by P. D. James
I kept silent about what had happened even after the announcement that Mr Wickham was committed for trial. I still held my peace for the months while he was in prison in London, but then I knew that I must make this confession so that, if he was found guilty, the truth would be known. I decided to confide in the Reverend Oliphant and he told me the trial of Mr Wickham was to take place in a few days’ time and that I must write this confession at once to get it to the court before the trial began. Mr Oliphant sent at once for Dr McFee and I have tonight confessed all to them both and have asked Dr McFee how long he expects me to live. He said he could not be sure, but I am unlikely to survive for more than a week. He too has urged me to make this confession and sign it, and so I do. I have written nothing but the truth knowing that I shall soon be answering for all my sins before the throne of God, and in the hope of His mercy.
Dr McFee said, ‘That document took him more than two hours to write sustained by a draught administered by me. The Reverend Oliphant and I had no doubt that he knew his death was imminent and that what he wrote was the truth before God.’
There was silence, and then the courtroom was again full of clamour, people were on their feet yelling and stamping and a few men began again a chant which was taken up by the crowd and became a concerted shout of ‘Let him go! Let him go! Free him!’ There were now so many constables and court officials surrounding the dock that Wickham was hardly visible.
Again the stentorian voice called for silence. The judge addressed Dr McFee. ‘Can you explain, sir, why you brought this important document to court at the last moment of the trial when sentence was about to be pronounced? Such an unnecessarily dramatic arrival is an insult to me and to this court and I demand an explanation.’
Dr McFee said. ‘We apologise, my lord, most sincerely. The paper is dated three days ago when the Reverend Oliphant and I heard the confession. It was then late at night and we set out early the next morning for London in my carriage. We stopped only to take brief refreshment and to water the horses. As you will see, my lord, the Reverend Oliphant, who is now over sixty, is completely exhausted.’
The judge said pettishly, ‘There are too many of these trials when vital evidence has been delayed. However, it appears that you are not at fault and I accept your apologies. I shall now confer with my advisers on the next step to be taken. The defendant will be taken back to the prison in which he has been confined while the question of a royal pardon, which is, of course, in the gift of the Crown, is considered by the Home Secretary, the Lord Chancellor, the Lord Chief Justice and other senior law officers. I myself, as trial judge, will have a voice. In the light of this document I shall not pronounce sentence but the verdict of the jury must stand. You may rest assured, gentlemen, that courts in England do not sentence to death a man who has been proved to be innocent.’
There was some muttering but the courtroom began to clear. Wickham was standing, his fingers clasping the edge of the dock, his knuckles white. He was still and pale as if in a trance. One of the constables loosened his fingers one by one, as if he had been a child. A path opened between the dock and a side door and Wickham, without a backward glance, was helped in silence back to his cell.
Book Six
Gracechurch Street
1
It had been agreed that Alveston should be present with Mr Mickledore in case he was required at the formalities for the pardon, and he remained behind in the courtroom when Darcy, longing for Elizabeth, made his solitary way back to Gracechurch Street. It was four o’clock before Alveston returned alone to say that it was expected that all procedures for a royal pardon would be completed by late afternoon the day after next and that he would then be able to escort Wickham from the prison and bring him to Gracechurch Street. It was hoped that this could be done with a minimum of public notice. A privately hired chaise would be ready at the back door of Coldbath Prison and another one as decoy at the front. It was an advantage that they had managed to keep secret the fact that Darcy and Elizabeth were staying with the Gardiners and not, as was confidently expected, in a fashionable inn, and if the actual time of Wickham’s discharge could be kept from public knowledge, there was every chance he would arrive at Gracechurch Street undetected. At present he had been returned to Coldbath Prison but the chaplain there, the Reverend Cornbinder, who had befriended him, had arranged for him to lodge with him and his wife on the evening of his release, and Wickham had expressed his wish to go straight there after he had told his story to Darcy and the colonel, refusing Mr and Mrs Gardiner’s invitation that he should remain at Gracechurch Street. The Gardiners had felt it right that the invitation should be issued, but there was general relief that it had been declined.
