by Anne Morris
"Why didn't you report him as dead?" Darcy asked.
"No one asked me if he was dead; I was a simple enlisted man," growled Wickham, and he held his hands out in front of him palms facing out to Darcy, "besides, I could not truly abide him." Wickham brought his hands down on the table. "Mandeville, despite being an enlisted man like the rest of us, did not like to mix with us common sort; we were 'not of the right sphere.' He was to be a baronet, no doubt reveled in having lots of money." He leaned over to look intently at his old friend.
"I was led to understand he ran away from all of that, the inheritance and the title," said Darcy.
"Well, I did not know him, just knew of him," answered Wickham, and looked over at the bar again. Darcy was skeptical with this answer knowing what he knew of this man, but left it there. Wickham might have more information, but evening was closing in, and Darcy wished to find his carriage before the light faded, given the tenor of the area. He only had the one footman and his coachman.
"I shall let Sir John know, thank you Wickham." He stood, inclined his head to this opponent, and left.
Darcy had far more questions than he had answers. He believed Wickham that Mandeville was dead; they all knew he was dead. But had Mandeville truly died that day, and his body tossed in the sea with the other dead, but simply missed being booked? Was that the only story?
Darcy did not trust Wickham. He did not trust that he used an assumed name; he did not trust that he said he was to depart the Pear Tree in a day and move somewhere else. He did not trust that the man had settled for only two hundred and fifty pounds when they both knew Darcy would have paid more.
Perhaps Wickham had been so surprised that it was Darcy who was Sir John's emissary. Darcy, like Wickham, had used an assumed name. He had been Mr. King to Mrs. Vermiloe, given his solicitor's address, but what else motivated the man, was there more information about Mandeville to be gleaned from Wickham, or was Wickham merely wary of Darcy because of their shared history and wished to simply disappear? He would follow up with a letter to Colonel Forster.
Twenty-Eight
—
November
November proved mild, weather-wise, which gave Elizabeth a reason to walk despite the need to wrap up against the wind. Mrs. Bennet's new focus on Elizabeth as a companion proved wearing, requiring her to slip out at a truly early hour of the morning if she was to enjoy her exercise. The light was still settling itself around then, finding its way into the shrubbery to give them form and definition, to filter down through the few trees on her accustomed walk and illuminate the path, though she knew it well.
Maria Lucas was to marry in a fortnight, and Charlotte Tiploft—a name that was still awkward to say, as awkward as Jane Bingley or Catherine St. Claire—was to come for the wedding. Elizabeth would be pleased to see her friend again. Maria and Mr. Legget's engagement had been a year-long one. At least it had not dragged into two or three years, and the bride was happy to finally be walking to the altar. Elizabeth knew that Miss Simnel had long given him up, but she still thought of that first Assembly ball where Mr. Bingley and his family and his friend had attended. Elizabeth almost had not met them, because she was originally to stay home that evening. So much had occurred since then.
She recalled Mr. Darcy refusing to dance with her and how offended she had been, and again, she considered how much had come to pass since those first impressions they had of each other. Obviously, his opinion of her and her family had changed that he would offer for her. He had invited her family to his home last summer, and seemingly, on a whim, driven three or four days north and back again, that their sisters might have each other's company for a fortnight in London. Elizabeth had advanced beyond being merely 'tolerable,' to him; had he advanced beyond his offenses to her that evening?
They had not met in months. Did he still think of her? Was she still dear to him? And was that important to Elizabeth? She considered that it was. In the time since she had returned home after Catherine's wedding, Elizabeth had come to think more of this gentleman and his worth. Should there be another man for her to love, it would be Mr. Darcy. Despite her history, he had not run from her like Richard Goulding. "I do not believe I wish to deny me your company," had been his immediate response that day, despite his anger. How could she not value such a man?
