Clouds Over Pemberley

by Walter Oleksy

  Another off-handed compliment, Sean thought, enjoying it.

  Wickham laughed again, then asked, “What of my attire should you like if we played craps now and you won?”

  “I’m very good at the sport. You could possibly forfeit your entire Hussar’s uniform.” “Craps could be a very earthy sport,” said Wickham with a sly grin, then said, somberly, “So you are in town after a funeral.”

  “My father, a clergyman, was lecturing in London when he had a fatal heart attack. My sister and I knew that he had a close friend in this area who also is a clergyman. We asked the parson to preside over Father’s funeral, and he agreed. The funeral took place at Hunsford just yesterday.”

  “The parson was by no chance Mr. Collins?”

  Sean feigned surprise. “The very same. Do you know him?” “He married my wife Lydia and me. We know him quite well. He is to inherit her parents’ home when her father passes on, according to British law since he is the only surviving male heir.”

  “Mr. Collins has been most kind to me and my sister.”

  “Ýour sister is much younger, perhaps a child?” Wickham hoped not.

  “I am just two years older. She is in her late teens.” Wonderful, Wickham told himself. He liked young women, especially those in their mid or late teens. His wife was still yet a teenager, although he had already lost interest in her. Pursuit gave him more pleasure than perhaps even conquest. He was a man full of passion, he thought. One grows old so fast. One must make the most use of the present.

  “The parson and his wife introduced us to friends of theirs, the Darcy’s. Perhaps you know them.”

  Wickham frowned. “He is my benefactor, the one who detests me, and she is one of my silly wife’s silly sisters.”

  Sean again pretended surprise. “How interesting. I am so looking forward to meeting the Darcy’s again.” “He and I were very close, when I was a lad. Circumstances drifted us apart, until I… I married. He was, you might say, instrumental in my marriage. He far from objected to it; he encouraged it. Now we are estranged. I lament that I don’t expect us to ever again be even friends. He does not have a very forgiving nature. But I should not say anything that might prejudice you against him, at least before you meet him again. He is very formal, by-the-by. Some people even find him to be cold.”

  Mr. O’Reilly had not found Mr. Darcy to be cold, merely reserved. He wondered about Mr. Darcy’s apparent dislike of Mr. Wickham. The feeling apparently was not mutual on Mr. Wickham’s part. A skeleton in Mr. Wickham’s closet, he suspected. But he would not pry. He loved skeletons in family closets and smiled because there were several of them in his. His smile grew wider as he heard a skeleton currently rattling in his closet, regarding Mr. Collins.

  “Do you play cricket?” Wickham asked. “No. I play tennis, and for more rigorous sport, football, which you also call rugby. In Ireland we take our rugby quite seriously. It is a very rough and tumble body contact sport, as are pugilism and wrestling to which I am also attracted.”

  Wickham smiled, thinking he should be attracted to play a body sport with the Irishman, especially wrestling. Some holds could be positively intimate. Was that why men, even the very virile, engaged in it?

  Wickham said, “My wife should like to meet you and your sister, I’m sure. Before you leave for London, perhaps you could pay us a visit and be our guests. This weekend? Come casual, as you are now dressed.”

  Sean almost never turned down such an invitation and reached out to shake hands on it. Wickham’s firm handshake on Sean was a sign that he genuinely liked him. He was, however, not quite comfortable with the officer as the officer appeared to be with him.

  There was something about Wickham that held Sean back from wanting them to become friends, as the Hussar seemed to want. It had something to do with sincerity, or trust. Maybe something quite personal. He was beginning to suspect what it was, and it did not sit well with him.

  Wickham would not admit it to himself, but felt even uncommonly drawn to the Irishman. To shake it off, he began wondering if his sister was as beautiful as her brother was handsome. He decided that could not be possible. He could not be so fortunate.

