Death Comes to Pemberley

1

It had been agreed that Alveston should be present with Mr Mickledore in case he was required at the formalities for the pardon, and he remained behind in the courtroom when Darcy, longing for Elizabeth, made his solitary way back to Gracechurch Street. It was four o’clock before Alveston returned alone to say that it was expected that all procedures for a royal pardon would be completed by late afternoon the day after next and that he would then be able to escort Wickham from the prison and bring him to Gracechurch Street. It was hoped that this could be done with a minimum of public notice. A privately hired chaise would be ready at the back door of Coldbath Prison and another one as decoy at the front. It was an advantage that they had managed to keep secret the fact that Darcy and Elizabeth were staying with the Gardiners and not, as was confidently expected, in a fashionable inn, and if the actual time of Wickham’s discharge could be kept from public knowledge, there was every chance he would arrive at Gracechurch Street undetected. At present he had been returned to Coldbath Prison but the chaplain there, the Reverend Cornbinder, who had befriended him, had arranged for him to lodge with him and his wife on the evening of his release, and Wickham had expressed his wish to go straight there after he had told his story to Darcy and the colonel, refusing Mr and Mrs Gardiner’s invitation that he should remain at Gracechurch Street. The Gardiners had felt it right that the invitation should be issued, but there was general relief that it had been declined.

Darcy said, “It seems like a miracle that Wickham’s life was saved, but surely the verdict was perverse and irrational and he should never have been found guilty.”

Alveston said, “I cannot agree. What they saw as a confession was repeated twice and was believed, and there was too much left unexplained. Would Captain Denny have left the chaise and rushed into a dense and unfamiliar woodland on such a night merely to avoid the embarrassment of being present when Mrs Wickham arrived at Pemberley? She is, after all, Mrs Darcy’s sister. How much more likely that Wickham had involved himself in some illegal enterprise in London and, since Denny was no longer a willing accomplice, had to silence him before they left Derbyshire?

“But there was something else which could have contributed to the verdict and which I only learnt in speaking to one of the jury while I was still in court. Apparently the jury foreman has a widowed niece of whom he is very fond, whose husband took part in the Irish rebellion and was killed. Ever since he has nourished an implacable hatred against the army. If this had been disclosed, undoubtedly Wickham could have challenged that particular member of the jury, but the names were not the same and the secret was unlikely to have been discovered. Wickham made it plain before the trial that he had no intention of challenging the selection of jurymen, as was his right, or of providing three witnesses to speak to his character. He seems, indeed, to have been optimistic but generally fatalistic from the start. He had been a distinguished officer, wounded when serving his country, and now was content to be judged by his country. If his sworn word was not enough, where could he look for justice?”

Darcy said, “But I have one concern on which I would like your opinion. Do you really believe, Alveston, that a dying man could have inflicted that first blow?”

Alveston said, “I do. I have known cases in the course of my profession in which seriously ill people have found astonishing strength when exertion is called for. The blow was light, and after that he did not totter far into the wood, but I cannot believe he regained his bed without help. I think it likely that he left the cottage door ajar and that his mother went out, found him and helped him home and to bed. It was probably she who wiped the knob of the poker and burnt the handkerchief. But I feel, as I am sure do you, that justice would not be served by making these suspicions public. There is no proof and never can be, and I think we must rejoice in the royal pardon which will be given, and that Wickham, who has shown remarkable courage throughout his ordeal, is free to begin what we hope will be a more successful life.”

An early dinner was eaten almost in silence. Darcy had expected that the relief of Wickham’s escape from a public hanging would be so great a benison that other anxieties would shrink in proportion but, with the greatest anxiety relieved, smaller ones pressed in on his mind. What story would they hear when Wickham arrived? Would he be willing to emigrate, and if so, where would he and Lydia stay until they left for the port? How were Darcy and Elizabeth to avoid the horror of public curiosity while they remained with the Gardiners, and what part, if any, had the colonel played in the whole mysterious business? He was filled with a desperate need to be back at Pemberley and burdened by a premonition, which he accepted was unreasonable, that all might not be well there. He knew that, like him, Elizabeth had rarely slept soundly for months and that much of this weight of impending disaster, which she shared, was the result of an overwhelming weariness of mind and body. The rest of the party seemed infected by the same guilt that they should be unable suitably to celebrate a seemingly miraculous deliverance. Mr and Mrs Gardiner were solicitous, but the delicious dinner which Mrs Gardiner had ordered was left virtually untouched and her guests sought their beds soon after the last course had been served.

At breakfast it was apparent that the spirits of the party had lightened; the first night without dreadful imaginings had produced rest and sound sleep and they now seemed more ready to cope with whatever the day might bring. The colonel was still in London and now arrived at Gracechurch Street. After paying his compliments to Mr and Mrs Gardiner, he said, “I have matters to tell you, Darcy, which relate to my part in this whole affair which I can now safely disclose and which you have a right to hear before Wickham arrives. I prefer to speak to you alone but you will, of course, wish to pass on what I tell you to Mrs Darcy.”

He explained to Mrs Gardiner his purpose in coming and she suggested that he and Darcy should make use of her sitting room, which she had thoughtfully made available as the most comfortable and restful room in which a meeting, which would invariably be difficult for all parties, could take place next day when Wickham arrived with Alveston.

They seated themselves and the colonel leaned forward in his chair. He said, “I feel it important that I should speak first so that you can judge Wickham’s story against my own. Neither of us has cause to be proud of ourselves but throughout I have acted for the best and have paid him the compliment of believing that he felt the same. I shall not attempt to excuse my conduct in this matter, only to explain it, and will try to do so briefly.

“It was in late November 1802 that I received a letter from Wickham delivered at my London house where I was then in residence. It said briefly that he was in trouble and would be grateful if I would consent to see him in the hope that I could offer advice and some help. I had no desire to be involved but I was under an obligation to him of a kind that I could not ignore. During the Irish rebellion he saved the life of a young captain under my command who was my godson and who was lying gravely wounded. Rupert did not long survive his injuries but the rescue gave his mother – and indeed me – the opportunity to say goodbye to him and to ensure that he died in comfort. It was not a service any honourable man could forget and when I read his letter I agreed to see him.

“The story was not uncommon and is simply told. As you know, his wife, but not he, was regularly received at Highmarten and on those occasions he would stay at a local inn or rooming house as cheaply as possible and occupy himself as best he could until Mrs Wickham chose to rejoin him. Their life at the time was peripatetic and unsuccessful. After leaving the army – in my view a most unwise decision – he moved from job to job, never staying in one place for long. His last employment had been with a baronet, Sir Walter Elliot. Wickham was not explicit in revealing the reason why he left, but he said enough to make it plain that the baronet was too susceptible to Mrs Wickham’s charms for Miss Elliot’s comfort and that Wickham himself was not above making advances to the lady. I tell you this to let you know the kind of life they were living. He was now looking for a new appointment; in the meantime, Mrs Wickham had sought a comfortable but temporary home with Mrs Bingley at Highmarten and Wickham was left to his own devices.