She had also grown to admire and appreciate his qualities this past year. This was an admiration that had been tested and grown because of their trials. She had seen beyond his hauteur, which he wore as a mask, and saw the way he grew in his treatment of others. His manners had considerably improved, but he was also the single man in this world who knew her secret and with whom she would never fear. He, in fact, had been as accepting of it, as much as any man can be accepting of such a fact. Elizabeth wondered if they would meet again. Their sisters remained correspondents, but it did not follow that they should run into each other. Though they both had been in London in September, he had not used the time to seek her out.
'I do not believe I wish to deny me your company,' it was almost as if he was saying he loved her still, despite everything, despite Simon. Could she inspire his addresses once again? Or was she to be condemned as the spinster daughter, to care for her mother; to watch her sisters marry and move away, and yet, to stay at home. Such a life would mean to remain with Simon, though he could never know her role in his creation. Elizabeth wondered if she would ever be tempted, should she stay with him, to tell him her secret, and she feared that such a revelation might destroy Simon's happy nature.
She had put herself on the shelf, and her mother had finally given over any desire for Elizabeth to marry—after all she would be twenty-five this January. Elizabeth's reasons had been ones Mrs. Bennet could not understand though her mother also knew her secret. Mrs. Bennet's understanding and sense could not see beyond the benefits and security that marriage gave to a woman, to see what damage could be wrought if she came to a marriage with such a secret.
But her aunt had opened up to Elizabeth the idea of loving again, and it was an idea Elizabeth had not been able to let go of. It was as if she were a statue, but of wax, and she had been placed too near a flame to melt. Or at least, to have that hard outer shell, that officious and practical part of her that had been so invested only in her sisters' happiness and ensuring Simon was raised properly. The part which had forgotten how to seek her own happiness, to have that shell melt away, to reveal a piece of her long forgotten and buried. It was raw, but still viable and needy.
Simon was best being the son of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn, to inherit the estate; he would grow into that role, the neighborhood would happily help him with it. Simon had been an asset to her family, a benefit for every member, though no one but Elizabeth discerned that advantage. Elizabeth could never regret his birth. She had, however, made a choice back around her seventeenth birthday when Aunt Gardiner had confronted her and she, her mother, and aunt had decided on this solution. It had been the most difficult decision she had ever faced, for what parent, what mother, can easily give up a child. But this boy child was content and happy, and she knew he was best at Longbourn. As his sister, she could always watch over him, but Elizabeth had to move on at last. She should seek love again.
But did she really know about love? Had her first love been more foolish than well-founded? She knew she had not loved Richard Goulding; did she have the skills to truly discern that she loved Mr. Darcy?
She considered her admiration for Henry Mandeville—the result of an acquaintance of four weeks—and one, as she considered it, and looked back on it with a different pair of eyes (older and experienced eyes), which now made her wonder about the depth of their affection. Had their passions and their sense of immediacy been stronger than their prudence in considering their actions and forgetting the future and any consequences?
Elizabeth had to allow that her sixteen year old self had been stupid and foolish. Her actions had been rash, ill-considered—how many others' lives might she have tainte
d with her indiscreet and unwise choices? She had been the eldest child, with no older sister or brother to lend a guiding hand and give a helpful word. Her father had been, at the time, a much more distant figure, her mother occupied with her brood of girls and happy to have Elizabeth so independent. Yes, considered Elizabeth, she had been foolhardy, and made a horrible mistake, though few knew it, and she was mortified with herself.
Circumstances were, that her aunt had discovered her, been willing to consider adopting the child. Her family had not scorned Elizabeth. Her indiscretion had been one that did not taint her sisters, but Elizabeth had been just like any of those simpering young women she so often held in contempt, girls of fifteen or sixteen, who thought only of themselves. Elizabeth had to admit she was had been no better.
She thought she always had sense and perception, but on reflection, felt she had been blind to her own folly. So often she had been diverted by the whims and inconsistencies of her neighbors, but had not considered her own failings. One misstep for a young woman can have disastrous results. It was a case of having given into sentiment and her capacity for emotion without considering any of the outcomes beyond the hour or the day, and certainly not employing or showing enough sense and intelligence. She grew absolutely ashamed of herself.
