Darcy & Elizabeth (56 page)

Hannah and Goodwin were gladdened too for her distraction. Had she been witting of Smeads's plummet down the staircase, Mrs. Bennet's eagre interest would not have been trifling. No doubt she would precede them in the telling of the incident to Mr. Darcy. The longer they had to think of it, the more certain they were that it was imperative to present their version of events before Smeads did.

That worry, however, directly became quite irrelevant. It was not above a day and a half later that when the same scullery maid who had inherited Smeads's care went to bring him his morning broth, she found the bed empty. He had taken his leave with only a few belongings and under the cover of darkness. No one could make out for the life of them why he had taken off like that. It would take several weeks for them to learn the whole truth of it.

But the whole truth would certainly not be a comfort.

Angels Avenge

To soothe himself over the loss of his tiny companion, Wickham betook himself to the nearest gem shop. Even he dared not keep such a treasure on his person long. He had to make himself not pat it in reassurance—that was a dead giveaway to the light-fingered where one stowed his money. It was fortunate that he was near Mayfair. There were more jewellers within a half-mile of where he walked than in any spot in England.

He did not, however, stop in the first one he came across. He knew he must choose carefully. It must be the most exclusive of shops to handle such a singular item. In fortune, he found a suitable one quite promptly. It had a tasteful sign. It read: “Fine Gems, William R. Smythe, Proprietor.” He drew a breath, tugged his cuffs straight, and entered.

The walls and cabinetry were of mahogany, but little merchandise was evident other than a case of watches.

“Good-day to you, sir,” said the natty gentleman behind the counter.

Wickham was not fooled by the man's dapper appearance. “Your employer, please.”

The man bowed curtly and disappeared behind a curtain. After a moment of inaudible mumblings, a second man emerged. He was not half so fashionable as his clerk, but his flawless tailoring announced him not your average shopkeeper. He was a small man, however, thereby he stepped upon what must have been a low stool hidden behind the counter to raise himself to counter height. Once there, he still was not quite eye to eye with Wickham.

Yet he spoke with authority. “My name is Smythe, I am the proprietor. May I be of assistance?”

Wickham was not the least bit fooled by the name Smythe, either. The man had an indistinct accent—perhaps German. That probability, however, was of no consequence. Moreover, Wickham disposed not to tell, but to show what he had to offer. Slipping his hand into the breast-pocket of his waistcoat, he withdrew the necklace by one clasp. It revealed itself with a slither—as if he had charmed it like a snake. Mr. Smythe could not help but gasp. He reached for it.

“Tsk, tsk,” Wickham shook his head.

Immediately, the man withdrew his hand and unfolded a piece of felt. Wickham carefully arranged his treasure upon it. Smythe gasped again.

“I am jeweller to the Prince Regent himself and rarely do I see something of this distinction!”

Wickham was leaning against the counter upon his elbow, his fingers nudging the necklace with seeming idleness, but pushing it imperceptibly in the jeweller's direction.

“I am told this once adorned the neck of Queen Marie Antoinette,” he lied.

“I do not doubt it for a moment,” said the little man, shaking his head with true astonishment.

Thereupon, his tone altered, his voice conspiratorial.

“There are,” Smythe whispered, “those who would pay handsomely for a piece such as this.”

“Indeed?” Wickham said, endeavouring to conceal a smirk.

“Yes, yes. I believe so,” the man hurried on. “If you would be so kind as to allow me to have a look with my glass?”

With the merest flick of his head, Wickham allowed it. Even more quickly the man produced a glass, caught it in the squint of his right eye and bent forward. Drawing his gaze carefully from one end to the other, he observed each and every stone.

“Ah,” said Smythe. “Ah,” he repeated, Wickham beaming ever more greatly with every movement of his quizzing glass.

Then Smythe said, “Oh.”

Wickham stood up, placing both hands upon the edge of the counter, but remained quiet.

“Oh,” the man said again, then, “uh, oh.”

By that last comment, Wickham's head had inched closer to the jeweller's until they were almost touching foreheads. When the jeweller at last rose from his investigation, he almost bumped noses with his client.

“I fear I have ill tidings for us both,” he apologized. “This necklace is not as it first appeared.”

“No?” Wickham said tightly.

“No,” Smythe repeated. “The setting…one can see the error. It is exquisite workmanship.”

Without thinking twice, Wickham wrested the glass from Smythe's eye and held it to his own, taking the same care as did Smythe. He saw nothing (not even that the chain attached to the glass was about Smythe's neck and choking him). He released it and extended an upturned palm. It was a plea.

“Whatever can be the matter?”

Smythe replied simply, “Why, it is the stones.”