“You may remember that the summer of 1802 was particularly warm and beautiful and so, to save money, he spent some of the time sleeping outdoors; to a soldier this was no hardship. He had always been fond of the woodland of Pemberley and walked many miles from an inn near Lambton to spend the days and some of the nights there sleeping under the trees. It was there he met Louisa Bidwell. She too was bored and lonely. She had finished working at Pemberley in order to help her mother nurse her sick brother, and her fiancé, extremely busy with his duties, came to see her only rarely. She and Wickham met by chance in the woodland. Wickham could never resist a pretty woman and the result was perhaps almost inevitable given his character and her vulnerability. They began meeting often, and she told him as soon as she suspected that she was carrying a child. Wickham acted at first with more generosity and sympathy for her than those who know him might expect; he seems, indeed, to have been genuinely fond of her, perhaps even a little in love. Whatever his motives or emotions, together they concocted a plan. She would write to her married sister living in Birmingham, go there as soon as there was a risk of her condition becoming obvious, and there give birth to her baby which would be passed off as her sister’s child. Wickham hoped that Mr and Mrs Simpkins would accept responsibility for bringing up the child as their own, but recognised that they would need money. It was for that reason that he came to me and, indeed, I do not know where else he could have looked for help.

“Although I was not deceived in his character, I have never felt as bitter towards him as have you, Darcy, and I was prepared to help. There was also a stronger motive, the desire to save Pemberley from any hint of scandal. Given Wickham’s marriage to Miss Lydia Bennet, this child, although illegitimate, would have been nephew or niece both to you and Mrs Darcy and to the Bingleys. The arrangement was that I would lend him thirty pounds without interest to be paid back in instalments when convenient. I was not under any illusion that the money would be repaid, but it was a sum I could afford, and I would have paid more than thirty pounds to ensure that a bastard child of George Wickham was not living on the Pemberley estate and playing in the Pemberley woods.”

Darcy said, “This was a generosity amounting to eccentricity, and knowing the man as you did, some would say stupidity. I must credit you with having a more personal interest than the wish for the woods of Pemberley not to be so polluted.”

“If I had, it was not to my discredit. I admit that at the time I harboured wishes, indeed expectations, which were not unreasonable but which I now accept will never be fulfilled, but I think, given the hope which I then entertained and knowing what I did, you too would have devised some plan for saving your house and yourself from embarrassment and ignominy.”

Without waiting for any response, he went on. “The plan was relatively straightforward. After the birth, Louisa would return with the child to Woodland Cottage on the pretence that her parents and brother would wish to see this new grandchild. It was, of course, important to Wickham that he could see that there was a living and healthy child. The money would then be handed over on the morning of Lady Anne’s ball when Louisa and Wickham could be confident that everyone concerned with Pemberley would be busy. A chaise would be waiting on the woodland path. Louisa would then return the boy to her sister and Michael Simpkins. The only people in Woodland Cottage at the time would be Mrs Bidwell and Will, and they were the only people to be aware of this scheme. It was not a secret a girl could expect to keep from her mother or, indeed, from a brother to whom she was close and who was never out of the cottage; all three were adamant that Bidwell should never know. Louisa had told her mother and Will that the father was one of the officers of the militia, who had left Lambton the previous summer. She had at that time no idea that her lover was Wickham.”

At this point he paused and took a glass of wine, drinking it slowly. Neither spoke and they waited in silence. It was at least two minutes before he began again.

“So, as far as Wickham and I knew, all had been arranged satisfactorily. The child would be accepted and loved by his aunt and uncle and would never know his true parentage, Louisa would make the suitable marriage previously planned, and so the matter rested.

“Wickham is not a man who likes to act alone when an ally or companion can be found, a lack of prudence which probably accounts for his folly in taking Miss Lydia Bennet with him when he escaped from his creditors and obligations in Brighton. Now he confided in his friend Denny, and more fully in Mrs Younge, who seems to have been a controlling presence in his life since his youth. I believe it is regular stipends from her which have largely supported him and Mrs Wickham while he has been unemployed. He asked Mrs Younge to visit the woodland in secret so that she could report on the child’s progress, and this Mrs Younge did, passing herself off as a visitor to the district and meeting Louisa by arrangement as she was carrying the baby in the woodland. The result was, however, in one respect unfortunate; Mrs Younge took an immediate fancy to the boy and was determined that she and not the Simpkinses should adopt him. Then what seemed a disaster turned to her advantage: Michael Simpkins wrote that he was not prepared to bring up another man’s child. Apparently relations had not been good between the sisters during Louisa’s confinement and Mrs Simpkins already had three children and would no doubt have more. The Simpkinses would look after the child for another three weeks to enable Louisa to find a home for him, but no longer. This news was confided by Louisa to Wickham, and by him to Mrs Younge. Louisa was, of course, desperate. She had to find a home for the child and soon Mrs Younge’s offer was seen as a solution to all their problems.

“Wickham had informed Mrs Younge of my interest in this matter and of the thirty pounds I had promised and had, indeed, passed to Wickham. She knew that I was due to be at Pemberley for Lady Anne’s ball since this was my invariable practice when on leave from the army, and Wickham had always made it his business to know what was happening at Pemberley, largely through the reports of his wife who was a frequent visitor to Highmarten. Mrs Younge wrote to me at my London address, saying that she was interested in adopting the child and would be at the King’s Arms for two days, and that she wished to discuss the possibility with me since she understood that I was an interested party. An appointment was made for nine o’clock on the night before Lady Anne’s ball when she assumed that everyone would be too busy to remark on my absence. I have no doubt, Darcy, that you thought it both strange and discourteous of me to leave the music room so peremptorily with the excuse that I wanted a ride. I had no option but to keep the appointment although I had little doubt what the lady had in mind. You will recall that she was both attractive and elegant at our first meeting, and I found her still a beautiful woman although, after eleven years, I would not have recognised her with any certainty.

“She was very persuasive. You must remember, Darcy, that I only saw her once when you and I interviewed her as a prospective companion to Miss Georgiana, and you know how impressive and plausible she could be. She was obviously successful financially and had arrived at the inn with her own coach and coachman accompanied by her maid. She produced statements from her bank proving that she was well able to support the child, but said – almost with a smile – that she was a cautious woman and would expect the thirty pounds to be doubled but thereafter there would be no further payments. If the boy were adopted by her, he would be removed from Pemberley for ever.”

Darcy said, “You were putting yourself in the power of a woman you knew to be corrupt and who was almost certainly a blackmailer. Apart from the money she received from her lodgers, how else did she live in such opulence? You knew from our previous dealings with her what sort of a woman she was.”

