Trouble With Wickham

by Olivia Kane

  Down the hall, across the staircase landing and in another wing of the great home, Elizabeth Darcy was on the mend. Georgiana planted herself in a chair at Elizabeth’s bedside and devoted herself to caring for her sister-in-law. She kept herself quietly secluded, whiling away the days by spooning Elizabeth soup and plumping up her pillows, thus avoiding the fray. She felt a sort of passing sadness that her cutting words with George Wickham were the last she’d ever have with him, but that feeling was temporary and ephemeral. She was unsentimental about his fall; it was his own foolishness in the inclement weather and unfamiliar countryside that had led to his demise. He died as rashly as he had lived, she decided.

  That chapter in her life was over. She felt the finality of it; Wickham could do no more harm. She deeply regretted the scene Fitzwilliam had made in front of the Radcliffes and during her quiet hours with Elizabeth, Georgiana independently decided that there should be fewer secrets in her life.

  No one bore Wickham’s death as heavily as Fitzwilliam Darcy. He felt deep in his soul that if he had not brought Georgiana to Hertfordshire then Wickham would still live. The ugly threats of bodily harm he had leveled at Wickham haunted him, his enmity borne out of disappointment at the man Wickham could have been, and not blind hatred. No, never hatred, he assured himself. The emotion did not exist in Fitzwilliam’s heart.

  The doctor, however, was clear that no one party was to blame for Wickham’s demise. Rather, the head wound incurred outside of the Meryton Arms was the fatal blow. The internal swelling guaranteed his approaching end, if not in the marsh then in his bed or at the table, but his fate was inevitable.

  Mr. Darcy threw himself into arranging the funeral and a solemn little service was held in the sunny churchyard in Meryton three days hence. A warm wind blew on the paltry procession of mourners that laid Wickham to rest. Mr. Bennet paid his respects at the gravesite, lately recovered from the ailment that brought Lydia and Wickham to Bennington Park in his place.

  Sadly he reported that his wife, Mrs. Bennet, was now under the weather as well, preventing her from travelling to Bennington Park to care for Lydia as she wished to.

  “Consider me in your debt, Lord Radcliffe,” Mr. Bennet said as the funeral party broke up.

  Lord Radcliffe would not hear of it.

  “Your daughter is welcome to stay until she feels strong enough to travel,” he assured Mr. Bennet, noting solemnly that the man shed no tears at the grave of his son-in-law.

  When the funeral luncheon ended, Mr. Darcy knocked on Lydia’s door for the first time to offer his condolences. Charlotte was reading aloud to Lydia, who only pretended to be listening. Hugh was dozing upright in his chair after consuming too much lunch. The day was unusually warm for November; the windows were cracked open and a warm breeze circulated throughout the room.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” Fitzwilliam began. On cue, Lydia began weeping loudly. Hugh and Charlotte kept their heads down, trying not to look, as her performance continued.

  “This will not do,” Mr. Darcy said, speaking over her wailing. “Miss Lydia when you feel you are strong enough to travel you and Little Georgie must return to Pemberley with us and move into the dowager’s cottage. I will not have you impose on the Radcliffe’s hospitality any longer nor will my nephew’s care and keeping become the Bennet family’s responsibility.”

  “Oh but it is no imposition,” Hugh insisted, standing up from his seat.

  Mr. Darcy stopped him.

  “It is time I brought Elizabeth home as well. She is up and about and I am anxious to return home.”

  Lydia ceased crying as the long awaited invitation to Pemberley reached her ears.

  “But Mr. Darcy, you are too kind,” she began, and then dissolved into another crying jag, covering her face with her handkerchief in order to hide her delight at the unexpected fulfillment of her long pent-up desire to visit Pemberley.

  Mr. Darcy stared at Lydia Wickham with a mixture of sympathy and disgust, his jaw once again visibly tightening in his sister-in-law’s presence. He bowed gracefully to Hugh and Charlotte before taking his leave, closing the bedroom door firmly behind him.

  At the sound of Mr. Darcy’s exit Lydia’s crying became subdued. She dabbed her handkerchief at her tear-stained face and breathed deeply. Charlotte and Hugh stifled their laughter.

