It was months before Wickham could manage to stand alone, even with the help of a crutch. Had it not been for Mrs. Younge, there was little doubt he would have bled out. He owed that good woman his life several times over. He did not tell her this. Once assured that he would survive, he could afford to be less generous. (A clearer head reminded him that one must never allow another to believe a debt was owed.) His next undertaking was to determine whether his proud, purple-helmeted warrior of love could still “rise to the occasion.” Second to that, he needed to learn if his remaining whirligig would function as nature intended.
This was vital information.
George Wickham agreed with general thought—that the primary purpose of these organs were not evacuation or procreation. It was recreation. His body served only one god and that was Eros. Strictly speaking, he was uninterested in fertility. He had offspring scattered across several countries. (They had a perverse penchant for lurching into his life at the oddest moments.) His masculinity had been assured through spawning several sons.
Still, he liked to leave his lovers well-lathered. It was a matter of aesthetics. When it came to the art of love, the lack of manly cream might compromise a lady’s opinion of his performance. A dry bob was to be avoided—it could be confused with a lack of vigour. Therefore, he needed to determine if his one remaining doodad had been decommissioned or not.
In the quest of learning the answer to both those looming matters, Wickham once again inveigled the faithful Mrs. Younge. Cooperative upon all other occasions, she was not an altogether willing partner in this specific investigation. She was well-aware that due to his wound, the avenue to discovery was limited. He could not mount her nor could she ride him. There was little recourse save hand or oral gratification. She harboured a reluctance to engage in oral stimulation. It was time-consuming, awkward, and unpalatable. She knew full well if one acquiesced to such a procedure once, it would become a constant demand.
“Can you not just... you know... see to yourself?” she asked.
It was a reasonable question, one for which he had a ready answer.
“I look upon committing self-pollution much the same way as two women kissing—it is a misapplication of God’s greatest gifts.”
Cornered, she was forced to agree. However, since she was to be the ungratified party in this act, she preferred employing her hand. She could twizzle his cock until the cows came home and still stir the dinner pot—so to speak. He insisted upon fellatio. Of the two, it was far more pleasurable.
To Wickham’s mind, hers was hardly the greater sacrifice. After all, his very manhood hung on the precipice of rediscovery. Applying ample doses of kissing and tickling, he gained her consent. At least she consented in theory. She continued to protest. Her complaints were so loud that he had to grab her by her topknot and mash her face against his genitals to stop her squawking. Then as he petted her like a setter, she did as he wished.
“Oh, yes my love-y,” he crooned, allowing sweet ecstasy to overtake him.
As Mrs. Younge diligently worked, perspiration dripped down her forehead and onto his belly. Fear at clutched at him, clawing at his very vitals (which, it could be acknowledged, is not the most advantageous manner whereby one is brought to orgasm) as she valiantly, if methodically, brought him to arousal and then—dare he hope—ejaculation? In a near frenzy, he clasped her by the ears lest she escape before his last quiver of satisfaction.
“Bleech!” she retched, trying to elude his grasp. “The deed is done! Now I’m through with you!”
Indeed she was.
“But did I spend? Did I spend?”
Wiping her face with the hem of her apron, she gave him his answer (and with it came a glance of repugnance). There had not been a great deal of ejaculate, but with time and practise he would surely improve his output.
Chortling happily to himself, he pointed to the hand-glass, “Let us have a look.”
Feeling quite ill-used, Mrs. Younge employed her most abused expression (although she would obtain no sympathy from him), but did as he bid. As she extended it to him, he veritably snatched it from her grasp. Turning the hand-glass first one way and then the other, he inspected himself. She was too busy rolling her eyes to care what he saw. Appetence now was just a memory, his virile member was not admirable to anyone but him. It had functioned to its full capacity and he gazed upon it with something akin to love.
Waving her away, he lay back on the bed and sighed.
He had not truly deliberated on a design for his future. Now that he knew he could perform the act of amour, his mind was free to be transported. Overcome by anticipatory glee, he pondered what measures he might take to regain all that he lost.
There were many considerations.
Although he was a known fugitive from justice, he did not deliberate what he might have to do to save his soul or skin. His most pressing concern was that of personal beauty. Before anything else was addressed, he set about concealing that he was one testicle short of a pair by fluffing his under-hair. As he did, he concluded that future amatory congress would require certain concessions. Mutual fondling would have to be avoided at all costs. Pity that. Even worse, fellatio with anyone other than Mrs. Younge would be out of the question. Indeed, was he to keep his semi-emasculation hidden, all future coition would be highly improvisational. But then, he was nothing if not a master of invention. He would have to make do with what was left to him.
Resignation was not familiar to him and he knew not what to make of it.
Hence, he dedicated his next considerations to his identity. George Wickham was believed dead. Was he alive, he was charged with murder.
Quite a little quagmire in which he found himself.
