Page 27 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Is honour satisfied?" Darcy demanded, pitching his voice to carry.

The Spy holstered his weapon. He stared at the shivering form of Wickham, and reached into his cloak. He withdrew a piece of parchment and let it drop to the grass.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the mist as silently as he had arrived.

Darcy picked up the parchment. He walked back to George and Richard.

"He is gone," he told them.

"What is that?" George asked, clutching Richard's arm for support. "A death warrant?"

Darcy unfolded the paper. It was blank, save for a single word scrawled in charcoal:ABSORBED.

"It says the debt is absorbed. He considers the terror payment enough."

George let out a sob. He collapsed against Richard, weeping into the soldier's coat.

"It is over," George cried. "I survived. I faced the Reaper and I lived!"

"You faced a Frenchman and you fell over," Richard corrected, shoving him upright. "But yes. You lived."

"I shall never gamble again," George vowed, tears streaming down his face. "I shall never touch a card. I shall donate my allowance to the poor. I shall learn to knit."

"Let us start with getting you out of that dress," Darcy suggested, feeling the exhaustion crash over him.

From the edge of the woods, a low whistle sounded.

Darcy lifted his head. Through the thinning mist, he saw a figure leaning against a tree, holding a beaver hat. Robert waved. Darcy let out a long breath. He regarded the weeping man, the stoic soldier, and the vanishing spy.

"Let us go home. Father arrives tomorrow."

Chapter Nine: The Resurrection of George Wickham

The carriage ride back had the atmosphere of a revival meeting conducted in a mausoleum. George Wickham sat on the edge of the seat, still wrapped in the muddy greatcoat, staring out of the window with the wide, unblinking gaze of a mystic who has seen the face of God.

"The green," he whispered, pressing his hand against the glass. "Have you ever noticed how green the grass is, Fitz? It is vibrant. It is violent with life."

Darcy rubbed his temples. He had not slept in twenty-four hours. His coat was ruined, his cravat was lost forever, and his nerves were frayed to the point of snapping.

"It is grass, George," he muttered. "It is the same shade it was yesterday."

"No," George shook his head, a manic smile stretching his lips. "Yesterday it was merely turf. Today, it is a miracle. The fog is a miracle. The mud is a miracle. Even you, Richard... you are beautiful."

Richard Fitzwilliam, who was cleaning mud off his boots with a rag, paused. He raised an eyebrow.

"Careful, George. You survived the duel. Do not push your luck with the second. I have a sword."

"A sword of justice!" George clapped his hands. "Wielded by a friend! Oh, I shall never complain again. I shall embrace the mundane. I shall relish the rainy days. I shall write poetry about roses and spectres."

Darcy exchanged a glance with his cousin. Richard rolled his eyes, taking a bite of a pear he had produced from a pocket.

"The adrenaline will fade," Richard predicted, chewing. "Give him an hour. He will be complaining about the cut of his trousers before noon."

"Never!" George vowed, clutching his chest. "The old George is dead. He died on that field, shot by a French phantom. The new George is a man of substance. A man of gravity."

"The new George is currently wearing a dress," Darcy pointed out gently.

George glanced down at the grey wool peeking out from beneath the greatcoat. He shuddered.