Page 78 of Resilience

“It is impossible,” Fitzwilliam said hoarsely. “The midwife is with another labour. They say she cannot come until–”

Priscilla did not let him finish. “Then we shall manage.”

The hours that followed blurred into something unreal.

Mrs Reynolds did her best to keep Lydia calm, her composure steady but grave. Warm water was fetched. Sheets were changed. Lydia cried out from terrible, body racking cramps until her voice gave way, sobbing and clutching Georgiana’s hand as though it were the only thing tethering her to the world. Georgiana did not let go.

Priscilla assisted Mrs Reynolds with grim competence, her face pale but determined. When Lydia was quiet at last, she turned away and pressed a hand to her mouth, steadying herself.

“I have been here,” Priscilla whispered to Lydia when she returned to the bed a moment later when she was again composed. “Long ago. You will be alright. You will live again.”

Lydia lay exhausted, hollow-eyed, her hand still tangled in Georgiana’s sleeve.

“Do not tell George yet,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Do not worry. He is not here, and he is so far away that his feelings do not matter,” Priscilla reassured her. “Darcy can write to him when he returns from Derby, if you choose. You only need to ask your sister and it will be done.”

“Rest, Lydia.” Georgiana whispered softly. “You are going to be well again. Nothing else matters tonight.”

As dawn crept in through the windows, Georgiana sat unmoving beside the bed, the book she planned to read before sleeping forgotten on the table by the bed in her own room. She thought of Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam. Of how easily they had gone, believing their absence would be harmless. It ought to have been harmless. As she watched Lydia sleep, she realised–with sudden, painful clarity–that some sorrows wait for no one’s return.

Friday 4 September 1812

Newcastle

Mr Darcy,

I regret to inform you that Lieutenant Wickham died of typhus on the sea voyage to the peninsula. He never made it to the battlefield, and was given a burial at sea. I include the wages that were owed to Lieutenant Wickham, and the value of his commission. Will you please forward it, and this news, to his wife? My sincerest condolences upon her loss.

Your servant,

Colonel Paget

Darcy read the news and passed the letter across his desk to his younger cousin. Priscilla took the missive and skimmed it, then handed it to her brother, who was sitting beside her.

“You might as well know now. There is no point in keeping it secret any longer now that he is dead and it is entirely over. You finally have the name you seek, Brother. Much comfort may it bring you.”

Richard read the letter in confusion, then looked up uncertainly at his sister and Darcy. “You mean, all this time, it was…”

“It was Wickham.” Priscilla rose. “It is over. Mr Wickham is dead. Mrs Younge is dead, and I have no fear that anyone else will come forward. I am safe from any complications they might cause me now, and it no longer matters if you know, for now you cannot make matters any worse.”

She stood and spoke as she left the room. “Thank you, Darcy. You were more loyal than a thousand knights, and I will never forget how you protected me when I needed you.”

Richard looked abashed as his sister left them. “I feel rather stupid for not suspecting him in the first place.”

“You ought to, since he has been the thorn in our side at every turn since he started school,” Darcy acknowledged. “Who else might it have been? What matters is that Priscilla had our support when she needed it.”

“Your support, you mean,” Richard grumbled.

“Your sister knows you well. You should thank her, for you would have become a murderer the very same day that you learned of it.” Darcy was firm. “There is a difference between what happens on the battlefield and what you would have done if you knew. Your sister was determined to save you from such a stain upon your soul. She is a brave woman. Standing up to you was harder than anyone else, she told me so herself, but she also considered it worth the trouble. Now, excuse me; I must speak to Elizabeth, and she must decide the best way to break this news to Mrs Wickham.”

The two men parted, one to beg his sister’s pardon…again. Darcy went to find his wife to discuss these new developments.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Monday 12 October 1812

Meryton,