Prologue
March 1813
Elizabeth could not sleep. She sat on the window
ledge of her bedroom at Longbourn staring out across the lawn towards the long,
irregular drive. It had been eight months since her sister, Lydia, had run away
from Brighton, and they had no word of her since. Elizabeth was growing
accustomed to a lack of sleep, and the long nights passed between painful
contemplation and futile attempts to avoid such thoughts altogether –
thoughts of what might have happened to her sister.
It was nearly a full moon, and by its determined
light, she suddenly perceived movement by the drive’s end, where the palings
marked the entrance to the small estate. Staring determinedly in their
direction, she was shocked to perceive a scantily clad figure running towards
the house. She started, and quickly confirming the truth of what her
senses perceived, secured her shawl about her shoulders and raced out her
bedroom, down the stairs, through the hall, and unlocked the front door.
“Lydia!” she cried at the familiar face before all
similarity to her youngest sibling disappeared beneath the spectacle of a disheveled
creature, thrusting itself into her arms and sobbing violently.
The house began to rouse at the noise as Elizabeth
half carried, half dragged the woman she was certain must be Lydia (though she
still wished to look at her face again for confirmation of that distressing
notion) into the nearest parlor, where she flopped upon the couch, a spectacle
for the first servants to arrive on scene, and wrapped herself more tightly
into Elizabeth’s arms, weeping yet harder.
It was impossible to get her to raise her head, but
Elizabeth knew it was she. She wrapped an arm around the mound of tattered
fabric in her lap and began to make a shushing noise, as to a baby.
“Lizzy! What is this?” Her mother’s voice demanded.
“Shhh!” she said louder, and then in quiet but
shocked tones, “Tis Lydia, I think!”
“Lydia?” her mother repeated, blinking absently
while her husband, at her side, clutched the door for support and grew
remarkably pale.
“My God!” he exclaimed, his wife still agape and
unmoving.
“What is it, Mama?” Elizabeth heard Kitty say,
though she could no longer watch the tableau her family presented, all her attention
being demanded by the person in her arms. “Why is Lizzy cradling a
beggar?”
“Quiet, child!” her mother replied, suddenly stirred
into action. She approached her youngest, dearest child. She knelt beside the
sofa and reached for the crying creature's face with both hands, holding it up
for inspection. The incessant weeping stopped, and Mrs. Bennet stared into her
favorite’s face, dirty and tear-streaked. Tears welled in her own eyes as she
said, “Oh, my darling,” and wrapped her arms around her, taking Elizabeth's
burden beside her on the couch. The two women wept together in each other’s
arms for several moments before Lydia suddenly, and with great violence, pushed
her mother away and dove back to Lizzy, holding her far too tightly. The
weeping was replaced by a strange whimpering noise, rather squeaky and frantic.
Mr. Bennet helped his wife to rise from the floor,
where she had very unceremoniously landed. The lady rose while holding a hand
to her cheek, which revealed a smear of blood when she examined it. “She
scratched me!” Mrs. Bennet said in astonishment. “What does this mean, Mr.
Bennet?”
The gentleman walked cautiously towards his
daughter, whose face was now easier to see where it perched over Elizabeth's
shoulder. “My God!” he said again. “She is mad!”
“It is as Mr. Collins said,” Mary interjected,
thinking of everything she had ever read of womanly virtue. “It would have been
better if she were dead.”
No one made any reply.
Chapter
One
October 1831
The fire split the sky, illuminating the people running
about everywhere, doing everything possible to staunch the flames. Reports
confirmed that old Mr. Sellers, in whose cottage the fire began, was dead, and
the lives of three more of the small community of villagers who comprised
Kympton parish were feared lost as well. There were fainter murmurings, and the
words “arson” and “Wickham” could be perceived.
Fitzwilliam Darcy worked alongside everyone else, coatless
and sweating in the heat, in which he had been laboring relentlessly for the
past three hours. He was a known recluse, and the people were surprised to see
him in their midst, but as he worked tirelessly through the night, they were
thankful for his presence and help, and some recalled how well they used to
think of him.
Those striving to quench the blaze could perceive the
effects of their labors. While still unbearably hot and threatening, the fire
was much diminished from what it was. Mr. Darcy tried to calculate how much
longer it might take to reach their goal, a useful manner in which to avoid far
darker thoughts, which insisted on intruding upon his speculation.
Two decades had passed since he last saw George Wickham, and
at least half that since anyone had even mentioned the name is his presence.
Yet now he heard it whispered beneath the roar of crackling wood. He might be
mistaken; it could be some other name. Back,
specter! Back to the past. Do not haunt me now. His heart cried out as old
wounds burst open, coursing with fresh blood.
He heard a bustle coming from behind. Like many others, he
paused his labor to see what new was astir. A crowd of men hustled along and
abused a middle-aged man, of tall stature but sloping in form, poorly dressed,
and clearly terrified. “Here’s the cause of all the trouble,” one of the men
yelled above the crowd and roaring flames. “He’s your arsonist, Mr. Darcy.”
