He was going to kill him.
DARCY THOUGHT Alot about the way he was going to do it.
Some part of him craved a confrontation with Wickham. He would like to tie him to a chair and walk round him, raging at him, making sure that Wickham understood why he had to die.
But the more that Darcy thought that through, the more he thought that if he really thought Wickham had to die, the confrontation was pointless. If one confronted a man, it was so that man could change, could see the error of his ways, could correct it. Wickham was incapable of such things.
In truth, he wanted to confront Wickham because he wanted Wickham to admit that the lion’s share of the blame lay on Wickham’s own shoulders, that Wickham was responsible for all of this.
But that wasn’t the truth.
This was Darcy’s responsibility. He was to blame.
And that was why killing Wickham was akin to killing a wolf that was attacking the flock. It had to be done, and it wasn’t really about the wolf itself—after all the wolf was just obeying its nature. Wickham had to be done away with, and there was no point in talking to him about it.
Darcy arrived at the regiment on that second day quite late, just as daylight was waning. The men were in their winter encampment, which meant that the private soldiers were in tents round fires, but that the officers, amongst whom was Wickham, were sleeping in a small building that constituted the officers’ barracks.
The men in the encampment were up late, round the fire, singing songs and drinking ale. Darcy paid one of them to go into the barracks and fetch Wickham, telling him to come to a point in the nearby woods.
Darcy then went off there, loaded his pistol with shaking hands—he had never killed anyone before—and then waited.
Wickham came on his own, clearly drunk, calling out jocular “Halloo”s and “Who goes there”s.
Darcy didn’t show himself. He raised his pistol, took aim, and shot.
Wickham stopped short, grunting, and he wavered for what seemed like long moments.
But then simply crumpled.
Darcy went over to examine him.
Wickham was motionless.
Darcy turned him over. He couldn’t see where the bullet had gone in. He felt for breath. None. He felt for a pulse. It was there, faint.
He got up and went to get the pistol again. As he was moving, he saw the bullet wound, saw the blood that was gushing out of Wickham’s chest.
He came back, felt for a pulse again.
Nothing now.
He looked down at the man, whose eyes were open, vacantly staring out at the November night sky, at the tree branches overhead.
Darcy closed Wickham’s eyes.
Perhaps he should shoot him again, just to be sure.
Distantly, he heard someone calling Wickham’s name. “Old chap, where are you? Who wanted you out in the woods, then?”
Darcy got up, moving out of sight.
The voice grew louder. “Wickham. Georgie, where are—” And the man broke off as he came on Wickham’s motionless form. “Good God.”
Darcy did not know if he wanted to see this. He had not thought about the fact that killing Wickham would hurt others, not just Wickham himself, that Wickham had family who would be pained. The old steward did not work at Pemberley anymore, but he was still alive, and he would take Wickham’s death with grief.
“Georgie,” said the man, shaking Wickham. “Oh, bloody hell, you’re shot.” The man pulled back, blood on his hand. He ran off, screaming, “Wickham’s been killed! Someone’s shot Wickham!”
And Darcy fled before anyone came to the sound of the man’s cries.