Wherein success, of a sort, comes to pass...
Chapter 13
Lydia's bedroom smelled of lavender sachets and the musty aroma of old fabric. Kitty bent over a half-embroidered handkerchief, her fingers moving with all the haste she could manage through the intricate stitches to finish Lydia's the floral design. Every commission Kitty and Lydia finished was that much more money for her and Mr. Denny to begin their new life together. Though Kitty was not as adept as her sister with the needle, she could help with this. And Kitty's fingers had been quick and true during the past days of feverish work.
If only all of this had been in preparation for a joyous event. The soft rustle of fabric and the creaking of floorboards filled the room as Lydia darted back and forth between the wardrobe and the bed, tossing dresses and petticoats onto the growing mound of clothing. Amelia was asleep on the bed, between piled gowns. Eugenia had set her mind towards helping, and sat on the floor, diligently folding Lydia's petticoats into lopsided squares. After finishing one, she would look at it, her bottom lip thrust out in a pout, and drop it into a crumpled heap, beginning the process anew.
It had been two days since they'd made plans with Mr. Denny for he and Lydia to escape to the Americas. Kitty was at turns overwhelmed, exhausted, relieved, and terrified for her sister's sake. And so very, very sad. She hated the idea of Lydia leaving England, of her being so far away, possibly forever, but she could not deny that Mr. Wickham was a monster and that the situation would only deteriorate if Lydia and the girls remained.
Tears burned in Kitty's eyes, but she blinked them away.
"Hand me that shawl, would you?" Lydia asked, her voice breathy with exertion as she gestured to a delicate lace wrap draped over the back of a chair.
Kitty set aside her embroidery and rose to her feet, folding the garment before placing it in the trunk. Lydia, at least, showed sparks of her old self. Gone was the listless, broken woman Kitty had met upon arriving in Newcastle. In her place was a flurry of determined activity, a woman with a purpose.
"I suppose this is easier than murder, but it seems so..." Lydia let out a frustrated sigh. "Final."
"It is not final," Kitty said, though she was not sure she believed the words. "It is a new beginning. Mr. Denny will be with you, and you will write to us. Often. Perhaps one day, we can visit. Mr. Darcy will have no trouble affording passage across the sea. Or..." Kitty picked up a small pair of dancing shoes and placed them in the trunk. "Maybe one day you can return. When the girls are older." When they were adults in twenty or so years. Kitty could not imagine she would be the same person then. And neither would Lydia.
Lydia managed a watery smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Maybe so." She sat down on the edge of the bed. "If Lizzy were here, she would scold me for making an even more foolhardy decision than running off with Mr. Wickham in the first place."
"Lizzy cares for you and the girls," Kitty said. "if she knew, she would understand."
"Would she?" Lydia's expression was bleak. "I do not know. It does not matter now, I suppose. But this time, at least, it is not a foolish decision, though it might be rightly called impulsive."
"It is not a foolish decision at all. Mr. Denny is no stranger. He has been a good friend to you and your daughters, even before he learned of your husband's abuse. I saw how he tried to take care of you. How often did he bring you food from his kitchen?"
"At least twice a week," Lydia said.
"He cares for you. Given enough time and distance, perhaps you could eventually become man and wife." If not by law, then at least in their hearts.
Lydia, thinking of the law, returned, "If Mr. Wickham was to choke on a fishbone and die, yes, but that does not seem likely, does it?"
"No, I am afraid it does not." A morbid giggle burst from Kitty's lips, and Lydia joined her in an absurd peal of laughter that shook their shoulders and brought a smile to their lips, even if it was the darkest of jokes.
After the rush of laughter passed, Kitty returned to her stitching and Lydia to her packing.
The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor startled Kitty from her work. The needle slipped, pricking her finger, and she hissed in pain. Her heart raced as she glanced at Lydia, who stood frozen beside the bed, a half-folded gown clutched to her chest.
"He said he would be out until evening," Lydia whispered, her knuckles white gripping the fabric of her gown.
Eugenia looked up from her half-folded petticoat. "Papa?"
"Shhh, sweetie," Lydia whispered.
Eugenia, wide-eyed, nodded. The footsteps passed, and through the closed adjoining bedroom door came the sound of muffled curses, banging, and stomping around.