“Darcy!” George Wickham exclaimed, throwing himself on his
knees in supplication. “You have to believe me! I was only visiting Sellers! We
were talking and drinking, and I left him with a pipe in hand. He must have
fallen asleep with it – there was a newspaper on his lap! He was a friend of my
father’s! I would never harm the man!”
“A likely story,” snarled another burly fellow.
“Please, Darcy, my old friend! You have to believe me …”
“Enough!” the master of Pemberley bellowed, glaring down on
the man who had been the cause of so much trouble to his life. He did not
consider his options. He did not stop to think. True madness drove him as he
lifted up George Wickham, hoisting him with strength no man his age should
possess, and threw him, screaming, into the hungry flames.
The villagers rushed to the rescue, as bucket after bucket
of water was directed towards the screaming mass of flames rolling on the
ground instead of the cottages that still smoldered. The men who retained
Wickham now moved menacingly around Mr. Darcy, who looked on, as if frozen, as
the smell of his childhood friend’s flesh filled the air. He made no motion in
recognition of the circle forming about him. He made no sign of protest, and as
no one was inclined to manhandle the master unnecessarily, he was allowed to solemnly
watch as the man stopped writhing, the flames fully doused, and something
unrecognizable as human moaned on the ground.
“He lives!” someone shouted, and it was this that seemed to
break Mr. Darcy from his reverie. He stepped towards where Wickham lay, but the
men about him purposefully blocked his path. “Bring him to Pemberley!” he
shouted. “Send Mr. Scott to the house to see to his wounds. Hurry! We might
still save his life. We cannot let him die!”
The people looked at each other in question. Mr. Darcy had nearly
murdered the stranger; could they trust him to see to his care?
“Hurry!” he cried, now pushing against a faltering wall of
men. “There is a carriage over by the rectory. Get him to it at once! I shall
lead the way on my horse.”
Unaccustomed as they were to disobeying orders from the
gentry, Mr. Darcy was permitted to retrieve his mount, direct Wickham’s transfer
to the carriage, and ride off at breakneck speed towards Pemberley.
“Should we report him to the magistrate?” a man asked.
“He is the
magistrate!” another responded.
“Well, what do we do then?”
“Send over to Lambton for Squire Worthing. He handles such
matters there.”
At Pemberley, the
entire staff was dedicated to the emergency care Mr. Wickham received. Soon
rumors began to spread of how the man got to be in the state he was in. These
were confirmed some three hours later, in the early morning light, when a few
men arrived in the accompaniment of Squire Worthing, once a frequent guest at
Pemberley in the days before its master withdrew from society. The house was all
chaos: the staff both providing relief to villagers in need and attending Mr.
Wickham, by whose side Mr. Darcy had remained throughout, the still-burning
fire in Kympton totally beyond his thoughts.
“Hello, Reynolds!” the squire greeted the butler. “I see you
are already in some uproar, but I will need to speak with Mr. Darcy, if you
please.”
“The master has not left the patient’s bedside since he came
here, sir,” Reynolds anxiously replied, asking in an undertone, breath bated,
“Is it true – how they are saying the man got that way?”
“I do not know what you heard,” the squire grimly replied,
“but this is bad business. So the man still lives?”
“Yes. Mr. Scott says he thinks he will survive, if we can
avoid infection.”
“Well, that will help some, if he lives and does not press
charges. If he dies, I do not think I have any choice other than to take Mr.
Darcy into custody.” The butler blanched, and the squire tried to explain
himself better. “If the man were really the arsonist, maybe we could overlook
it a bit, but reports are he was in Lambton at the time the fire started, though
he was seen leaving Mr. Sellers’ cottage earlier. Probably, there was no
mischief in the case at all, but Mr. Sellers merely fell asleep with his pipe,
as I am told he was wont to do.”
Though these words were intended to sooth Reynolds, they
merely increased his alarm. The squire left a representative at Pemberley,
orders to alert him of any change in the patient’s condition, and departed,
while the butler hurried to impart to the other servants the urgency with which
they must attend the patient upstairs. He then went to his office, sat at his
desk, and composed a letter to Lord Matlock, informing him of his cousin’s
circumstances. He sent if off by rider, and though the boy chosen for the task was
reluctant to leave the excitement of a fire, attempted murder, and arrest of a
swell, he found motivation in a large tip from Reynolds’ own purse.
