Clouds Over Pemberley

by Walter Oleksy

  Kitty approached the same gentleman and asked, “Sir, I am an aficionado of King Arthur horse tournaments and am into jousting. May I ask if you joust?” He did not reply and walked on again.

  The Darcy’s prevailed upon Sean and Pippa to show those gathered at the assembly an authentic Irish step dance, so they obliged. Mr. Wickham watched with special interest, then moved on thinking of with which of them he should like to spend the best of all possible worlds. But why not both?

  Mary almost lost interest or hope in any gentleman asking her to dance. She, like her mother and sisters, despaired because they saw no new gentlemen faces attending the dance, except for the handsome young Irishman they had earlier met at their parents’ house. He seemed to be unusually attentive to his beautiful sister, and the girls wished they would be married to a gentleman so attentive of them.

  The orchestra leader then announced, “The next dance shall be the first ever at the Meryton assembly. It is a waltz, now becoming popular on the Continent.” No one in the assembly began to waltz, not knowing how, but Sean and Pippa knew and began waltzing. Soon others followed, among them the Darcy’s. Elizabeth loved the intimacy as Mr. Darcy held her close, reminding her of his swimming lessons on Hydra. She began to sing softly,

  That certain night, the night we met, There was magic abroad in the air,

  There were angels dining at the Ritz And a Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square.

  I may be right, I may be wrong,

  But I'm perfectly willing to swear That when you turn'd and smiled at me A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square.

  Said Mr. Wickham, “Lovely. But where did that come from?”

  “I have no idea,” Elizabeth replied. “Except perhaps Hydra.”

  Mr. Wickham garnered some courage and approached Pippa.

  “May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”

  Mr. O’Reilly, dressed in his tuxedo, took Wickham by an arm and told him firmly, “Sir, go bugger yourself!”

  Mr. Wickham stood his ground. “I still cannot decide which of you O’Reilly’s is more beautiful, your sister, or whomever she might be, or you. And that evening wear you have on… It is very uncommon, but it is most becoming on you.”

  Mr. O’Reilly replied, “You look excited, sir. Keep your banana in your knickers. Desist, sir, or I will knock your bloody head off!”

  They discoursed with false smiles, and no onlookers guessed the subjects upon which they exchanged views. “I have been meaning to ask,” said Mr. Wickham, ignoring Mr. O’Reilly’s rebuffs, “I am badly in need of funds. Would you do me the favor of asking Mr. Darcy for a loan on my behalf?”

  “Ask him yourself, ass.”

  “I do not think he is on speaking terms with me.” “I should not think you would find that hard to understand.” “I know he is on speaking terms with you, so perhaps you would do me the kindness of asking him for a loan for yourself which when request is granted, loan the sum to me?”

  “Sir, you are pushing my patience!”

  “Or ask Mr. Darcy to give me a sum in exchange for me accepting my wife back, with whoever’s child she is carrying.”

  Mr. O’Reilly made no reply but discreetly lifted his right hand to Mr. Wickham’s face and extended its middle finger.

  Mr. Wickham moved on thinking of with whom he should like to spend the best of all possible worlds. It was, he decided, Mr. O’Reilly.

  A tall and burly police officer whom Mr. Wickham had never seen before approached him.

  “You are new to Meryton?” Mr. Wickham inquired.

  The officer said, “I am Herman Touche, a police officer in New York City in the colonies. I am visiting my brother who is Constable Feeley in Meryton.”

  “But you are black, while the Meryton constable is white. And you are of different surnames.” “Right. I am Touche and he is Feeley. We had the same mother but different fathers. Although unnatural brothers, we make a great pair. I am teaching my brother American arrest and interrogation methods, perhaps a little different than what is practiced here. Sometimes force is necessary. After all, we are dealing with criminals, some of them ugly as sin, others of quite agreeable countenance, such as you.”

  Mr. Wickham, surprised at the compliment, said, “But who are not guilty until proven so in a court of law.”

  The officer shrugged. “Whatever. After all, we are called ‘the police force.’” “I hear reports of excessive force on slaves and gypsies who are accused of mischief.”

