Mr Darcy's Struggle

by Martine J Roberts

  “Right you are governor.”

  The driver's eyes lit up at the prospect of such a tip. He drew the horse to a stop about twenty yards from the house and jumped down to open the door for Darcy whilst pulling the cap from his head.

  As he walked the few paces to the house, he took stock of his surroundings. The stench from the open sewers assaulted his nostrils, and women of easy virtue loitered in the shadows and doorways. The buildings were run-down, and the signs of overcrowding were all around. Rubbish and litter abounded, and street urchins were begging off anyone not dressed in rags. The house itself was solid in foundation, with the lower half being brick-built, but the upper floors were made of timber, and covered with flaking paint and grime from years of neglect. The windows were small, and the glass was filthy, yet there appeared to be some semblance of curtains hanging, probably to forestall prying eyes. Darcy stood as close to the door as he could without actually touching it, then rapped several times with his cane.

  Presently the door opened, and there before him stood Mrs Younge. She tried to shut the door in his face, but Darcy was too quick. Putting his foot in the frame, he placed his gloved hand on the door and then with little effort on his part, forced it open and entered.

  “Madam I see your fortunes have changed since last we met?” he said in a sardonic drawl as he removed his hat. She looked every inch her forty years. Her dress was several seasons old and was covered with a sallow, grey apron that had once been white. Also, he noticed, she had taken to, or maybe resumed wearing rouge on her cheeks. It clogged into her wrinkled skin and pores, giving her a ghoulish, burnt look.

  “It is hard to find a position without references as you well know, Mr Darcy,” she said venomously.

  Not wanting to linger any longer than need be, Darcy came straight to the point.

  “Well, maybe we can find some financial remedy for any inconvenience you have suffered, imaginary or otherwise,” he said quietly as he reluctantly rested his hat on a dusty side table.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  As I suspected! Darcy thought; her loyalty can be brought, so much for honour amongst thieves.

  “I am looking for a mutual acquaintance of ours Mrs Younge. George Wickham. Do you know where he is?”

  He feigned indifference as he inspected the silver lion’s head on his cane.

  “I might,” she replied.

  His enquiry meant there could be the possibility to make some easy money, she thought. It would serve him right and recompense her for how he had dismissed her last year, with no reference and no wages.

  “I will give you," he paused, and looked her up and down as if mulling her worth, "ten pounds to reveal his whereabouts, and to sooth any injuries your reputations may have suffered.”

  Knowing this was more money than she could earn in a year renting out rooms, he was still not surprised when she asked for more.

  “Twenty and not a penny less; that is what it will cost you to loosen my tongue sir, and I prefer guineas,” she said greedily.

  “Very well, guineas. I will give you half now and the remainder when I have confirmed your information. But, and mark my words well, if you forewarn Wickham, and he runs, not only will I not honour the second payment, but I will summons the police and have you brought before a magistrate, is that clear?” His eyes narrowed as he waited for her reply.

  She knew this was no idle threat, but if she gave up Wickham, she could keep the twenty guineas for herself. Besides, Wickham had become a liability; he was always drunk and ranting on about how Darcy had ruined his life and plotting revenge. It had grown tiresome.

  “Quite clear, sir, Wickham has become more of a liability than an asset; I am done with him.”

  Darcy pulled out the purse he had filled before leaving Grosvenor Square. Mrs Younge held out her hand, but Darcy would not relinquish it until he had an address. Only then did he place the coins into her outstretched palm.

  With the address safely in his possession, he started to walk towards the waiting hackney carriage. Suddenly he heard her shout after him.

  “Give my regards to Miss. Darcy.”

  As she slammed the door, he could hear her laughing.

  Momentarily his steps faltered, and he gripped his cane till it left an impression on the leather of his glove. Keep walking, he told himself, just keep walking.

  Once inside the carriage, he asked the driver to take him to Richard’s headquarters where he left a prescribed note and waited.

  A few moments later, Richard bounded down the steps and joined him in the carriage.