Lord and Lady Matlock’s estate was only thirty miles
distant, and the earl and countess were on the scene by the very next day. They
rode through the night with four horses and an entourage of outliers. When
called to act, his lordship moved with military efficiency.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh had been dead for many years, and
it was well before her reluctant parting with this world that she gave up on
the notion of Darcy ever marrying her daughter, Anne. His increasing
eccentricity and isolation lowered his eligibility for Miss de Bourgh’s hand,
and when the eldest Fitzwilliam boy was foolish enough to break his neck in a
carriage accident, Lady Catherine recalled how the late countess always wished
for a marriage between Richard and Anne. The colonel, always more attentive to
his aunt than either his brother or Darcy, suddenly presented a very pretty
prospect. The two, being compliant by nature and not averse to each other, were
soon convinced of their affection. The union proved a useful partnership, if
not a marriage of true minds.
Anne, freed from her mother’s dominance, became a political
force in society, taking a great deal more interest in both the pressing and
petty issues of the day than her husband, who came into his title not long
after their marriage. Lady Catherine lived long enough to see her daughter bear
her grandmother’s title and hold an heir to one of the noblest fortunes in the
country in her arms. Though she died against her will, which was rather
intolerable, she was nonetheless pleased with herself and sorry for the world’s
loss in her passing. However would the tenants at Rosings mix their whitewash
correctly without her inestimable advice? Fortunate for them, the great lady
had a daughter cast much in the same mold.
Darcy’s noble connections were not to learn the identity of
the injured man until they arrived at Pemberley and his lordship questioned his
stunned cousin. In stolid tones, he pointed at the mutilated body and named it
George Wickham before beginning to weep: a dry and heaving noise. Richard was
uncertain how to respond to this unprecedented spectacle. He had been deeply
concerned for Darcy for many years, but never more so than when he left the
sickroom that day.
He found his wife in the hall, busy telling the servants
that they were going about their tasks the wrong way. She stopped her
admonitions when she saw him, and a mutually exchanged tilt of the heads was
all they required to retire to a nearby parlor for quiet conference.
“Well?” she asked when the door was shut behind them.
He sighed in response and sank into a nearby chair. “This is
very bad, Anne.”
“I already know that!” she snapped. “I have questioned
Reynolds at length. It is imperative that man not die, Richard, and I find
nothing but incompetence in this house! It is badly in need of female
management.”
“The man is George Wickham, Anne.”
“George Wickham,” she searched her memory. “Ah, yes. That
steward’s son for whom Uncle Darcy had such a fondness. I do not see why that
should matter. In fact, it might work in our favor. As long as he lives, we
should be able to hush this up, but if Darcy is charged with murder, it will be
everywhere!”
“It matters, Anne, because of the history they share,” he
sighed, knowing there was no dredging up old scandals from the past, for she
would not listen to them. “If it were anyone else, Darcy would not have behaved
as he did.”
A gleam lit her eyes. “What are you suggesting, Richard?
That he went mad?”
“Would a man not have to be, to commit such an act?”
“It seems to me men do terrible things to each other every
day without anyone much questioning it. Perhaps we should consult a doctor. If
there is a trial, an insanity plea might save us from the humiliation of seeing
him hanged.”
“Anne! What of Darcy? You speak as if you care for nothing
but the scandal and how it will affect you.”
“That is not true. I care a great deal for my cousin and
have only his best interests in mind, but we must address the practical
realities of the case. What is good for him is what is good for all the family.”
Richard shook his head. “This
incidence of violence might be isolated, but you cannot continue to deny that
there is something very wrong with our cousin! He is not in his right mind, and
he has not been for years!”
“I will not have a lunatic in the family, Richard,” Lady Matlock affirmed shrilly, appending in softer tones, “unless it is absolutely necessary!”
“I do not think this is the kind of thing in which we have
any choice, my dear,” he sighed wearily. “I shall write to Sir Frederick Wilson
about him.”
“As long as Wickham lives, that should not be necessary! We
must send for the best doctors we can find at once!”
A physician from Derby was called in, a more prestigious one
from London sent for, and Mr. Wickham’s needs were attended to with the utmost
care and consideration modern medicine could produce. That not being very much,
it was somewhat miraculous that his wounds escaped serious infection. It was
clear he would never walk again, his feet being horribly mutilated, but the
medical experts soon came to the consensus that he would live. As soon as the
patient was deemed fit for conversation, Squire Worthing reappeared to question
him. The injured party refused to press any charges, much to the good man’s
relief. Soon the matter seemed largely resolved, but for the gossip and conjecture
of the villagers nearby.
Towards quelling that issue, Lady Matlock spoke privately
with the squire, asking him to use what influence he might to confine talk of
the incident to the immediate environs. In return for his hushing up the
matter, she promised to assist his granddaughter, embarking on her first season
the next year, when she made her presentation to society. In a few months, the
only other people to express any lingering concern over the matter was Mr.
Wickham himself, Lord Matlock, and Mr. Darcy, who struggled to understand what
he had done, guilt working upon already weary emotions to turn eccentricity
into something more. He began to drink heavily, eat less, and suffer from
incessant insomnia.
http://www.amazon.com/Madness-Mr-Darcy-Alexa-Adams-ebook/dp/B00NLQQ47I/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1413919702&sr=1-1
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