The murder accusation, of course, was compleat rot! He had merely done what was necessary to save his skin. Most of his fellow grenadiers had been killed in battle. He had shot that young private through no ill-will. One could even premise that it was an accident—the bloody smoke from gunfire was dense enough. Of course, there was the matter of those witnesses. Bad luck all round that the young grenadier had been his bastard son—but that was not his fault. What was one to do, inquire the parentage of every man under one’s command?
Every time he managed to be on the brink of elevating himself to the rank due him, his hopes were dashed.
It was Darcy’s fault. From their youngest years Darcy had envied him old Mr. Darcy’s love. Now he understood why. (Wickham had always suspected that he was of aristocratic blood.) Any chance to claim his rightful place had been ripped from him. Regrettably, George Wickham had never been acknowledged as a Darcy. If George Wickham was said to be a murderer and now lying dead, he had no lawful means by which to claim a portion of the Darcy fortune.
Extortion had been highly lucrative, but was no longer feasible. Indeed, Darcy had paid him a fortune to say he was dead and give Lydia up as a wife. Why, he had a fortune in bank notes in his hands—only to have the money stolen by those two little harlots. Shot and robbed! What was there left to him?
Just thinking of the extent of that loss was enough to make him take to his bed like a woman. He wept for his fate, he wept for his defiled name, and he wept for the money he did not have. George Wickham had a remarkable capacity for holding on to hurts, real or imagined. It took some time for him to compleat his mourning for what was not to be (and the washing down of a good bit of bad whiskey) ere he gathered himself and took stock of his options.
Whilst he abided in whimpering abeyance, his aspect had altered. Initially, he was quite alarmed. Then he saw no reason to fear recognition.
At last the Gods smiled upon their most hapless son.
Chapter 57
To London Town He Went
Whilst Elizabeth basked in the pleasure of (or at least tolerated) her family’s company, Mr. Darcy hied to town with singular determination.
When he arrived at their Park Lane manse, his butler stood in wait.
Mr. Hastings had been in service with t
he Darcys in the London house for twenty years. He had taken Smeads’ position as steward when that man took his late mother’s place at Pemberley. (The alteration had gone more smoothly in London than in Derbyshire.) Darcy had always approved of Hastings. Unlike Smeads, he had the direct gaze and straight back of a man not given to looking in keyholes. In recent years, the Darcys were rarely in town. Therefore Hastings’s dedication was not regularly admired. To assure that all did their duty in his absence, it was of the greatest importance for Mr. Darcy to make unannounced appearances.
He did not warn his people in London when he would arrive, only that he would come that week. Therefore, he was pleased to be met at the stable yard by Hastings. To no one’s surprise, Mr. Darcy looked first to see how his horses fared before entering his house.
“Have these horses exercised with regularity?”
Hastings was joined by the stableman who assured him, “Of course, sir. They are taken out every day—depending upon the vagaries of the weather, of course.”
Slapping the hindquarters of one of a pair of cherry-coloured geldings, Mr. Darcy was well-satisfied with their fitness.
It had fallen to Hastings, rather than the stableman, to retrieve the horses from a public horse stable near Chelsea after Mrs. Darcy had been forced to sell them. In the letter charging him with this duty post-haste, Mr. Darcy had not explained the mysterious circumstances surrounding their relinquishment. He had made it clear the importance of their return. (Any such reminder was unnecessary as any utterance by Mr. Darcy was looked upon by Hastings as no less than a communication from God above.) Mr. Darcy directed him to employ all due effort to recover the carriage, livery, and harnesses. In retrieving the horses, however, Mr. Darcy was even more succinct. No expense was to be spared to reclaim them.
As discretion was one of his finest attributes, Hastings made a fine steward. Despite great prudence on his part, the household had been witting of the brouhaha. The Darcy servants gained their information from the footmen who had been given fare and hied home after the strange incident took place. The men spent the remainder of the evening sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee with the cook and scullery maids, all pondering the odd occurrence. Although the footmen knew that the mistress had been under some financial duress that evening, they knew not why she would have been forced to relinquish the horses and livery. The Darcy name was good as gold.
“Mrs. Darcy was in great haste, she was! Sold them fine horses for a pittance! That carriage—nary a finer coach in all of town! If I’d any money on me I’d bought it myself and made a fine return on it.”
The other footman was of another mind.
“If I’d any money I’d gave it to Mrs. Darcy, I would. She’s a real lady. You may like her coach—I’d say a finer lady could not be found in town.”
Word of the event made its way through the various stories of townhouses by way of chatty house maids and even chattier ladies of condition. (Indeed, a good portion of Mayfair had been sent into a pother about it.) No one could quite determine just why Mrs. Darcy was in such need of ready money. After all, Mr. Darcy had a balance with his banker that lent him admirations from all quarters. Such mysterious doings were fodder for tongue-waggers for as long as it took for the news of Mr. Bingley’s retrenchment to make its rounds. Indeed, Mrs. Darcy’s desperate need for cash coincided precisely with Mr. Bingley’s. Not only was Mr. Bingley a good friend to Mr. Darcy, the gentlemen’s wives were sisters. That seemed to squelch the most unseemly of various speculations.