“The stones?” Wickham repeated dumbly.

“Yes, the stones. The rubies, the diamonds…”

Tightly, Wickham stopt him, saying, “I know of which stones you speak. What is amiss with the stones?”

As he asked the question, he knew in his heart the answer. Hence by the time the man uttered what he truly did not want to hear, Wickham was already acclimating himself to the realisation that he had been duped. He really did not have to listen to the rest of what the man had to say, it meant nothing to him.

“They are paste, sir,” Smythe said with finality. “True, they are the best I have ever seen, but still paste. So many exquisite pieces are arriving from France, I was so taken with the notion of what it could be that I did not immediately see what I should have.”

Clearly, Wickham was devastated. Indeed, so wretched did he look, the man feared he might burst into tears. Indeed, Wickham thought that a distinct possibility. He placed both hands upon the edge of the counter, his legs suddenly having no strength. He stood resting his weight there so he could catch the breath that seemed to have been knocked out of him. Smythe reached out and patted one hand with true compassion. Suddenly, the true impact of what had occurred hit Wickham. His reaction was not one of benign acceptance. Because he desperately wanted it to be true, he leapt to attack.

“You lie, sir!
J'accuse
!”

He knew that word in French. What was suddenly crystal clear to him was that he had been crossed, not by little Marie-Therese, but this man, Smythe.

“I have heard of such as you! Your assessment is a sham—then you pretend sympathy and offer to take the gems for a pittance! You little Hun…little…bloody Hun dwarf!”

“Sir! I am offended by such accusations! Begone from my establishment!”

“Happily!” sniffed Wickham.

Angrily, he picked up the necklace and stalked out.

Once outside, he bethought the matter. Perhaps it was true. With slightly less bravado, he entered another shop. Then another. Each had exactly the same answer as before. The only additional intelligence he uncovered was that the French forgeries were the very best.

“You were duped by nothing but the finest imitation.”

“How reassuring,” Wickham had replied without enthusiasm.

Knowing that anyone in a position to acquire such a necklace would be disinclined to purchase it without authentication, he finally accepted fifty pounds for the setting.

He was happy to get it.

***

When at last he trudged back to Mrs. Younge's establishment, he was in low spirits, indeed. He avoided her, for he knew she would inquire first if his intrigue was successful and if told the truth, she would demand his outstanding rent. In his frame of mind, he thought it unlikely he had the wherewithal to employ his alternate means of payment.

In fortune, Mrs. Younge was busy elsewhere and Wickham managed to take the stairs without her intrusion. He made for the door of his room, opened it, stepped in, and then carefully closed it behind him. It was then that he saw a tri-folded letter that had been shoved underneath the door. He automatically stooped and picked it up. He immediately recognised the hand, but he would have known the author without looking at it. What gall—no doubt she wrote only to rub salt in his wounds. He could not bring himself to read it just then and he dropped it upon the table next to his bed. Thereupon he wrested himself out of his coat and sat heavily upon the mattress. When he began to tug off his boots, his eyes lit upon the empty cradle sitting vacant in the corner. From there, his eyes spanned the length of the room, taking note of every item of baby paraphernalia that remained. Fitfully, he picked up a basket and went from item to item until all had been secured within. Thereupon, he crushed the basket into the opening of the cradle, picked up both and set them outside his door.

“Mr. Wickham? Is that you?” sang out Mrs. Younge.

His answer was to soundly shut the door. In a moment he heard her scratching at the door, but he refused to answer. He simply could not respond, and sat once again upon the side of the bed and put his head in his hands until she left. Only when she quit his door did he pick up the letter and open it. He thought he knew all that it would say.

But he was wrong.

Dear Major Wickham,

If you have not yet learnt, you will soon know that the necklace that I gave you in exchange for the bébé is faux—I believe the English call it fake.

“Yes,” he agreed, “that would be an accurate term. Your English, Marie-Therese, is much better than my French.”

Thinking he knew all the letter would say, he was not reading it carefully, thus he did not immediately recognise that in her salutation she had employed his proper rank.

She went on:

I would say that I was sorry for the deceit, but I am not.

When dear Césarine told you that the bébé was by Monsieur du Mautort, it was a lie. The baby is yours—or should I say was begat by you? She did not want you to know that. Her reason for that deceit may be unclear to you. This letter is to explain to you why.

You are unaware that Césarine knew you long ago—when you were said to be a student. Her father was your tutor. She knew it was unlikely that you would recall her, for your women were many. Perhaps you do not even now.

Stunned, Wickham quit reading for a moment to see if he could indeed recall her. There was a bit of a recollection, but it was indistinct. His brow furrowed. This was absurd—he knew Césarine in England when they were but children? It was possible, he supposed. He read on.

