by Gail McEwen
Once he was in a more objective mood, he realised that Wickham had not taken so very much from him after all. He was the master of Pemberley with staff and servants to attend to his every need, and tenants, rents, and investments to enrich his already profitable estate, as well as a proud family legacy upon which to reflect. Wickham could touch none of that. What were meaningless boyhood competitions and dares in comparison? Yes, Wickham had managed to win Elizabeth Bennet when he had not, but who was she when compared to Georgiana?
Georgiana was an innocent girl; Elizabeth was a stubborn, headstrong woman who had chosen to ignore his well-intentioned warnings and gone into her marriage with her eyes wide open. He had gleaned enough from their unpleasant conversation at Longbourn to convince him that she had not, and would not, mention Georgiana’s troubles to anyone. With all his doubts and disillusionment about Elizabeth, he did not think she would lie. She was a fool, yes, but not a liar. She would live with the consequences of her choice, but thank God, Georgiana was safe.
* * *
Elizabeth had spent those same months in a different type of contemplation. When Wickham took her from her childhood home, he promised she would be happy in the cosy little house he found for them. It was, he said, the perfect place for them to begin their life together, and she had taken him at his word. She assured him she did not need anything large or grand; a warm, comfortable home with her new husband and perhaps, one day soon, children, would be heaven to her. So when they arrived at last in London, and the driver brought them to a street teeming with people and animals and running with sewage, she could only assume he had taken a wrong turn. Apprehension rose within her as the coach slowed and moved to the side, and she could hardly believe her eyes when they stopped in front of a narrow, dirty row house beside a crowded tavern. She looked to George to see whether there was any mischief in his eyes—surely he was playing a trick on her—but his matter-of-fact expression dampened that hope immediately.
“Your palace, my lady,” he said grandly as he helped her out of the coach. “Fittingly enough, on Castle Street.”
She tried to smile and be appreciative when George showed her through the rooms, tried to ignore the mildewed and stained wallpaper curling at the seams, the evidence of rats and mice in the corners, and the pervading smell of rot and dampness, but he saw through her, and took her in his arms.
“Do not grumble, darling; this is only temporary. Soon I will have you in a grand house in the finest square in London.”
“I am not grumbling,” she protested, pushing away a little. “I am just…well, I did not expect…this.”
“Is that so?” He grew defensive. “What did you expect?”
“Something…oh, I do not know…” She struggled, trying to express her concerns without further upsetting him. “But when you described the house you had taken for us, I pictured something quite different; that is all.”
“I am sure I told you it was small.”
“Yes, you did, but, my dear, you also said it was cosy…”
“What did you want me to say?” he snapped, suddenly peevish.
“The truth,” she answered, trying to remain calm. “It would have been a kindness to hear the truth. I would have at least been better prepared for what is before me now.”
“The truth. Very well, Elizabeth, the truth is that a run-down house on a squalid street is the best I can do for you at the moment. How do you like hearing that?”
“Why are you being so terrible about this? Why are you angry with me? You act as if I am at fault for not wanting to be misled.”
“Do you think I like this? Do you think I am proud to have only this to offer you? Do you not think I want to provide better for my wife? But if you think you can bear it until my business venture with Lord Smythe-Hamilton comes to fruition, I will be sure to find something more suitable to your stature and upbringing.”
If she had not been so shocked and disappointed, and if George had not been so angry and patronising, she might have tempered her words. As it was, she crooked her brow sceptically. “Yes, now it is time to hear once again about your big business venture. Ironworks in Shropshire, is it? My father was approached about something similar several years ago, and even then he called it a worthless speculation. Are people really so vulnerable and careless with their money as to throw it at such foolhardy ventures?”
His eyes narrowed. “For your sake, you should hope they are.”
“But why involve yourself in something so risky and…untoward? If we need money so badly, why not rejoin the militia? We can let this place go and meet them in Brighton. I am sure if you spoke to Colonel Forster—”
“A man does not get rich in the militia; he merely survives,” George said testily. “I have loftier dreams than that.” He turned to direct the men bringing in their trunks and belongings, and the subject was dropped. It was her first lesson in the folly of placing her trust in anything George Wickham said. Unfortunately, it was not the last, nor even the most serious.
That was nearly six months ago, and they were still in Castle Street. Nothing had changed, and Elizabeth had long ago stopped asking about his plans because it only made him angry. She was devastated at the turn their lives had taken, and she blamed George. When feeling particularly put upon, she blamed her father as well. How could he give in so easily to the stubborn tantrum of a silly, love-struck girl without asking Mr Wickham so much as one question about his prospects, plans or ability to provide for his wife and future children? Deep down, when in an intellectually honest mood, she knew that the greatest part of responsibility fell upon her own shoulders. She had married blindly, trusting in the goodness of his countenance and the smoothness of his words, without one shred of evidence or example to base it upon. She was trapped, and there was no one to whom she could go for help or advice, even for understanding.