Kitty met Lydia's gaze and mouthed, "What?"
Her sister gave a minute shake of her head and a half-shrug.
"Damn and blast!" came a bellowing shout.
Eugenia covered her mouth with her hands. "Naughty."
More stomping, and then the creak-thump of a door thrown open. "Lydia!" Mr. Wickham called out. Lydia threw the gown on the bed and ran towards her bedroom door. She had her hand on the knob when it was flung open, the force of it making her jump backwards.
"George!" she cried. "What is the trouble?"
Mr. Wickham loomed in the doorway, his eyes bloodshot and his face flushed with rage. "Where are they?" he muttered, his bloodshot eyes darting around the room. "Where are the blasted papers I left on the dining room table this morning?"
Kitty's heart raced as she watched her sister's face pale, her hands trembling as she clutched a half-folded petticoat. "Papers? Wh—what papers?" Lydia stammered.
Mr. Wickham whirled on her, his face contorted with rage. "It was a stack this thick." He held up his fingers with about an inch of space between them. "The new contract for my stall space, which was supposed to be signed. It was on the table where I left it. I need those papers. I cannot go to this meeting without the papers."
"Are you sure they were-?"
Mr. Wickham's fist struck the wall with a loud thump. "You stupid, useless woman!"
Of course, he considered Lydia to be useless when he had forgotten or likely misplaced his papers with no help from his wife. But Mr. Wickham would never accept blame for anything.
Kitty leapt to her feet, stepping in front of Lydia. "Calm yourself, Mr. Wickham. We will help you find the papers, I assure you."
Finally, noticing the state of the room, Mr. Wickham's brows lowered and his mouth twisted in a scowl. "What the devil is going on here?" he snarled, his gaze darting between the open trunks and the piles of clothing. He grabbed Lydia by the arm. "Where do you think you are going?"
Lydia shrank back. "I... I was just..."
"Just what?" Mr. Wickham demanded, stalking into the room. The stench of alcohol rolled off him in waves. "This looks like packing to me. Where are you going? Pemberley? Mr. Darcy will not welcome you to his home after all the trouble you caused his wife. Is it your parents'? I daresay they will refuse to admit you after what you've done, whoring and begging after me." He leaned closer to her, his gaze cold and pitiless. "Or-"
"C—cl—cleaning."
"Yes, we are cleaning!" Kitty threw the handkerchief aside and strode over to the bed. "It is in such disarray. We wanted to tidy it. That is all. There is no need for such unpleasantness."
Mr. Wickham rounded on Kitty, his lip curling in a sneer. "Stay out of this, Kitty. It is none of your concern. This is between my wife and myself. And I am not so blind that I cannot tell the difference between cleaning and packing. Where are you going?"
"George, you are drunk-"
Mr. Wickham tightened his grip on Lydia's arm. "You think you can leave me?" he hissed, his face inches from hers. "You're mine, do you hear me? Mine!"
"Stop! Please!" Lydia gasped, trying to pull away, tears streaming down her face. "You're hurting me! George, please, not in front of the girls!"
"You are lucky to have me, Lydia, because no other man would tolerate your selfishness, your greed, your disloyalty to me, your own husband."
"My selfishness?" Lydia cried out. "I have done everything I could to support you and our daughters. I have been nothing but loyal to you and willing to share your life and home. You are the selfish one, spending all of our money on drink and cards, on the barest of provisions for ourselves-"
Mr. Wickham's face contorted with rage and his hands clenched into fists. He raised his arm, his knuckles cracking as he balled his fingers into a tight fist.
"No!" Eugenia screamed, running across the room and throwing herself in front of Lydia. "No, Papa!"
Mr. Wickham froze, his arm still in the air. "Genia," he said, his voice low and ragged. His hand uncurled, and he dropped his arm to his side. Then he smiled, his eyes flat like coins, the curl of his lips reminding Kitty of a snake. "Do you know what your mother was about to do? Was she taking you and Amelia on a trip? Is that it? Are we all going to Pemberley for a visit?"
"No," Eugenia said, her voice high and fearful.
"Be honest with me, little girl," Mr. Wickham growled, bending to bring himself level with his daughter's gaze. "What was your mother doing?"
Eugenia sobbed, her whole body shaking. "No—no-."