  He likes me, Sean felt assured. Or at least my attire. Or perhaps me in them. They would get to know each other better soon, he was certain. Wickham estimated that Mr. O’Reilly was not of his class, but it did not ultimately matter. The Irish lad would make congenial company, at least for a weekend, and he hoped longer. It comforted him again, to think of the lad’s sister. It helped to ease his conflicted desire to express his feelings for the Irishman more definitely. If his sister were anywhere near as handsome as her brother, he might enjoy the best of all possible worlds. To him, there were two. Or, perhaps, only one. But which one, he was not yet entirely certain. Wickham had read Voltaire’s Candide, despite his limited ability to read in French. He read it because he heard that it was witty, short, and above all naughty. Its repeated phrase of living in “the best of all possible worlds” was what he mainly got out of the book, and it remained with him almost constantly.

  Perhaps he had gotten it wrong, from his limited knowledge of French. He thought Voltaire meant that whatever happens to a person, it happens for the best. He applied that to sexual preference and thought that it meant a man need not be limited to loving women alone. There was a second choice, for a man to love another man. Also, a third choice, to love those of both sexes.

  Wickham considered himself to be an English Candide, a young gentleman of the third choice, having an attraction to both beautiful men as well as women. He thought for some time that he should like to live in what Candide's teacher called the best of both possible worlds. To him it meant loving those of both sexes. He knew of such instances among several friends and acquaintances in London. Others he had heard it whispered about were in the military, sportsmen, the law, even the church.

  Those who came close to but did not enter the second world he considered to be in an “English Friendship,” a very close friendship between two gentlemen who were attracted to each other, but never physically demonstrative. He marveled at such restraint to temptation. How temperate could he, would he be?

  Yet, Wickham knew that conventional society required, and the law demanded, that a gentleman be content living in just one world, with a woman, or risked being imprisoned. He shuddered at the thought.

  Sean noticed Wickham shudder. “Perhaps we are sitting in a draught.” Wickham said yes, perhaps, but made no effort to move to another table. He felt temptation, but would just have to be temperate, or at least careful. There worlds within him that he was still learning to live in. His imagination likened it to having one foot in a moored row boat and the other on the dock. He must not lose his balance. It could land him in prison.

  Conflicted as he was, of one thing Wickham was more certain. He also was very good at dice, and at the very least, would win the lad’s blouse off of his back before not too long.

  Sean sensed that Wickham had more than merely friendly or even brotherly feelings for him. He thought, Mr. Wickham, you are trying to seduce me. It was not the first time Sean had sensed that, in several men back in Dublin. He decided he should proceed with caution while conducting further research for Mr. Collins regarding Mr. Wickham.

  Did he think the man was temperate? Not at all. He somehow got the impression that Wickham didn’t have a temperate bone in his body. Did he have any in his own? He thought that might come to a test, doing his research for Mr. Collins.

  “Would you like to feel the material again?”

  Wickham hurried to take advantage of the repeated invitation. He got up and went around him again and repeated his previous occupation.

  Am I enjoying this?, Sean wondered. Intimacy with another man is really not my cup of tea. But I will drink a little, for Mr. Collins’ sake.

  Am I tempting or torturing?, Sean wondered. To what end, he had no idea.

  The lad really is a terrible tease, Wickham thought. I love it. When
they finished their tea and stood up to leave, Mr. O’Reilly felt Mr. Wickham’s hand on his back. It remained there until they were out of the tea room and into the street and parted ways.

  Wickham wondered, I never have been so taken by another young man. What are my true feelings regarding the Irishman? Is it love, or merely desire?

  He decided it was at least a form of love. And there are as many forms of love as there are moments in time.

  Sean thought, He likes me. My research on Mister Wickham has begun. Chapter Eleven Later Saturday morning, Sean and his sister sat in The Royal Arms café before the Darcy’s carriage would arrive to take them to Pemberley. Mr. Wickham, not in uniform but in gentlemanly street attire, fearful that he might lose his Hussar’s uniform at craps, had gone to The Royal Arms in hopes of engaging Mr. O’Reilly in a roll of dice to finally acquire the lad’s shirt. Possessing it had become an obsession. He was pleased to find Mr. O’Reilly with a young woman he presumed to be the lad’s sister. She was of most uncommonly attractive countenance, he assessed.