The colonel said, “They were your previous dealings, Darcy, not mine. I admit that it was our joint decision that she should take over the care of Miss Darcy, but that was the only previous occasion on which we met. You may have had dealings with her later, but I am not privy to those and have no wish so to be. Listening to her and studying the evidence she brought with her, I was convinced that the solution being offered for Louisa’s baby was both sensible and right. Mrs Younge was obviously fond of the child and willing to make herself responsible for his future maintenance and education; above all he would be totally removed from Pemberley or any association with Pemberley. That was the first consideration to me, and I believe that it would have been to you. I would not have acted against the mother’s wishes for her child, nor have I done so.”

“Would Louisa really have been happy for her child to be given to a blackmailer and a kept woman? Did you really believe that Mrs Younge would not come back to you for more money time and time again?”

The Colonel smiled. “Darcy, I am occasionally surprised at how naive you are, how little you know about the world outside your beloved Pemberley. Human nature is not as black and white as you suppose. Mrs Younge was undoubtedly a blackmailer, but she was a successful one and saw it as a reliable business provided it was run with discretion and sense. It is the unsuccessful blackmailers who end in prison or on the scaffold. She asked what her victims could afford but she never bankrupted them or made them desperate, and she kept to her word. I have no doubt you paid for her silence when you dismissed her from your service. Has she ever spoken of her time when she was in charge of Miss Darcy? And after Wickham and Lydia eloped, and you persuaded her to give you their address, you must have paid heavily for that information, but has she ever spoken of the matter? I am not defending her, I know what she was, but I found her easier to deal with than most of the righteous.”

Darcy said, “I am not so naive, Fitzwilliam, as you suppose. I have long known how she operates. So what happened to Mrs Younge’s letter to you? It would be interesting to see what promises she made to induce you not only to support her plan to adopt the child, but to pay over more money. You yourself can hardly be so naive as to suppose Wickham would return his thirty pounds.”

“I burnt the letter when we spent that night in the library. I waited until you were asleep and then put it in the fire. I could see no further use for it. Even had Mrs Younge’s motives been suspect and she had later broken faith, how could I take legal action against her? It has always been my belief that any letter which contains information which should never be generally known ought to be destroyed; there is no other security. As to the money, I proposed, and with every confidence, to leave it to Mrs Younge to persuade Wickham to part with it. I could be sure that she would succeed; she had experience and inducements which I lacked.”

“And your early rising in the morning when you suggested that we sleep in the library, and your visit to check on Wickham – were they part of your plan?”

“If I had found him awake and sober and had the opportunity, I wanted to impress on him that the circumstances under which he received the thirty pounds must remain totally secret and that he should adhere to this in any court unless I myself revealed the truth when he would be free to confirm my statement. I would say, if questioned by the police or in court, that the reason I gave him the thirty pounds was to enable him to settle a debt of honour, which was indeed true, and that I had given my word that the circumstances of this debt would never be revealed.”

Darcy said, “I doubt that any court would press Colonel the Lord Hartlep to break his word. They might wish to ascertain whether the money was intended for Denny.”

“Then I should be able to reply that it was not. It was important to the defence that this was established at the trial.”

“I have been wondering why, before we set off to find Denny and Wickham, you hurried to see Bidwell and dissuade him from joining us in the chaise and returning to Woodland Cottage. You acted before Mrs Darcy had a chance to issue her instructions to Stoughton or Mrs Reynolds. It struck me at the time that you were being unnecessarily, even presumptuously, helpful; but now I understand why Bidwell had to be kept away from Woodland Cottage that night, and why you went there to warn Louisa.”

“I was presumptuous, and I make a belated apology. It was, of course, vital that the two women were aware that the plan to collect the baby next morning might have to be abandoned. I was tired of the whole subterfuge and felt that it was time for the truth. I told them that Wickham and Captain Denny were lost in the woodland and that Wickham, the father of Louisa’s child, was married to Mr Darcy’s sister.”

Darcy said, “Louisa and her mother must have been left in a state of dreadful distress. It is difficult to imagine the shock to both of them at learning that the child they were nurturing was Wickham’s bastard and that he and a friend were lost in the woodland. They had heard the pistol shots and must have feared the worst.”

“There was nothing I could do to reassure them. There wasn’t time. Mrs Bidwell gasped out, “This will kill Bidwell. Wickham’s son here in Woodland Cottage! The stain on Pemberley, the appalling shock for the master and Mrs Darcy, the disgrace for Louisa, for us all.” It is interesting that she put them in that order. I was worried for Louisa. She almost fainted, then crept to a fireside chair and sat there violently shivering. I knew she was in shock but there was nothing I could do. I had already been absent for longer than you, Darcy, and Alveston could have expected.”

Darcy said, “Bidwell, his father and grandfather before him had lived in that cottage and served the family. Their distress was a natural loyalty. And, indeed, had the child remained at Pemberley, or even visited Pemberley regularly, Wickham could have gained an entrance to my family and my house that I would have found deeply repugnant. Neither Bidwell nor his wife had ever met the adult Wickham, but the fact that he is my brother and still never welcomed must have told them how deep and eradicable was the severance between us.”

The colonel said, “And then we found Denny’s body, and by the morning Mrs Younge and everyone at the King’s Arms, and indeed in the whole neighbourhood, would know of the murder in Pemberley woodland and that Wickham had been arrested. Could anyone believe that Pratt left the King’s Arms that night without telling his story? I have no doubt Mrs Younge’s reaction would be to return immediately to London, and without the child. That may not mean that she had permanently given up any hope of the adoption, and perhaps Wickham, when he arrives, will enlighten us on that point. Will Mr Cornbinder be with him?”

Darcy said, “I imagine so. He has apparently been of great service to Wickham and I hope that his influence will last, although I am not sanguine. For Wickham he is probably too much associated with a prison cell, the vision of a noose, and with months of sermons to wish to spend any more time in his company than is necessary. When he does arrive we shall hear the rest of this lamentable story. I am sorry, Fitzwilliam, that you should have become involved in the affairs of Wickham and myself. It was an unfortunate day for you when you saw Wickham and handed over that thirty pounds. I accept that in supporting Mrs Younge’s proposal to adopt the boy you were acting in his interests. I can only hope that the poor child, with so appalling a beginning, has settled happily and permanently with the Simpkinses.”

2

Shortly after luncheon a clerk in Alveston’s office arrived to confirm that the royal pardon would be granted by mid-afternoon the next day, and to hand Darcy a letter to which he said no immediate response was expected. It came from the Reverend Samuel Cornbinder from Coldbath Prison, and Darcy and Elizabeth sat down and read it together.

Reverend Samuel Cornbinder

Coldbath Prison

Honoured Sir

You will be surprised to receive this communication at the present time from a man who is to you a stranger, although Mr Gardiner, whom I have met, may have spoken of me, and I must begin by apologising for intruding on your privacy when you and your family will be celebrating the deliverance of your brother from an unjust charge and an ignominious death. However, if you will have the goodness to peruse what I write, I am confident that you will agree that the matter I raise is both important and of some urgency and that it affects yourself and your family.

