Mr. Bingley frowned, scratching behind an ear. “Not at all. But I was in my garden this morning. I must have brushed against some poison ivy.” Chapter Ten Sean finished kitchen work at the inn in Meryton as his sister sat and talked midmorning Saturday with the Bingley’s at Netherfield. He went to their rooms, cleaned up, then went downstairs and out into the town. It reminded him of some Irish towns but, to him, it lacked their charm. Not a geranium in a window box and, for that matter, no window boxes at all.
He wore the bluejeans and billowy white silk blouse he would wear in visiting the Darcy’s a few hours hence. He enjoyed the looks of women, men also, when he strolled around the town in it and his tight-fitting trousers which were foreign to everyone. He also enjoyed being admired for his uncommonly attractive countenance. If you’ve got it, why not?
A tall and almost equally handsome young soldier came into his view a few hundred feet ahead and their eyes met. He always had an affinity for uniforms. If not for the lack of freedom such employment would entail, he should like to be a soldier and wear a handsome uniform, and of course it would be that of an officer. He would be quite attractive to young women if he wore the uniform of the young soldier approaching. He was attired as quite the dandy.
Was he in Russia? The young man coming toward him was not in the uniform of the British home guard militia of scarlet tunic and white breeches, which was attractive in itself although much less showy. The tall, stalwart, almost swaggering soldier was apparently an officer important enough to have had a uniform specially made for himself.
Sean recognized the uniform as being a copy of a Hussars’ uniform of the Russian cavalry that he had seen in a magazine. The tunic had rows and rows of gold buttons horizontally across the chest. To top it off, his black felt hat was tall and a grand white plume like a cockade at the top aimed skyward. A dashing cape with more gold buttons over his right shoulder and his trousers were dark blue with a wide red leg stripe that clung to his long extremities. His boots were high and glossy black leather, decorated with a piping of yet more gold.
Altogether, Mr. O’Reilly thought the uniform was quite dashing and befitting to such a handsome young man. His package was noticeably pronounced in the tight-fitting uniform pants, wearing himself on the left side as he came toward Mr. O’Reilly.
Mr. O’Reilly came close to at least chuckling, but did have to admit he admired the uniform and should like to have one like it. For what purpose, he could not wonder, unless it would be to attract beautiful young ladies. Was that the approaching officer’s purpose? He supposed it was. He isn’t carrying a saber, but perhaps has a Hussar’s pistol hidden under his tunic. All he needs is a brass band to herald his coming.
The approaching officer felt he had to meet the young stranger in town, feeling more than a little attracted to him. He could not keep from admiring his silk shirt or his manly-looking tight blue trousers.
“I detest having tea alone,” the officer said. “Would you do me the pleasure of joining me, as my guest?” In point of fact, the officer detested tea, but decided the repast to be an acceptable ruse in order to meet the young man and spend some time with him. Perhaps he might discern his personal sensibilities, should he prove to be so fortunate.
“I should be pleased to join you at tea,” replied Sean. “I always want to be of service to our majesty’s men.” In truth, that seldom was the case, but he rarely passed up an invitation for a free tea or meal of any duration. He also had not come upon the officer by chance, but had followed Mr. Collins’ list of those to be tempted for his sermon and knew his comings and goings.
The soldier selected a table at a tea shop where they sat in seclusion. “Tea for two, please,” the Hussar said to a young waitress, sizing her up but dismissing her as not being attractive enough. “And two for tea,” he said to his guest with a smile.
When the Hussar removed his tall hat, Sean saw that the officer’s black hair was entirely curly, though his mustache was thin. The combination looked most becoming, he thought.
“I’m Sean O’Reilly, from Ireland, the son of a clergyman. Just in town for a few days, after the funeral of my late father.”
“My condolences. I’m George Wickham, and live near Meryton with my wife at Mansfield Park.”