  “They are generally in mischief, so there is no need to spend taxpayer’s money on trials in courts.”

  Mr. Wickham shuddered, wondering what might happen to him if arrested by the New York policeman. It made him feel the need of another swallow of brandy, so he retired to a room that contained chamber pots for gentlemen to relieve themselves. Ladies had a similar room nearby that contained a flush toilet as well as chamber pots.

  Mrs. Bennet and her daughter Mary gasped at seeing a gentleman in a white uniform enter the hall.

  It began to be whispered throughout the ballroom:

  “It is the ship captain who married Mary Bennet and then left her on their wedding night!”

  The general reply was, “What bloody cheek, to come here!” Mrs. Bennet and Mary and her other daughters recognised the seaman. They would have approached him, but instead he came directly to them, waving a hello with his hook. Mr. Darcy left his wife and friends to follow him to the Bennet’s.

  Captain Ahab bowed, saying, “I regret any inconvenience I may have caused you all, especially you, Miss Bennet.” That said to Mary. “Please allow me to explain. I left in haste because I had learned that my mother was gravely ill in China and could die at any moment, so I departed to sail there directly.”

  Nonsense! Nonsense!, Mrs. Bennet thought.

  Mary wanted to believe the captain, so she did.

  “Boarding my ship, I learned that my mother had already departed from this vale of tears. So I returned forthwith to fulfil my obligations as husband.”

  Mary felt a tingle run up her spine.

  “So the chicken that flew the coop has come home to roost,” said Mr. Darcy to the ship captain. “Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, addressing Mary, “What think you? Your husband that was appears to be asking for your hand again.”

  Without hesitation, the formerly jilted bride began to lean toward her errant husband. Ahab, taking it as favorable disposition, embraced Mary, careful so as not to scratch her back.

  Cheers and applause arose from those gathered in the assembly hall, and Mrs. Bennet began to feel tearful. Mr. Darcy offered her his handkerchief and she dried her eyes with it.

  “So all’s well that ends well,” said Captain Ahab. Mr. Darcy did not entirely believe the seaman’s story, and with good reason. The captain did not reveal that he had intended to leave his wife in Meryton and sail away to Singapore to be reunited with his young and beautiful Chinese wife there, and their two young children, but because of circumstances he learned upon boarding his ship. He received news from a friend, another sea captain, that his wife in Singapore had despaired of him ever returning to her and their children, so she went to Bangkok and married a former lover who now owned two hotels and accepted her and the children.

  Being alone now in the world, the sea captain reviewed his options. He almost reluctantly decided that a wife in Meryton would be better than none all. And, after all, most wives of sailing men were used to their husbands being away for some time. His wife in Meryton would get used to the situation. He still would be able to sail his ship into the world’s waters and anchor at many ports. He would have the best of all possible worlds. He would have his apple strudle and eat it, too.

  Mary Bennet did not think, as her soon-to-again-be husband held her close in his strong arms. She just felt loved, at last. Ahab was again the captain of her heart.

  Mrs. Bennet sighed, thinking, Home is the sailor, home from the sea. And, better late than never. Now three down again, and two to go. Mr. Wick
ham, having emptied his flask of brandy, almost staggered out of the gentlemen’s room. As he left it, Mr. Darcy and Mr. O’Reilly were walking toward it.

  As they both passed him, they said, in unison, “Bugger you!” Mr. Wickham shrugged off their disdain of him and saw the back of a young woman who wore her hair like Mrs. Darcy’s. He recognised her dress as the one Elizabeth had worn at the ball in Meryton nearly a year earlier.

  Emboldened by the brandy he had been consuming all evening, Wickham hurried up behind the woman. Believing her to be Mrs. Darcy, he grasped her breasts. He intended to waylay her into an empty room and have his way with her. Sweet revenge was in his grasp of her.

  The woman he held and began to drag away screamed and turned to face him. Mr. Wickham gasped in astonishment. He saw her not to be Mrs. Darcy but his desired’s sister, Miss O’Reilly.