Who would sympathise with her stunned surprise when George handed her £15 as the entire housekeeping budget for the quarter? After her parents warned her against such an imprudent match, how was she to go to them and admit her error? How could she ask for help when they had already made it clear that she could expect nothing from them? As her mother said, she had made her bed and now she must lie in it.
So she scrimped and economised and waited for the next quarter when surely there would be more. And when he handed her the same sum again, who would understand how easy it was to lose control of her tongue? Would her gentle and patient Aunt Gardiner sympathise with her display of temper when, after relentless questioning and digging into his personal papers, she learnt her husband had kept back a full £2,000 of their money for his personal use and to fund his ill-founded business venture—money he refused to make available to her while leaving them on the brink of poverty and starvation? Even now, she cringed at the furious accusations that had spilled from her mouth when she confronted him with the discovery.
Wickham, of course, had a thousand justifications, and he tried to smile and charm his way out of it, and when that did not work, he even tried blatant seduction to divert her attention. However, Elizabeth had already discovered George Wickham to be a master at excusing and rationalising whatever suited him, and she refused to let herself be distracted. He then took grave offence at the rebuff and retreated into petulance and self-pity. Later, appalled at her outburst, and in the interest of peace, she tried to make amends, but he would not let go of his feeling of injury. Now she no longer regretted her words, but still, she could not help but wonder at herself. How could she, a gentleman’s daughter, sink so easily into such unrefined, shrill and shrewish behaviour?
After that, her husband began staying out later and later in the evenings until he was away from home most nights, coming back only in the wee hours, smelling of drink and other women—sometimes not coming home at all. Alone in bed, she could hear the prostitutes from the tavern next door plying their trade in the alley just below her window, often wondering whether her husband was among the grunting men. Who would understand
how sometimes she blamed him and other times she blamed herself, but that she was rapidly coming to the place that it no longer mattered to her? Could she tell Jane, who was still in the happy flush of new marriage, about hers that had fallen so far so quickly? That she, the proud opinionated Elizabeth Bennet, so sure of her own mind and that she knew best, was reduced to a life of cheese-paring, counting candles, and looking the other way?
So she rarely went out and never received visitors. In the beginning, she had felt completely and utterly desolate, and sought out the company of her aunt and Jane. Then the burden of keeping up the appearance of happiness and contentment had grown too great, and their observations had grown too shrewd. Both had tried, in their various ways, to offer help and assistance, pushing baskets of leftover food on her or trying to press a coin or two in her hand, but Elizabeth always refused, declaring that she was perfectly fine. When she began to be tempted to accept, she knew it was time to draw away. Embarrassed and ashamed, she stopped answering the doorbell. Letters went unread, and parcels were refused. She still called on Jane sporadically, but visits to Mrs Gardiner ceased altogether. It was easier to withdraw into her own world of misery, and having made a marriage against the advice of her family and in defiance of those she knew held a poor opinion of her chosen husband, she would give no one the pain, or satisfaction, of witnessing the full measure of her humiliation.
* * *
Several of the gentlemen Wickham had approached earlier in summer returned to town, and when he and Lord Smythe-Hamilton met for drinks at his lordship’s townhouse, his host was keen to set up another meeting. Unfortunately, the man was a blundering, blustering bulldog with no inkling of the delicate skills and finesse required to part a man from his money, and it was all Wickham could do to convince him of the advantages of proceeding slowly. The gentlemen’s interest had been lukewarm at best in June, and coming on too strongly too soon would only repel them. What they needed to do was to set up a few social occasions, play it coy, and never even mention the venture.
“If they believe we are doing well and they think we no longer need nor want their money,” Wickham assured his lordship, “they will want in all the more.”
“I do not know,” said the older man. “Perhaps I should give up this scheme and look to selling off some property holdings instead. I cannot hold off my creditors much longer. You promised there would be investors clamouring for the opportunity, men throwing money at us left and right, but the only one who seems to be throwing round any money at all is me—and I cannot keep it up indefinitely. My debts are piling up, and I cannot foresee any abatement in my wife’s habit of overspending her funds.”
“Have a little patience, my friend. I admit that we were, perhaps, a bit ahead of our time, promoting an ironworks in the midst of all this canal building, but I was speaking to a gentleman just last night who is in the market for some lucrative investments, and—”
“Oh?” Smythe-Hamilton’s obvious interest and greed were predictable. “And he is interested in the ironworks?”
Wickham held back a sigh.
“I have not brought it up beyond a mere mention. As I say, one must not seem too eager about these things, but the next time we meet—”
“And when will that be? Who is this man?”
“My wife’s brother, Mr Bingley.” The lie slipped out effortlessly. “I see him quite often, but up ’til now he has always been timid when it comes to speculations. I am slowly drawing him out.”
“The Bingleys will surely be at the Wilkinson card party,” Smythe-Hamilton said, “as will our other two prospects. I can speak to them there—”
“No!” Wickham interrupted sharply, but seeing Lord Smythe-Hamilton was affronted at his tone, smiled smoothly and apologised.
