It was dark. Too dark for the driver to continue if safety were of prime concern, but for Fitz and Louisa their own safety paled, they were all of the concern for Georgiana and where she could be, being spirited across the country. They had barely spoken in the last hour, both lost in their thoughts as the carriage thundered onward, jolting and bumping over the road. Louisa did not want to ask her friend what they would do if… she didn't even want to think of what might have transpired between the scoundrel Wickham and the dear sweet Georgiana, but whatever had happened she would be there to love and support both of the Darcys in any way that she could.
"Do you hold me responsible for this, Fitz?" She uttered under her breath, "should I have told you how far Wickham had fallen?"
Fitz's features were taut, his expression pulled into what could be a permanent frown. The colour that had drained from him earlier had not returned and she was certain that he would now forever look haunted in some way that she would never be able to explain.
"Louisa, it is I who should be apologising to you," his voice was low and croaky, "I knew the level of Wickham's depravity and sought to keep it hidden. I owe not only an apology to you, but to every woman of our acquaintance."
"Fitz, don't think like that. You were not to know that he would do this…with your own sister."
"Maybe not," he averted his eyes from hers, "but his villainy knows no ends. Look at what happened to poor Flora. She would have been more on her guard with him if she had known what he was capable of."
"You cannot blame yourself for Flora, but I should have made you more aware of this disgrace. I knew that something was wrong at Pemberley. He was plotting something then, I am convinced of it."
Fitzwilliam leaned over, his head dropped between his knees as he ran his hands through his hair. It was out of pure frustration, wondering what on earth he was going to do next, hoping that there would be a clear path out of this mess. She reached over and placed her hand on his.
"We will reconcile this, Fitz," her voice was soothing, as soft as a new mother nursing her infant, "whatever we find, however we find it. George Wickham will not be the victor."
A deep sigh escaped from his body, "thank you for this."
"You always think that you have to do things alone, but you do not."
"Aye," he sat up straight, "a man is lucky to have a woman like you for a friend."
"A woman like me knows that a man like you is oft in need of a friend."
"Is friends all that we are, Louisa?"
It was a pointed question, and he was asking her directly far too late.
"Fitzwilliam, if I could have taken our friendship and transformed us into into the happiest people in England, then I would have already done it. The truth is…" she bit her tongue, not sure of what she could say, because what she was about to say, "are you certain that we are friends above all else, Fitz?"
"Of course. Louisa, what is the matter?"
She took a sharp intake of breath, "you see, Fitz, I am not totally enamoured with the thought of taking a husband, for if I were then I would have wholeheartedly pursued you in a manner more virulent than that of my sister."
"Your sister makes no secret of her desire to be the next mistress of Pemberley, although she has made no allies amongst my household," the mood had lightened slightly, even though they both knew it was only temporary.
"Fitz," the words hung in her mouth, she had trusted no other with this secret. "As much as I am happy to be the wife of a fairly kind if louche husband, I would much rather…" she paused again, trying to find the right words "I would much rather have been able to take a wife of my own instead."
He pulled his hand back from hers, placed them on his knees and looked out of the window. She felt as if her heart had dropped through the bottom of her stomach and she averted her gaze, feeling ashamed and embarrassed, as almost as if the world was collapsing on top of her.
"Fitz? Please say something…"
He glanced up, she could see the tip of his hat, the turn of his countenance, even in the semi-darkness of the carriage.
"Flora was more than a friend to you, wasn't she?"
Louisa nodded, even now the loss of Flora Montgomery caused tears to prick at her eyes as she remembered her laughter, her smile. Inadvertently the tears began to escape down her face, as she thought about everything that had been lost because of one cruel, unfeeling man. Fitz caught it, moved across the coach, the tall bulk of him clumsy in the darkness, but he wrapped his arm around her and held her as she sobbed.
"I have never told anyone, Fitz. I never will again," she said through tears, "but now you understand why I could never have been your wife, even though we would have the greatest of times together."
"We would have."
"Maybe, but you deserve more than that. You deserve a great love, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and not a marriage of convenience to someone you tolerate."
"I think I have found my great love," he said, "thanks to you."
"Miss Godwin?"
"Yes, I think so. The lady is perfection itself, I doubt I would find a more suitable bride."
Louisa smiled softly up at him, but there was hesitation in it because she was holding back from what she truly wanted to say, "you have to be completely sure, because love tests you in so many ways. You have to know that the woman you love is up to the challenges of married life because it's forever. You have to choose someone who is your equal – and I'm not talking about status either, although that is as good a place to start as any."
"I know," he soothed. "Is this why you chose the elderly nobleman with a vast fortune?"
"I chose a well-born gentleman who already had an heir. Mr Hurst is generous and he asks nothing of me, except to look delightful and provide entertainment and amusement. If you think about it, it's the perfect match for me."
"I hate knowing that you have settled for a less than worthy match, Louisa."
"I haven't."
