by Anne Morris
"The ice is breaking up!"
"Someone's just having a good time," called another voice.
"No, that rumble was the ice breaking, we should get off," said a man. Voices disagreed as to the danger, and the first voice was talked down.
There was a printing press right there—more pennies to be made— and a line of people waited as printer stamped out papers which said 'Printed on the Thames' and had a pithy verse about Jack Frost. The printer looked worried about his huge piece of equipment, as though he believed the ice could suddenly give way and swallow up the press.
Wickham looked down at his feet, at the dirty ice below it, and thought it must be a hoax. The ice felt just as solid beneath his feet as the land did. He shook his head, realized he had drunk too much. He looked down at the figure in his arms, and pulled Georgiana a little closer, feeling her form press against his; he moved his hand slightly and could tell she had filled out a little. She was not as lean as she had been in the spring. They moved on, pressing through more crowds as he pulled her along to where they would exit from the ice up to the embankment.
The ice on the south side was irregular, and had not been beaten down with feet and instruments to make it more traversable as it had been on the north bank. Perhaps that was what the extra penny or two entrance fee entitled you to, an easier, more sloping journey across the ice. Here there were still sheer cliffs of ice pushed up as tall as a man, with small pathways carved into them to enable one to worm their way through the levels. You could see the irregular patterns of the ice below those cliffs, some showing little caves, and the menace of the water beneath, black and threatening. Yet above was merriment and laughter, drink and vice, and the smell of every different type of food that could be roasted and sold for whatever price anyone was willing to pay for it.
They reached the end of another area of custom, and needed to head up a sloping hill of ice, up one of those cliffs, to be able to move farther along towards Blackfriars. There were to exit at a plank bridge which was almost exactly opposite the view of St. Paul's across the Thames. Wickham turned to look at Georgiana, wondering if she would be afraid of climbing that slope since she had fallen once already.
Her hood fell open, and he realized that it was not Georgiana Darcy in his arms. Elizabeth Bennet turned her head away from him, as if attempting to hide her face, but he moved quickly for a man with so much drink in him and clasped her other shoulder, his one hand still on her waist, turning her to face him.
"Where is Georgiana?" he cried. He would not be denied; they were to have paid for all their ills and offenses against him, and this was to be his pay day. Even that day at The Pear Tree in October, when he knew he could have asked for more, he had bided his time, knowing he waited for this prize—Georgiana and her dowry—not church-poor Miss Elizabeth Bennet. "Why are you here?"
"Georgiana is not going to come to you, Mr. Wickham. Your schemes to have her run away with you will come to nothing. I am here as I was ensuring that you did not seek her out at the Fair while Mr. Darcy took her home." He looked at her, anger and frustration welling up inside of him. His hand at her waist came to her shoulder, and he gripped them painfully tight. She broke from his hold and stepped away, but then slipped on the slope of ice behind her and fell, landing sorely on her hands.
"I have worked so hard and so carefully for my prize, Miss Bennet. I am not going to be denied it today. Where is she? She was to meet me at the Crown & Anker,…to come away with me!" he cried.
Elizabeth pushed herself backwards, awkwardly, a few feet up that slope of ice before she stood. "Mr. Darcy will ensure you never see her."
He considered his old adversary. He closed his eyes, squeezed then tight until they lit up with stars, then opened them to see the lady before him. He should not have had so much Old Tom to drink, it was an incredibly ardent brew, but he recalled a year past and this woman and Darcy. She had been the only woman not flirting with Darcy at that ball—she had been frowning at him. Had she led Darcy on some merry chase, some coquettish game—captured Darcy's admiration and attention? He might have lost Georgiana, but he had gained Miss Bennet in this game with Darcy. Perhaps she was a valuable pawn.
"Why are you here?" he asked again, closing the distance between them.
"As I said, I was ensuring that Mr. Darcy had time to take Miss Darcy home."