  “Good morning,” Wickham said, bowing to them both. Sean returned his greeting, although he felt some discomfort in seeing Mr. Wickham again so soon after meeting him. He was glad he was not wearing his silk shirt that morning, but one of lumberjack flannel. Wickham, however, was disappointed in seeing it.

  Without being invited, Wickham pulled up a third chair to the table and sat down.

  “I hope you do not mind me joining you, as I can see you have already finished your repast.” “Not at all,” said Sean, although he did not care for Wickham’s boldness, which he thought to be ungentlemanly. But then, he had from their first meeting not considered Wickham to be much of a gentleman.

  Getting up from his chair, Sean said, “Allow me to introduce my sister.”

  “Pippa, meet Mr. Wickham whom I just met and about whom I have spoken to you.”

  Pippa stood and politely curtsied to Wickham. He bowed to her. She is indeed a beautiful lass, Wickham assessed. A few years even younger than her most handsome brother. He could hardly decide which of them was the more beautiful. Then after a only moment’s thought, decided it was the brother.

  Sitting back down before the Irish, Wickham said, “I should like my wife to meet you both, if you are free, perhaps this evening.”

  Sean thought it would be a suitable occasion in which he and Miss O’Reilly could perhaps do some of Mr. Collins' sermon research, regarding the condition of the Wickham marriage.

  “I’m sure we are happy for the invitation,” said Sean, “but my sister and I are awaiting the Darcy’s carriage, to take us to join them at Pemberley.”

  Wickham, visibly disappointed, said, “Perhaps then, on your return to Meryton. Shall you be staying long at Pemberley?”

  “Only a day or two, I expect,” said Sean.

  “We should not want to impose on Mr. and Mrs. Darcy,” said Pippa. “They are so kind to invite us.”

  “And we will be going to London soon, to perhaps look for a flat, if we do decide to remain in the area.” “I do hope that is so,” said Wickham. “But perhaps you would be able to come with me in my carriage now to my home and meet Mrs. Wickham. If only for a brief visit.”

  It was possible, thought Sean, and he could see that his sister was in agreement.

  “Then by all means, now. But just for an hour at most.”

  “I shall return you here by coach myself,” Wickham assured them. He had hoped that Sean's sister would have to decline his invitation and just her brother would go with him, but resigned himself to be in the company of them both. He really did not care to have Mrs. Wickham meet the Irish but had another motive which regarded just the brother.

  Upon meeting the Irish, Lydia Wickham was immediately taken by their beauty, although she thought, as the Darcy’s had, that they did not look at all like brother and sister. There might be a story there, she thought. Was the girl not his sister but really his mistress? She rather hoped that was their association. Perhaps then she might give the lass competition for the lad of uncommonly attractive countenance. She was almost certain she would win. She loved his masculine shirt and unusual tight-fitting blue trousers. If he was a lumberjack from Ireland, perhaps he would fell her.

  After a little more thought, Lydia decided that, strangely enough, her feelings for the sister were dominant over her brother, handsome as he was. Perhaps if he were in a uniform.

  Yet, Lydia thought that countenance. Perhaps she somewhat divided in her regard for the brother and his companion, whoever she was.

  Miss O’Reilly also was uncommonly fair of could spend some time with her. She still felt

  An hour sped by quickly.

  “I’m afraid the time has flown by,” said Sean. “My sister and I must return to the inn to await the Darcy’s carriage.”

  “We must see each other again,” said Lydia to both the Irish, but her thoughts on the sister. Wickham was again disappointed. There had not been an opportunity for him to exercise his real motive in inviting Mr. O’Reilly to his home. It was a matter upon which he would try again, at the next opportunity. He must have his blouse.

  Wickham rode with the Irish as his coachman drove them back to Meryton.

  Kitty and Mary Bennett had walked from their home to Meryton that morning in hopes of seeing some militia officers there.

  “Look,” said Mary. “Mr. Wickham is in that carriage that just stopped at The Royal Arms.”

  “Sadly, he is not alighting,” observed her sister.

  “But a young couple is. I find them to be most agreeable-looking, do not you?”