It confirmed Sean’s conjecture that the officer was one of the Bennet sisters’ spouses. Lydia’s husband.. Sean never had heard of Mansfield Park but doubted that the Wickham’s lived in a tent under some trees. The officer must be wealthy and live in a grand manor house. Gentlemen had no occupation, they just enjoyed themselves in one leisure pursuit or another. He wondered in what pursuits the officer enjoyed himself and suspected at least one had to do with the opposite sex. Or, perhaps, not.
Wickham was very good-looking, he thought. Perhaps two or more years older than he. His deep brown eyes were piercing, as if they were reading his mind.
“Are you a lieutenant? You’re an officer, obviously, from your uniform.”
“A captain,” said Wickham pridefully, but not on active duty,” lighting a cigarette and then puffing on it, inhaling the smoke. “Would you care for one?”
“No thank you, sir. It’s akin to the ‘reefer madness’ I hear is going on in the American colonies.”
“Reefer madness?” “An intoxicating weed called marijuana. ‘Mary Jane’ for short. It is said to have healing properties, although most are taking it for its feeling of euphoria. But I read the other day that one fellow at Harvard University said the weed had absolutely no effect at all on him, other than he felt like dancing au natural in Harvard Yard. He was a graduate student in chemistry. When arrested for possession of a narcotic, he said he was merely testing its chemical properties.”
“I should like to try it,” said Wickham. “Although my passion is brandy. Together with a few other passions.”
“I have a few of my own,” said Sean.
He sensed that Wickham was nervous about something and perhaps smoking calmed him. “I never have taken up the cigarette habit. I did try it once, when a friend in Dublin offered me one. I said ‘Just give me half a cigarette, because I am a beginner.’”
Wickham choked, with laughter. The handsome Irish lad was very entertaining.
“My friend cut one cigarette in half and I puffed on it, but then choked and put it out. You choked just then. Does smoking irritate your throat?” “Not unless I think about it. I smoke so as to stop fretting about things.” Sean then wondered what Wickham was fretting about as he saw him reach inside his tunic and withdraw a flask.
“Brandy?” Wickham asked, offering the flask to Sean. “Have some in your tea? I find it gives tea a pleasant lift.” “Thank you, sir, but no,” Sean said, surprised at anyone wanting to drink brandy so early in the day. He knew a few in Dublin who did, but did not feel the need himself.
He watched as the officer took a deep swallow from the flask, then replaced it inside his tunic. Wickham put out the cigarette as it had burned low, and lit another.
Smoking must be an expensive habit, except for the wealthy, Sean thought. A pack, he heard, cost sixpence or more. Was Wickham wealthy? He wondered if that was the officer’s condition.
Wickham explained, “I’m part of the home guard militia, in the unlikely event that Bonaparte and his frogs come marching to town. I had to report to our unit’s commander Colonel Forster in uniform this morning, as I do every Saturday, to be briefed on the latest developments in the war with Napoleon and the one in the American colonies.”
“Foreign wars such as those presently on the Continent and in the colonies hold no interest to me. I feel that Ireland is already an occupied country. If I were conscripted, I would relocate to Australia and hide in the Outback.”
Wickham shuddered. “I’ve heard it is a most disagreeable desert-like distant part of the world. If I were conscripted into the regular army, I should relocate to Paris and live in Montmartre and take up art, among other pastimes and pleasures.”
Sean knew nothing at al
l of Paris or, for that matter, art. He knew little of the British Empire’s war with Napoleon, and nothing at all of the war with the American colonists that began the year before, in 1812.
“Is the war in the colonies another dispute about tea?” “No,” Wickham replied with a chuckle. “My militia commander said it started with British ships harassing American ships in the Atlantic. The British captains began impressing those with voices like Englishmen to serve on their ships to fight the French in the conflict against Bonaparte over who will rule the Western world. Such a futile pursuit that is, and a bore besides. Who would want to rule the world, anyway?”
“Not I. Trying to keep a woman from ruling me is work enough.”
“You are wise for your age. The war in the colonies has since escalated, as many wars often do, into another test of the colonists’ independence from their mother country. Much ado about nothing, if you ask me. My commander said he had no idea if either war will last another week or a year more. The American President said he expected the colonial war would last only a day or two. No one in London seems to know, either.”