"I do not believe you," he reached out to touch the edge of her hood, then withdrew his hand. "If Mr. Darcy were at the Frost Fair, you might simply have all left together." She had no answer for him, and stood still, looking back at him.
"The evening approaches, Mr. Wickham, I will return home now." She even nodded her head to him, but he held out his hand to block her walking past him.
"I will escort you," he took a step, slipped a little himself, recovered. Another echoing sound was heard, and more screams and sounds of laughter came from the nearest crowd of people; voices carried over to them at the foolishness of those scared of such solid ice giving way.
"I am perfectly well; I assure you," she said, gathering her cloak closed in front of her.
"The light is failing, as you mentioned, Miss Bennet, perhaps you should consider not returning over the ice, and you should head to safer ground, up the gangplank over yonder," he inclined his chin vaguely at the south bank though he knew his target was still perhaps a quarter mile down the ice. He pulled his chin down as he looked at her with wild and feverish eyes, and there must have been something there that convinced her. She relented, nodded, and turned to walk up the icy slope beside him.
Thirty-One
—
Cats & Water Don't Mix
Wickham had said to meet her on the south side of the Fair, and it had sounded easy, but the crowds! Once Georgiana had arrived and was on her own, having left her carriage at the Queenhithe Steps, she dismissed her groom, and ventured on her own.
She paid her three pennies to enter, but then found herself overwhelmed with the amount of people in front of her and no one to direct her. There seemed to be an open area right when she entered the Frost Fair, where a race of some sort was occurring. People apparently found amusement in watching two boys riding on donkeys slipping and sliding on the ice as a hundred people stood laughing at the sight. Georgiana did not understand the jest or the amusement of the thing. She picked her way both through the people and over the slippery ice.
There was a long line of tents down the middle of the ice, the 'City Road' proclaimed a sign, and she supposed Wickham meant it was one of those tents—on the south side of that line of tents—and she moved with crowds that formed a tight column between them. The people pushed and pulled at her, men catcalled, and Georgiana was sorry she had dismissed her groom and had no reassuring male presence near. She peered into each tent to discover its contents. Some of them had some sort of signage out front, and most had a trade of some sort, souvenirs, food or liquor.
Given the lateness of the day, there were a lot of drunks—a high percentage of them were men—and she moved as quickly as she could, given the terrain and the press of people, but did not spy the 'Crown & Anker.' There were the 'Old Moscow,' 'Wellington,' and 'Good Gin' tents all selling liquor which also had some entertainment inside, but she did not spy the Crown & Anker before she suddenly came out the other end of the City Road.
Georgiana realized she had her gloved hand pressed firmly between her teeth, both because of her nervousness, and because it helped with the smell of that crush of bodies. Despite the cold, the smell was atrocious. She turned towards Southwark to see there was still more entertainment, food, and tents there, and realized that was where she needed to go.
She found the Crown & Anker amongst another crush of people, but Wickham was not waiting for her; there was just another group of people at the same amusements as elsewhere. She clasped the edge of the canvas that made up the tent to look inside with more confidence, but she did not spy him. Georgiana then turned to scan the area beyond, had he grown impatient and left? Her
eyes moved east, and she finally found him—and Lydia in her green cloak! Lydia with whom she had shared all her secrets, and Georgiana cried out, putting her hand up to her mouth to bite down hard on the side of her palm though no one around noted her scream.
Georgiana had been so beset with jealousy, so worried Wickham would find another, prettier, girl. Here it was, true, her friend with her blond hair, and her curvaceous form, was running off with her beloved. Georgiana turned to run, slipped and fell, rose to slip again, wishing only to return to her carriage. But then stopped and wondered if that was waiting for her, or if the servants had returned home as she had ordered them. She wiped at her tears, and began heading north with a heavy heart, and a long face. Her footman, Partridge, stood about a half dozen yards from her, watching her with an impassive face. Despite being dismissed he had, apparently, still followed her.