But I must first introduce myself. My name is Samuel Cornbinder and I am one of the chaplains appointed to the Coldbath prison where it has been my privilege for the last nine years to minister both to the accused awaiting their trial and to those who have been condemned. Among the former has been Mr George Wickham, who will shortly be with you to give you the explanation about the circumstances leading up to Captain Denny’s death, to which, of course, you are entitled.

I shall place this letter in the hands of the Honourable Mr Henry Alveston, who will deliver it with a message from Mr Wickham. He has desired that you read it before he appears before you in order that you may be aware of the part I have played in his plans for the future. Mr Wickham bore his imprisonment with notable fortitude but, not unnaturally, he was occasionally overcome by the possibility of a guilty verdict, and it was then my duty to direct his thoughts to the One who alone can forgive us all that has passed and fortify us for what may lie ahead. Inevitably in our discussions I learned much about his childhood and subsequent life. I must make it plain that, as an evangelical member of the Church of England, I do not believe in auricular confession but I would like to assure you that all matters confided in me by prisoners remain inviolate. I encouraged Mr Wickham’s hopes of a not-guilty verdict and in his moments of optimism – which I am glad to say have been many – he has addressed his mind to his future and that of his wife.

Mr Wickham has expressed the strongest desire not to remain in England, but to seek his fortune in the New World. Happily I am in a position to help him in this resolve. My twin brother, Jeremiah Cornbinder, emigrated five years ago to the former colony of Virginia where he established a business schooling and selling horses, at which, largely due to his knowledge and skill, he has prospered exceedingly. Owing to the expansion of the business he is now looking for an assistant, one who is experienced with horses, and just over a year ago wrote to engage my interest in the matter and to say that any candidate I recommend will be kindly received and established in the post for a trial period of six months. When Mr Wickham was received into Coldbath Prison and I began my visits to him, I early recognised that he had qualities and experience which would eminently make him a suitable candidate for employment by my brother if, as he hoped and expected, he was found not guilty of a grievous charge. Mr Wickham is a fine horseman and has shown that he is courageous. I discussed the matter with him and he is anxious to take advantage of this opportunity and, although I have not spoken to Mrs Wickham, he assures me that she is equally enthusiastic to leave England and to take advantage of the opportunities available in the New World.

There is, however, as you may well foresee, a problem about money. Mr Wickham hopes that you will be good enough to make him a loan of the sum required, which will comprise the cost of the passage and a sufficient income to last for four weeks before he receives his first pay. A house will be provided rent-free and the horse farm – for that is what my brother’s business may be called – is within two miles of the city of Williamsburg. Mrs Wickham will not therefore be deprived of company and of those refinements which a gently born lady will require.

If these proposals meet with your approval and you are able to help, I will gladly wait upon you at any hour and place convenient to you and will provide you with details of the sum required, the accommodation to be offered, and letters of recommendation which will assure you of my brother’s standing in Virginia and of his character which, I need hardly say, is exceptional. He is a just man and a fair employer, but not one who will tolerate dishonesty or laziness. If it is possible for Mr Wickham to take up an offer for which he shows enthusiasm, it will remove him from all temptations. His deliverance and his record as a brave soldier will make him into a national hero and, however briefly such fame may last, I fear this notoriety will hardly be conducive to the reform of his life which he assures me he is determined to make.

I can be reached at any time of the day or night at the above address, and can reassure you of my goodwill in this matter and my willingness to provide you with any information which you may require about the situation offered.

I remain, dear sir, yours very sincerely,

Samuel Cornbinder

Darcy and Elizabeth read the letter in silence, then without comment Darcy handed it to the colonel.

Darcy said, “I think I must see this reverend gentleman, and it is as well that we know of this plan before we see Wickham. If the offer is as genuine and appropriate as it seems it will certainly solve Bingley’s and my problem, if not Wickham’s. I have yet to learn how much it will cost me, but if he and Lydia remain in England, we can hardly expect that they can live without regular help.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “I suspect that both Mrs Darcy and Mrs Bingley have been contributing to Wickham’s expenses from their own resources. To put it bluntly, this affair will relieve both families of financial obligation. In respect of Wickham’s future behaviour, I find it difficult to share the reverend gentleman’s confidence in his reformation, but I suspect that Jeremiah Cornbinder will be more competent than Wickham’s family in ensuring his future good conduct. I shall be happy to contribute to the sum needed, which I imagine will not be onerous.”

Darcy said, “The responsibility is mine. I shall reply at once to Mr Cornbinder in the hope that we can meet early tomorrow before Wickham and Alveston are due.”

3

The Reverend Samuel Cornbinder arrived after church the following day in reply to a letter from Darcy delivered to him by hand. His appearance was unexpected since, from his letter, Darcy had envisaged a man in late middle age or older, and he was surprised to see that Mr Cornbinder was either considerably younger than his literary style suggested or had managed to endure the rigours and responsibilities of his job without losing the appearance and vigour of youth. Darcy expressed his gratitude for all that the reverend gentleman had done to help Wickham to endure his captivity, but without mentioning Wickham’s apparent conversion to a better mode of life, about which he was incompetent to comment. He liked Mr Cornbinder, who was neither too solemn nor unctuous, and who came with a letter from his brother and with all the necessary financial information to enable Darcy to make an informed decision on the extent to which he should and could help in establishing Mr and Mrs Wickham in the new life which they seemed heartily to desire.

The letter from Virginia had been received some three weeks ago. In it Mr Jeremiah Cornbinder expressed confidence in his brother’s judgement and, while not overstating what advantages the New World could offer, gave a reassuring picture of the life which a recommended candidate could expect.

The New World is not a refuge for the indolent, the criminal, the undesirable or the old, but a young man who has been clearly acquitted of a capital crime, has shown fortitude during his ordeal and has shown outstanding bravery in the field of battle appears to have the qualifications which will ensure his welcome. I am looking for a man who combines practical skills, preferably in the schooling of horses, with a good education and I am confident that he will be joining a society which, in intelligence and the breadth of its cultural interests, can equal that found in any civilised European city and which offers opportunities which are almost limitless. I think I can confidently predict that the descendants of those whom he now hopes to join will be citizens of a country as powerful, if not more powerful, than the one they have left, and one which will continue to set an example of freedom and liberty to the whole world.

Reverend Cornbinder said, “As my brother can rely on my judgement in recommending Mr Wickham, so do I rely on his goodwill in doing all he can to help the young couple feel at home and flourish in the New World. He is particularly anxious to attract immigrants from England who are married. When I wrote to recommend Mr Wickham it was two months before his trial, but I was optimistic both that he would be acquitted and that he was exactly the man for whom my brother was seeking. I make judgements about prisoners quickly and have not yet been wrong. While respecting Mr Wickham’s confidence, I have intimated that there are some aspects of his life which would cause a prudent man to hesitate, but I have been able to assure my brother that Mr Wickham has changed and is resolved to maintain this change. Certainly his virtues outweigh his faults, and my brother is not so unreasonable as to expect perfection. We have all sinned, Mr Darcy, and we cannot look for mercy without showing it in our lives. If you are willing to supply the cost of the passage and the moderate sum necessary for Mr Wickham to support himself and his wife for the first few months of his employment, it will be possible for them to sail from Liverpool on the Esmeralda within two weeks. I know the captain and have every faith both in him and in the amenities of the vessel. I expect you will need some hours to think this over, and no doubt to discuss it with Mr Wickham, but it would be helpful if I could have a decision by nine o’clock tomorrow night.”