  “Indeed,” said Mary, most taken by the young man. “I wish we could be introduced, but Mr. Wickham has already had his coachman drive on.”

  “We must meet them,” said Kitty, more taken by the lass.

  The fellow is too handsome to be of interest to plain me, thought Mary as the Irish entered the inn. “Oh, see!” said Kitty, “some officers are approaching us.” After dropping the Irish off at the inn, Wickham thought he would have the coachman drive on to return him to his home and wife. He then had a change of mind. He had little interest in rejoining his wife that morning, so he had the coachman take him to the flat of a harlot he at times visited in the village. He expected her to be at home that late morning because she worked evenings.

  Upon returning home after spending the rest of the morning with his mistress in Meryton, Wickham did not find his wife there.

  Looking around the house and not finding her, he went to their bed chamber. A note on his pillow drew his attention and he went to it and read it. “Mr. Wickham, I have had enough of you and your adventures with your mistresses. I have left you and hope never to see you again. I will, however, expect you to leave funds with Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for my welfare. If you fail to do so, I shall notify Constable Feeley in Meryton and have you jailed. Meanwhile, I shall begin divorce proceedings.”

  To himself, Wickham said, Good riddance. And we are not yet divorced, so legally you will continue to be my wife and I can support you or not, any way I wish.

  He then went to the kitchen and removed a bottle of brandy from a shelf and began to console himself. How dare any woman, including his wife, run out on him? It was bad for his morale and self-image.

  As Wickham read the note from his wife, the Darcy’s carriage arrived for the O’Reilly’s and they departed for Pemberley.

  “He’s really an ass,” Sean remarked as they rode to Pemberley..

  “I got that impression,” replied Pippa. “He is not a gentleman, although he has the airs of being one.”

  “I believe he is far less than a gentleman. He is a roué. And I do not think he cares about with whom he has adventures.”

  “He seems to be taken with you. Is that, perhaps, what you mean?”

  “In any case, we shall have to exercise caution in our next encounter with Mr. Wickham and his wife, while researching their marriage.”

  “Indeed,” Pippa said. Chapter Twelve


  The O’Reilly’s arrived at Pemberley Saturday afternoon. Upon seeing them again, both Darcy’s thought, if ever I were to fall into temptation… Elizabeth could not help but notice the warm handshake Darcy gave the Irish lad. It was most unusual since he was as a rule cautious in his association with strangers. And they had only just met briefly the day before.

  Pippa regarded Elizabeth similarly. She is not only very agreeable-looking, but has a radiance Pippa had rarely if ever witnessed in someone of her gender. Perhaps some inner beauty of nature and sensibility. How could she keep her mind on the research for Mr. Collins?

  Mr. Darcy showed Mr. O’Reilly to the room he would occupy on his visit. Mr. O’Reilly thought it was more elegant than any he had ever before seen. Elizabeth escorted Miss O’Reilly to her room, across a hall from her brother’s, and the Irish lass thought the same of its elegance.

  The foursome had lunch on a veranda, it being a pleasantly warm afternoon in mid-May. Afterward they took a stroll into Pemberley Park, the ladies conversing ahead like school girls, and the gentlemen behind them, similarly occupied as they got to know each other better.

  A man suddenly bolted out of some bushes and trees, carrying a shotgun.

  “A poacher!” Darcy exclaimed, starting for the man. Sean reached him first and knocked him down with just one firm blow to the jaw. In an instant, the man ran off with his shotgun. The ladies recovered their surprise if not shock and hurried to the gentlemen’s sides.

  “Are you ladies all right?” asked Darcy.

  They said they were. Pippa was quite taken by being called a lady. She had never been regarded as such in Dublin. “Pemberley is a prime target for poachers, with its abundance of game, birds, and fish,” Darcy explained to the Irish. “In England, poaching is punishable by death. The man is fortunate that he escaped us.”

  Sean said, “So too it is in Ireland. In the Wild West of the American colonies, I’ve heard that if one steals another man’s horse and is apprehended, he is most often strung up on the nearest tree and hanged. I do not believe such extreme punishment is inflicted on a man who steals another man’s wife.”