by Gail McEwen
* * *
Elizabeth stood against the wall in the crowded vestibule of the coaching inn, limbs stiff from three long days in the post chaise, head aching, and still feeling as if she were rocking and bouncing on the road. She watched with affection as her husband-to-be jostled his way through the mob to procure their rooms for the night. She saw his face blanch as he and the man at the counter exchanged a few words, then Wickham drew out his pocketbook and emptied the contents into his hand. The man shook his head apologetically, a few more words were exchanged, and he pointed to the public room and shrugged, turning to the next patron in line.
When George returned to her side, he smiled and took her arm, guiding her into the dining room. “Come! I am starving. And after such a long day, I think we can splurge on a nice bottle of wine.”
“That sounds heavenly.” Elizabeth smiled wearily. “But are you sure we can afford it?”
Smiling that charming smile of his, he leaned into her. “Are you questioning my husbandly authority already, Miss Bennet? And we, not even married yet? Besides”— he kissed her quickly on the ear before pulling away— “how many ‘night-before-our-wedding’ celebrations will we have in our lifetime?”
Despite the crowd, Elizabeth could have kissed him right then and there. As road weary as she was, a glass of wine sounded just perfect, and even with the rigours of travel, George was as caring and affectionate as ever. She was indeed a fortunate woman.
They found two empty seats at a table, and the bottle was ordered and served straight away. They shared a toast to the last stop on their way to Scotland. Dinner was slower to appear, and by the time it did, Elizabeth found she was not much interested in yet another public house meal of questionable quality. The first glass of wine had assuaged the sharpness of her hunger, and the second replaced it with a mellow relaxation and general feeling of well-being. George divided the remainder of the bottle when the food at last arrived, but Elizabeth was content to sip and watch him eat.
When at length he pushed his plate away, he noticed her gaze, but simply smiled, drained his glass, and gestured to her untouched plate.
“Not hungry?”
“Not especially. I am more tired than anything. And excited. And”— she felt herself flushing— “perhaps a little nervous.”
“I am not.” He smiled brightly.
“Not tired?” she questioned good-naturedly. “Or not excited?”
“Not nervous,” he said, taking her hand and softly stroking it. “If you are tired, however, I shall take you to your room. We have one more, long day of travel, but then, by tomorrow night”— he lifted her hand to his mouth— “we will be man and wife.”
He lingered at her door, reluctant to be separated from her, leaning on the jamb and exchanging little endearments and small talk, but finally gave her a sheepish grin.
“Oh, I should just go. If I am going to claim a place close to the fire, I need to… That is…” He shook his head, “Goodnight, my dear.”
“What do you mean claim a place close to the fire? What about your room? Does this have something to do with the man at the desk earlier?”
“You saw that?” He looked alarmed. “I hoped it had escaped your notice. I…” He ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. “I did not want you to see…”
“See what?” Elizabeth was growing alarmed herself.
“My funds… I wanted to give you something special for tonight, and there was not enough…” He shook his head and assumed a face of determined cheerfulness that touched her heart. “It was worth any number of hours upon a lumpy cushion on the floor. Tonight I shall sleep by the fire and tomorrow…on to Scotland.”
The effects of that celebratory bottle were still coursing through her veins when she asked, “But what of the trip home? Will you sleep on lumpy cushions all the way home as well?”
“On the way home, my dear Elizabeth, we will need but one room.”
She blushed. How could she forget that? He ran a finger along her cheek tenderly and turned away, but she stopped him with a touch. She felt exhilarated, uninhibited, and full of affection for his sacrifice, yet her voice sounded shy and hesitant as she spoke.
“Mr Wickham…George.” She took his hand and drew him through the door. “Tonight we will need but one room.”
* * *
Although he had never spoken of it, Darcy was certain Georgiana was aware of his desire that an attachment should form between her and Bingley. He knew she would be ruled by his wishes on the matter, but he was not certain how she felt about it, and that gave him cause for concern. He believed without question that he had done the right thing by his friend, but now the possibly unpleasant task of delivering the news of Bingley’s engagement was before him.
Darcy nodded to the footman then proceeded down the hallway of Georgiana’s establishment without waiting to be announced, as was his custom. He was greeted by the sound of a sprightly tune being played on the pianoforte. Standing in the doorway of the small sitting room and smiling unabashedly, he watched her at the instrument. Her eyes were bright, and an uncharacteristically cheerful expression graced her countenance. She looked up as the resolving chords echoed through the room and smiled in return.
“Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’?” he asked. “That is rather different than the music I am accustomed to hearing you play of late.”
“Yes! Vivaldi it is. Very good, Fitzwilliam.” She smiled. “And you are right; it has been ages since I have played it. But I think…that is, I have come to the realisation that winter has gone on too long. I am ready to leave the shadows behind.”
“It makes me very happy to hear you say that.” He wanted to go on, to tell her how she had always been the bright light in the family, the apple of their father’s eye, and his own ray of sunshine growing up, and how devastated and helpless he felt when Wickham’s treachery nearly extinguished that glow, but he did not. Darcy men did not talk of such things openly, and the habit was too deeply ingrained to contemplate breaking it now.