Darcy said, ‘It seems like a miracle that Wickham’s life was saved, but surely the verdict was perverse and irrational and he should never have been found guilty.’
Alveston said, ‘I cannot agree. What they saw as a confession was repeated twice and was believed, and there was too much left unexplained. Would Captain Denny have left the chaise and rushed into a dense and unfamiliar woodland on such a night merely to avoid the embarrassment of being present when Mrs Wickham arrived at Pemberley? She is, after all, Mrs Darcy’s sister. How much more likely that Wickham had involved himself in some illegal enterprise in London and, since Denny was no longer a willing accomplice, had to silence him before they left Derbyshire?
‘But there was something else which could have contributed to the verdict and which I only learnt in speaking to one of the jury while I was still in court. Apparently the jury foreman has a widowed niece of whom he is very fond, whose husband took part in the Irish rebellion and was killed. Ever since he has nourished an implacable hatred against the army. If this had been disclosed, undoubtedly Wickham could have challenged that particular member of the jury, but the names were not the same and the secret was unlikely to have been discovered. Wickham made it plain before the trial that he had no intention of challenging the selection of jurymen, as was his right, or of providing three witnesses to speak to his character. He seems, indeed, to have been optimistic but generally fatalistic from the start. He had been a distinguished officer, wounded when serving his country, and now was content to be judged by his country. If his sworn word was not enough, where could he look for justice?’
Darcy said, ‘But I have one concern on which I would like your opinion. Do you really believe, Alveston, that a dying man could have inflicted that first blow?’
Alveston said, ‘I do. I have known cases in the course of my profession in which seriously ill people have found astonishing strength when exertion is called for. The blow was light, and after that he did not totter far into the wood, but I cannot believe he regained his bed without help. I think it likely that he left the cottage door ajar and that his mother went out, found him and helped him home and to bed. It was probably she who wiped the knob of the poker and burnt the handkerchief. But I feel, as I am sure do you, that justice would not be served by making these suspicions public. There is no proof and never can be, and I think we must rejoice in the royal pardon which will be given, and that Wickham, who has shown remarkable courage throughout his ordeal, is free to begin what we hope will be a more successful life.’
An early dinner was eaten almost in silence. Darcy had expected that the relief of Wickham’s escape from a public hanging would be so great a benison that other anxieties would shrink in proportion but, with the greatest anxiety relieved, smaller ones pressed in on his mind. What story would they hear when Wickham arrived? Would he be willing to emigrate, and if so, where would he and Lydia stay until they left for the port? How were Darcy and Elizabeth to avoid the horror of public curiosity while they remained with the Gardiners, and what part, if any, had the colonel played in the whole mysterious business? He was filled with a desperate need to be back at Pemberley and burdened by a premonition, which he accepted was unreasonable, that all might not be well there. He knew that, like him, Elizabeth had rarely slept s
oundly for months and that much of this weight of impending disaster, which she shared, was the result of an overwhelming weariness of mind and body. The rest of the party seemed infected by the same guilt that they should be unable suitably to celebrate a seemingly miraculous deliverance. Mr and Mrs Gardiner were solicitous, but the delicious dinner which Mrs Gardiner had ordered was left virtually untouched and her guests sought their beds soon after the last course had been served.
At breakfast it was apparent that the spirits of the party had lightened; the first night without dreadful imaginings had produced rest and sound sleep and they now seemed more ready to cope with whatever the day might bring. The colonel was still in London and now arrived at Gracechurch Street. After paying his compliments to Mr and Mrs Gardiner, he said, ‘I have matters to tell you, Darcy, which relate to my part in this whole affair which I can now safely disclose and which you have a right to hear before Wickham arrives. I prefer to speak to you alone but you will, of course, wish to pass on what I tell you to Mrs Darcy.’