The story was too good to end there. Prattle continued about Mr. Bingley being attacked on the Ratliff Highway Wharves by creditors demanding payment. They raided his ships and appropriated his merchandise—but not before turning their wrath on poor Mr. Bingley. They relieved him of his inexpressibles (and a good portion of his dignity). Poor Mr. Bingley might have been left for dead had not someone rescued him and taken him away. Such violence was a precursor to the chaos that was taking over the streets of London even then.
Some said that Mr. Darcy himself was the man who came to Bingley’s aid. Others said such doings were far beneath a man of Mr. Darcy’s standing—even if Mr. Bingley was his good friend. A man as wealthy as Mr. Darcy would have sent underlings to see to his purposes, but would never have gone himself. Then again, rumours of dark deeds and vengeance were recalled and spoken of when Mr. Darcy was not there to hear them.
Whatever came to pass, Mr. Bingley paid his debts and Mr. Darcy had his coach and horses retrieved.
Having them returned to him did not mean that that Mr. Darcy was no longer annoyed over the time they were missing. He was quite piqued about that. He was most precise in regards to his horses’ care. Had someone raised a hand to them whilst they were not under his protection, he would have been most unhappy.
The talk was inevitable. However, insofar as Darcy knew, in the midst of all the hubbub with Bingley being chased naked by an angry mob, the name of Wickham was never spoken.
For that, he was exceedingly grateful.
———
Testifying to Hastings good stewardship, all which remained to be done upon Mr. Darcy’s arrival this day was to call for a few items to replenish the larder. Whereas Mrs. Darcy had not accompanied Mr. Darcy, Hastings knew not to bother with fresh flowers in their bed chamber. Mr. Darcy could be quite extravagant, however he abhorred wastefulness.
Not all of the aristocracy admired a turn towards frugality. Indeed, in certain households (some royal, some not), dining rooms were dressed and the meals served every day as if the lord of the house had not been dead a dozen years. In reverence to that lord, the dead man’s footmen stood around his dining table each evening and servants filled his plates for all eleven courses. And when they withdrew, each bowed to his empty chair. One could suggest that it was a waste of flowers, food, and servants’ time. Others would insist it was tradition and tradition should be upheld at all cost. Mr. Darcy was not the sort to turn a blind eye to such idiosyncrasies and call it charming. He saw such outlandish dissipation as nothing less than buffoonery.
At his leisure in his townhouse for the first time in years, Darcy walked through the garden briskly, only taking time for his gaze to sweep across it. As it met with his approval, he gave Hastings a small nod.
Once inside, he walked through the rooms of the fine house with an altered mood. In allowing his fingers to pass across table tops, he was not checking his fingertips for dust. His hand slid across the wood in silent query of the future, imagining the rooms as they would be in years to come. Opening the doors of the ballroom, he saw it standing vacant. The chandeliers were covered with muslin, but the floor was well-polished. In his mind’s eye he could see couples as they swirled majestically beneath the gilded ceiling. Amidst them all, he conjured the image of his son and his daughter as they swept about the floor in the arms of dance partners.
With time and practise such imaginings might one day be a comfort.
It was his desire for his daughter to find an excellent match forthwith of her eighteenth year. Janie looked remarkably like her mother. Hence, gentlemen would be buzzing about her the moment she was out. Suitors beware. Fie unto the fool who dared to meddle with his daughter’s affections. There would be no dallying around with it. The sooner Janie was happily wedded, the better. The vicissitudes of romance would be far too trying upon her father’s nerves. Marriage for Geoffrey, however, would wait. He would first take a degree at Cambridge. Perchance, was peace at hand, he would tour the Continent. He would be accompanied by a reliable relative. As his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam had accompanied him; some equally estimable gentleman would be called upon for his son.
Satisfied that his will would be done, he closed the doors to the ballroom and went up the staircase. He countenance was unaccompanied by noticeable anticipatory cheer. His reserve was well in place. (Of late, he needed to practise that.)
In coming to London, he had no intention of making social calls. Time would come soon enough when that w
ould be necessary on behalf of his children’s connections. Even if he had planned upon making calls, it would be unnecessary for him to send out his cards. Local wags would see to it that every lady, gentleman, footman, tailor, and dustman in the West End knew he was in town before his coach had been unhitched.
He certainly had not sent Lady Howgrave his card. Such a move would invite insidious gossip. (He would not entrust his good name, his children’s name, unto the hands of London’s scandalmongers.) If they met, it would fall to chance. Indeed, he did not leave his house that evening.
When he took his rest, it was not in the bedroom he and Elizabeth had chambered upon their wedding night. At times those recollections were kind. Just then he could not trust them. Lost as he was between current melancholy and future dread, he feared that his present mood would be at a variance with those happier memories. Rather, he chose to sleep in a narrow bed in a small room just up the hall. It was a comfortable bed, but the air felt stale. He opened the nearest window. Unused to the noxious fumes emanating from London’s offensive trades, he coughed. His lingering in the country made him quite unused to the foul air. It was an ill-beginning to a restless night.
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