by Gail McEwen
“Almost assuredly, a reduction in sentence. With a worthy sponsor, he could be looking at transportation rather than hanging.”
“Transportation? You mean, to Australia?” The very idea was so strange, like a story out of a popular novel, that she could hardly comprehend such a prospect could be real.
“Yes.”
“And if he is transported, what will become of me?”
“In certain cases, with the support and assurances from the right people, arrangements can be made. A conditional pardon will allow him to work or buy some land… Of course, he could never return to England, but if Mr Darcy agrees to sponsor Mr Wickham with financial backing, he can avoid prison and make a new life for himself…for the both of you.”
“The both of us? You mean I would be exiled with him? He kills a man, and I am forced to share his punishment?”
“No, no, my dear Mrs Wickham.” Potter did not hide his impatience. “That is entirely the wrong way to look at it. You are not forced to accompany him, you are allowed to.”
“A new life? In Australia? As what?”
“Depending on the generosity of the sponsor, perhaps you can purchase enough land for a small farm. Otherwise, there are employment opportunities as a labourer for him and in a domestic capacity for you. But the point is, your husband would be alive, and you would be together.”
“Labourer? Domestic?”
The barrister raised his hand to stop her ramblings.
“Not to worry, not to worry, Mrs Wickham. I doubt you will be forced to stoop to such low means of survival.”
He reached into his coat pocket and handed her a folded sheet of paper as he rose to leave.
“Mr Wickham requests that you bring him these items, and he has asked that I not approach Mr Darcy until the two of you have spoken. Possibly, he believes a petition from the weaker sex will have more influence over the gentleman, and he no doubt will coach you on the best way to address the situation. I shall wait for your word before I proceed; however, I advise you not to delay. I have other obligations to attend that require a great deal of my time and attention, and Smythe-Hamilton’s family in Shropshire is clamouring for a speedy trial. It may very well be over before the necessary arrangements can be made.”
* * *
Aside from a clean change of clothes, there was nothing on George’s list that Elizabeth could provide, but she went anyway. She did not want to go, but for some reason she felt the need to face him, to hear what he had to say. The walk to Newgate took the better part of the morning, but she was unwilling to use any of the little money she had on hand to hire a ride despite the cold day.
She was nearly frozen through when she arrived in the warden’s office, but she forgot all about that when George was brought into the room. After four days’ imprisonment, he was so much altered that she doubted she would have recognised him if she had seen him on the street. His hair was matted, his face and clothes were filthy, and his normally confident arrogance had disappeared. The keeper who escorted him leaned against the wall with crossed arms and watched their interview.
“Did you bring the money?” George demanded without preamble.
“No. There isn’t any to spare.”
“But I need money! You’ve no idea what it’s like in here.” His eyes narrowed in his dirty face. “Have you spent it all?”
“I haven’t spent anything!” she defended herself. “You never let me have any.”
“What about the jewellery then? What did you get for it?”
“You know as well as I do that all the jewellery was sold long ago. This is all I could bring.” She thrust out the bundle she carried. “These are the clothes you wanted.”
“Well, at least you managed one thing.” He snatched the package from her. “I’ll need these for the trial. But I require money!”
As she stood there looking at him, Elizabeth wondered at the absence of guilt and remorse she had expected to feel. Instead, she was merely irritated.
“Unless you want to write a letter giving me permission to access the funds held by the bank, I have none to give you.”
“Why would I do that? I’ll need all that once I get out. Just go to Darcy; he’ll give you some.”
“And why would I go to Mr Darcy for money?”
“You know why.” George looked at her shrewdly. “The same reason you’ll convince him to be my advocate before the court. Did not Mr Potter tell you about that? Without Darcy’s help, I am a dead man.”
Elizabeth turned away. “After all you have done to him, you cannot expect him to speak for you.”
“Of course he will. For you. If you ask him, he will do it.”
She kept her face averted.
“You are my wife, Elizabeth. You must do everything you can.” He took her by the shoulder and turned her to face him. Peering intently into her eyes, he lowered his voice to prevent the keeper from overhearing him. “Everything you can.”
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
“You know exactly what I mean. I know what he feels for you… I know what he wants from you. Give it to him. I won’t hold it against you.”
“You would have me — ?”
“I am going to hang! Do you think your delicate sensibilities matter one fig to me at a time like this? I don’t give a damn who you have to fuck to get me out of it! Just do it! I’d offer you to the whole ward down there if— Hey, Kemp,” he called to the keeper, “fancy a tumble with my wife?”
“Stop it, George!” Elizabeth shouted, alarmed.
“Oh, don’t worry about him.” George’s face twisted with desperation. “His appetites run in another direction. I should know; it’s the only reason I’m still alive.”
Elizabeth winced. “For heaven’s sake, don’t say such things!”
“I do what I have to do, and so must you. And don’t try to tell me you don’t want to. You’ve always wanted him — do not think I don’t know—so I’m really doing you a favour, aren’t I? You’re all alike, you women. Just like that stupid baggage who got me into this mess. Couldn’t keep her legs closed, wasn’t satisfied ruining the life of just one man but had to trick…to scheme and connive to—”
“That is enough!” Elizabeth started for the door. “I am not going to listen to any more of this outrageous—” George grabbed her shoulder and whirled her around while Kemp simply watched with a smirk.