He explained to Mrs Gardiner his purpose in coming and she suggested that he and Darcy should make use of her sitting room, which she had thoughtfully made available as the most comfortable and restful room in which a meeting, which would invariably be difficult for all parties, could take place next day when Wickham arrived with Alveston.
They seated themselves and the colonel leaned forward in his chair. He said, ‘I feel it important that I should speak first so that you can judge Wickham’s story against my own. Neither of us has cause to be proud of ourselves but throughout I have acted for the best and have paid him the compliment of believing that he felt the same. I shall not attempt to excuse my conduct in this matter, only to explain it, and will try to do so briefly.
‘It was in late November 1802 that I received a letter from Wickham delivered at my London house where I was then in residence. It said briefly that he was in trouble and would be grateful if I would consent to see him in the hope that I could offer advice and some help. I had no desire to be involved but I was under an obligation to him of a kind that I could not ignore. During the Irish rebellion he saved the life of a young captain under my command who was my godson and who was lying gravely wounded. Rupert did not long survive his injuries but the rescue gave his mother – and indeed me – the opportunity to say goodbye to him and to ensure that he died in comfort. It was not a service any honourable man could forget and when I read his letter I agreed to see him.
‘The story was not uncommon and is simply told. As you know, his wife, but not he, was regularly received at Highmarten and on those occasions he would stay at a local inn or rooming house as cheaply as possible and occupy himself as best he could until Mrs Wickham chose to rejoin him. Their life at the time was peripatetic and unsuccessful. After leaving the army – in my view a most unwise decision – he moved from job to job, never staying in one place for long. His last employment had been with a baronet, Sir Walter Elliot. Wickham was not explicit in revealing the reason why he left, but he said enough to make it plain that the baronet was too susceptible to Mrs Wickham’s charms for Miss Elliot’s comfort and that Wickham himself was not above making advances to the lady. I tell you this to let you know the kind of life they were living. He was now looking for a new appointment; in the meantime, Mrs Wickham had sought a comfortable but temporary home with Mrs Bingley at Highmarten and Wickham was left to his own devices.
‘You may remember that the summer of 1802 was particularly warm and beautiful and so, to save money, he spent some of the time sleeping outdoors; to a soldier this was no hardship. He had always been fond of the woodland of Pemberley and walked many miles from an inn near Lambton to spend the days and some of the nights there sleeping under the trees. It was there he met Louisa Bidwell. She too was bored and lonely. She had finished working at Pemberley in order to help her mother nurse her sick brother, and her fiancé, extremely busy with his duties, came to see her only rarely. She and Wickham met by chance in the woodland. Wickham could never resist a pretty woman and the result was perhaps almost inevitable given his character and her vulnerability. They began meeting often, and she told him as soon as she suspected that she was carrying a child. Wickham acted at first with more generosity and sympathy for her than those who know him might expect; he seems, indeed, to have been genuinely fond of her, perhaps even a little in love. Whatever his motives or emotions, together they concocted a plan. She would write to her married sister living in Birmingham, go there as soon as there was a risk of her condition becoming obvious, and there give birth to her baby which would be passed off as her sister’s child. Wickham hoped that Mr and Mrs Simpkins would accept responsibility for bringing up the child as their own, but recognised that they would need money. It was for that reason that he came to me and, indeed, I do not know where else he could have looked for help.
‘Although I was not deceived in his character, I have never felt as bitter towards him as have you, Darcy, and I was prepared to help. There was also a stronger motive, the desire to save Pemberley from any hint of scandal. Given Wickham’s marriage to Miss Lydia Bennet, this child, although illegitimate, would have been nephew or niece both to you and Mrs Darcy and to the Bingleys. The arrangement was that I would lend him thirty pounds without interest to be paid back in instalments when convenient. I was not under any illusion that the money would be repaid, but it was a sum I could afford, and I would have paid more than thirty pounds to ensure that a bastard child of George Wickham was not living on the Pemberley estate and playing in the Pemberley woods.’