“Those who agree to war seldom do,” Sean said, “since they are not in the line of fire.” “It was ever so. Those who declare for war ought to be required to fight it with a rifle. And their sons as well. I doubt their daughters would ever be sent to war, or go voluntarily.”
“That would be the day. I wonder if Mr. Darcy shares our prejudices against war.”
“I believe he does. He is not just prejudiced against me. We had a falling out recently. He detests me.”
Sean wondered why that was, but did not ask. He thought his research for Mr. Collins would reveal that, in time.
He then ventured to ask, “You have no strong feelings of loyalty to your king and country?”
Wickham sat back in his chair. “I have strong feelings of loyalty only to myself.”
“If it is a secret, I shall keep it.”
“Please do.” They discoursed more about war, and Wickham said, “I am most emphatically against war. Some wars appear to be endless, going back to the days of the Crusades, or even before, so long as people would rather hate than love.”
“For some, that seems to be their dominant nature.”
“I far prefer love.” Sean said, “Ladies must swoon seeing you in your splendid uniform.” Wickham recalled one lady in particular who had swooned at first sight of him in his Hussar’s uniform. She was Lydia, the youngest of the daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. The girl most likely. It had led to his falling out with Mr. Darcy who had bribed him into marrying the silly girl. He had been more attracted to the Bennet’s second eldest, Elizabeth, but nothing had come of it. She chose another, a wealthy if proud man of his acquaintance.
Indeed, Wickham thought, the Irish lad must make ladies swoon no matter what he wore. If only he himself were blond. It might give him an extra edge with ladies, although he thought he had done quite well with the fairer sex thus far. Marriage to Miss Lydia Bennet had put a handsome roof over his head and given him an allowance from his once friend Mr. Darcy that enabled him to continue gambling and living a life of assured idleness. What more could a gentleman want?
Putting out his again burned-down cigarette, Wickham lit another. Sean studied him more. He still seemed rather nervous or agitated about something. Perhaps now even more-so.
Still admiring Sean's handsome mane, Wickham said, “I shouldn’t think there are many blond Irishmen. Aren’t they often red-haired?
“Just between us, my father sometimes dallied. One was a blonde.”
“To dally is divine. She must have been very beautiful.” Sean took that as being by way a compliment to his looks. He put the officer down as being an odd fellow. Wickham felt rarely conflicted regarding his tablemate. He wanted to come right out with it and tell the Irishman he was the handsomest young man he had ever seen, much less met. But there is a line gentlemen do not cross in their relations with other men, and he dared not cross it, for fear of losing a friend. And, despite even such short acquaintance, he felt he wanted Mr. O'Reilly not only to be his friend, but a very close one.
The feeling surprised, then almost distressed Wickham. But it also delighted him. He lived by delight and anticipation, and imagined both to be in his future with the Irishman, if he was temperate with him. He didn’t want to say or do anything that might frighten him away. But he didn’t think the Irish lad frightened easily.
Wickham took his flask out again and took another deep swallow of brandy. Sean again began to study Wickham, trying to understand what he was thinking. He sensed that Wickham wanted to tell him something, but hesitated. Something perhaps very personal. He always had felt he possessed an ability to get inside another person’s mind regarding their feelings for him, whether they sincerely liked him or not. He had come to believe already in their short acquaintance that Wickham liked him. But he would have to be careful of how he would react to Wickham in the future. And there would be a future regarding him. He did not think he had to put forth much if any energy in that direction. Wickham would do that.
“You are a gentleman, I can see,” said Sean.
“Officers do not become officers in the British Army until they are first gentleman.”
The Irishman was amused at the reply. “British gentlemen have no occupation, I understand. They live on inherited wealth. Do you mind me asking if that is the case with you? I don’t know any wealthy people, but should like to live like them.”
“I have not inherited wealth, nor do I possess any of my own. A friend's husband supports us both. That does not bother me in the least. I have pride, but not enough that it interferes with my life or conscience. I doubt I have much conscience. Does it surprise you for me to admit that? Why I am so open with you, I can’t fathom. We just met.”
