Chapter Text
Darcy’s father’s lawyer had long since retired from practice, but it was perhaps just as well. His protégé and replacement was less than ten years Darcy’s senior; she had known Darcy long enough to gag on the question. “Divorce papers? What do you mean, ‘do I know about divorce papers?’” she asked incredulously, repeating Darcy’s words in a desperate bid for clarification.
“And annulment. In the state of Nevada. Correct.”
She managed to splutter out, “These are not for you, right? Please tell me they’re not.”
“They’re not.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Despite the situation, Darcy smiled despite himself. He could imagine Liane on the other end of the phone rubbing her hand over her face, as she always did when Darcy misunderstood some crucial legal element.
“Are you going to tell me why?”
“It’s for a… friend. Of a friend. It’s kind of an emergency.”
“Yeah, I’d—” Liane caught herself and cleared her throat. “Okay. Fine. I won’t ask any more questions. But you’re not doing yourself any favors getting mixed up in someone else’s marriage. You’re neurotic enough.”
“I’m asking for legal advice, Liane, not life coaching, thank you.”
“Suit yourself. Annulments are hard to swing. They might have to go to court. You said Nevada, right? That would be a Vegas wedding?”
“Something like that.”
“Everyone’s got a sob story about why they need to get out of a Vegas wedding.”
“I think there might be some coercion here.”
“So, fraud? The marriage occurred under fraudulent terms?”
“Something like that,” he repeated. He wished he knew more of the particulars of the arrangement, but even if he had been cognizant enough at the time, he could hardly have asked Elizabeth for the details without seeming mad or prying, or some combination of the two.
“That’s a lot of help.”
“I’m doing the best I can!”
“Fine. Fine.” Darcy imagined Liane again, this time pinching the bridge of her nose. She had a very narrow bridge and the movement always looked slightly uncomfortable to Darcy, as if she were pressing her fingers into the corners of her eyes. “You—your friend could get an annulment under fraudulent terms. But you need real proof of that. And they might both have to appear in court.”
“Damn.”
“Not going to happen? But I did say might.”
“I doubt it. Can you send me the paperwork anyway? For both annulment and divorce?”
“From Nevada?”
“Yes.” Under the desk, Darcy’s foot began to tap. He wasn’t sure for how many days Wickham had yet been out of the country, so an hour or two longer certainly could not make it worse, but every passing second seemed to prick at him regardless.
“Okay, just checking! Yes. I’ll have to order it—”
“Can you email it?”
“Legally?”
“Yes, legally!” His leg joined in the jittering. “Of course, it has to be legal,” he said in a slightly calmer voice.
“I’ll see what I can do. You do realize I’m not general legal counsel, don’t you? This is not my specialty.”
“Yes, of course I do,” he snapped. His free hand on the top of the desk was tapping along now. “But you’re the only lawyer I know on short notice who has to answer my call.” And whose questions I can shrug off, he added mentally.
She snorted and hung up.
Darcy let out a heavy breath from deep in his lungs and tried not to think about what it would take to extricate himself from his guests without a scene. Caroline in particular…
~~~~
As soon as he stepped out of the airport, he knew he had not packed well. He had been too hasty, not thoughtful at all. Though he was certain it was unseasonable for it to be quite so hot already.
The sun beat down, relentless, baking all the moisture from the air. He was used to the muggy thickness of the air during Maryland summers, not this oven. The sky was a wash of cool blue gauze, the sun’s brilliant yellow seeming to tear its way through.
He was not a hat-wearer out of fashion, but he could be for necessity. He purchased a white straw hat quickly and quietly outside of the airport. It rested oddly on his head but it eased the bright ache in his eyes. It didn’t take long until it felt as if his hair were melting. It pressed against the band of the hat, hot with sweat and sunlight. He could feel where it indented against his skin. The déjà vu was almost as uncomfortable as the heat, this ill-fated trip repeated, though much more dire than the first time.
It felt as if there had been a universal conspiracy to slow him down. If it was not the traffic in Baltimore, it was long lines through security, or the extra inspections that came stamped on his last-minute ticket. Now that he was on the ground, he did not waste time. He needed a car and a detailed map of the north-western coast. And, most importantly, time. To say Darcy knew where Wickham was hiding was perhaps an overstatement of fact. He had a very good guess. But he would have to narrow that guess down before he shared it with anyone.
The physical map would help with that. An old habit, tracking on paper. Paper would not misremember where he had been or what he had thought. The beginning of a headache thrummed behind his eyes and he rubbed his knuckles against his forehead, futilely attempting to smooth it away. If it weren’t so hot, he would have been thinking of New York, the long ride up to Georgie’s apartment.