Darcy said, “We are expecting George Wickham to be conveyed here with his lawyer, Mr Alveston, this afternoon. In view of what you say I am confident that Mr Wickham will accept your brother’s offer with gratitude. I understand that the present plan of Mr and Mrs Wickham is to go now to Longbourn and stay there until they have decided on their future. Mrs Wickham is very anxious to see her mother and her childhood friends; if she and her husband do emigrate, it is unlikely that she will see them again.”

Samuel Cornbinder was rising to go. He said, “Extremely unlikely. The Atlantic voyage is not lightly ventured and few of my acquaintance in Virginia have either undertaken, or desired to undertake, a return voyage. I thank you, sir, for receiving me at such short notice and for your generosity in agreeing to the proposal I have put before you.”

Darcy said, “Your gratitude is generous but undeserved. I am unlikely to regret my decision. Mr Wickham may.”

“I think not, sir.”

“You will not wait to see him when he arrives?”

“No sir. I have done him such service as I can. He will not want to see me before this evening.”

And with those words he wrung Darcy’s hand with extraordinary force, put on his hat and was gone.

4

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when they heard the sound of footsteps and then voices, and they knew that the party from the Old Bailey had at last returned. Darcy, getting to his feet, was aware of acute discomfort. He knew how much the success of social life depended on the comfortable expectation of approved conventions and had been schooled since childhood in the actions expected of gentlemen. Admittedly his mother had from time to time voiced a gentler view, that good manners consisted essentially in a proper regard for the other person’s feelings, particularly if in society with someone from a lower class, an admonition to which his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was markedly inattentive. But now both convention and advice left him at a loss. There were no rules for receiving a man whom custom dictated he should call his brother and who, a few hours before, had been condemned to a public hanging. Of course he rejoiced at Wickham’s escape from the hangman, but was that as much for his own peace of mind and reputation as it was for Wickham’s preservation? The dictates of decency and compassion would surely compel him to shake hands warmly, but the gesture now seemed to him as inappropriate as it was dishonest.

Mr and Mrs Gardiner had hurried from the room as soon as they heard the first footsteps, and he could now hear their voices raised in welcome, but not the reply. And then the door was opened and the Gardiners came in, gently urging forward Wickham with Alveston at his side.

Darcy hoped that the moment of shock and surprise did not show in his face. It was difficult to believe that the man who had found the strength to stand upright in the dock and proclaim his innocence in a clear unwavering voice was the same Wickham who now stood before them. He seemed physically diminished and the clothes which he had worn for his trial now seemed too large, a shoddy, cheap, ill-fitting garb for a man who was not expected to wear it for long. His face still had the unhealthy pallor of his imprisonment but, as their eyes met and for a moment held, he saw in Wickham’s a flash of his former self, a look of calculation and perhaps disdain. Above all he looked exhausted, as if the shock of the guilty verdict and the relief of his reprieve had been more than a human body could endure. But the old Wickham was still there and Darcy saw the effort and also the courage with which he attempted to stand upright and face whatever might come.

Mrs Gardiner said, “My dear sir, you need sleep. Food perhaps, but sleep more than anything. I can show you a room where you can rest, and some nourishment can be brought up to you. Would it not be better to sleep, or at least rest for an hour before you talk?”

Without taking his eyes from the assembled company, Wickham said, “Thank you, madam, for your kindness, but when I sleep it will be for hours and I am afraid that I am accustomed to hoping that I shall never wake. But I need to talk to the gentlemen and it cannot wait. I am well enough, madam, but if there can be some strong coffee and perhaps some refreshments …”

Mrs Gardiner glanced at Darcy, then said, “Of course. Orders have already been given and I’ll attend to it at once. Mr Gardiner and I will leave you here to tell your story. I understand that Reverend Cornbinder will call for you before dinner and has offered you hospitality for the night where you will be undisturbed and can sleep soundly. Mr Gardiner and I will let you know as soon as he arrives.” With that they slipped from the room and the door was quietly closed.

Darcy shook himself out of a moment of indecision, then came forward with his arm outstretched and said in a voice which even to his ears sounded coldly formal, “I congratulate you, Wickham, on the fortitude you have shown during your imprisonment and on your safe deliverance from an unjust charge. Please make yourself comfortable, and when you have had something to eat and drink we can talk. There is much to be said but we can be patient.”

Wickham said, “I prefer to tell it now.” He sank into the chair and the others seated themselves. There was an uncomfortable silence and it was a relief when, moments later, the door opened and a servant came in with a large tray containing a coffee pot and a plate of bread, cheese and cold meats. As soon as the servant had left the room Wickham poured his coffee and gulped it down. He said, “Excuse my lack of manners. I have recently been in a poor school for the practice of civilised behaviour.”

After a few minutes in which he ate avidly he pushed the tray aside and said, “Well, perhaps I had better begin. Colonel Fitzwilliam will be able to confirm much of what I say. You already have me written down as a villain, so I doubt whether anything I have to add to my list of delinquencies will surprise you.”

Darcy said, “No excuses are necessary. You have faced one jury, we are not another.”

Wickham laughed, a high, short, raucous bark. He said, “Then I must hope that you are less prejudiced. I expect Colonel Fitzwilliam has filled you in with the essentials.”

The colonel said, “I have said only what I know, which is little enough, and I do not suppose any of us believes that the whole truth came out at your trial. We have awaited your return to hear the full account to which we are entitled.”

Wickham did not immediately speak. He sat looking down at his clasped hands, then raised himself as if with an effort and began talking in an almost expressionless voice as though he knew his story by heart.

“You will have been told that I am the father of Louisa Bidwell’s child. We first met the summer before last when my wife was at Highmarten where she usually liked to spend some weeks in the summer, and since I was not accepted in that house, I made it my habit to stay at the cheapest local inn I could find where, by luck, I could occasionally arrange a meeting with Lydia. The grounds at Highmarten would be contaminated if on occasion I walked there, and I preferred to spend my time in the woodland at Pemberley. I spent some of the happiest hours of my childhood there and some of that youthful joy returned when I was with Louisa. I met her by chance wandering in the woodland. She too was lonely. She was largely confined to the cottage caring for a mortally sick brother and was rarely able to see her fiancé, whose duties and ambition kept him fully occupied at Pemberley. From what she said about him I conjured the picture of a dull older man, anxious only to continue his servitude and without the imagination to see that his fiancée was bored and restless. She is also intelligent, a quality he would not have valued even if he had the wit to recognise it. I admit I seduced her, but I assure you I did not force her. I have never found it necessary to violate any female and I have never known a young woman more eager for love.

