Darcy & Elizabeth (53 page)

“Major Wickham gave an address to meet him in Limehouse—it is a public house,” said Kneebone.

“It is there where they are to duel!” interjected Lydia.

“I shall meet him instead,” announced Elizabeth.

“No, Mrs. Darcy,” cried Kneebone. “I could not allow a lady to venture there. It is a very low establishment in the worst sort of neighbourhood.”

“I have been in worse, I am sure,” she recalled the public house to which her kidnappers had taken her—a place she was apt never to forget. “I have my footman, and shall be well-protected.”

Perhaps her countenance displayed more assurance that she felt. Regardless, Kneebone acquiesced.

“But I must insist that I accompany you. Your husband would never forgive me if I did not,” said Kneebone.

Knowing the truth to that particular understanding, she nodded her head once in acceptance. Lydia also invited her to stay in their home to await the meeting. Elizabeth thought that an excellent notion. She did not much want to go to the Darcy town house, where she might encounter her husband. It was imperative that this matter be reconciled beyond his notice. If Darcy learnt of it all, he would meet with Wickham and she could not be certain of that outcome. Darcy, no doubt, was wearing his pistol. She saw the correctness of that precaution—the streets were alive with thuggery and worse. That she saw the need for Darcy to be armed but that she did not hold the same fear for herself was not something she examined. She had but one goal—to relieve her husband of confronting (and possibly doing violence to) Wickham.

She would do what she had to do.

The Cunning and the Taken

Wickham had always been most particular in his dress; his vanity demanded nothing less. The governing principle of his life had been the ceaseless search for pleasure. To be chained to a room with spit upon his waistcoat—even this baby's—was becoming increasingly offensive.

With the fussy baby upon his shoulder, he paced the floor and patted her back, but to no avail. Indeed, her screams increased. She had been fed, he knew not what else to do. Still juggling the infant girl, he walked purposely to the door, threw it back and bellowed, “Henrietta!”

Recollecting himself, he reduced the volume of his voice by half and allowed her name to roll off his tongue like marzipan. “Henri-etta, my sweet plum-cake!”

There was no immediate response, but in a moment he heard the reassuring steps of his landlady, Mrs. Younge.

“I cannot keep taking these stairs every time that infant cries, Mr. Wickham.”

Her mood matched his, and as it was she who was owed money by him, her righteousness was indignant indeed. Despite that, she took the baby from him, placed the child upon the bed and began to clean her.

“When did you last see to this child? Oh, never you mind—if something unpleasant needs to be seen to, men are sure to escape it!”

He sat down upon the bedside and watched with a version of tender attention peculiar to those observing another do one's dirty work. The baby quieted immediately.

Mrs. Younge's singular position in Wickham's heart was oddly manifold. One measure a mother, sometime lover, and a large part, dupe—she had fed him when he was hungry, taken him in when he had no home. And when he was on Queer Street (which was often), he could charm her out of a few coins to jingle in his purse. Their long acquaintance had advanced when she aided him in his aborted elopement with Georgiana Darcy. He had promised her two hundred pounds if he had been successful. When Mr. Darcy thwarted that scheme and ran her off for having been a conspirator, she never held that against Wickham.

“We were found out,” she laughed, as if losing her position had not been a financial setback.

The one thing she liked above all else was putting something over on the gentry. That it was a bust mattered not, she still enjoyed the thrill of it all. She liked it most especially when young Wickham came up behind her and gobbled kisses upon the side of her neck. She maintained as respectable a house as could be found in that neighbourhood and considered herself a lady in all ways except situation, but always had a room for Wickham when he happened by. She gave him allowance on his rent, and when it had accumulated to an unusual degree, he talked her into a bum-tickle in exchange for his arrears. Although she was at least twenty years his senior, he thought it a fair trade—she was firm of thigh and very enthusiastic. Her other tenants were well aware of their arrangement and when encountering Wickham in the passageway occasionally mocked him.

“That old wreck of a woman? A young buck like you?” they would tsk.

Wickham remained unchastened, and always had the same response, “There is something to be said for bedding a woman of her age.”

“And what would that be?”

Wriggling his eyebrows lasciviously, “They are always
so
grateful.”

That was not even a compleat falsehood, for Mrs. Younge had been more constant to him than any other of his lovers. But he had to acknowledge even she had her limits.

“Wickham, dear,” she announced an inveiglement by raising her voice into falsetto, “I am afraid I must ask you for your rent. I have expenses, y'know.”