  At hearing a woman scream, Mr. Darcy and Mr. O’Reilly rushed out of the gentleman’s room and to Pippa’s defence. Seeing himself trapped, Mr. Wickham had two thoughts in the split seconds that followed. He wanted to have his revenge on Mr. Darcy and also thought that if he killed Mr. O’Reilly he would be killing the demon within himself that wanted him.

  Elizabeth and the Bingley’s hurried to assist Miss O’Reilly. Mr. Bingley, who had recovered from his itching, began to again feel the need to scratch all over. As both Mr. Darcy and Mr. O’Reilly approached Mr. Wickham menacingly, he hastily withdrew a pistol from a shoulder harness he kept concealed under his jacket. His hand shaking and unsteady, he fired a shot. He hoped the bullet somehow would strike though both men, so as to solve all his problems. Chapter Twenty-One

  “Mr. O’Reilly has been shot!”

  The news from Elizabeth startled everyone at the dance. Mr. O’Reilly staggered. He began to fall until Mr. Darcy helped him to gently recline on his back on the floor. At the same time, Mr. Bingley restrained Mr. Wickham. It took no little effort as Mr. Bingley itched all over.

  Doctors Marley and Kildare, who were in attendance at the ball with their wives, had been discoursing about the choice of a nine iron or a seven iron for an approach shot to a green. Hearing the gunshot, they went almost reluctantly to the fallen man who was then in the arms of Mr. Darcy. At the sight of blood oozing from Mr. O’Reilly’s left shoulder, both men of medicine turned away, feeling the need to hasten to the room with chamber pots. They hurried to it, handkerchiefs covering their mouths.

  The village veterinarian, also in attendance at the ball, came to Mr. O’Reilly’s rescue.

  “It is but a scratch,” he reported after a hasty examination.

  “Nonetheless, the shooter shall be arrested!” a stern voice announced.

  Officer Touche took Mr. Wickham into custody roughly, beating and slapping him.

  “Police brutality!” Mr. Wickham shouted, bending over and covering his head with his arms. “Excessive force!” Touche informed onlookers, saying “I have no jurisdiction here as a police officer from the colonies, so I make a citizen’s arrest in the name of the King, for attempted murder. Leave this villain to me. He may be a gentleman, but he shot another gentleman and must be restrained.”

  Mr. Wickham submitted, envisioning himself to be in Old Bailey with a wigged magistrate sentencing him to be hanged by the neck until he was dead. Officer Touche ushered Mr. Wickham out of the dance hall and into a police carriage. Mr. Darcy and Mr. O’Reilly followed with their wives to the Meryton police station. Mr. Bingley, occupied with scratching himself profusely, was taken home to Netherfield by his wife.

  At the police station, Constable Feeley asked Mr. Wickham, “What provoked you to shoot Mr. O’Reilly?”

  “Mister Wickham may have meant to shoot me,” said Mr. Darcy.

  Asked Constable Touche, “Why ever?”

  “He is not very fond of me.”

  He was too fond of me, Mr. O’Reilly reflected, but did not voice his thought.

  “I do not wish to press charges,” said Sean. “It was an accident. Mr. Wickham had been drinking. He is fond of brandy.”

  “You think Mr. Wickham could have been aiming his pistol at you,” asked Touche of Darcy. “Do you wish to press charges against him?” Upon reflection for a moment, Mr. Darcy replied. “I do not. It was all as Mr. O’Reilly said, an accident.” He did not want the matter to go any further because it would cause scandal to everyone involved.

  Mr. Wickham thought on how he had come to the state he was in. It had, he decided, all come from unrequited love.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mr. Wickham was released from jail on bond put up by an unknown benefactor. In fact, it was Darcy, who wanted it kept secret because he detested Wickham. While walking to The Royal Arms, Wickham saw some teenage boys playing football in a field. They stopped to bully a boy who was walking by carrying a violin case.

  “Don’t want to play football, Sister Boy?” the boys called to the boy with the violin case.

  “It’s too rough for you, Little Boy Blue?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to tackle us?”

  “You’d love the scrum!”