  “You have some intelligence, what have you discovered?” Richard asked.

  “Mrs Younge was most willing to give up Wickham’s whereabouts for twenty guineas, and although it is not a fortune, it is worth every penny if correct. I am going there directly, but I need to request some assistance from you, cousin.”

  “Name it, and it shall be yours.”

  “Thank you. What I would ask is that you have this address discreetly watched, just in case Wickham tries to flee. You can appreciate with my wedding so close, I cannot waste time having to search for him a second time.”

  Darcy showed Richard the scrap of paper with the address on. The name and location of the tavern where the couple was hiding stood out. On seeing it, Richard let out a low whistle.

  “My God, Darcy, he has taken a young gentlewoman to this place! It is vile, full of bad ‘uns to be sure. I will have my men in place in thirty minutes; you must wait until then for I cannot in good conscience, let you go there until it is secure.”

  Darcy bowed to Richard’s superior knowledge of the seedier side of London and agreed to his request to wait.

  Col. Fitzwilliam dashed back inside and quickly made the arrangements while Darcy idled in the carriage.

  When all was prepared, Richard returned and climbed in next to him.

  “I will broach no argument Darcy; I am coming too. I will stay concealed if that is your wish, but I am coming,” he said firmly.

  Darcy knew there was no point in trying to convince him otherwise, and in truth, he was pleased to have an ally by his side.

  Then he told the driver of their new destination.

  “But guvnor, that’s is worse than the last place; I cannot take a gentleman like you to a cesspool like that!”

  “I thank you for your concern driver, but this is where I must go, and now. With all haste, my good man,” Darcy replied.

  With a shake of his head and a heavy sigh, he cracked the reins and encouraged the horses to pick up the pace. Even he, a humble working man, would not frequent an establishment like this. Known for attracting the lowest forms of life from across the city, it was unchallenged in the depths of depravity concealed within. Every robber, con man and trickster would know a welcome within its walls. Even highwaymen and murderers were left unquestioned and unchallenged once there. He wondered if he should ask for his guinea now.

  CHAPTER 18

  Even before they reached the doorway of the designated hostelry, the smell and noise accosted their senses. Groups of men in various states of drunkenness littered the street; some were squatting down, playing dice, while others dallied with women of easy virtue.

  The driver had reluctantly dropped them off at the corner of the street, and again Darcy secured the cabbie’s services to wait for them.

  As they approached the entrance, a man fell backwards out of the door and lay sprawled on the path before them, barely missing Darcy’s feet. He had clearly been engaged in a brawl. Darcy looked at Richard, who had refused to stay behind in the cab, and then back to the prostrate man, who had now begun to crawl away on all fours. Darcy was thankful that Richard, wearing his sword, and with two pistols tucked inside his belt, had ignored him and insisted he would be at Darcy’s side throughout.

  They ducked to navigate the low entrance and slowly made their way to the bar. The floor was sticky and covered in grime, and the biting stench of stale beer and urine fi
lled the air.

  Momentarily, the din abated, as many eyes took in the new visitors. Once they were certain it was not the runners, they became disinterested, and the noise rose once more.

  They made it to the counter without being further accosted, only to be eyed with suspicion by the man serving behind the bar. His shining bald head was white in comparison to his red, sweat covered face. He wiped the rough wooden surface with a small, stained rag, and then raised it to mop his brow. Darcy observed his large hands; they were filthy, and the knuckles were torn and scabbed from fighting.

  Not wishing to be here any longer than necessary, he spoke to the man.

  “I am looking for a friend of mine and have been informed he has taken lodgings within, Mr George Wickham; is he here?”

  More toffs! The owner inwardly scoffed. Men like these never came into his establishment unless they wanted something, and desperately. Perhaps here was a chance to make some easy coins.

  “Well, well, friends of Georgie boy are you? I should have believed him when ’e said ’e ’ad friends in the high places. I might have information you would be interested in, but at a price. First, you settle his bill,” he replied menacingly, not wanting to miss the opportunity to recoup Wickham’s unpaid board and lodgings.