"Partridge," a huge breath escaped her, and the tears that she had held at bay escaped in torrents then. She slipped as she stepped towards him. "Take me back to the carriage," she managed to call out. They walked together for minutes until the sounds and strength of the crowds around her intruded and plagued her, and she stopped her tears, drying them with a hand, a sort of icy fear on her heart. "Take my arm," she asked, and the footman did, leading her past the crowds by the City Road, and up towards a different exit than where she had entered.
"Partridge!" called a deep voice, and one of the household grooms was there. "Master Darcy sent me word to fetch you to him right quick."
"Fitzwilliam is here?" she asked, looking at the groom, feeling both shame and relief.
"Yes," nodded the groom.
"Take me home," she turned to the footman who still held her arm.
"Aye," said Partridge to her and nodded his head toward the north bank.
"I will search for the master and let him know the mistress is safe," said Jones.
• • •
Elizabeth could tell Wickham had been drinking, but it was more than that, there was something else, expectations that had not been fulfilled, and that made him dangerous. Wickham was unhinged. Elizabeth had expected when she went to find George Wickham, that Georgiana would be with him already, and that she could persuade Georgiana to come away with her. Instead, she found Wickham alone. Somehow, the idea to lure him away had come to her—he had not seemed to realize that she was not Georgiana at first.
When he finally looked at her and she saw his eyes, she thought there was something dangerous there—a wild animal—and her thoughts then, were to get away from his side. But he had suddenly gone from his wild stance, and his painfully firm hold on her shoulders, to quiescent, suggesting he escort her to the exit, and she had agreed if only to get him father away from the meeting point to spare Georgiana his presence, all the while casting glances around as they walked through a thinning crowd. His hand was around her waist, pulling her up to that next cliff, up to another shelf of ice, and they trudged along. There was no gin tent there atop that shelf of ice, but one man had a fire going, a pig roasting on it, with a fiddler nearby playing tunes for a smaller crowd, and they walked past.
"Darcy shall pay," grumbled Wickham.
"I do not believe the story you told me a year ago," she asserted.
"I suppose Darcy has told you a different tale," he growled as he pulled her along, his fingers clenching her form.
"We have never spoken about it," she said.
"I cannot believe he has not defended himself to you!" he cried.
"No," she replied. The shelf was straighter than the sloping walk, and she attempted to free herself from his grasp, but he would not let go.
"Old Mr. Darcy left me a living, and I asked him for it and Darcy told me no," he asserted.
"And is that the only part of the story, or is there more to it?" she asked.
"What other part can there be?" he let out a huge breath.
"I do not know, as I said, Mr. Darcy has never discussed it with me, but there are ways to misrepresent tales. You have mentioned his mistreatment of you, for all I know there was some choice involved, and you chose something else and have now regretted it." She stopped, tired of the discourse and the uneven footing.
"The living should have been mine," his voice was low and scowling.
"I do not think you are a man bred for the church," she glanced at him. "You are not wearing your red coat, have you left the militia?"
"Yes," he answered. "He owes me; I was to come into my fortune today."
"Did you truly think that Miss Darcy would marry you, that Mr. Darcy would allow such a thing?" she cried.
"He would have to. It is not the first time he has had to hand money over to me, though this is not the first time I have failed in seducing Georgiana," his voice growled again, as he was losing his composure. The calm demeanor was cracking, his fingers, however, loosened their grip. She gasped at that, and managed to finally wrench free from his grasp to turn and face him.
"I was one day short of whisking her off, when he showed up unexpectedly in September. Perhaps when he came to talk to me and asked me all those questions about Trafalgar and Mandeville, I should have taken more money, and been done with it." He leaned over a little, his shoulders hunched, placing his hands on his thighs.
"Mandeville!" she cried, her voice rising. "Mr. Darcy asked you about Henry Mandeville?"
He stood back up to look at her. "Yes, he said he was there on Sir John Mandeville's behalf and wanted to know about Henry Mandeville's fate on the Revenge. He was willing to pay money to know what really happened to him—for all he knew." His eyes darted around her face as that dangerous look flashed again in his eyes.