He heaved a great sigh of exasperation, “Henrietta, dear,
you
know that I have too many irons in the fire at present to bother with such mundane matters. All my planning will come to fruition forthwith, and when that comes to pass, I will pay you twice what I owe—no, thrice!”

Mrs. Younge let loose with what could only be described as a giggling snort. Inwardly Wickham winced, for it was a sound quite familiar to their lovemaking.

“Oh, dear me! I quite forgot,” she said, picking up the baby and handing her directly to Wickham.

He stood up with the baby and walked her about whilst Mrs. Younge dug about her apron pocket for a letter. When Wickham spied it, he hastily thrust the baby to her in exchange for the post. He quickly broke the seal and read. Whilst he pored over it, Mrs. Younge looked upon the sight, her eyes bright with greed.

“Pray, what is it?

“Patience, woman, patience,” he said irritably. His French was unremarkable when it came to grammar, thus his progress was slow. When he reached the end, he refolded it and stowed it in his waistcoat, smiling mischievously.

“At last! A meeting is to take place! I must have my frock-coat pressed!”

With an expression that portrayed both resignation and anticipation, Mrs. Younge said, “I suppose you want me to look after the baby?”

“No, my good woman, you must say good-bye to this darling baby girl,” he looked upon her gurgling countenance with something akin to regret.

Indeed, it would be with considerable regret he would give up the child. He had done all he could to keep from forming an attachment, but had been largely unsuccessful. That, he supposed, was because of her resemblance to his beloved Césarine. She had dark hair rather than the copper of her mother's, but otherwise she was her spitting image. Early on he had fancied that he would like to keep her as his own, but ultimately pragmatism won out. He simply had not the funds. It would have been delightful to have had the wherewithal to send the precious girl to the best schools, engage the best governesses, and see her grow up into a vision of Césarine—and dare any man to come near her.

He would mourn her as if a daughter.

***

Marie-Therese Lambert had proposed to meet with him at the north gate to Kensington Gardens. He was not altogether happy with such a public meeting place, but he was too anxious to make the exchange to haggle over minor details. He must keep his eye on the prize and not allow small vexations to get in the way. Once the meeting was set, he became increasingly anxious for it to take place. Every time he looked upon the baby's angelic face, his little-used heart felt a rent. Whilst he called her his
chanton
, he tenderly gathered a few strands of her fine hair and tied it with a tiny pink bow, readying her for the transferral.

“Lydia should have given me daughters,” Wickham concluded. “I would have been a different father had I been gifted with daughters.”

Altogether oblivious to the dubiety of such a notion, he patted her upon her plump little cheek and pursed his lips in a kissing noise. The little girl smiled and cooed. He cocked his head to the side, smiling with approval.

It would, he admitted, be difficult to give up the baby—she had given him such unexpected joy. But he had known all along this day would come—perhaps not so soon as it had. Still, Wickham had to congratulate himself upon his cunning. For although du Mautort had complained of his poverty with great dedication, his mother was far too determined to have him return home for it to have been only to solace a mother's heart. The only surprise was that it was the young viscount's death, rather than his father the count's, that brought his plan to fruition. Wickham supposed that du Mautort caught his disease from the low prostitutes to whom he resorted after Césarine's death. Still, had not Césarine confided in him the baby's true father, he would never have thought of it all.

“Is not fate peculiar?” mused Wickham. “So seldom could he afford Césarine's time, but it was his seed that stormed the citadel of Césarine's womb. Alas, to be a young blood once again!”

The baby carriage was one that Mrs. Younge had found for him; it was old, but serviceable. The driver of his hired coach did not want to take it, and when Wickham insisted, he tossed it aboard with little concern for its fragility. Regrettably, this callous deportment bent one wheel and the carriage squeaked and wobbled as Wickham pushed it along. It was not necessary for him to endure this indignity for long, for he espied Marie-Therese directly. She had not appeared to have altered since last he saw her upon the sorrowful day of Césarine's demise—except for a small little crease between her eyebrows that aged her from the young girl he recalled.