  Darcy placed five shillings on the beer-stained bar and looked at the man with a raised eyebrow.

  Grabbing the coins, he brought them to his mouth, biting hard on them.

  “You ain’t the first gentlemen to come looking for Georgie boy this morning, though the others were not of a mind to be as sociable as you. Three others came about an hour ago. Very reluctant to go he was, and there was quite a scuffle.”

  He laughed, revealing the loss of several teeth, and the few that remained were stained brown.

  Darcy looked at Richard and raised his brows. Richard stepped forward and took over the questioning.

  “I understand part of being a good innkeeper is to know all that goes on under one's roof?" Giving him no time to reply, Richard continued, "So if you can enlighten us further, I am sure that my friend here would be willing to match his already generous gift.”

  The innkeeper eyed Darcy expectantly, so he nodded his assent and pulled out a further five coins, but he held his palm out of the man’s reach. He looked at the coins and then back at Darcy, who had again raised his brows, signalling for him to continue. He glared at Darcy and gave a feral scowl but continued with his tale.

  “They were here regarding Wickham's involvement with a certain young lady, or, to be more precise, her virtue. He tried to buy them off, insisting he could reimburse them if only they would wait, give him more time, but they were in no mood for talking. They were most insistent if you get my drift, and even through his protests, they dragged him outside and into their carriage. I did catch the mention of satisfaction being demanded.”

  He thrust out his hand and Darcy, distracted by his words, handed over his reward. Darcy and Richard looked at each other in disbelief. If Wickham had been ‘called out,’ there was only one place to go, and although time was of the essence, they must first locate Lydia. If the barman thought Lydia was without protection, he might decide to compensate his regulars with her as the prize. Richard turned back to the man with the rugged face.

  “And his travelling companion, what of her?”

  “Oh, you mean Miss high and bloody mighty; well, she is still in her room. She’s been giving orders and sending down her demands all morning. You’d best remove that baggage and be quick about it. My patrons are a restless bunch if you understand my meaning.”

  Darcy made for the stairs with Richard on his heels.

  “First on the right,” the innkeeper called and went back to his business.

  Now standing outside the door, Darcy looked to his cousin. Richard held his hands up and took a step back, intimating for Darcy to go in alone. He made a wry grimace, turned and tapped softly on the door.

  Lydia ran to the door and opened it, hoping Wickham had returned, but her disappointed was evident when she saw Darcy standing there.

  “Lord, what are you doing here, is George with you?” she said and peered over his shoulder.

  Realising Wickham was not with them, she flounced back into her room. Darcy gave an inward sigh as he entered; as usual, she speaks without thinking, he thought. He made sure the door was wedged open for propriety’s sake before removing his hat to give Lydia a curt bow.

  “Miss Bennet,” he said.

  Lydia had walked back to the window and was looking down at the street. She turned back to acknowledge his greeting with a slight curtsy, then said,

  “I am at a loss as to why you are here, Mr Darcy; I cannot think George would be pleased to find you here, for he speaks of you very ill. Unless you have seen him, did he send you to fetch me?”

  “No, Miss Bennet, I have not seen Wickham,” Darcy replied.

  “Oh. Should I be concerned do you think, he has been gone an absolute age? Some very rude men came to speak to him this morning, and my dear Wickham was pressed into going with them. They were very rude and most insistent. They would not listen when he offered them reassurance that his finances were about to improve. Are you sure you have no word of him, he promised we could visit the shops today?”

  She walked towards him twisting the ribbons on her dress and Darcy noted the genuine concern on her face. I must tread with care, he thought, if indeed her emotions are engaged. Though he knew her to be a wilful and spoilt child, if he were to get the desired outcome, it was imperative he did not agitate her.

  Using a soft, low tone, he said,

  “Miss Bennet, I am aware of the circumstances of Mr Wickham’s departure, and I too am concerned about him. I feel it would be beneficial for all if we located him as quickly as possible. I know it will be frowned upon for you to ride in the carriage with two single gentlemen, but in the absence of another female, I fear it is the only recourse open to us. Will you come?” he urged.