  The boy began to run away and, not looking, ran into Mr. Wickham. “Bugger off!” Wickham called back to the boys in the field. He was extremely vexed with them for their intolerable cruelty, and led the distraught boy to a park bench where they sat together.

  “I’m no good at sports,” said the boy, holding the violin case against his chest. “I’m just not coordinated, as they are. I am always the last one chosen to be on a team.”

  “You are not alone. I was not good at sports myself when I was your age. Not tough enough, I guess. I might not have had what is called True Grit.”

  The boy went on. “I’m also overweight. The other boys taunt me about that, too, and call me ‘Fatty boom boom.’”

  “I am George Wickham. What is your name?”

  “Elton Hoover.” “You are fine just the way you are, Elton. You overeat to relax. But being of a large size can be good. The heavy people I know are happy people. Sometimes they meet a similarly heavy person, fall in love, and marry. Also, some of the heaviest women I know are married to very slim and handsome men who are more attracted to the woman’s inner beauty. Or they might just like a handful.”

  Elton sat and listened, craving a sandwich or some candy. Mr. Wickham went on: “ Boyhood is not an easy time. The next generation may have it easier. Or the one after that. Less bullying. More acceptance. More tolerance, in every way. It’s all an ancient mystery. Do not judge yourself. Accept yourself.”

  “My parents don’t understand me, either. Am I bad because I prefer playing the violin to playing football?”

  “You’re not bad at all. It’s okay to be different, to be yourself.”

  Said Elton, “There is another me, and I am in a dilemma. Who am I? I feel I am a Misfit. I feel I am in the middle. I have nowhere to hide. Am I a born loser?”

  “You may feel worlds apart, but you can be a survivor.” “My father thinks that it is unmanly for a boy to learn to play a musical instrument, even the piano-forte. I became drawn to the violin and wanted to learn to play it, but Father cuffed me on an ear and refused to consider it for me.

  “I am taking violin lessons secretly, although I told my mother, and she is keeping my secret, as I sense she is keeping other secrets from my father. I can tell how much she despairs that he is away from our home so much, spending hours at a pub with his longtime companions and playing football with them.”

  Said Wickham: “I’ve watched men playing football and am surprised at how personal and physical they are, particularly when tackling or in the scrum huddle.”

  “My father hoped to play the sport if professional teams are ever organized. But he was told he was not good enough a player, so he has encouraged me to fulfill his dream.”

  “So too did my father, wanting me to become the tennis player he hoped to be, but he was not good enough. Our fathers can be very demanding of us, but we should try to love them, all the same. As we love our mother
s, although being careful not to love them too much.”

  Said Elton, “I do not want to create a family feud. But I want to live! I want to be happy!”

  “When you grow up, what do you want to be?”

  “I am conflicted about that, as well. I would like to either be a poet or a ladies' hairdresser. But I shall probably just be a chimney sweep.” Said Wickham, “My father didn’t tell me much about the birds and the bees. He just said, ‘If you can’t control it, keep it in your pants.’ I didn’t know how babies came until I was fourteen and a biology teacher asked the class how frogs mated. When he asked me, I hadn’t a clue, but all the other kids knew and laughed their sides out.”

  Elton got up and thanked Mr. Wickham.

  “I do not understand much of what you said, but somehow it helps me.” “You are at what is called an ‘awkward age,’ past being a boy and not yet a man. You may have many conflicted inner feelings. They say it’s the hormones, whatever those are. You may feel out-of-step and everyone else is in-step. Go with the flow.”

  “The flow… I sometimes notice that I flow below, from my thing. I’ve read that if I cause the flow myself, I could go blind or crazy.”

  “The flow is natural. Some doctors say it is even healthy. It relaxes and may prevent prostate problems later in life.” Mr. Wickham reflected on his frequent flows, which he caused himself. He confessed it to a minister every Saturday and the cleric finally said, “The confessional is not a horse wash. Go and flow no more.”

  Mr. Wickham, asked Elton, “How does the flow feel to you?”

  The boy did not reply, but smiled as he walked away with his violin case.

  Wickham asked himself, How do you solve a problem like Elton? Replied the better angel of his nature, With acceptance and love.

  Chapter Twenty-Three