Elizabeth considered her struggles with being a dutiful companion to her mother, the mother who had not scorned her, but who took her in, even when Mrs. Bennet knew about her folly. Elizabeth would swallow her pride and give over any thoughts of her own happiness.
Her thoughts turned back to Mr. Darcy. She considered that as much as Mr. Darcy might remain on cordial terms with her, he must no longer love her, knowing what he did of her; showing such want of sense, such frailty. How could he not fault her for her youthful indiscretion; was it not an irretrievable step she had taken that day?
• • •
It rained whenever they had plans in Weymouth, though the days she and Mrs. Younge had no invitation, or had not thought to step out because of fear of a downpour, the sky would be dry, which was vexing, though it seemed as though the clouds never went away. Georgiana had fond, dear, memories of Scarborough, and she wondered, about a fortnight into their visit, why she had not thought to ask Fitzwilliam to allow Lydia to come with them. They could not forever be together, she supposed. Lydia had written that they were to come to London for Christmas that year. That ought to be fun, and Georgiana hoped it was not a short visit, just two weeks as the last had been.
Wickham had not written since she had left Pemberley, and Georgiana had begun to accept that he must have found another young face to his liking. Mrs. Younge simply sighed and shook her head in impatience if they were alone and Georgiana happened to ask about any letters, or even a note. She would have loved even a short note now.
There was no riding as they had not brought any horses; no true exercise, and no friend to exclaim over officers. It was insufferable, boring, and she could not understand the appeal of the resort. November was the wettest month in Weymouth she was convinced, no matter if the locals said December often dumped an inch more of rain. It was bad enough with the amount she saw fall from the skies.
• • •
He knew there were inconsistencies to Wickham's story—Darcy knew Wickham was lying, being evasive at least, but Darcy had difficulties thinking in a linear fashion, to tease out the truth, and note where Wickham's story diverged, to sift out what was the basic truth and where the story diverged. That Henry Mandeville was dead seemed a point everyone agreed to. And the way Wickham mentioned his mates, Tom or Tim and Bill throwing Mandeville's body into the sea seemed to point to Mandeville dying that day, the day of the battle, and of his being among the high number of casualties on the HMS Revenge—dead or dying—that October day. Enough so that one enlisted man's body was missed.
That seemed reasonable, but this was George Wickham's story, so Darcy brooded, played the violin for hours or went and watched the waves crashing against the shore as he walked the beach at Weymouth. He listened to Georgiana's chatter about her days, her complaints about the rain or the cloud coverage, and the lack of sun, even if it did not rain. He mulled over Wickham's story in his head, each word parsed out, put back together, and considered in every way he could to understand their meaning.
He admitted that Elizabeth Bennet often clouded his thoughts. He used to be troubled that she so affected him, but now he welcomed memories of her—a warm breeze inside when everywhere outside was cold and gray, wet or damp. He no longer fought his thoughts of her, but welcomed them as a respite on dark nights to warm him—it made him smile in his room when alone.
He had wanted to meet with Sir John, then take that direction, meet with that Mr. Worthing and be given proof, evidence and facts that he could use as a sort of foundation to be able to lay at Elizabeth's feet to provide her that closure and to provide, also, a proof of his love.
He did love her; that ardor, his admiration, had grown in proportions. He thought that once he had begun loving her, it had never vanished—wavered yes—vanished, no. Those fine eyes that had captured his attention a year ago, warm despite their color, had taken over his entire life. Her wit and intelligence inspired him; her spirit touched him on a level he did not know existed inside of him. He lived for her; he thought now only of pleasing her, wishing to see her happy, hoping to bring her back to Pemberley as his bride, but with her sharp retorts in his head, he was not entirely sure of his success.