Darcy said, ‘This was a generosity amounting to eccentricity, and knowing the man as you did, some would say stupidity. I must credit you with having a more personal interest than the wish for the woods of Pemberley not to be so polluted.’
‘If I had, it was not to my discredit. I admit that at the time I harboured wishes, indeed expectations, which were not unreasonable but which I now accept will never be fulfilled, but I think, given the hope which I then entertained and knowing what I did, you too would have devised some plan for saving your house and yourself from embarrassment and ignominy.’
Without waiting for any response, he went on. ‘The plan was relatively straightforward. After the birth, Louisa would return with the child to Woodland Cottage on the pretence that her parents and brother would wish to see this new grandchild. It was, of course, important to Wickham that he could see that there was a living and healthy child. The money would then be handed over on the morning of Lady Anne’s ball when Louisa and Wickham could be confident that everyone concerned with Pemberley would be busy. A chaise would be waiting on the woodland path. Louisa would then return the boy to her sister and Michael Simpkins. The only people in Woodland Cottage at the time would be Mrs Bidwell and Will, and they were the only people to be aware of this scheme. It was not a secret a girl could expect to keep from her mother or, indeed, from a brother to whom she was close and who was never out of the cottage; all three were adamant that Bidwell should never know. Louisa had told her mother and Will that the father was one of the officers of the militia, who had left Lambton the previous summer. She had at that time no idea that her lover was Wickham.’
At this point he paused and took a glass of wine, drinking it slowly. Neither spoke and they waited in silence. It was at least two minutes before he began again.
‘So, as far as Wickham and I knew, all had been arranged satisfactorily. The child would be accepted and loved by his aunt and uncle and would never know his true parentage, Louisa would make the suitable marriage previously planned, and so the matter rested.
‘Wickham is not a man who likes to act alone when an ally or companion can be found, a lack of prudence which probably accounts for his folly in taking Miss Lydia Bennet with him when he escaped from his creditors and obligations in Brighton. Now he confided in his friend Denny, and more fully in Mrs Younge, who seems to have been a controlling presence in his life since his youth. I believe it is regular stipends
from her which have largely supported him and Mrs Wickham while he has been unemployed. He asked Mrs Younge to visit the woodland in secret so that she could report on the child’s progress, and this Mrs Younge did, passing herself off as a visitor to the district and meeting Louisa by arrangement as she was carrying the baby in the woodland. The result was, however, in one respect unfortunate; Mrs Younge took an immediate fancy to the boy and was determined that she and not the Simpkinses should adopt him. Then what seemed a disaster turned to her advantage: Michael Simpkins wrote that he was not prepared to bring up another man’s child. Apparently relations had not been good between the sisters during Louisa’s confinement and Mrs Simpkins already had three children and would no doubt have more. The Simpkinses would look after the child for another three weeks to enable Louisa to find a home for him, but no longer. This news was confided by Louisa to Wickham, and by him to Mrs Younge. Louisa was, of course, desperate. She had to find a home for the child and soon Mrs Younge’s offer was seen as a solution to all their problems.
‘Wickham had informed Mrs Younge of my interest in this matter and of the thirty pounds I had promised and had, indeed, passed to Wickham. She knew that I was due to be at Pemberley for Lady Anne’s ball since this was my invariable practice when on leave from the army, and Wickham had always made it his business to know what was happening at Pemberley, largely through the reports of his wife who was a frequent visitor to Highmarten. Mrs Younge wrote to me at my London address, saying that she was interested in adopting the child and would be at the King’s Arms for two days, and that she wished to discuss the possibility with me since she understood that I was an interested party. An appointment was made for nine o’clock on the night before Lady Anne’s ball when she assumed that everyone would be too busy to remark on my absence. I have no doubt, Darcy, that you thought it both strange and discourteous of me to leave the music room so peremptorily with the excuse that I wanted a ride. I had no option but to keep the appointment although I had little doubt what the lady had in mind. You will recall that she was both attractive and elegant at our first meeting, and I found her still a beautiful woman although, after eleven years, I would not have recognised her with any certainty.