“I am not really surprised, although I hardly know you. But in case you’re wondering, I have a conscience. I admit that it sometimes gets in the way of me thoroughly enjoying and feeling good about myself. My sister and I both tend to be flirts.”
“I enjoy flirting. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.” “As to your openness, I seem to bring out the personal in people. Be assured that even if we were to meet again, which is unlikely since I will be moving to London very soon, I would not gossip about you. Gossip may be like mother’s milk to many, but to me it would curdle on my lips.”
Wickham laughed at hearing that. He was enjoying Sean’s company tremendously, for reasons he was not totally sure or understood; feelings that he more likely knew but was fighting against recognizing.
“So you are one of the ‘idle rich,’ even if you are not exactly rich yourself,” said Sean as they finished their tea and Wickham ordered another pot. “How do the idle rich spend their time?”
“I enjoy gambling, of any sort. Cards, dice, billiards, betting on horse races, will it rain tomorrow. The full spectrum of speculation. And I enjoy fine clothes. Your shirt, for example. I can't take my eyes off of it.”
Sean pinched out the front of his silk shirt with two fingers and nodded. “I won this just last week playing craps in a pub in Dublin.”
“Craps?” asked Wickham, lighting another cigarette.
“That’s a game of wagering with dice we play in Ireland. Most often for money, but sometimes for other things. You don’t play it here?” “I am familiar with the game, but not with what it is called in Ireland. And here we generally wager not with our clothes but with currency. Or property. Some have won or lost great estates with the roll of the little dotted cubes. I’m still waiting for that good fortune. I have a very nice house nearby, although not as large as I’d like, and do not own, but rent it.”
“Regarding my blouse, the fellow who had it on lost his roll of the die and was unable to cover his wager, so he forfeited it. It may be one size too large for me, but I like it just the same.”
“It looks just the right size on you. I detest blouses that cling to the chest. Yours has an attractive freedom ab
out it.”
Wickham agonized. How am I possibly going to keep my hands off of his shirt and him? He seems really taken by my shirt, Sean thought, finding it amusing. Would he take advantage of Wickham’s interest in it to lead him into temptation? With what aim in mind, he had no idea. He decided to go for it.
“It’s very soft silk. Should you like to feel the material?”
“You are most kind.” Wickham nearly leaped out of his chair, getting to his feet. He walked around the table and, leaning over behind Sean, reached down and clutched both Irish breasts, then began stroking over the silk.
As much as Wickham felt pleasured in the moment, he was thinking of another. Someone for whom he had deep-felt sentiments, but to whom he could not express his repressed feelings. Such feelings, a doctor had told him, could be very unhealthful. But what could he do? He dare not reveal his true feelings to the person he most loved but knew he could not have.
“You are a very fit young man,” Wickham ventured to say, short of telling Sean he was beautiful.
Sean smiled. “I run, lift weights, and eat a lot of spinach.”
Sean allowed the intimacy and enjoyed the compliments, thinking, To tempt this fellow would be child's play. But to what end? Wickham spent some time in his occupation on Sean, until the Irish saw some gentlemen at another table look their way and said, “I believe we are attracting attention.”
Wickham, reluctantly leaving off on Sean, returned to his seat.
“I have also admired your trousers. I have never seen any like them.” He tried to think of words to describe them. Two words were most elusive, to do with temperature and stimulation, most likely of an erotic nature. Was he naughty to think so?
Sean explained about their canvas tent origins and that they were called bluejeans or Levi’s. “I also won them at craps, although to another dice roller.”
Wickham said, “I do believe the Levi’s are on to something. They certainly are becoming on you. I should buy several pair.” Wickham then spoke more on gambling. “Here we lose our shirts in other ways, most often at cards. I should like to play you for yours. Cards or craps. I admired your blouse from afar and even more as we sit together. But I wouldn’t look so well in it as you do.”
Clouds Over Pemberley Page 8