“When she discovered she was with child it was a disaster for us both. She made it plain, and in great distress, that no one must know, except of course her mother who could hardly be kept in ignorance. Louisa felt she could not burden her brother’s last months, but when he guessed the truth she confessed. Her chief concern was not to distress her father. She knew, poor girl, that the prospect of bringing disgrace on Pemberley would be worse for him than anything that could happen to her. I could not see why a love child or two need be such a disgrace, it is a common enough predicament in large households, but that is what she felt. It was her idea that she should go to her married sister, with the connivance of her mother, before her condition became noticeable, and there stay until after the birth. The idea was that the child would be passed off as her sister’s and I suggested that she should return with the baby as soon as she could travel to show it to the grandmother. I needed to ensure that there was a living and healthy child before deciding what best should be done. We agreed that I would somehow find the money to persuade the Simpkinses to take the child and raise him as their own. It was then that I sent a desperate plea for help to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and when the time came for Georgie to be returned to the Simpkinses he provided me with thirty pounds. This, I imagine, you already know. He acted, he said, out of compassion for a soldier who had served under him, but no doubt he had other reasons; gossip Louisa had heard from the servants suggested that the colonel might be looking to Pemberley for a wife. A proud and prudent man, especially if he is rich and an aristocrat, does not ally himself with scandal, particularly such a commonplace and sordid little affair. He was no more anxious than Darcy would have been to see my bastard playing in the woodlands of Pemberley.”

Alveston asked, “I suppose you never told Louisa your true identity?”

“That would have been folly, and would only have added to her distress. I did what most men do in my situation. I congratulate myself that my story was convincing and likely to induce compassion in any susceptible young woman. I told her I was Frederick Delancey, I have always liked the idea of those initials, and that I had been a soldier wounded in the Irish campaign – that much was true – and had returned home to find my dearly beloved wife had died in childbirth, and my son with her. This unhappy saga greatly increased Louisa’s love and devotion, and I was forced to embroider it by saying that I would later be going to London to find a job, and would then return to marry her, when our baby could leave the Simpkinses and join us as a family. Together, as Louisa insisted, we carved my initials on the trunk of trees as a pledge of my love and commitment. I confess that I was not without hope that they would cause mischief. I promised to send money to the Simpkinses as soon as I had found and paid for my London lodgings.”

The colonel said, “It was an infamous deceit, sir, on a gullible and essentially innocent girl. I suppose after the child was born you would have disappeared for good and that, for you, would have been the end of it.”

“I admit the deceit, but the result seemed to me desirable. Louisa would soon forget me and marry her fiancé, and the child would be brought up by people who were his family. I have heard of far worse ways of dealing with a bastard. Unfortunately things went wrong. When Louisa returned home with her child and we met as usual by the dog’s grave, she brought a message from Michael Simpkins. He was no longer willing to accept the baby permanently, even for a generous payment. He and his wife already had three girls and no doubt would have more children, and he could never be happy that Georgie would be the eldest boy in the family, having precedent over any future son of his. Apparently, too, there had been difficulties between Louisa and her sister while she was with them awaiting the birth. I suspect it seldom answers if there are two women in one kitchen. I had confided in Mrs Younge that Louisa was with child, and she insisted on seeing the child and said she would meet Louisa and the baby by arrangement in the woodlands. She fell in love with Georgie and was determined that he should be given to her for adoption. I knew that she had wanted children but had no idea until then that her need could be so overwhelming. He was a handsome child and, of course, he was mine.”

Darcy felt that he could no longer remain silent There was much that he needed to know. He said, “It was Mrs Younge, I suppose, who was the dark woman whom the two maids glimpsed in the wood. How could you bring yourself to involve her in any scheme relating to the future of your child, a woman whose conduct, as far as we know it, shows her to be among the most base and contemptible of her sex?”

And now Wickham almost sprang from the chair. His knuckles on the arms were white, his face suddenly flushed with fury. “You may as well know the truth. Eleanor Younge is the only woman who has loved me, none of the others, including my wife, has given me the care, the kindness, the support, the sense of being important to her, as has my sister. Yes, that is who she is, my half-sister. I know this will surprise you. My father has the reputation of having been the most efficient, the most loyal, the most admirable of stewards of the late Mr Darcy, and indeed he was such. My mother was strict with him, as she was with me; there was no laughter in our house. He was a man like other men, and when Mr Darcy’s business took him to London for a week or more, he lived a different life. I know nothing of the woman with whom he consorted, but on his deathbed he did confide to me that there was a daughter. To give him credit, I must say that he did what he could to support her, but I was told little of her early history, only that she was placed in a school in London which was no better than an orphanage. She ran away when she was twelve and he lost contact with her after that, and when increasing age and responsibilities at Pemberley were becoming too heavy for him, he was not able to undertake a search. But she was on his conscience at the last and he begged me to do what I could. The school had long since failed and the proprietor was unknown, but I was able to contact people in the neighbouring house who had befriended one of the girls and was still in touch with her. It was she who gave me the first hints of where I might find Eleanor. And in the end I did find her. She was very far from destitute. There had been a brief marriage to a much older man who had left her sufficient money to buy a house in Marylebone where she received boarders, all of whom were young men from respectable families who were leaving home to work in London. Their fond mamas were immensely grateful to this respectable and motherly lady who was adamant that no young women, either as boarder or visitor, would be received in her house.”

The colonel said, “This I knew. But you make no mention of the way your sister had lived, no mention of the unfortunate men she blackmailed.”

Wickham had some difficulty in controlling his anger. He said, “She did less damage in her life than many a respectable matron. She was left no jointure by her husband and was forced to live by her wits. We rapidly grew to love each other, perhaps because we had so much in common. She was clever. She said that my greatest, perhaps my only, asset was that women liked me and that I had the trick of making myself agreeable to them. My best hope of avoiding poverty was to marry a wealthy wife and she thought I had the qualities to achieve this. As you know, my most promising and earliest hope came to nothing when Darcy turned up at Ramsgate and played the indignant brother.”

The colonel had got to his feet before Darcy could move. He said, “There is a name which cannot be on your lips, either in this room or elsewhere if you value your life, sir.”

Wickham gazed at him with a flash of his old confidence. He said, “I am not so new to the world, sir, as not to know when a lady has a name which can never be smirched by scandal and a reputation which is indeed sacred, and I also know that there are women whose lifestyle helps to safeguard that purity. My sister was one. But let us return to the matter in hand. Happily my sister’s wishes provided a solution to our problem. Now that Louisa’s sister had refused to take the child, somehow a home had to be found. Eleanor dazzled Louisa with stories of the life he would have and Louisa agreed that on the morning of the Pemberley ball Eleanor would arrive at the cottage with me to collect the baby and take him with us to London where I would be looking for work, and she would care temporarily for the child until Louisa and I could marry. Of course we had no intention of providing my sister’s address.