  “Oh haven’t I always said that Mr. Darcy is the kindest of men! As soon as I have my strength back I will do as he says,” Lydia chattered, sighing happily. She sunk back into her pillow and closed her eyes, seeming to sleep.

  Charlotte and Hugh rose quietly to exit. At the sound of their chairs pushing against the floorboards Lydia opened her eyes.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered, reaching for Charlotte’s arm and grabbing hold of it tightly.

  Charlotte and Hugh reluctantly sat back down and waited quietly, listening to the minutes tick by on the mantel clock and the harmonic hum of the wind outside. Soon the sound of light snoring filled the room. Charlotte lifted her head up from her novel and stared in astonishment at Lydia, wondering how she could fall asleep in the middle of the day with the sun beating in on the room, after having exerted zero effort all day beyond what was required to hoist herself upright in the bed or turn her head from left to right. Lydia’s self-indulgence horrified Charlotte.

  Hugh shook his head at his sister, silently imploring her not to disturb their peace, the promise of Lydia’s imminent departure filling him with relief that he would soon be free to quit the vigil and regain what was left of his sanity. It pained him to spend his hours with Lydia Wickham when Georgiana Darcy was in the house. However, she had retreated into private quarters immediately after Wickham’s discovery and was seen by no one except the servants attending to those rooms.

  Never mind, he thought to himself. As much as he desired to be in Georgiana’s company, the sobering events of the past few days caused a hush to fall over the household and nothing but quiet or solemn activity was fitting. There could be no gaiety to his interactions with her and he did not trust he would ever be able to be in her company without his spirits rising and happiness flooding his entire being.

  Lydia’s brief nap contained miraculous restorative powers, for after dozing lightly for no more than a quarter of an hour, she awakened in a state of heightened alertness. She stretched dramatically and gulped down a glass of that morning’s warm milk from the best of Hertfordshire cows.

  “I should get up,” she insisted, putting one foot gingerly over the edge of the bed and standing upright as if she was a new foal on untested legs. She held onto the bedpost momentarily, evaluating her equilibrium and declared herself surprisingly strong, ferociously hungry and with a strong desire to pack up her trunks as quickly as possible and get on with the rest of her life.

  For the first time since her husband’s demise, Lydia was overcome with maternal concern for her absent child. She never loved her son more than she did in that moment when he had gained her, not only admittance to Pemberley, but residence there.

  “Send word to Longbourn that Georgie must be sent here immediately as we are off to Pemberley! But tell them not to waste time packing all of his little things,” she instructed, suddenly inspired. “I am sure none of his garments are right for where we are going and as he grows so fast I will order clothes for him befitting his new home!”

  “I will ride to Longbourn myself to collect him,” Hugh offered eagerly, grabbing at any excuse to leave his post. “Charlotte can you spare Guy for the afternoon? I might need a hand,” he said, fully planning on spending the majority of the afternoon at the Meryton Arms with his pal and then making a quick turnaround at Longbourn to pick up the child.

  Charlotte, who saw right through her brother’s subterfuge, gave in gracefully.

  “Of course you must take Guy with you,” Charlotte urged, knowing her husband felt cooped up as well.

  “Oh and when you get to Longbourn instruct them not to feed him his little dinner as he can surely eat here. Mrs
. Holmes will fix him a plate, I’m sure of it. I suggest the pudding with raisins for him, and a nice thick slice of bread with that heavy cream and good jam,” she blathered on. “I quite like raisins in pudding no matter what Lady Catherine prefers.”

  “I will hasten to inform Mrs. Holmes of your whims,” Hugh said over his shoulder as he made a dash for the door and a hasty retreat. Lydia then climbed back onto the bed so as to gain a higher vantage point for issuing orders to the maids.

  In the tumult of packing that ensued Charlotte’s book tumbled off of her chair and slipped part way under the bed. Charlotte bent to retrieve it and in doing so spotted the standard Bennington Park guest tray pushed far under the bed.