“But you must understand this is a delicate business. We must present our proposition in such a way that piques the interest but does not inspire scrutiny into the project itself. That is why it is so important to choose carefully those whom we approach. They must be the right sort, trusting and not too guarded or apt to question, and we must convince them to invest enough to do us good but not so much as will cause undue concern when the profits do not materialise as expected. Small losses can be written off with regret and are not generally discussed, especially by one who has neglected to do a proper enquiry. Large losses cause talk, resentment, and investigations.”
“I suppose you are correct,” Smythe-Hamilton grumbled and, after some urging, promised to secure Wickham an invitation to the Wilkinson party as well.
“But of course you must bring your wife!” It was his lordship’s turn to insist. “If this is to be a purely social occasion, it would be odd for you to come without her. Whatever you say to the contrary, I cannot believe she would always be staying at home by choice, especially with the Bingleys in attendance.”
Just then, there was a quiet tap on the door, and Lady Smythe-Hamilton, an attractive lively woman at least twenty-five years her husband’s junior, entered the study.
“Now you may chide me all you like,” she said as she approached his lordship, smiling at Wickham as she passed, “but you two have discussed enough business for one day. Phipps says dinner will be up soon, and you know how I detest eating alone.”
“Ah, just in time, my dear.” Smythe-Hamilton held out his hand to her. “Business is put aside, and I am in the middle of convincing Mr Wickham to bring his wife to the Wilkinson party, but he insists she does not enjoy social outings.”
“Don’t be silly; of course you must bring her!” she cried, giving Wickham a smirk before slipping onto her husband’s lap. “And I am so looking forward to meeting her!”
He leered at the little minx in return, which his lordship did not see as his eyes were turned adoringly upon his wife.
“Believe me when I say she would not want to come.”
“You look positively cross, Wickham,” she continued undaunted. “I think you two must be having a little tiff? No woman would refuse an invitation to the first party of the season. She is just being perverse to vex you. Women are like that”—she turned to her husband—“aren’t they, darling?”
“Quite right.” He smiled indulgently. “And there you have it, Wickham. Both her ladyship and I are agreed, so if you want that invitation, you must go home and patch up your little spat. Buy the little lady a pretty new dress,” he added. “That will bring her round, will it not, dear?”
“I confess, we do like our presents.” She gave her husband a quick peck on the forehead before looking over him to catch Wickham’s eye. “Tell Mrs Wickham I am especially anxious to make her acquaintance.”
* * *
George Wickham returned home to find Elizabeth sitting in the darkness. He sighed; that was never a good sign.
“Saving on candles again, my dear?”
“Yes. As it is, I don’t know how I am going to make them last.”
Bristling at her tone of voice, he took a moment to calm himself and remember his purpose.
“Brrr,” he said pleasantly, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. “It is very cold today, is it not?”
“The coal is almost gone as well,” she replied without expression. “I was just about to go to bed.”
“Ah…” But he could think of nothing to add. It was difficult to talk to her these days; everything he said seemed to make her purse her lips or roll her eyes. She no longer made any effort to be pleasant. He had long ago stopped trying to make her laugh or even smile. But did she always have to be such a damned cold fish? Was not a wife supposed to be supportive of her man—to be loyal and stand behind him, admire him, make him feel wanted and welcome when he came home, be warm and inviting in bed, and generous with her affection? Standing around awkwardly trying to think of something to say was not what he expected married life to be.
He regretted not accepting Lady Smythe-Hamilton’s invitation to stay for supper. But no, that situation was delicate; his lordship must not feel any cause for unease. He
smiled despite himself; neither would it hurt for the lady to know she had a rival. He remembered the pettish look on her ladyship’s face when he declined her invitation, implying an eagerness to return to home, hearth, and wife. Besides, he needed Elizabeth’s cooperation, and he knew it would take some time and effort on his part to secure it.
“You are home early,” she finally said.
“I am.” He took a seat beside her on the sofa, still in the dark. “I thought I would leave everything to come home and have supper with my lovely wife.”
“It was bread and cheese. I went to the butcher today, and he refused to extend any further credit, so you may as well get used to it. And I ate an hour ago.”
“Oh darling, do not be like that.” He gently placed his hand on hers. “I know I have been neglecting you lately. This damn scheme of Smythe-Hamilton’s is taking much longer than he implied when he asked me to assist him.”
“Trouble finding enough gullible investors?” She shifted slightly in her seat, just enough to move her hand away from his.
He pressed his lips together and took a breath, willing himself not to react.
“Not at all.” He struggled to keep his tone light. “We have quite a few who are interested, but you know how the rich are. Not only do they want to be courted and made much of, they seem to think one needs to prove how much they do not need their money before they are willing to part with any of it.”
He waited for some sign of agreement, acknowledgement, or even that she had merely heard a damn word he said, but there was only silence.