“I thought I might join you for tea,” is what he said instead.
“Oh, of course!” Georgiana jumped up to ring the bell. “I should like that very much.”
They had a pleasant conversation, and although he was pleased, Darcy was at a loss to understand his sister’s newfound spirits. He was relieved that even the news of Bingley’s engagement did nothing to dampen them. She expressed genuine happiness at the prospect and wished him only the best.
“Oh,” she said offhandedly as she poured out the last of the tea from the pot. “I had callers this morning.”
“You did? Who?”
“Do you remember my speaking of Miss Franklin, my particular friend at school? You met her once on a visit, but we have not been much in contact since…well, since the summer. However”—she brightened — “she is engaged, and the family is in town for the preparations.”
“Yes, I recall Miss Franklin,” Darcy said, doing his best to show interest. “An amiable young lady from a respectable family.”
“Oh, yes! Very amiable.” Georgiana grew quite animated. “The whole family is very amiable. And respectable.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. In fact, the Franklins are not unlike the Darcys: an old and respectable family, quite traditional.”
“In other words”—he smiled—“you mean staid and boring?”
“Not at all! I think you would like them very much.”
“Because I am staid and boring as well?”
“Stop!” She laughed. “But I thought…since they are in town, and you are in town at the same time…perhaps you might wish to become acquainted with them?”
Her expression was such a sweet mixture of eagerness touched by insecurity that he could not resist. Neither could he dismiss the thought that this renewed friendship with Miss Franklin might be the reason for her raised spirits.
“I would be happy to make their acquaintance. Shall I extend a dinner invitation for next week?”
>
“Of course, that would be lovely, but…”
“Yes?”
“They spoke of coming again tomorrow if you should like to…that is…”
“Tomorrow? That is rather an imposition, is it not, for the family to descend upon you again so soon?”
“Well, not the whole family. It will just be Miss Franklin and…” She faltered for a brief moment, and Darcy noticed a faint pinkness rise in her cheeks. “…and her elder brother, Mr Robert Franklin.”
Darcy explained that business with his solicitor would regrettably prevent him from returning the next morning, but he assured Georgiana that he would make every effort to meet her friends, and at her insistence, he promised it would be soon.
* * *
Elizabeth laid awake, thinking and staring into the darkness. It was all so very strange, and she wished George had not fallen asleep so quickly. She would like to have some conversation with him about what had just happened—to have some reassurance that everything was as it should be. When she suggested he stay with her, she felt powerful and not a little daring, but he agreed more readily than she anticipated, and she was soon swept along on a course of action out of her control. She had hoped for—indeed, she had expected—patience and understanding on his part, but instead he seemed to be in a great hurry, and she felt rushed by his eagerness. She was a stranger to the secrets of a man’s needs and desires, so perhaps his urgency was natural, but his impatience made her unable to fully relax, and even as inexperienced as she was, she could not help but think that everything was not quite as it might have been.
When he finished, he smiled and rolled off her, but there were no words of love and comfort or tender caresses— just increasingly heavy breathing as he drifted silently off.
You have done it now, Lizzy. You are stuck—committed. There is no backing out or changing your mind after this. The direction of her thoughts startled her. Why should she think that when she had no intention of changing her mind? Of course, she would marry George! And even though it was not what she had hoped, when she thought about it objectively, she believed she could perform her wifely duties generously and without hesitation. After all, it had not been wholly unpleasant, just…lacking something. However, she thanked her stars that she had accepted George’s proposal rather than either of the other offers she had received. The very thought of sharing such closeness and intimacy with Mr Collins, of his naked body sleeping next to her, of his leg flung over hers like George’s was now, made her skin crawl. And Mr Darcy…impossible! If George had been perhaps a little self-absorbed, she could only imagine how selfish, ungenerous, and demanding that proud and arrogant man would be.
The weight of his leg was oddly disconcerting, however, and she wriggled to get out from under it; it was heavy, and the heat of his body made her skin itch. But at last, despite the soreness and uncomfortable stickiness, she too fell asleep.
* * *
Elizabeth awoke to his leg on her again and something hard poking her in the backside. Insistent fingers dug into her hips as he pulled her towards him. Without a word, he pushed himself inside her.
“George!” she cried, only half-coherent.
“Shh,” he said in her ear as he started to move. “What better way is there to greet our wedding day than this?”
Chapter 3
George Wickham walked the streets of London with a sense of purpose, glowing with satisfaction. In less than a month, his entire world and fortunes had reversed, and this time for the better. He had rid himself of that insipid Mary King, securing a handsome profit in the process. He hoped Denny would forgive him and that he and Mary would be happy together in Newcastle, but if not, it was no matter. His fortunes were no longer tied to that ridiculous militia with its silly drills, pompous parades, and self-aggrandising uniforms. From now on, his swagger and bravado would come not from red wool, gleaming brass, and shining steel, but from power and connections, and all as a result of his own cleverness.