"Why? What did you tell him?" she cried.
"I told him he died that day, and we threw his body into the sea." Her hands came up across her body to clasp her arms.
"That is not the truth?" Her voice lowered, a sob-like sound coming from her lips at the end.
He had imbibed a lot of Old Tom, but his fuzzy brain focused on her, "What do you know of Henry Mandeville?"
"His family is from Meryton," she looked at his shoulder and not at his eyes.
"You know more about him," his hand came up to rub the back of his neck, but his eyes stared straight at her before he stepped forward to look down at her, and reached a hand to her shoulder.
"He did not die that day?" she looked up at him; hope could not be kept from her voice. "What else do you know about him?"
A cruel smile graced his face as he stood looking at her. "He was not wounded in battle; he had pretensions of being an officer, and he caught us: Tim, John, Long Bill, and I were looting bodies that day and Mandeville told us off—he would not join us like a common sailor—so we slit his throat."
Elizabeth cried out then, pulling away from his hand which had reached out for her just as a well of emotion rose from her stomach to burst from her, "you killed Henry!" Elizabeth moved farther away from Wickham. "You killed Henry!"
The ice was slippery, but she threw her arms out to balance herself and to keep from falling. The light cast shadows on the ice, causing it to appear gray and brown, a garish yellow in places and flat black in others, an ugly quilt. The sky was gloomy overhead, both with the darkening sky, and with a heavy mist that might turn again to rain soon. She stumbled, lost in her tears, considering that Henry Mandeville had not died in battle, but had been killed by his fellow shipmates. Elizabeth finally lost her balance and fell, tangling herself in her skirts, and the cloak catching on her. The shelf of ice lay cold, solid-feeling, and somehow comforting beneath her, as she lost herself in grief.
"Wickham," his voice registered in her mind; Mr. Darcy's voice penetrated her misery, and Elizabeth strained to pull her hands free from the cloak, to clasp the folds of fabric that bound her, and freed herself. She pushed herself up from her bed of grief and stood to see Mr. Darcy standing a dozen feet from Mr. Wickham. Wickham looked wild, red-faced, his eyes boring into Darcy's, his brows knit together.
"You owe me!
The Darcys owe me. I should never have been chased away, your father sent me off to war," he flung an accusing arm out in Mr. Darcy's direction, " 'you need to make your way in the world, George,' your father told me—he cut me loose. Thirty thousand pounds, Darcy, you should give me thirty thousand pounds," Wickham roared.
"I owe you nothing." Darcy turned from Wickham's gaze towards her. "Miss Bennet are you well?"
"No," she answered, feeling as though she could not move, and not because of the cold. Mr. Darcy moved then, slipping across to her post and then his great coat-covered sleeves enveloped her. Her misery broke from her, and she wept on his chest.
• • •
Darcy had been sitting in the library, the quiet of the house to his liking. Georgiana had taken the carriage to go for a drive, despite a small rain shower earlier; she had indicated it was not going to prevent her getting out, and there did seem to be a general warming finally. He had gone for a stroll around the square near Darcy House and thought the air less harsh that morning, despite piles of dirty snow still clogging the streets.
A knock on the door broke his reverie and Mrs. Younge entered.
"Mr. Darcy…I need to tell you something," she began.
"Yes," he said, with a frown at the interruption.
"Georgiana…" her voice faltered, her shoulders slumping. Mrs. Younge's eyes were dutifully on the carpet in front of her, but then she pulled her shoulders back though she did not raise her eyes. "I have deceived you, sir, by corresponding with George Wickham. I fear your sister has run off to meet the man."
"What!" he cried, standing. His mind had been on other issues, annoyed with her presence, speech, and manner, but anger flared then as he stood. "Madam, I will dismiss you for this."
"I realize that, Mr. Darcy. But they were to meet at the Frost Fair today. I have been suspicious of him and have been attempting to ignore his letters recently, but Miss Darcy found the last number of them."