“Don’t.” He suddenly became reasonable, calm even. “Elizabeth. Forgive me. Desperate circumstances make a desperate man. Please…” His grasp on her shoulder turned into a sort of caress, and he managed to conjure up that charismatic smile that had long since lost its charm for her. “Please…darling…the trial is tomorrow; there isn’t time to be delicate about scruples. You have to do this. For me. You are the only one who can save me.”
Extricating herself from his grasp, Elizabeth muttered that she would do what she could and bolted for the door. George rushed after, grabbing her again and pulling her back even as she frantically reached for the latch. The keeper ran over, shouting obscenities, but George would not release her. She stumbled, falling against his chest as Kemp pulled on them both. George wrapped his arms around her, begging her to save him, crying as she struggled to get away. Kemp showered George’s back and head with brutal blows while Elizabeth wrenched against his tight hold. At last, she pulled free and ran from the room, leaving the sounds of shouting and struggle still going on behind her.
* * *
Darcy had walked all night, hoping that somewhere in the shadows of London a solution lurked that would serve his conscience, protect those he cared for, and yet, somehow, give him the desires of his heart. Family honour and the demands of justice pointed clearly in one direction, but what about mercy, compassion, and Christian charity? Could he stand by and let a man be put to death when it was in his power to prevent it?
His cousin had no problem with it. Fitzwilliam’s sense of justice was absolute, no doubt from his years in the military: Wickham was
guilty; therefore, Wickham should and would pay the penalty for his crimes. Darcy could not view it in such black and white terms although he wished he could. He wished his desire to see Wickham hang sprang from an impartial evaluation of the facts of the case rather than being tainted by his personal disgust with the man and a need to see him pay, not for killing Lord Smythe-Hamilton, but for what he had done to Georgiana and Elizabeth.
Elizabeth.
His feelings in that quarter were equally confused, though in truth, he had no obligation to her. She was Wickham’s wife, Bennet’s daughter and Bingley’s sister, but right or wrong, he was in love with her, and she was on his mind even more than Georgiana. His sister was safe and on her way to a happy future. Elizabeth, however, would only be free if…
There was only one way out for her, and that was for him to remain silent. If he stepped in to save Wickham, Elizabeth was as trapped and wretched as ever. While walking in the cold darkness of the London streets, he knew that remaining silent was exactly what he wanted to do, and without admitting as much to himself, he wished for a way to justify that course while allowing him to preserve a clear conscience.
In the morning, the litany started anew, with the answer no more forthcoming than in any of the previous repetitions. It was useless; he did not know what to do, and when faced with the moment of decision, he did not know what he would do.
* * *
As Elizabeth walked home from the disastrous meeting with George, she, too, wrestled with a decision. Should she approach Mr Darcy as George demanded? The previous day, she had been certain Darcy would return, but she now realised he would not. It was all so hopeless and impossible. How could she go to him and beg for her husband’s life? Would he listen if she did?
Did she even want to try?
Cold horror stabbed her heart at the question that had so easily entered her mind. How could she even consider such a thing? Was she not obligated by every moral and ethical principle to do everything possible to save her husband’s life? But the memory of that awful interview, the knowledge of the degradations to which he had sunk to save himself, and his desire and expectation that she degrade herself in the same way — how could she live with that? How could she be expected to leave everything behind and exile herself to an alien world with only George to rely on?
Because she was his wife, and this was her punishment for being stupid and headstrong. She had already lost so much because of that man — her youth, her family, her self-respect. What did it matter if she lost everything else — her home, her integrity, her very self?
But she did not think she could stand before Mr Darcy and beg for George’s life. There were too many raw feelings between them, and she could not be sure she would be strong enough to withstand that look in his eyes as she tried to do her duty. She would preserve what little dignity she had left.
The short winter day was over by the time Elizabeth reached Castle Street, but she stopped at the stationer’s on the corner and, with Mr Darcy’s credit, purchased four sheets of fine white paper, a pen and a bottle of ink. At home, she went directly to the candle box and took out two fresh, wax candles and proceeded to write a calm, dispassionate request that Mr Darcy do his Christian duty and speak for Mr Wickham at his trial.
She stared at the folded and sealed document, turning it over in her hands, wondering what Mr Darcy would think, or do, about it—wondering whether she had enough money to pay a boy to deliver it. Digging through George’s pockets for loose coins, she found a banking receipt and was immediately infuriated. Another withdrawal of £100—probably used to pay that wretched seamstress who had made such a mess of her dress. But what had become of the rest? How could he go through money as if it meant nothing while they either starved or fed themselves at another’s cost? Hatred welled up in her as she tore through his pockets, and although she found the coins she needed in one of his waistcoats, she contemplated throwing the letter she had just so carefully written into the fire instead.