“And then the plan went wrong. I have to admit that it was largely Eleanor’s fault, she was not used to dealing with women and had made it her policy not to do so. Men were straightforward to deal with and she knew how to persuade and cajole. Even after they had paid over their money, men were never at enmity with her. She had no patience with Louisa’s sentimental vacillations. For her it was a matter of common sense: a home was urgently required for Georgie and she could provide one far superior to that of the Simpkinses. Louisa simply did not like Eleanor and began to distrust her; there was too much talk from Eleanor about the necessity of her having the thirty pounds promised to the Simpkinses. Louisa finally agreed that the child could be taken as planned, but there was always the risk that when it came to actually parting with her child she might prove obdurate. That is why I wanted Denny with us when we went to collect Georgie. I could be confident that Bidwell would be at Pemberley and every servant would be fully occupied, and I knew that there would be no problem with my sister’s coach being admitted through the north-west gate. It is astonishing how a shilling or two can ease these small difficulties. Eleanor had previously arranged a meeting at the King’s Arms at Lambton with the colonel for the night before in order to inform him of the change of plan.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “I had not, of course, seen Mrs Younge since the time when we interviewed her as a governess. She charmed me now as she had then. She gave details of her finances. I have told Darcy how I was convinced that what she proposed would be best for the child, and indeed I still believe it would have been best for Mrs Younge to adopt Georgie. After I made it my business to call at Woodland Cottage while we were en route to investigate the shooting, I then thought it right to tell Louisa that her lover was Wickham, that he was married and that he and a friend were missing in the woodland. After that there would never be any hope that Mrs Younge, Wickham’s friend and confidante, would be allowed to have the child.”

Darcy said, “But there was never any question of Louisa being able to make a choice.” He turned to Wickham. “You had it in mind that if necessary you would take the child by force.”

Wickham said with apparent unconcern, “I would have done anything, anything, to give Eleanor possession of Georgie. He was my son, it was his future which mattered to both of us. Since we came together I have never been able to give her anything in return for her support and her love. Now I had something I could give her, something she desperately wanted, and I was not going to let Louisa’s indecision and stupidity stop that.”

Darcy said, “And what life would that child have had, brought up by such a woman?”

Wickham did not reply. All their eyes were on him and Darcy saw, with a mixture of horror and compassion, that he was struggling to compose himself. The previous confidence, almost insouciance, with which he had told his tale, was gone. He reached out a trembling hand for the coffee, but his eyes were blinded with tears and he succeeded only in knocking it from the table. But no one spoke, no one moved until the colonel bent down and, picking up the coffee pot, replaced it on the table.

At last, controlling himself, Wickham said, “The child would have been loved, more loved than I in my childhood, or you in yours, Darcy. My sister had never borne a child and now there was a chance that she could care for mine. I have no doubt she did ask for money, that was how she lived, but it would have been spent on the child. She had seen him. He is beautiful. My son is beautiful. And now I know I shall never see either of them again.”

Darcy’s voice was hard. “But you could not resist the temptation of confiding in Denny. You had only one old woman and Louisa to face but the last thing you wanted was for Louisa to become hysterical and refuse to hand over the child. It all had to be done quietly if you were not to alert the sick brother. You wanted another man, a friend on whom you could rely, but Denny, once he understood that you would take the child by force if necessary and that you had promised to marry her, would have no part in it, and that is why he left the chaise. It has always been a mystery to us why he was walking away from the path which would have taken him back to the inn, or why he didn’t more reasonably remain in the chaise until it got to Lambton when he could have left without explanation. He died because he was on his way to warn Louisa Bidwell about your intentions. The words that you said over his dead body were true. You killed your friend. You killed him as surely as if you had run him through with a sword. And Will, dying his lonely death, thought he was protecting his sister from a seducer. Instead he killed the one man who had come to help.”

But Wickham’s thoughts were on another death. He said, “When Eleanor heard the word “guilty” her life was over. She knew that within hours I would be dead. She would have stood at the foot of the gallows and witnessed my last struggles if that could have given me comfort at the end, but there are some horrors which even love cannot endure. I have no doubt she planned her death in advance. She had lost both me and my child, but she could at least ensure that, like me, she would lie in an unsanctified grave.”

Darcy was about to say that surely that last indignity could be prevented, but Wickham silenced him with a look and said, “You despised Eleanor in her life, do not patronise her now she is dead. The Reverend Cornbinder is doing what is necessary and requires no help from you. In certain areas of life he has an authority denied even to Mr Darcy of Pemberley.”

No one spoke. At last, Darcy said, “What happened to the child? Where is he now?”

It was the colonel who answered. “I made it my business to find out. The child is back with the Simpkinses and therefore, as everyone believes, with his mother. The murder of Denny caused considerable concern and distress at Pemberley, and Louisa had no difficulty in persuading the Simpkinses to take the child back and remove him from danger. I sent a generous payment to them anonymously and as far as I know there has been no suggestion that he should leave the Simpkinses, although sooner or later there may be problems. I have no wish to be further involved in this matter; it is likely that I shall soon be employed on more pressing concerns. Europe will never be free of Bonaparte until he is thoroughly beaten on land as well as sea, and I hope I shall be among those privileged to take part in that great battle.”

All were now exhausted and no one could find anything more that needed to be said. It was a relief when, sooner than expected, Mr Gardiner opened the door and announced that Mr Cornbinder had arrived.

5

With the news of Wickham’s pardon a load of anxiety had been lifted from their shoulders but there was no outbreak of rejoicing. They had endured too much to do more than offer heartfelt thanks for his deliverance and prepare themselves for the joy of returning home. Elizabeth knew that Darcy shared her desperate need to begin the journey to Pemberley and she thought they could set out early the next morning. This, however, proved impossible. Darcy had business with his solicitors in connection with the transfer of money to the Reverend Cornbinder, and through him to Wickham, and a letter had been received the previous day from Lydia stating her intention of coming to London to see her beloved husband at the first opportunity and of obviously making with him a triumphant return to Longbourn. She would be travelling in the family coach accompanied by a manservant, and took it for granted that she would be staying at Gracechurch Street. A bed for John could easily be found at a local inn. Since there was no mention of the probable time of arrival the next day, Mrs Gardiner was immediately occupied in rearranging accommodation and somehow contriving space for a third carriage in the mews. Elizabeth was only aware of an overwhelming tiredness and it took an effort of will to prevent her breaking into sobs of relief. The need to see the children was now foremost in her mind, as she knew it was in Darcy’s, and they planned to set out the day after tomorrow.

The next day began with sending an express to Pemberley notifying Stoughton when they could be expected home. With the completion of all necessary formalities and the packing, there seemed so much to arrange that Elizabeth saw little of Darcy. Both their hearts seemed too burdened for speech and Elizabeth knew rather than felt that she was happy, or would be as soon as she was home. There had been anxiety that once news of the pardon was mooted abroad a noisy crowd of well-wishers would find their way to Gracechurch Street, but happily no such disturbance occurred. The family with whom the Reverend Cornbinder had arranged accommodation for Wickham were utterly discreet and the location unknown, and such crowds as did gather were clustered round the prison.