There is nothing like a personal rival to fuel one’s hubris. He wondered, almost wistfully, how people lived when they didn’t have a specific demon haunting their every step. Though Darcy would never have admitted it to Wickham, it was like having a brother, in a twisted way. They had spent enough time together as children for Wickham to know him just as well as a sibling, to see the inner workings of his mind and know exactly where to stick a block to trip those gears up.
One of those things he knew was Darcy’s meticulous nature. If Darcy thought he would be in the same place he found him after the embezzling, he would have immediately confessed to Elizabeth everything he knew. It would have been the work of moments, a confession on his knees, and all her pain solved. But it would not be that easy; nothing ever was. He was learning. The only way to fix his mistakes was to do something about it with his own two hands.
So, there he was, balancing the map against the steering wheel as sliced a hurried X over the top of the town name. Darcy paused, his hand resting on the curve of the wheel. He knew exactly what he was headed for, though he gritted his teeth at the idea. It was to be a goose chase up and down the coast. Knowing Wickham as unfortunately well as he did, he was fairly confident of the type of location he could be found in, just not the precision of it. If nothing else, he could be sure that Wickham would enjoy wasting his time.
Darcy was certain that Wickham would have preferred to remain on the coast, so the only options were north or south. Darcy chose south first.
The pace was frustrating but he did not allow himself to become impatient to be certain he not miss anything. He stopped in tourist bars and hotels, doing his best with his Spain Spanish pronunciations and vocabulary. He was as thorough as he could possibly be, consulting both his physical and digital maps frequently, but there was still the fear that they could be hidden somewhere in a private rental or some other small place, off the main road and unmarked.
After hours in the car, he looked up at the fully darkened sky. The stars expanded in the blue-black night like trails of silver coins. He searched, briefly, for constellations, but he had never been any good at finding them. Bingley was always much more skilled at picking out the shapes. He wished, very suddenly, that his friend was there, in the car with him. Bingley would be absolutely no help at all, but his relentless cheerful chatter would have put Darcy’s mind more at ease. He was busy enough to keep his mind organized and focused, but he feared the solitude would soon creep up on him.
That was the real issue with introversion, Darcy decided as he drove through the dark. He was happy being alone, would stay that way for hours or days or weeks… And then it was quickly not fine to be alone anymore. In those times, his thoughts would grow to expand past the space of his skull, would filter through the rest of him until he was made only of darkness. Made of thunderstorms again. Extroverts had it easy; they never had to play that game. The goal was always to be with people, not to balance solitude with such precision.
He would have continued without sleep if he thought it was possible; it was only the memory of his father’s death and, even more than that, the idea of Georgie’s reaction to his poor driving safety that motivated him to find a room for the night. After another few miles, he turned off the road to one of the nicer locations he had checked.
As soon as the light flipped off in his room, his thoughts expanded like a second presence. They hovered over him, giving weight to his dismay. He could see two clear paths for where his mind could wander and he wanted to entertain neither option. Somehow Georgie seemed the safer choice. He folded himself into the bed with a sigh, resting his hand over his eyes.
He considered her face again. Her concern had, apparently, only been for the Bennets. He wished he had spent more time with her, probing her feelings. It was far too optimistic for his nature to believe she had really healed so well without more of a fight. But there had been no trace of fear or anxiety when she told him she believed in him.
Which was far more than he deserved, really. He wished he could feel her same assurance in placing the blame where it was due. Sometimes he could. But in the dark, alone, at night… He could see himself as nothing much more than a coward. Drawing attention to his past allowances would be nothing now, compared to the pain in Elizabeth’s eyes…
The much larger shadow that he had tried to keep at bay crept over him in the darkened room. He had never seen her look so sad, curled in on herself in the kitchen, hiding her face against the dog’s fur. She was not supposed to be sad. She was supposed to be clever and a little bit mean, or, if he was lucky, smiling.
And the worst part was that he had given her the information. But clearly, she had kept his secrets far too securely, for somehow her sister was allowed to prance into Wickham’s clutches. She was every bit as trustworthy as he hoped she would be and by honoring his request, she was injured.
He rolled over in the bed and pilled the pillow over his head, wishing he could smother his thoughts with the down.
~~~~
As he drove north, Darcy began to worry that he had grievously misjudged the situation. A whisper in his mind began to wonder, soft but insistent, that Wickham did not want to be found. He was not playing a game of cat and mouse but was truly a fugitive. Surely, he was not stupid enough to believe Darcy could still do something to help him; what if he had given it up entirely? This was just one last moment of glorious destruction in his wake. There was a whole world to hide in, if one was determined enough to slip away.
But, as is the curse of all worriers, Darcy found he had overthought the entire situation once again. Because when he found Wickham, he wasn’t even inside, he wasn’t hiding. He was sitting on the patio of a hotel, his linen shirt unbuttoned as he lounged in the late afternoon sun. His hair had the over-emphasized look of effortless dishevelment, which of course meant he had probably spent an hour gelling and combing it into place. His fingers trailed through the condensation along the side of a beer bottle.