She became with child from you. You abandoned her and the child. You lied to her—even about your name. She was sent away and forced to give up her child. Thereafter she became the Césarine you met in Paris. Why Césarine took you to her bed again remains to me a mystery. She said she did not love you and never did she believe you loved her. Such is the nature of desire. It has no reason.

Césarine was a good mother. She went to great expense and much time to find the bébé that she had given away. When she fell with child by you again, she could not bear to kill it. The bébé was to be taken to a convent of her choosing. She did not want you ever to know that you were Babette's father. That is her name, Babette.

You seemed to have been fond of Babette, but I do not truly believe it. You love no one but Major Wickham. If there is some bit of love for Babette inside your heart, you need not worry for her. She is with her sister, who will see to her always.

I am,

Your daughter,

Marie-Therese

Carefully, he reread the letter, this time noting every detail. Just as carefully, he refolded it and placed it upon the table next to him. From beneath his mattress he withdrew a half-bottle of gin. It was not his favourite drink, but it would do in a pinch. He did not bother to look for a glass, but upended the bottle. He then lay back upon his bed, one arm behind his head.

He lay in that exact attitude until the next morn.

The Divine Duel

It was easy in the aftermath of this misadventure for Wickham to locate Lydia. She had decamped from their previous dwelling, but she had few alternatives. He knew she would go to her family. Her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner had come to her rescue once before. As they were her only relations he knew to be dwelling in London, in seeking her, he sallied forth first unto Cheapside. Still, he was disinclined to show his hold card. Catching sight of an appropriately impoverished boy, he called to him.

“Here, lad,” said he, offering him a coin. “Ring the bell and deliver this package at yonder door. If the lady to whom it is addressed is not within, find out where she can be found.”

He knew not to give the boy the half-penny beforehand—he had had little snipes take off with his money. This one was delighted to have such a lucrative assignment, hence he grabbed the box and betook himself across the street directly. He did not inquire (nor did he care) why the gentleman did not take it himself.

The box had only a folded newspaper inside. If it were opened, it might seem a tad odd but nothing more. Wickham had read that paper and was current as to the unrest and mischief about in England in general and London in particular. That news did better office as senseless delivery than use to him—politics had never held his interest. Other than having himself delivered as cannon fodder unto Napoleon's elite guard, he gave not a fig what happened in the world beyond his own. His interest was keen for his own enterprise alone and he watched carefully as the boy went to the door and pulled the bell. A servant answered. The maid held up the box, rattled it, peered at the name upon it, and scowled (Aha! Lydia had been there). She then retrieved a pencil from behind her ear and wrote something upon the box. Perfect.

As the boy hied back to his side, Wickham congratulated himself upon his stealth. If he could possibly avoid it, he certainly did not intend to travel all the way to the ridiculously bucolic county of Hertfordshire only to learn Lydia was not abiding with her father if he could avoid it.

Quick as that, he had an address for her new lodgings. Indeed, he was quite pleased with himself. (As his spirits had been exceedingly glum of late, this small victory was well appreciated.) He sent the boy happily upon his way, joyously flipping the coin.

“O to be a carefree youngster with no worries to bother me!” thought Wickham as he watched the lad dance away. Sometimes it amused him to refuse to pay after some child had compleated his bidding, claiming malfeasance of some sort against them. This day, upon the cusp of a bright new scheme, he felt generous.

“Look here,” he said to himself upon observing the Chelsea address the maid had written upon the box. “What has my darling wife been up to since her loving husband has been to the wars? Perhaps those sisters who are so pecuniarily blessed have at last taken pity upon their poor relation and settled some funds on her. Oooh, welcome home, Major Wickham.”

It was then he saw something else other than her address. “What is this?”

He looked more closely, “Mrs. Kneebone? Mrs.
Kneebone
?”

He was outraged.

The more he thought of it, the more umbrage he took. Could his dear wife not have waited the proper mourning period before she remarried? After all, he was a war hero! Moreover, if that was the same drudge of a Major Kneebone that he recalled from his regiment in Brighton, he found further insult. In reality, other than the blow to his ego, Lydia's indecorously brief period of mourning was a blessing. He had a plan and it had nothing to do with reinstating himself in Lydia's household. Until he learnt of her situation, he had been torn as to what would be his next move. So far, he had avoided the inevitable moment when he would be recognised. He had only toyed with the notion of claiming amnesia and done nothing to research as he had planned. Marie-Therese's letter offering money for the baby had led him to believe that unnecessary. Pox upon that chit of a girl. In times like these, there were other fish to fry.