  The find sparked her curiosity, as Mrs. Holmes would never allow crumbs to remain overnight in the sleeping quarters, attracting rodents. Charlotte said nothing about the discarded tray at that moment, merely tucking the fact of its existence away in the back of her mind, intending to ask a maid to retrieve it later when Lydia had vacated the room for good.

  “You will want a bath Lydia, before going to Pemberley,” Charlotte suggested, knowing that the business of drawing a bath and then sitting in it could occupy Lydia for hours, availing Charlotte of the sweet release she craved. “Shall I call for the tub?”

  “Yes! A long hot bath would settle my nerves perfectly before the journey home to Pemberley.”

  Home to Pemberley! How right those words sounded to her. She could not believe her good fortune; her future seemed exceedingly bright.

  “I will send word downstairs myself,” Charlotte volunteered.

  “You are too kind,” Lydia smiled happily and leaned back into her pillow, drunk with dreams of her new life at Pemberley.

  Charlotte descended the stairs with haste, fearing the sound of Lydia’s voice summoning her back to her chambers. She made it to the drawing room uninterrupted where, to her surprise, she saw Georgiana and Elizabeth sitting quietly together on the settee, nibbling small cakes. Steaming cups of tea sat on the delicate tea table before them.

  Charlotte could not help but notice that Georgiana’s face was beaming with delight. “So you have heard the news too, that Lydia is to return to Pemberley with you?” she assumed.

  “Yes, your brother and your husband were just here with us as they waited for the carriage to come around,” Elizabeth said, exchanging knowing glances with Charlotte.

  “Were they?” Charlotte replied, taking a second look at Georgiana, who was blushing ever so slightly. News about Lydia would not make one blush, Charlotte estimated. “I suspect that their trip to Longbourn will include a detour to the tavern,” Charlotte continued.

  “Can you blame them?” Elizabeth whispered, dissolving into giggles. “Charlotte your brother is truly a saint, for I would have jumped in front of a speeding carriage if I had to sit vigil with Lydia as he has.”

  “Her recovery was remarkable,” Charlotte added. “The word Pemberley must be magic to her ears as her week-long convalescence seemed to come to a rapid end not more half an hour after your Mr. Darcy issued the invitation.”

  “Lydia has longed wished to visit Pemberley but Fitzwilliam would not have it. Now that Wickham is no longer a threat he has lifted the restriction. He very much desires to look out for Little Georgie as his own father did for poor Wickham.”

  Charlotte appeared surprised at the freedom with which Elizabeth discussed George Wickham but Elizabeth soon explained herself.

  “We need have no secrets between the three of us. Georgiana does not wish to live a life of secrecy anymore and desires that we talk freely amongst ourselves.”

  Georgiana looked at Charlotte with admiration. “Forgive my mentioning it, but the freedom with which you discussed your bad liaison with the Earl of Buckland inspired me to shed my secrets as well. Elizabeth confessed that she told you about my tryst with Wickham and I am glad that she did so. George Wickham may have made me his fool, but only momentarily. No doubt my brother’s obvious tension regarding the man incited some curiosity on your family’s part. I apologize for his outbursts on my regard.”

  Charlotte felt sympathy in her heart for Georgiana and replied tenderly, “So we have a special bond, you and I. Although I was not engaged to Buckland, I allowed him to take small liberties with me that I now truly regret. Thank goodness Guy was there to rescue me in the end.”

  “And Fitzwilliam me.” Georgiana acknowledged.

  Elizabeth did not wish to be left out of the group. “Don’t forget that I was also swayed by the poor man’s charms, as he very convincingly led me to believe the worst about Fitzwilliam. His slanted stories deepened my prejudice and I wish I had not taken his words to heart so quickly.”

  Charlotte said to Georgiana, “I appreciate your confiding in me and wish to assure you that I am not a gossip.”

  “I trust you,” Georgiana said plainly. “You have my leave to share the story with your immediate family after we have departed. They have been so kind to me and I do not fear transparency where they are concerned.”

  Georgiana wished the news of her near elopement to reach the ears of Hugh as soon as possible. She had no wish to spring it on him herself, nor did she think it wise to entertain hopes of him, only for him to draw back upon discovering he was not the first man to her heart. However, if he were to know the truth and afterward continue to seek her out, then that would please her. She owed him no less.