As she walked downstairs, however, she had another idea. Putting the letter and money aside, she took a kitchen knife and knelt before George’s trunk under the stairs. After several awkward attempts, and one slip that stabbed her palm, she managed to pry open the lock. With a strip of cloth wrapped around her bleeding hand, she dug through George’s private papers until she found the banking documents. Clearing a spot on the table, she set to work with much greater concentration than before. After several hours of practice, she was able to produce a passable copy of George’s signature. She looked upon it with a smile of satisfaction, pulled out the last sheet of paper, and started writing once again.
Chapter 17
The dinner invitation was for eight o’clock, but an excited and nervous Georgiana arrived two hours early in order to pester the bemused kitchen staff with suggestions, requests, and questions on the menu.
“Are the Franklins so hard to please?” Darcy was forced to ask as she rearranged the centrepieces for the third time.
“No, not at all!” Georgiana seemed surprised. “Why do you ask?”
Darcy said nothing but sent a look to the bowl spilling over with flowers and greenery that she still held in her hands.
“Oh,” she blushed. “It is just that at school, Grace — that is, Miss Franklin would tell stories about how thorough her mother was whenever they had a dinner party. She minded every detail and insisted the tables be arranged precisely. She was never unkind about it—I do not want you to think that—but she wanted everything to be the way she wanted it to be.”
Georgiana put the bowl down and turned it this way and that, trying to show the flowers to their best advantage. “I just do not want to appear that I am…wanting in any way as a hostess.”
He reminded her that Mrs Farris had been doing a fine job of managing Darcy dinner parties in London for as long as both could remember, even to the satisfaction of their mother, who had been most particular.
“But you”—he smiled—“will hardly impress anyone if you are still in your daytime wear when our guests arrive. Go up and prepare, and I shall oversee the rest of the arrangements with a sharp eye.”
It was with a mixture of panic and embarrassment that she left him to do just that and clattered upstairs to her old room to change.
Precisely at eight o’clock, the bell rang, and the Franklins and Mr Tibbet were shown in.
Mr and Mrs Franklin were a kind and handsome couple. Miss Franklin was a sweet and friendly girl, Mr Tibbet was good-natured, and Robert Franklin, although practically spilling over with good humour, was much calmer than when Darcy had seen him last. Presumably, he had avoided the coffee pot that day.
It did Darcy good to see Georgiana act so engaging and charming as she played hostess. It was obvious that she was anxious for them all to get on well together, and it pleased him to see the effort she put forth to ensure everyone was comfortable and conversing. Watching the shy glances she occasionally sent in the direction of Mr Robert Franklin nearly made him shake his head in wonder and disbelief. It was as if the episode with Wickham never happened.
The party spent the time before dinner becoming better acquainted, interspersing polite yet searching questions amidst talk of hunting, the weather, and the upcoming wedding of Miss Franklin and Mr Tibbet. The interrogation, particularly from the elder Mr Franklin, increased once they were seated at the table, growing less general and more explicit, and Darcy had the vague impression that he was being evaluated for suitability. He was torn between amusement and feeling slightly defensive of the Darcy name.
“Our family is an old and honoured one,” he found himself saying over the soup course. “When I was a boy, my father told many rousing stories of how the d’Arcys and Fitzwilliams came over from Normandy to aid King William in subduing the barbarians of the North.”
He wondered at the amused looks that Robert Franklin and his sister exchanged across the table until their father, after deliberately dabbing his mouth with his napkin, replied.
“Hmm,” he said. “Newcomers then? We Franklins were already here when the upstart interloper invaded. And from the stories my father told me, we did not much care for being subdued by upstart Norman invaders.”
An uncomfortable second passed, and he could sense his sister’s uneasiness. He tried to think of something to say to placate the old man when the elder Franklin cracked a smile.
“However, I believe we can let bygones be bygones. Our family has prospered despite the interference.”
“That, Mr Franklin, is readily apparent. Your family enjoys a fine reputation. It seems that we are both justifiably proud of our heritage.”
“It would seem so. As it says in the Proverbs: ‘A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches.’ I knew of your father, you know. I think he would agree with me.”
“As do I,” Darcy said, feeling that he had just passed some sort of test.
This seemed to satisfy the older man, and with the aid of the ladies, the conversation soon turned back to the subject of weddings.
* * *
After dinner, however, once the ladies had retired to the drawing room, Franklin was more direct.
“I was surprised to hear your name bandied about in relation with this unfortunate business surrounding Lord Smythe-Hamilton. I do not generally pay any mind to gossip, you must know, but in this case, I cannot deny that it caught my attention.”
Darcy noticed Robert Franklin sink a little in his chair. So that was it. It truly was an appraisal of Darcy’s, and by default, Georgiana’s, worthiness to be connected to the Franklin family. A quick glance at Mr Tibbet’s sympathetic face showed that he too had gone through the process and had not enjoyed it. So be it. His pride and resentment had stood in the way of too many happy alliances for him to continue in that vein. He would be as conciliatory as necessary to see to his sister’s happiness.
“Was his lordship known to you?” Darcy asked.
“By reputation only. And I must say, that reputation was not necessarily a favourable one.”