London was in a great flux. Amidst the chaos, it was experiencing another phenomenon—one quite singular to a victorious people. Anyone who could claim to have any part of Napoleon's downfall was not only hailed a hero, he was given carte blanche in his homeland. Major George Wickham would love to have a slice of that particular pie.

To those ends, his little trip to Gracechurch St. had been fruitful indeed. Lydia's remarriage told him the single thing he had been unable to ascertain—Major George Wickham was thought dead, not a deserter. She would not have taken a husband had he been thought still alive. A choice now lay before him. He could claim to have been lost and insinuated himself once again into the bosom of his family which would entail a great deal of invention (of which he was ably capable), or he could eat an enormous helping of humble pie (of which he was not) and hie back to the Continent without a bob to his name. In light of Lydia's hasty alliance, there loomed a more palpable alternative. If his inconstant wife was well settled, her prosperous sisters might be willing to purchase both his leave-taking and his silence.

Little Marie-Therese's ruse had ruined his original scheme, one that—if he said so himself—had been altogether brilliant. The thousand pounds was to have given him a stake to establish himself anywhere he might fancy. That recollection brought him a disagreeable train of reflections. Trailing them was the notion of a new start—a renaissance. It was all he desired. Was not everyone deserving of another chance—to amend those failings they had encountered? If he had a purse, he could return to the glittering cities of the Continent—but not in defeat. He would saunter down the boulevards with his head held high. His handsomeness had not waned—this time he would find an heiress in need of a husband. A thousand pounds would be quite adequate.

One possibility that he had considered was he to cadge enough money from Lydia was to fund a return to Paris. If that girl—Marie-Therese—did indeed believe herself his daughter, their connection was not severed. Indeed, a blood connection could never be put asunder. If she still had the original gems from the necklace (which he was certain had been genuine in Césarine's day), she was in possession of a considerable fortune—one of which he would be happy to relieve her. He would either convince her that he could exchange them to her advantage in England, or he would simply filch them. What he would not do was allow himself to take any drubbing lying down. This new turn of events may not have altered everything, but it certainly painted it another colour.

What he had not done was truly address Marie-Therese's outlandish accusations. He had avoided them. He intended to continue avoiding them until he could use them to his advantage. That he had not one daughter but two was wholly pleasing to him. If what they said was true and he had even
another
chance bairn still at Pemberley, that would be admirable indeed. He enjoyed the prolificacy of his loins—if they did no damage to his pocket. One small discombobulation asserted itself, however. If Marie-Therese was correct, he was most grateful not to have acted upon his initial impulse to seduce her. There were few things that were beneath him, but even he drew the line at incest—that and folk-dancing.

As he was most anxious to confront Lydia, he did not mind laying out a coin to hire a coach to hurry his way to Chelsea.

His anticipation was not disappointed. When at last he faced his inconstant wife, Lydia's reaction was even more rewarding to him than that of her jingle-brained husband. Both were superb in their astonishment. They had not even asked where he had been. Lydia had threatened to swoon and run about rending her garments like some crazed Turk. Her opposite in every way, Kneebone stood in a stupor, his mouth agape, exposing an abominable inattention to the condition of his teeth.

Wickham had to congratulate himself. He had handled his role of aggrieved husband superbly. His poor wounded heart lay upon his sleeve. Kneebone had actually called him out! Actually duelling for Lydia's honour? That was rich. Of course he agreed to it—what else was one to do? Lydia had thrown herself between them, begging poor Kneebone to reconsider. Under no circumstances did Wickham intend to entertain such an absurd notion, but one must always display a willingness to defend one's name as a gentleman.

All that and the clear evidence of an infant whose age looked to make her paternity another bartering point for the dissolution of their marriage made for a most profitable call.

He knew that it would be but a matter of time before Lydia would call upon her family for remedy. It was unlikely that her father would be who she would contact. Wickham had learnt at the time of their marriage how meagre that gentleman's purse was. He even believed he had detected a speck of indecision upon his wife's countenance. That might be a problem. Under no circumstances did he want her to return to him. The more he thought about it, the more he fancied his withdrawal worth. He became increasingly eagre to see who would come forth as arbiter over the situation. His anticipation was keen.

***

Wickham had chosen to meet with Lydia's arbiter in the tavern below his lodgings. It was suitably disreputable—perhaps to better display his financial…amiability, suggesting him a destitute, struggling veteran of the wars. No doubt such a disgraceful place would also keep his well-born callers uneasy.