Darcy’s well of feeling—his fear, anxiety, sadness, hope, dread—swirled for a moment and congealed into a single emotion.
Complete irritation.
He slammed the car door on his way out and stalked up to the building. Without a word of greeting, he snarled out, “Where is she, Wickham?”
Wickham jumped, startled, and stared silently at Darcy for a moment. He blinked in surprise, once, twice… A slow smile spread across his face until he was beaming.
Darcy took half a step backwards, his heart suddenly fluttering in his throat. It was all animal instincts, pushing him away from a creature he knew was a predator and a threat. But Wickham only pulled a key out of his pocket. “212 but good luck!” His voice was too cheery; he didn’t even know what Darcy was after. Well, he probably did, but Darcy didn’t want to give him the credit.
He snatched it off the table and swept into the hotel. The sound of laughter followed him, sending a shiver down his spine.
~~~~
Slowly, he eased the door open. The room was cast in a dull gloom, as the curtains were drawn and one of the bulbs in the overhead fixture was out. It flickered once or twice, but remained resolutely dim. It was murky and warm, the air more humid than it had been outside, but in a way that felt close and dank, despite the large window thrown open towards the water. They were close enough that he could see the light bounce off the waves.
Lydia was practically hanging out of the ledge, her blonde hair swinging in the gentle breeze. She looked over her shoulder at the sound of the opening door, grinning a little, clearly expecting Wickham. She gawked for a moment and then snapped her jaw shut. “Oh my God, you’re…” She squinted at him, trying to place the face. He opened his mouth to assist—he was, after all, the last person she would have ever expected to see—but she got it in a moment. Lydia snapped her fingers. “Right, you’re Chip’s friend. The one that Lizzie likes.” She seemed to have misplaced his name.
“Darcy,” he reminded her drily. And tried very hard not to consider the qualifying phrasing.
“Right!” she laughed. “Totally blanking. I’ve been a little busy!” She turned all the way, flashing her left hand in a movement that was unnatural, but clearly calculated to show off her new jewelry. The ring was large, and clearly fake. The silver shine was too bright, too white. The stone was large and glittery, but lopsided; a poorly cut paste gem.
“I’ve heard.”
It was not intended to be amusing, but Lydia laughed again. “But what are you doing here?”
“I came looking for you.”
“Why would you do that?”
He ignored the emphasis on the “you.” “Your family is worried about you.”
The secrecy of her situation, the joy of conquest, and the astonishing turn of her current situation made her giddy. The smile she flashed was too wide, too toothy. “I don’t care!”
Darcy frowned in response. “You should.”
She said nothing in response, lounging against the windowsill. Her fingers drummed against the wood, her ring catching the light. Her expression slowly changed, like a cold front drifting across a map to push away the sunny weather. She was wearing a light, long sleeved blouse and the sleeve rose up as she moved her elbow against the window. Just below her elbow, Darcy could see the ghost of a bruise, the dark outline of a thumb and fingers.
Cold panic seized his heart, memory threatening to overwhelm his judgement. He swallowed; this was Lydia, not Georgie. She was a different person who needed a different motivation. “At least come with me for a while. We can call your family, so they know you’re okay.”
She had seen his eyes follow the skin of her arm. She yanked her sleeve back in place. “George loves me,” she informed him without preamble.
“There are lots of people who love you. Your sisters, I know, are worried out of their minds.”
“Not all of them.” She scowled, crossing her arms, hugging the marks tight to her chest.
He took a step further into the room. “Yes, all of them. I’m positive.”
She sneered. “Ugh, not Lizzie. She’s just going to lecture me about being impulsive. And Mary is going to be so smug about it!”
“None of your sisters will be happy about your pain, Lydia.”
Her frown deepened. “Liz has been. She’s like Dad. Sometimes when bad things happen, she says we deserve it. And so does Mary,” she added after a second, but it was clear that Mary’s condemnation was much less weighty than Elizabeth’s.
Darcy’s emotions took a turn, swirling like notes of wine in his mouth. The sourness of his defense of Elizabeth, the want to make her sister believe that she was much better than Lydia believed. The sharp, almost metallic need to protect her from Wickham’s hands. And, above all, the almost-sweet knowledge that he, at least, could do everything in his power to change Lydia’s mind about two people.
He started with the comforting one. “Elizabeth wants you to come home. She’s worried about you, she loves you, and I swear to you, she has never, ever wanted you to be hurt or scared.”
“You can’t know what she thinks! She never tells anyone what she really thinks about them. It’s stupid.”
Darcy could not help but disagree, though silently. He had heard more than enough of her opinions on his account as to not believe Lydia in the slightest. “Can you give her the chance to tell you differently?”