With her husband distracted, his grip on Lydia's arm loosened, and Lydia yanked free. "You are frightening her, George," she said, taking a step back from her angry husband. "What about these papers you need? Let us check the dining room again. Perhaps you put them somewhere else and did not realize."
"I know where I put those papers. And you will tell me the truth." Mr. Wickham advanced, his posture tense and threatening.
"Stop yelling!" Eugenia shouted, stomping her foot. "Mama's going to 'Mericas and you canna come 'cause you are mean!"
The floor seemed to drop out from under Kitty as Mr. Wickham's gaze fell on his daughter and widened. "What did you say?"
Eugenia whimpered and took a step back. On the bed, Amelia woke with a shriek.
Mr. Wickham spun towards Lydia, who ducked under his arm and hurried towards the door. She stumbled, but quickly righted herself, darting through the open door and tearing down the corridor.
Her husband, now irate, gave chase. "You have lost your bloody mind, Lydia," he snarled, his feet pounding on the wooden floors in pursuit. Eugenia seemed poised to follow, but Kitty grabbed her shoulder. "Stay here with Amelia," she ordered, and at the little girl's nod, Kitty dashed out the door and into the corridor.
Lydia was already at the top of the stairs, but Mr. Wickham caught up with her at the landing. "Lydia! Stop, you stupid cow!" He lunged for Lydia, his fingers grasping the delicate fabric of her sleeve. Lydia let out a yelp of surprise, twisting away from his grip.
A handful of wooden blocks, hidden by the decorative rug at the top of the landing, clattered down the stairs. Mr. Wickham's foot skidded on one. Perhaps it was the drink or his temper, but his expression of rage turned to terror as he toppled forward, one arm flailing, the other still pinching at Lydia's sleeve until it tore free. The sound of ripping cloth mingled with the blood rushing in Kitty's ears. With a strangled cry, Mr. Wickham fell, his body tumbling down the stairs in a tangle of limbs and curses.
Mr. Wickham's body hit the bottom of the stairs with a sickening thud, his head striking the hard wooden floor. He lay still, his limbs splayed at odd angles, his neck twisted in a way that made Kitty's stomach churn.
Lydia stared. Kitty stared.
Was he alive? Dead?
Kitty expected to feel something at the thought. They had worked so hard for it. But all she could hold in her mind was the image of his face, contorted in anger and hate, as he reached for Lydia. The terror as he scrabbled uselessly at the air. And then his fall.
"Is he...?" Lydia whispered.
Kitty shook her head.
The sound of the front door opening made them both jump. Kitty's mind raced with a thousand terrible possibilities. What if it was one of Mr. Wickham's superiors, asking after the papers he had been so furious about losing? What if it was a neighbor, drawn by the sound of the commotion?
But as the figure stepped into the foyer, a wave of relief wash over Kitty. Mrs. Gardiner, carrying a basket of fruit and rolls, gasped and dropped the items in her arms. Apples and buns rolled over the floor. Kitty's gaze followed them, a strange contrast of mundane ordinariness with the horrifying reality of Mr. Wickham lying at the base of the staircase like one dead.
"What happened?" Mrs. Gardiner said, her voice low and urgent. "Tell me you did not-"
"It was an accident," Kitty said. "He was violent, and he slipped." She pointed to the scattering of wooden blocks, two on the stairs, one mere feet from his limp hand. "He may be..." Kitty's voice cracked, and she realized, the thought surprising her, that she was going to cry.
Lydia sobbed, and Kitty took a tentative step towards her sister.
"Mama?" Eugenia called from Lydia's bedroom door.
"Stay back, sweetie!" Kitty called out.
Mrs. Gardiner, ever practical, knelt at Mr. Wickham's side and, pulling free her glove, pressed her fingers to his throat. "He is gone," she said. "It looks like the fall broke his neck. A tragic accident." She emphasized the word 'accident,' her gaze on Kitty, though her meaning was for both her and her sister.
"It was an accident," Kitty repeated, and it had been, though she doubted her aunt would ever believe this truth. And if it mattered.
"Exactly so." Mrs. Gardiner stood, her tone businesslike as she said, "Fetch me a blanket, Kitty. The children should not see this. And we will need a constable."
THANK YOU FOR READING! Epilogue next. It's done, so I'm just posting both.