Upon learning of their destination, Elizabeth suggested to Kneebone that they hire a hack rather than take her carriage. Considering the unfortunate neighbourhood they would be visiting, she thought it best to be as inconspicuous as possible. Therefore, she wore her simplest dress and went so far as to pull the lace from her plainest bonnet. Major Kneebone insisted upon wearing his uniform, however, which in and of itself drew attention. He also wore his sword. (The glint of its blade as he sheathed it made Elizabeth excessively uneasy.) Lydia, however, was dressed in her finest plumage—the gaudiness of which suggested an overly decorated maypole. Undoubtedly she was in want of displaying to Wickham just what he would be foregoing was he to give her up. Hence, her ensemble included a bizarre hat and her most revealing dress. Although the days were still warm, she wore—at eleven in the morning—an ermine muff. Elizabeth recognised it as once belonging to Jane, who had thought it and its dangling glass beads tasteless. In this inharmonious manner, they set off to engage Major Wickham.

At midmorning the streets near the Thames still stunk from the previous night's revelry. Elizabeth was tempted to hold her nose, but knew enough to keep her distaste to herself. Lydia, however, did not.

“Ewww,” she exclaimed. “I cannot bear this stench!”

Kneebone did the unlikely by shushing her with a look. He then handed the ladies out of their hired coach and gave a coin to the driver, telling him to wait. Then once again he attempted to dissuade the ladies from taking such a meeting altogether.

“This neighbourhood is most unsafe, Lydia dear. And you, Mrs. Darcy, pray allow me to make other arrangements,” begged Kneebone, with increasing apprehension.

The ladies were far more resolute than he, Lydia charging forward as if on a regimental excursion herself. Elizabeth was just as determined, but history told her to be wary. They had to step around two bodies to get to the appointed address, and she was not altogether certain one was merely unconscious. She rethought her initial inclination to meet with Wickham alone and found the notion ill considered.

“Do the authorities not take the dead from the street?” whined Lydia. “This is an abominable business.”

Kneebone toed first one recumbent form and then the other. In fortune both responded, and he and Elizabeth exchanged a look of relief. Regrettably, one disturbed figure sat up and retched in his lap, inviting Lydia to shriek. Both she and Elizabeth lifted their skirts to their ankles and hurried their step.

“Oh, Lizzy! Where are our clogs when we need them?” cried Lydia.

That was an astonishment. In times past, many a slipper had been ruined due to Lydia's stubborn obstinacy of forswearing her clogs in foul weather. However fervently Elizabeth hoped to see an improvement in her sister's prudence, what footwear she was disposed to wear did not appear to be a true gauge of it.

The further they betook themselves along the foetid streets, the more anxious the three of them became. By the time they located the public house Wickham had chosen for their meeting, Elizabeth had serious misgivings about the entire venture. Those reservations did not lessen when she cast her eyes upon Wickham's smug countenance again. He, however, looked surprised upon espying her. She was uncertain whether that was in her favour or not.

Wickham bowed with the same unctuous manner he had always employed. It was mortifying to recall she once thought him charming.

“Sister Elizabeth!” he exclaimed. “How well you look. It is a great honour to see you.”

The question as to why she was there was unasked, but implied. However, she did not offer to explain. Lydia believed that no silence should go unoccupied and began to talk enough for everyone. She complained about Wickham's choice of meeting place, that he wanted to meet, that Kneebone would not duel him no matter how badly he wanted to, and, most of all, how much must she lay down for him to leave her be?

Elizabeth cringed at her last inquiry. She was uncertain whether Major Kneebone groaned inwardly as did she or not, for she dared not look in his direction. He had been as coiled as a spring since they had left Chelsea. She was even less certain than Lydia that he could contain his ever-growing rancour. Wickham, however, behaved as if he were partaking afternoon tea, motioning them to a trestle table in the far corner.

“Had I known a lady of your station was to join us I would have arranged to accept you in the Green Room at the Argyle, Mrs. Darcy,” he smiled.

Elizabeth saw then that his conceit knew no bounds. She was exceedingly self-conscious and wanted to be done with the meeting as quickly as possible. However, there was a moment when she was uncertain how to step over the bench to sit down and begin it. Kneebone tugged the huge wooden seat far enough away from the table so that she and Lydia could inch their way down and be seated. Kneebone remained standing, his hat in the crook of his arm. Wickham looked at him and smirked. Elizabeth was curious where Wickham had been, for he looked well tended. Because of that, she assumed she had not been wrong in supposing his choice of public house a manipulation. Despite her want of an expeditious meeting, Wickham was bent on small talk, which, under the circumstances, seemed absurd. The sheer absurdity of their situation was increased by half when a trio of men, cups of ale in hand, joined them at their table. When no one bid them leave, she became exasperated.