Lydia paused and her teeth moved in her mouth, her cheek moving as she worried the skin on the inside. It reminded Darcy pointedly of a reaction Elizabeth had when she was working to not say something too pointed. Finally, Lydia said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why not?”
“’Why not?’” She hurled the question back at him, almost spitting it. “Because he’s my husband.” There was an undeniable softness to the way she voiced the final word.
“I’m not trying to make you leave,” he said slowly, silently adding, not right now. “But if you—”
“No.” She turned around to face the window.
~~~~
Darcy really had hoped it would have been as easy as that, lure her into his car, call Elizabeth—the only one whose phone number he had—and let her do the convincing. With his basic knowledge of the Bennet family, he was certain that it would not be a secret and the whole family would have been speaking to them in moments.
“Not get what you want, Fitz? She’s a fiery one.” Wickham was still drinking beer. “You’ll have to try a little harder than that.”
“I haven’t tried anything yet,” Darcy muttered. He was just here to understand the situation, he reminded himself. He couldn’t act without information. Darcy threw himself into the other chair, hating to sit at the same table as Wickham. He would not eat or drink; that would be a line too far. “Why’d you steal her phone? Did you pawn it already?”
Wickham laughed; he didn’t bother to ask how Darcy knew she was without it. “Nah, I just didn’t want anyone calling the cops on us before we got out of the airport. I will give it back. Eventually.” He smiled lazily, tipping the chair on its back two legs. The toe of his sandal pressed gently against the strut of the table, back and forth, back and forth. Darcy wanted to kick his leg out from under him.
“Before we left, Lyd was telling me about your girlfriend—”
“She is not.”
Wickham grinned wider. Darcy sucked in a sharp breath his mistake—he hadn’t let him get a name out before the denial tumbled from his lips. While it could be anyone that he was speaking of, Wickham’s smile made his stomach squirm. He was pretty sure they were both thinking of the same woman.
“How did you know?”
“What, that you’d come?” His face grew very blank for a moment and then his eyes widened. He snorted in a most ungainly manner, one that seemed almost… performative. Darcy did not trust him. “Oh, you’re too easy, Fitz! Type A+ personality. If I mess with one single thing in your life, mess with one little hair—or your girlfriend’s too—then you have to run out and fix it.”
Darcy knew that any emotional reaction would only encourage him; he worked to keep any expression of distaste or disgust from his features. They watched each other in silence. It bothered Darcy that he could never know what Wickham was thinking. There was some strange calculation behind his eyes, a complicated math that Darcy could never hope to understand.
Wickham broke first. His cackle was shocking, but real this time. “Oh, come on! You like to think I’m some great mastermind, don’t you? Does it make you feel better when I take things from you? Because honestly, I did not think that you’d come. I’ll give you that—I thought you’d turn the other way like usual. This is really a step up for you, isn’t it?
“I thought you’d send me a strongly worded email and we’d have to negotiate online.”
“And then you would have held those records hostage for the rest of my life.”
He flashed his teeth again. “Probably. Is that why you came, to save your butt?”
“No.”
“Or maybe you’d ignore me entirely! Not at heartless as usual today, are you?” Wickham winked at him. “Nothing to do with that not-girlfriend, is it?”
So, Darcy had walked right into it. There was no option left but to finish it. His mistake.
No—he didn’t think that, not really. He would have traveled to another five countries to help the Elizabeth of his memory up off the floor of the kitchen. He bowed his head. “What is this to me, anyway? Another bid for attention from my father’s ghost?”
“Oh, no—don’t let it go to your head! I didn’t leave because of you. I would have had to run sometime or another, I guess. But Lyd was there and she just… Damn, she made it so easy, I had to take her too.”
The dam broke and he could no longer hold back his feelings of undisguised repulsion. “Did you even have a plan?”
Wickham shrugged and tipped his beer back.
“And what would you have done if I was fine letting her stay married to you? Would you just have a wife then?”
He grinned, setting down his empty bottle with a clink and leaned forward. The chair beneath him groaned and squeaked. “Ah, but you didn’t. Close only counts in horse shoes and et cetera.” He waved one hand, brushing off Darcy’s concerns as preposterous and eased back into his seat, triumphant.
Darcy sat in silence for almost a minute, simply processing the way Wickham’s mind truly worked. He had a lot of words that he very much wanted to say, but it would do no good to negotiate on ill-will. He set his jaw and chose to file away those thoughts for future reference. “If I leave, will you be here tomorrow? I don’t… I wasn’t ready to get to this stage yet. I need to get some… funds in order,” he offered, hoping the mention of money would incentive Wickham to play along.
Wickham stretched his arms wide. “I’ve nowhere else in the whole world to go.”
Darcy had to take him at his word.