a real question? Have you not proof enough of my capabilities?"
"He's a point there, Darcy," Bingley remarked.
"Fair enough. But—but why did Mathew not reveal sooner what really happened, that he—"
"How should I know?" said Thornhaugh, resuming his slow climb upstairs. "Ask him yourselves, gentlemen—ah, there is Baxter at last! So good of you to finally show up. A real attendant would have anticipated me."
"And would have poisoned your tea by now," she countered with a smirk.
"Impertinent woman, come and give me your shoulder. Get me to my room. Don't forget the pudding, Darcy. And good night to you again, Mr. Bingley."
He would answer no more questions, and shortly thereafter Darcy sought his cousin for the full and actual details of that day in which Thornhaugh's death was essentially falsified with the aid of three Bow Street Runners and Matthew himself.
"I told no one but Kitty," said Matthew in his confession, later showing Darcy a worn shred of paper bearing the penciled-in year of the event's occurrence—eighteen-hundred and fifteen—with a smear of blood underneath. "A piece was handed to each of us, to be submitted to Mr. Reddy for this number of pounds in remittance. As you see, I never claimed the amount, though it would have set us up for life. I just could not."
"But you were able to lie for him, Matty? Commit perjury, risk prison or even the gallows to protect him? Why?"
"I watched that man take a ball meant for you, Cousin. I could have done no less. It was a deep wound—an infected one, had he actually dove into that bog of a river."
"Seemed perfectly plausible he did just that. A marquess so willing and able to live in dirt could just as willingly swim through it."
"Even after a clean stitch-up, I held little hope for his survival, and yet was strangely unsurprised when he turned up again. As to why I kept the truth so closely guarded all these years, those reasons are my own. A cross to bear of sorts, not easily explained."
"And Kitty guarded it for your sake," said Darcy, who added hopefully, "And you, Matthew, surely must have rethought the likelihood of success in his case. With your treatment and his insolence, I imagine he should make it to London in fairly decent condition."
Matthew leaned forward, regarding him with a piercing look as he said plainly, "He will never be well, Darcy; and neither potency nor resolve can reverse an absolute medical certainty. It is best you come to terms with this, prepare yourself, Lizzy, the children and everyone, that Lord Thornhaugh shall die, and soon."