  Georgiana had, however, delayed informing her brother of her decision to carefully release the details of her elopement. Fitzwilliam would be told in turn, on her timetable. It was a conversation she dreaded initiating. He would not be pleased to know she had taken action without his consent and told the entire Radcliffe family, but she was fully prepared to withstand the ensuing storm. Furthermore, once Fitzwilliam informed her that he planned to provide for Lydia and Georgie, Georgiana became convinced that once Lydia moved into Pemberley she would never move out. Miss Darcy could barely let herself dare to hope that Mr. Radcliffe could love her enough to whisk her away from all of that.

  Mrs. Holmes knocked at the door, interrupting them.

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Lancaster, but your mother wanted to me to tell you that your things have been moved back to the south suite.”

  “Thank you Mrs. Holmes,” Charlotte replied. Guy had bumped his head every night on the low hanging eaves of the nursery and would welcome the move.

  Lady Catherine, who had clung tenaciously to the hope that Anne and Hugh might still be hit with a spark that would kindle their romance, had finally given up the cause as lost and decamped for Rosings Park that morning. She had stayed on after the ruined ball to offer her support as well as her superior advice to Lord Radcliffe in the aftermath.

  This largesse was particularly sacrificial, given the enormous loss she suffered due to the careless actions of an unidentified member of Wickham’s search party. Amidst the tumult of arriving back with poor Wickham’s body, the aggrieved individual had carelessly placed his lit lantern upon the entry commode, accidently alighting her prized falcon on fire. The bird’s wing became engulfed in flames and though the fire was quickly spotted and extinguished, the feathers were incinerated, its beak charred and the gift ruined.

  Her disillusionment with Lord Radcliffe’s management of his home and family, which had been slowly germinating throughout her stay, had flowered fully in the desecration of her beloved gift. Lord Hubert Radcliffe may not have personally lit the falcon on fire, but he might as well have.

  His list of crimes and neglects continued—his son had not truly attended to Anne with any kind of obvious delight, despite more than enough opportunities to do so. She was immensely disappointed to discover that Lord Radcliffe had not conveyed a love of musical performance to his daughter Charlotte, nor did he provide for the pleasure of his guests by placing the pianoforte in the drawing room when there was plenty of room to do so.

  Upon further inspection Lady Catherine determined that Lady Radcliffe’s style of interior decora
tion was not as refined as her own, pets had obviously been allowed to run amok in the house and on the furniture. The interior décor screamed for an extensive refurbishment that would have to be completed before her conscience could allow Anne to be installed there. The building itself was showing signs of age; it was practically vintage, she thought.

  As for the mess that was made by providing George Wickham with the means to his end—a wild, unpredictable horse and a dangerously soggy spot of ground—she was certain that such an accident would never have happened on the perfectly even, hazardless grounds of Rosings Park.

  “What a waste of a journey,” she sniffed to herself as her coach jolted out of the forecourt and made its way to the gates of Bennington Park.

  “I quite enjoyed myself,” Anne said.

  Anne’s connection with Oliver Cumberland had continued to grow right under her mother’s nose. The most unexpected evidence of their relationship only came to light after their departure.

  “There is a tartan silk scarf left behind by that poor Miss de Bourgh,” Mrs. Holmes relayed to Charlotte as she sat with Georgiana and Elizabeth. “Please tell your mother that we have sent it back to Rosings Park via the post as per her request.”

  “But that is Oliver Cumberland’s trademark tartan scarf. I am sure of it,” Charlotte said. “I distinctly remember seeing it around his neck the night of the ball.”

  “I think not, my lady, as the maids found it in Miss de Bourgh’s private quarters.” She stopped short when she realized the implications of her find.

  None of the ladies could be faulted for an inability to hide their looks of shock.

  “It appears that our quiet Miss de Bourgh ended up forming some kind of friendship with Mr. Cumberland,” Charlotte mused. “But pray do not spread the story beyond this room, as Mamma has cautioned me severely against trading stories about our guests.”

  “Her secret is safe with me,” Georgiana smiled.

  “Anne de Bourgh who?” Elizabeth teased.