He could see her visage clearly now in the moonlight, could see her face still streaked with tears. Fitz had never seen Louisa Bingley cry, Caroline cried all the time, like a spoiled child, stamping her feet when things didn't go her way. Her behaviour had tempered, but not in any kind of way that would have persuaded him to marry her. But Louisa. He could have loved her, by god. Dabbing at her face with his cotton handkerchief, he kissed the top of her head softly. "Thank you for trusting me," he whispered, as they sat there as the carriage rocked along, "I shall keep your secret as long as you require me to."
"I know."
They sat there silently, each wondering what lay ahead for them. Georgiana had been alone with Wickham now for three days, the worst-case scenario for Darcy was that Wickham had convinced her to elope with him, that she was now happily ensconced in the marital bed with George Wickham as her husband, for if she had chosen him willingly, even based on a deception, then there would be naught he could do. Darcy knew that he may have even forced himself on her, and it made him recoil even at the thought of it. He was well aware of Wickham's predisposition for virginal girls, but he never thought… No, he could not think about it. They must be getting closer. He would know soon enough, and then he would make everything right, because he was Fitzwilliam Darcy, and it was his responsibility to do so. That was what he did.
The moonlight hit the outline of him. Stood there with his shirt ripped, his bare chest exposed, gazing out onto the bleak, empty land, the scent of cigar smoke sharp against the spring evening. Cut grass. She lay there like a discarded ragdoll, scared to move or even breathe, making herself as small as she could. He dismounted from the carriage, closing the door behind him, and she moved quickly, pulling her cape around her. Her new bonnet lay beaten and battered on the floor, the ostrich feather missing, torn from its mount, the lace trim on her petticoat ripped, her stockings rumpled. She pulled them up quickly, quietly fastening the ribbon, before standing with one shoe missing. Reaching her hair, she tried to make herself presentable, even though the curls and ribbons trimmed earlier that day by the maid at the coaching inn were pulled out and in disarray. Smoothing her chemise, she attempted to lace her stays, but her fingers fumbled – she had never done this alone before – and she sank back on the seat, pulling the torn dress over her shoulders and closing it as best she could.
There was pain, but it was nothing she felt physically, because even though there were welts on her wrists and marks on her breast, she had taken herself away and to another place, she saw the face of her beloved mother, a familiar sight etched into her memory since she was small the picture a permanent resident in her rooms at Pemberley. She had focused on the blackness, imagining the smiling woman with features like her own, and suddenly she was comforted held in a blanket of love and warmth. It was cold now in the carriage, and she pulled the cloak around her tighter still. Then the noise of another traveller on the road, a rumble, she didn't know whether to hide or shout, demand attention and rescue, but when she tried to say anything she felt the words stuck in her throat, and so she hid in the corner, cowering like a frightened pup, trying to make herself invisible.
There were shouts outside. A kerfuffle, a yell, the voice of a woman. Familiar, maybe? The door opened and she peeked out of the hood.
"Georgiana?"
Relief. Rescue.
"Fitzwilliam!"
She was pulled out of the carriage quickly, a heavy fur-lined cloak enveloping her. The pain was felt now, every part of her body seemed to be on fire even as he lifted her, carrying her to another coach, placing her inside where Louisa held her close.
"Take heed, Fitz," Louisa said in hushed tones.
"I will," he said, glancing at Georgiana, who was smaller than he had ever seen her.
And then there was shouting and she looked to see her brother with his hands on Wickham if he might kill him. Inside her, there was a rush of anger and fire.
"Do not give him the satisfaction, Fitzwilliam," she screamed from the carriage, "he would die happy knowing you would get the noose."
Wickham, back up against the door of the carriage, Darcy's arm under his neck, unable to breathe, but able to sneer, felt the hold relax, "aye, it would be a happy day, indeed, Fitzwilliam, but would you murder your brother."
"You are no brother to me," he hissed, turning on his heel, catching his sister's frightened face.
George Wickham was never one to walk away from a fight, "I will be when your sister is my bride! For who would want her now?"
Quick as a flash, Fitzwilliam turned again, marched to his tormenter and placed the blade directly at his gullet.
"I would never allow her to marry you, you worthless dog." His eyes flashed black, his voice rumbled like oncoming thunder, "and if you so much as breathe a word of this, I guarantee that you will face the consequences of your own selfish actions."
"And if there is a bastard in her belly?" He tried to grin, but Fitz pressed harder, "where will the good name of Darcy get her then?"
"You are lying."
The blade dropped. Wickham had known Fitzwilliam Darcy for too long to have not figured how to thoroughly rankle him, and he was going to take advantage as best he could.
"Why don't you ask her yourself… She reminded me of that winsome wench from Egypt. What was her name? Rosa… Yes, luscious little Rosa who jerked and shifted and…you remember what she was like, Fitz…"
Fitz took a breath and turned to walked away, he wanted to get Georgiana and Louisa as far away as he possibly as he could.
"Is that it, Darce? Is that all the honour of your sister is worth? Why, if I had known, I would have had her when she was a riper fruit to pluck!"
Fitz stopped and landed a hard, heavy punch on Wickham's jaw. The smile stayed on his face momentarily before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slid down the door of the carriage, out cold.
Fitzwilliam, Georgiana and Louisa set off again into the night, Georgiana tucked under her brother's arm as he pulled her in close and told her that everything would be alright.