He knew she had been pleased with his trip north to bring Georgiana to see Lydia; that all the ladies had been pleased with that gift, but Darcy had been unsure how to proceed further, a man twice rejected—and once with a stinging slap to his cheek—does not move quickly.
And Wickham was involved; this was not some long-forgotten acquaintance who sailed with Mandeville eight years earlier and recalled an incident and wished to make money by it, but George Wickham. It meant that this was not a tale that Darcy felt could be wrapped up because he had handed over two hundred and fifty pounds to hear about Mandeville's fate. Like the sea and the sky outside, it was a gray and misty story, not one yet completed, thought Darcy, and he wondered what other details Wickham might wish to come sell him, or in what way might he be seeing George Wickham again.
• • •
Louisa had written; Caroline supposed it was in response to her own joyous news, but to write that there were persistent rumors in Town that Radbourne and Lady Veronica were to maintain separate residences was simply cruel—Louisa had not even wished her and Nash joy. Caroline had never spoken to her sister about her experiences at Lady Complin's house party all of those years ago, but perhaps her interest in Radbourne had been obvious to Louisa Or, perhaps, she and Radbourne had not been the only ones walking the hallways late at night. Though Caroline could not believe such a thing of Louisa, she could believe such an action of Hurst, which pained Caroline. Louisa had made a rather rash decision in life when she married Hurst, and seemed to be reaching out, into her siblings' lives, to experience and direct where Louisa felt she was lacking and impotent in her own life. Caroline could believe that Hurst would have been happy to report to Louisa about Caroline's indiscretions though not admitting to his own.
Caroline accepted that she was still uncertain about Charles' choice of bride, but that was not now a choice that could be corrected. It was not a line on paper to be crossed through, and Jane made Charles happy and they too were to be blessed—it was as if that stay at Pemberley had benefited both their families.
All of her sisters had married gentlemen, though Louisa's choice was an odd one as Hurst's holdings were small, and he spent far more than his estate took in. He profited more from Louisa's fortune than she did from the status of his station. That Charles had married a gentleman's daughter was fitting, though Caroline had always wished for more: a titled man's daughter, and better connections. However, they were both settled now, and though Nash was forty-five and not a twenty-nine year old lover, they had been compatible e
nough, it seemed, that what she feared was not to be a worry and at last there might be that son for him.
She frowned again as she read Louisa's note; she knew that the source of the unhappiness in the Viscount's family had been because of the birth of two stillborn children. Was Louisa bitter about her own inability to have children? Perhaps that accounted for her increasingly sharp and uncivil outlook which was what kept delaying Caroline's hand at inviting her sister and brother-in-law for a visit. She knew that once they came, she would not be able to rid the house of them. With their good news, Caroline might put them off until after her confinement and leave Louisa to her fate. Louisa had wanted Hurst though Caroline, Leticia, and the other sisters had not understood that choice; Louisa could stay with him in Town.
Twenty-Nine
—
Christmas in London
He had lied to Darcy. He was not leaving Town; he simply had new accommodations north of the London Docks. It was always good to keep on the move and ahead of anyone he might owe money to, though Wickham made sure to buy a number of rounds for the house before leaving The Pear Tree that the men would remember him fondly. Mrs. Vermiloe was paid up—not that his money was going to get her husband out of debtors prison any time soon.
With over two hundred pounds in his pocket, he could afford a new set of clothes and to be a little closer to the west side of Town. He was working at finding another widow to help finance him through the next month until Darcy and Georgiana returned. They owed him, and he was not turning away from this gamble. He would now need to steal Georgiana away from under her brother's nose. If he had to storm Darcy House on Christmas Day, he would do it, without worrying about being chased all the way to Gretna Green. There were two roads north out of London, and he could lead a merry chase as the mouse. Wickham was confident she would still go with him. Such was her nature, there was a part of Georgiana that needed fulfillment, desired those sweet, ardent, and ebullient words, and he would use them to lure her in—perhaps he was better at being the cat in this game.