Her expression, however, was not what caught his eye. For around Mademoiselle Lambert's pretty throat was a necklace worth a king's ransom. It was the ruby-and-diamond creation he had last seen about his true love's neck. He despised seeing it thusly, for it not only reminded him of poor Césarine, dead in her grave, but that Marie-Therese had bested him in its confiscation after Césarine went to meet her maker. She also used exceedingly bad judgement to display such a treasure upon her person, even in the lovely grounds of Kensington Park. It was broad daylight, but the increasing number of marauders traversing London's byways would leap at such a valuable accoutrement. They would not give a second thought to shoving her to the ground and ripping it from her neck before absconding up a side street. She had no one accompanying her. They would be gone ere she could call for assistance. What could Marie-Therese be thinking? He had once thought her uncommonly clever. He supposed what passed for cunning in Paris meant little upon English soil. Suffering to an audacious degree the illusion of his own cleverness, that thought made him bolder still. Poor Mademoiselle Lambert, she was but a lamb to the slaughter.

“Bonjour,” he said, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat. “You have never looked more handsome. London air does your complexion compliment.”

At that remark, she restrained herself from looking about at the yellowish grey haze that passed for air in London. Even in lovely Kensington Gardens it was discernible. Wickham did not note her scepticism and believed his advantage over her was substantial. Therefore, he was happy to be generous in his compliments. It was not, after all, mere flattery. She was ravishingly beautiful. He simply had never noticed her beauty, as she had always been overshadowed by Césarine.

She returned his greeting, “Bonjour, Général Wickham.”

At this, Wickham had to smile—the girl still believed that he was a general—how droll! He would just have to humour her.

“As unhappy as I am to lose this precious bundle here,” he sighed heavily, the carriage wheel squeaking almost loudly enough to drown him out. “Duty calls. I must return to my command. It would not be in the baby's best interest to travel behind us in a laundry waggon. I must have, however, assurances that she will be taken care of properly. I could not bear to allow her to be taken without that. As it is, my heart will break each day that I do not awake to hear her lovely laughter.”

He fancied that he had the exact mixture of resignation and sadness and looked at Marie-Therese to gauge its impact. Her countenance remained altogether inscrutable. But then, courtesans were not known for their exhibition of pathos. He was then troubled by a pang of anxiety.

“Are you certain that you can care for the baby upon the return trip? She did not take to the sea on our journey here…”

“Care not,
Général
, I travel with a nurse.”

“I should have known that you would come prepared,” he said.

Then suddenly he felt the need to get their exchange done as quickly as possible. He owned an abrupt need to begone. He wanted his money and cared not to look back.

“Shall we sit?” he suggested, pointing to a bench. “We must hurry our agreement lest we be observed.”

It was an excuse, of course. No one should have cared at all what came to pass between them.

“As you wish,” she agreed mildly.

They did then sit, Wickham stationing the baby carriage between them. He was thankful the baby was asleep, oblivious to the racket the decrepit carriage made. Marie-Therese sat unmoving, her reticule bulging temptingly in her lap. She made no move to proffer what was in it. He had heard the clink when she sat—the sound of one thousand sovereigns.

“Do you have the funds?”

“In gold, as you asked.”

“I was saddened to hear of du Mautort's passing. He was a good and great friend.”

“He was an impetuous boy. He took no greater care of himself than did Césarine,” she observed. “Losing both her son and her husband left his mother inconsolable—or should I say almost inconsolable?”

There, they both almost laughed, but regained their countenances. Wickham went so far as to reinstate a businesslike mien. Marie-Therese remained placid. Wickham looked at the necklace about her neck. A number of things crossed his mind at that time. The first amongst them was that in the aftermath of war, France's economy was even worse than England's. A piece of that carat weight would be worth much more in England than in France. He did not for a moment think Mademoiselle Lambert was aware of that. Courtesans were not known for their grasp of economics, either.

“I see,” he ventured, “that you rescued at least one piece of Césarine's jewellery from her creditors. It must have been at great cost.”

“
Un peu
.”

He did not for a moment think she retrieved it legitimately; he knew that she had pilfered it from about Césarine's dead neck. That only instilled within him a greater determination.

“To see it once again…I can think of nothing but my own darling Césarine.”

Was it? Yes, he believed it was. A tear—a tiny one, but still a tear—had begun at the corner of his eye. By sheer will (and an odd bit of blinking), he managed to encourage it out of his eye and onto his cheek. Was it possible to be missed? No, it was not. Marie-Therese reached in her reticule for a piece of linen and dabbed at the corner of her own eye as well.

“She loved you so,
Général
!”

“And I, her!” agreed Wickham.

It was true, he had loved her. If he were to give up her child, could he not have a memento? He put it to Marie-Therese just like that. He worried that he had been too blunt—nuance is all in some negotiations.