  “I will, Mr Darcy, but only so that I can be reunited with my dear Wickham,” she replied petulantly.

  She pulled on her bonnet and let Darcy slip her thick winter cloak around her shoulders, then walked through the open door, leaving Darcy to follow. Richard fell into step as they made their way downstairs, then all three of them climbed into the waiting hackney carriage.

  As they headed to Green Park, the driver cracked the whip to encourage the horse to travel at greater speed, making the journey swift, but uncomfortable. Through necessity, they sat in silence, holding on as the carriage lurched from side to side, and the driver used all his skill to navigate the ruts and holes in the road. Darcy knew a few of his more impulsive friends had been involved in duels; fortunately, all but one had survived, but he had a bad feeling about this. If, as Mrs Younge had intimated, Wickham was more often than not in his cups, he would be no match against a sober opponent, even a poor marksman. Oh, Wickham was a fair shot and comfortable handling firearms from his time at Pemberley, but any man’s aim would be affected while under the influence of alcohol.

  As they entered the park, they found it almost deserted due to the inclement weather and so made swift time to the clearing in the woods. It was a favourite place for men to settle their differences, secluded, and away from prying eyes. As they approached, Darcy could make out a form lying on the frost-bitten grass. He called to the driver to stop short.

  Fearing the worst, he turned to Richard though his speech was intended for Lydia also,

  “Richard, would you wait with Miss Lydia while I step out, I will be but a moment?”

  The gravity in his tone told Col. Fitzwilliam it was serious. Turning to Lydia and leaning closer, he gently spoke.

  “I would be honoured if Miss Bennet would permit me to wait with her.”

  Flattered that two such distinguished gentlemen were being so attentive, she gave a childish giggle and nodded her assent.

  Darcy pulled his coat tighter, hoping to ward off the biting December wind. R
eluctantly, he made his way towards the dark form on the frozen turf. As he drew near, he could see it was a man, and his feeling of dread intensified. The face was turned down towards the grass, and as Darcy knelt down, he reached out and touched the body. It was still warm. Gently, he pulled on the shoulder until it rolled to face upwards. He saw the familiar features of his childhood friend, staring up at the grey winter sky, his eyes open, but now unseeing. The dark red stain on his white shirt attested to a shot through the heart, thankfully death would have been instant. Beside him lay a pistol, the shot unfired, and a lady’s handkerchief had been stuffed into his waistband. Pulling it out, Darcy saw it was embroidered in green and pink, the initials MK stark against the brilliant white lace. He slipped it into his own coat pocket, no point in risking more scandal or questions than need be. Then Darcy saw Wickham’s pocket watch, or to be more precise his own father’s pocket watch. As he retrieved it, he realised removing it from the corpse was a sad way to reclaim what was rightfully his. Even with all the heartache, deceit, and dishonour Wickham had created, Darcy was still saddened to see such a promising life extinguished prematurely. He ran his hand over Wickham’s eyelids and closed his eyes for the last time.

  With leaden steps, he walked back to the waiting carriage and opened the door.

  “I am afraid I must make use of the blanket, Miss Lydia,” he said, retrieving the cover from around her knees.

  He closed the door and called to the driver to alight.

  “Make haste and fetch a constable,” he said.

  Seeing him hesitate, Darcy shouted at him, “Jump to it man here, a sign of my goodwill and security on your property,” and he thrust the promised guinea into his hand.

  Darcy walked back and gently placed the blanket over Wickham’s body. With a heavy heart, he thought; how did it come to this George? Remembering the days of their youth when they would run to the lake, fishing rods in hand, to catch a trout for tea, or eating unripe apples from the orchard until they were confined to bed with a belly ache. Where had it all gone wrong? Perhaps, allowing him to mix with his betters had created the festering jealousy that seemed to drive him to excess.