The Bennet coach with Lydia arrived after luncheon the next day, but that too aroused no public interest. To the relief of both the Darcys and the Gardiners, Lydia behaved with more discretion and reason than could be expected. The anxiety of the last months and the knowledge that her husband was on trial for his life had subdued her usual boisterous manner, and she even managed to thank Mrs Gardiner for her hospitality with something approaching genuine gratitude and a realisation of what she owed to their goodness and generosity. With Elizabeth and Darcy she was less assured, and no thanks were forthcoming.

Before dinner the Reverend Cornbinder called to conduct her to Wickham’s lodgings. She returned some three hours later under shadow of darkness and in excellent spirits. He was again her handsome, gallant, irresistible Wickham, and she spoke of their future with every confidence that this adventure was the beginning of prosperity and fame for them both. She had always been reckless and it was apparent that she was as anxious as was Wickham to shake off the soil of England for ever. She joined Wickham in his lodgings while her husband recovered his strength, but could only briefly tolerate her host’s early prayer meetings and grace said before every meal, and three days later the Bennet carriage rumbled through the London streets to the welcome sight of the road going north to Hertfordshire and Longbourn.

6

The journey to Derbyshire was to take two days since Elizabeth felt very tired and disinclined for long hours on the road. By mid-morning on the Monday after the trial the coach was brought round to the front door and, after expressing thanks for which it was hard to find adequate words, they were on their way home. Both of them dozed for much of the journey but they were awake when the carriage crossed the county boundary into Derbyshire and it was with increasing delight that they passed through familiar villages and were driven down remembered lanes. Yesterday they had only known that they were happy; now they felt joy’s irradiating power in each nerve of their being. The arrival at Pemberley could not have been more different from their departure. All the staff, their uniforms washed and pressed, were lined up to greet them, and Mrs Reynolds had tears in her eyes when she curtseyed and with emotion too deep for words silently welcomed Elizabeth home.

Their first visit was to the nursery where they were greeted by Fitzwilliam and Charles with squeals and jumps of delight and spent some time hearing Mrs Donovan’s news. So much had happened during the week in London that it felt to Elizabeth that she had been absent for months. Then it was time for Mrs Reynolds to make her report. She said, “Please be assured, madam, that I have nothing distressing to tell you, but there is a matter of some importance about which I must speak.”

Elizabeth suggested that they should go as usual to her private sitting room. Mrs Reynolds rang the bell and instructed that tea should be brought for them both, and they sat down in front of a fire which had been built more for comfort than for warmth, and Mrs Reynolds began her story.

“We have, of course, heard of Will’s confession in connection with Captain Denny’s death and there is much sympathy for Mrs Bidwell, although a number of people have been critical of Will for not speaking earlier and saving Mr Darcy and yourself, and Mr Wickham, from so much anguish and suffering. No doubt he was motivated by the need to have time to make his peace with God, but some feel that it was purchased at too high a price. He has been buried in the churchyard; Mr Oliphant spoke most feelingly and Mrs Bidwell was gratified by the large attendance, many people coming from Lambton. The flowers were particularly beautiful and Mr Stoughton and I arranged for a wreath to be at the church from Mr Darcy and yourself. We were confident that that is what you would like. But it is of Louisa that I must speak.

“The day after Captain Denny’s death, Louisa came to me and asked if she could speak to me in the strictest confidence. I took her to my sitting room where she broke down in great distress. When, with much patience and difficulty, I was able to calm her she told me her story. She had no idea until the colonel visited the cottage on the night of the tragedy that the father of her child was Mr Wickham and I am afraid, madam, that she was gravely deceived by the story he had told her. She never wished to see him again and had also taken against the baby. Mr Simpkins and her sister no longer wanted him and Joseph Billings, who knew about the baby, was not prepared to marry Louisa if it meant taking responsibility for another man’s child. She had confided in him about her lover but Mr Wickham’s name has never been divulged or, in my view and that of Louisa, must it ever be in order to spare Bidwell’s shame and distress. Louisa was desperate to find a good and loving home for Georgie, and that was why she had come to me, and I was glad to help. You may remember, madam, my speaking of my brother’s widow, Mrs Goddard, who for some years has kept a successful school in Highbury. One of her parlour boarders, Miss Harriet Smith, married a local farmer, Robert Martin, and is very happily settled. They have three daughters and a son, but the doctor has told her it is unlikely that further children can be expected and she and her husband are anxious to have another son as playmate to their own. Mr and Mrs Knightley of Donwell Abbey are the most important couple in Highbury, and Mrs Knightley is a friend of Mrs Martin and has always taken a keen interest in her children. She was good enough to send a letter to me, in addition to those I received from Mrs Martin, assuring me of her help and continued interest in Georgie if he came to Highbury. It seemed to me that he could not be better placed, and accordingly it was arranged that he should return as soon as possible to Mrs Simpkins so that he could be collected from Birmingham rather than from Pemberley where the coach sent by Mrs Knightley would almost certainly be noticed. All went exactly as arranged; subsequent letters have confirmed the child has settled well, is a most happy and engaging boy and greatly loved by all the family. I have, of course, kept all the correspondence for you to see. Mrs Martin was distressed to learn that Georgie had not been baptised, but this has now been done in Highbury church, and he now has the name of John after Mrs Martin’s father.

“I am sorry I could not tell you earlier, but I promised Louisa that all of this should be in absolute confidence although I made it plain that you, madam, must be told. The truth would have greatly upset Bidwell, and he believes, as does everyone at Pemberley, that baby Georgie is back with his mother, Mrs Simpkins. I hope I have done what is right, madam, but I know how desperate Louisa was that the child should never be found by his father, and that he should be well cared for and loved. She has no wish to see him again or to have regular reports on his progress, and indeed does not know with whom he has been placed. It is sufficient for her to know that her child will be loved and cared for.”

Elizabeth said, “You could not have acted better and I shall of course respect your confidence. I would be grateful if I could make one exception; Mr Darcy must be told. I know that the secret will go no further. Has Louisa now resumed her engagement with Joseph Billings?”

“She has, madam, and Mr Stoughton has lightened his duties somewhat so that he can spend more time with her. I think Mr Wickham did unsettle her, but whatever she felt for him has turned to hatred and she now appears content to look forward to the life that she and Joseph will have together at Highmarten.”

Wickham, whatever his faults, was a clever, handsome and engaging man, and Elizabeth wondered whether, during their time together, Louisa, a girl whom the Reverend Oliphant considered highly intelligent, had been given a glimpse of a different and more exciting life, but undoubtedly the best had been done for her child and probably also for her. Her future would lie as a parlourmaid at Highmarten, wife of the butler, and in time Wickham would be no more than a fading memory. It seemed irrational to Elizabeth, and rather strange, that she should feel a twinge of regret.