Regina Jeffers: The Phantom of Pemberley: A Pride and Prejudice Murder Mystery

Wickham’s eyes flickered, and she saw James Withey for a split second, but Wickham remained in control. “You did? And it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that point when first we talked.”

Elizabeth cautiously reached behind her and felt for the door handle. Finding it, she breathed easier. It was now or never. “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In the future, I hope we shall always be of one mind.” She saw the flicker again, and James Withey’s rage take over.

His mouth twisted in contempt. “You had to mention that bitch and the marriage!” He stormed across the church at her, knocking over benches set for the parishioners, but Elizabeth did not wait to hear the end of his rant. She ran through the opened door to the cemetery—from a living nightmare—and into the waiting arms of her husband.

Withey stormed across the church trying to reach the woman. Wickham had not been aware of Elizabeth Darcy’s scheming mind, and now James would have to find her and silence her before she sent up a general alarm in the neighborhood. “Damn!” He raced after her, out the church’s side door, but a specter he had thought he left behind stood solidly among the tombstones, and James found himself on the short end of a gun.

“Step behind me, Elizabeth.” Darcy moved her to relative safety as he kept his gaze on their interloper. She stilled against him, terror tightening her fingers on his arm.

“I thought you dead,” Withey snarled.

A sarcastic smile graced Darcy’s face.“As usual, you were in error.”

“Well, Darcy, we are at an impasse. Our battle is to end this day, with only one claiming victory.” Falsely, James took a small step backward. “It is my belief that you are too honorable to kill a man in cold blood, and you are in too much pain to come for me,” he added brashly. With that, James dived through the open doorway, gunfire chasing him into the dusky shadows.

The gunshot surprised her, but Elizabeth did not scream. Instead, she prayed that Darcy had not killed Wickham. The man was correct; it would haunt her husband terribly, so despite what he had put them through, she wished Wickham to live.The sound of the front door banging open told her that God had answered that prayer.

“Help me,” Darcy ordered as he lurched toward the noise.

She clung to her husband. “Let him go, Fitzwilliam,” she begged. “I will not have you labeled a murderer.”

Darcy pulled up. Looking down at her bruised and bloody face, he said, “He did this to you.” He reached to caress her cheek.

“And to you.” She braced his shoulder with her hands.“Let this be the worst of it.”

The sound of hoof beats said Withey had made his escape, and for a moment, they thought it finished, but suddenly Demon bore down on them; and James Withey wielded a sword, slicing the frozen air.

Darcy pulled Elizabeth behind a burial crypt at the last second, but Withey circled the horse and came at them again. Everything moved in shadows: the crazed face of George Wickham yelling a curse filled with years of hate and a proud and a principled Fitzwilliam Darcy standing tall to rebuke the attack. And then Darcy reacted by instinct: He whistled to the horse—his horse—to Demon, and the stallion reared up, pawing the air with violent strikes.

James Withey barely held the reins as he charged Darcy for the second time, concentrating purely on making contact with his enemy, so when Darcy emitted a shrill whistle, at first he did not understand the man’s intentions; but then the horse rose on its back legs to defend itself from an unknown attack, and James felt himself sliding from the saddle. And then a grim silence.

“My God, Fitzwilliam!” Elizabeth rushed around her husband as he calmed his favorite horse. George Wickham lay, arms and legs akimbo, on a nearby grave, his head split open and a grayish blood seeping into the frozen ground. “He hit the tombstone,” she whispered to the stillness, as she reached out tentatively to touch her sister’s husband. However, the man no longer moved.

Darcy stood beside her. Lifting her gently to her feet, he pulled Elizabeth against his chest, allowing his wife’s grief to begin. “It is over, Sweetheart.” He held her to him. “Mr. Wickham can hurt us no more.”

The sound of fresh horses brought his head up, but only Stafford and Worth appeared. In silence, both men dismounted and joined them in the cemetery’s middle. Surrounded by marble and wood, dismay at what they had all suffered permeated the winter’s quiet. With a nod of his head, Darcy indicated for them to check the body. Worth did the honors while Stafford entered the church to set things aright. No one spoke. They had been through so much together in the past week that none of them needed words to know what to do.

“Are we taking Wickham back to Pemberley?” Stafford said at last.

Darcy still held Elizabeth in his embrace.“It is what Mrs. Darcy would want for her sister.”

Worth brought Vulcan alongside of the grave, so he and Stafford could load the body across the saddle. “Did you notice the epitaph?” the solicitor asked as they clumsily lifted Wickham to the horse.“’Tis fate that flings the dice, and as she flings, of kings makes peasants, and of peasants kings.”

“Wickham proved the folly of keeping bad company.” Stafford shot a quick glance at the Darcys. “As Ovid said, ‘The vulgar estimate friends by the advantage to be derived from them.’”

“Can you ride, Darcy?”Worth asked as he brought Demon forward.

Darcy bent his head to speak to Elizabeth. “May I take you up with me, my Dear?”

Elizabeth raised her head to look at him carefully. “Will it not hurt you?”

“It will hurt me more to have you out of the safety of my arms.”

Stafford suggested, “We should leave before the village comes to see what is going on.We are lucky no one seems to be home at the parsonage. I think we will need to construct a new truth out of this.”

“I suspect you are correct,Your Lordship. Now, if you and Worth will give me a leg up, we will take the back roads to Pemberley.”

“As you wish, Darcy.”

When Elizabeth had settled herself across Darcy’s lap, Stafford handed up his coat. “This may smell a bit better than the blanket your husband wears, Mrs. Darcy.”

“Thank you, Lord Stafford, but I find the odor of horse flesh quite alluring.” She turned into Darcy’s warmth as he draped the coat around her.

Stafford chuckled. “If I ever find a woman with your mettle, Mrs. Darcy, I will be on one knee in a heartbeat.”

“I shall happily celebrate that day, Your Lordship.”

Two days later, the Pemberley family and trusted guests sat together in the same blue drawing room they had shared for the preceding fortnight. Of the havoc George Wickham had wreaked, Lydia suffered the most serious injuries—the bullet from the colonel’s gun going completely through her left shoulder, leaving a gaping wound in her back. However, in Elizabeth’s opinion, Lydia’s most difficult injury to heal would be her sister’s emotional state. Months of dealing with Wickham’s mental decline had left Lydia vulnerable.

Georgiana needed only a few well-placed stitches. Mrs. Reynolds’s diagnosis of Colonel Fitzwilliam proved correct. Doctor Miller removed the fragments of the bullet and of one of the colonel’s many medals and casted the colonel’s broken wrist. Elizabeth suffered only a grazing wound close to her temple, while Darcy had some muscle damage across his shoulder blade and along his spine.An elaborate bandage crisscrossed his back and chest, restricting his movement, which totally frustrated a man known to take pride in the actual running of his estate.