Four thousand pounds were at his disposal and a wife he would not be ashamed to have on his arm in society. He allowed himself a self-congratulatory smile. The wife Darcy wanted and could not have — he had her now, and Darcy could eat his smug, rich, proud heart out that George Wickham, the steward’s son, was the one bedding her! Oh, yes, at long last all his stars were sorting themselves out and looking down upon him favourably. Why else would they return from Scotland to find that her sister and Mr. Bingley would at last be married? He was a silly gentleman but a wealthy one, useful for providing introductions into higher society where Wickham could make his own luck. Useful too, in that the upcoming wedding provided him the perfect excuse to leave Elizabeth behind in Hertfordshire while he attended to business in town. His general feeling of satisfaction lessened somewhat when he recalled their disagreement the night before he left.
* * *
“Town? What do you mean, town? I thought we were going to Brighton with the regiment? What does Colonel Forster have to say about your wanting to stay in town?”
“What the colonel says is of no consequence, my dear. I have resigned from the militia and we shall be keeping house in London.” He smiled and reached out to pat Elizabeth’s hand affectionately, but she pulled it away.
“You resigned? Why in heaven’s name would you do something as foolish as that?”
After that, it had been extremely difficult to maintain his calm and affability as she expounded on the folly of trying to live solely off the interest of £4,000 without the supplemental income from the militia, of how she had no desire to live in London, and how did he possibly think they could manage any sort of decent home or lifestyle on only a £160 a year? She had not been sharp or shrewish, instead she was infuriatingly practical and forthright. George thought he would have preferred the former, but either way, it was not difficult to work himself into a picture of righteous anger over being questioned in such a way.
“You knew what I had when you married me, and a ‘mere’ £4,000 was acceptable enough to you then! Are you now sorry, after seeing your sister so comfortably situated, that you did not hold out for someone wealthier to come along?”
Still her voice was calm. “Do not be silly. If I had wanted someone wealthier, I would have…I mean…I could never be sorry, but when I accepted you, you were in the militia, and I had expected… That is at least a third of our income, and you never informed me of your plans to quit it once we married.”
“Inform you? You expect that I should inform you of every decision I make?”
“Ah…well…I had thought”— she faltered— “when decisions concern both of us, that we would at least discuss it.”
At her hesitation, he gave her an indulgent smile. “Oh, Elizabeth, you are such a delight. But I am your husband now. You may rest assured, my dear, that I have everything in hand.”
“But—”
He cut her off, pulling her up to give her a peck on the lips. “Let us not do this. You are simply adorable when you are stubborn and unreasonable, but enough is enough. What happened to that sweet, agreeable girl I took from this house just a week ago? Please tell me you are not planning to become one of those horrible scolding wives I have been warned about—and after such a short time married? Let us not quarrel, my dear.”
That struck just the right note, and he could see her back down. So she wanted to be a good and proper wife. That was good. Now he knew just what to say to keep her in line.
“I am sorry,” she said, doing her best to smile sweetly. “I do not mean to be a scold, but may I not at least come with you? If you are going to choose where we are to live, I should like to see it.”
“No, my sweet. You stay and enjoy your time with your family, and by the time I return for the wedding, I will have everything in our new home arranged to even your satisfaction.” He sat on the narrow bed in her old bedroom and patted the spot next to him “Now come to bed and wish your poor husband a proper farewell.”
* * *
He smiled as h
e turned into his banking house. Women were really so easy to handle. The last thing any newly wedded wife wanted was to appear cross and argumentative, and Elizabeth was no exception. All that was needed was the right touch and the right words, and even she would see reason.
“Ah, Mr Wickham, I have been expecting you.” The clerk rushed out of the back room and beckoned him to be seated. “The order arrived from Liverpool early this week, and if you will just sign here, we can move it into the investment funds. Will you require an advance of your first returns?”
“Actually, Mr Warburn,” Wickham sat back, perusing the form, “I believe I shall only move half of it over at present.” He returned the paper, ignoring the surprised look the clerk gave him. “Rewrite this if you would, invest the first £2,000 and let us keep the rest in a simple draft account.”
“Of course, sir,” the clerk said uneasily, “as you wish. If you will bear with me another half an hour, I shall arrange it all to your specifications.”
“Very good.” Wickham smiled with satisfaction. “That will be very good indeed.”
* * *
Darcy’s life in London gradually assumed its usual routine; he saw no need to alter it simply because he had succumbed to a bit of sentimental foolishness during the boredom of his visit to Rosings. True, those first weeks had seen their share of self-recrimination and regrets, but to persevere in maudlin brooding was for the weak-minded. It was also true that those harsh words of refusal would sometimes visit him at the most surprising times, but to dwell on them would be folly. If there was truth to any of Miss Bennet’s accusations, he would, on impartial examination, make the judgement and remedy his behaviour accordingly. When he saw Miss Bennet again, as he surely would at Bingley’s wedding in a week’s time, she would find him a man totally unaffected by past events.
Therefore, his mornings were spent on business and correspondence, as was his usual custom. Likewise, his afternoons saw him at either his sister’s small establishment for tea and conversation or his club for whiskey and cards, and his evenings were taken up by various suppers, balls, plays and other social engagements, frequently in the company of Colonel Fitzwilliam. Those evenings often terminated at the discreet, dark and exclusive gambling house known simply as Ce Lieu.