They looked to be an enchanting lot. Wickham had seen the gallant women of the époque sitting in the fashionable cafés and strolling the grand boulevards. He thought he would have liked to be the male counterpart to a courtesan.
“Pray, what are they called?” he had worriedly wondered to himself.
His French was not coming to mind as quickly as he had hoped. At that moment, his lack of recall of this particular term seemed to pose an insurmountable predicament despite the dubiety of him attaining such an ambition.
“Ah, yes. Amant de…gigot. No, not gigot, that is ‘leg of mutton.’ Something else…” he beseeched his recall of pillow-French and finally produced the term, “‘Le Gigole.’ Oui, yes. That is it, dancing partner. Better yet, ‘Cavalier,’ companion.” Amant de cœur, lover of the heart, had suited him most keenly, however, and he repeated it softly to himself several times so as not to forget.
Presently, Wickham withdrew his head from the clouds of amour and realised the folly of such a notion. However elevated his self-regard and great his heights of fancy flew, he would eventually find reason. He was ambitious enough and cynical enough, but he lacked determination. He would rather loll about with aspirations uninvestigated than endure that humiliation of defeat. Defeat had barked far too assiduously at his heels whilst fleeing Napoleon’s drubbing at Quatre Bas. The British may have triumphed, but Wickham’s mettle had not. Truth will out, it is said. Truth was, Wickham was not faint of heart but he had a vein of cravenness burrowed deep in his gut.
To his great relief, by the time he landed in Paris, word of Nappy’s rout had preceded him, thus allowing the waffling political winds to shift once again. Wickham was fast to sniff out that certain circles were quite happy to welcome the perfide Albion. As his situation was, one could say, in a state of flux, he was happy to catch sight of open arms of any persuasion. He began to prowl the boulevards to strike up advantageous conversations and games of chance. Ere long, he had parlayed the few coins in his pocket into a stake. Other than an alteration of scenery, he had reclaimed a fair equivalent of the life he had been leading in London. So similar was it, that it was not long before one of his capers proved particularly lucrative.
Employing no little gall (and, admittedly, one step ahead of a minion of the Prefecture of Police), he had engaged a young gentleman on the Chaussée d’Antin in discourse by the pretence of enjoying a previous acquaintance. His attention to his occasionally unreliable French was compromised by the handsome accoutrement which adorned the young man’s arm.
Wickham raised his hat to them both.
“Paris in August—abominable, is it not?”
That was the single comment that he knew of Paris, and he used it upon every occasion.
Although the young man’s costume exposed him of a man of means, his companion was not so easy to peg. When the beautiful young woman turned in his direction, he observed a treble ruff of vermillion curls nearly appropriating a wide white face. Granted, she was an impishly attractive woman and even Wickham recognised the jaconet muslin of her gown and the four full rows of flounces as being the very height of haute ton fashion. But whilst her dress was clearly fashionable and expensive, it bespoke a little too much dégagé to belong to a true woman of substance. Whilst he endeavoured not to take her too much in his notice, she continually threw the ends of an ermine tippet over her shoulders. (Rather than fetching, it gave the impression that the poor girl was trying to escape being swallowed alive by some wild beast.) Until this time his only acquaintanceships with the women of Paris had been mercenary in nature and, due to his financial straits, did not suit his discriminating taste. He then was happy to be in the company of this handsome couple. Their exact situation remained unclear to him, but he saw it a vast improvement on the denizens of the low culture of the Parisian card rooms he had kept of late. Hence, he gifted them his most dazzling smile.
With introductions compleated, it took Wickham little time to learn that the young Frenchman was recently of Napoleon’s guard. Indeed, hanging from a tricoloured ribbon about his neck was the medal recognising him as a chevalier of the Legion of Honour. Wickham bowed low, thereby signifying his respect and allowing careful observation of his footwear (no finer gauge of a man’s distinction being faultless boots). Admirably impressed, Wickham played his trump card.
Whilst still in genuflection, Wickham’s fingers slipped into his waistcoat and grasped a ribbon and medal of similar prestige. With an expression remarkable in its blend of humility and pride, he revealed his own honorific to his new friend. Wickham’s, of course, was not his own. It was not even a British commendation, but a Spanish one of similar design. He had bought it from a threadbare old sot for the price of a drink, never once giving thought to whether the man was a hero down on his luck or just a fortunate pickpocket. Its ignominious origin was unapparent and the young gentleman returned his bow. He then looked upon Wickham with something akin to new respect. Wickham was quite flushed with self-congratulations that he had thought of it.
The Frenchman hastened to introduce himself. He was Viscount Henri du Mautort, his consort, Mademoiselle Lambert. He was all parts the sort that Wickham liked best in a gentleman—young, guileless, and pockets laden with ready money. Indeed, du Mautort was gracious to fault, his manners overriding what little nose he may have had for duplicity. The only impediment Wickham saw to his designs was Mademoiselle Lambert. It was quite apparent that Mademoiselle Lambert’s esteem of du Mautort was of the identical sort as Wickham’s. She was all parts Wickham liked even better—wicked ways and easy virtue. She was younger than du Mautort, perhaps but eight and ten—but that was only her chronological age. Her eyes displayed all the boredom of the most seasoned consort.
The trio walked the promenade with such felicity that du Mautort would not allow Wickham to take his leave unless he agreed to seal their acquaintanceship with the promise of meeting again. Wickham allowed himself to be coaxed, providentially, to attend a fête that very night.
Hence, there Wickham stood gazing across a grand ballroom. It was thick with bodies draped au courant and faces caked with powder, but through the melange of richly appointed humanity Wickham managed to espy his nouveau ami d’honneur. Again, he raised his tasselled card to catch du Mautort’s eye. In the teeming mass, he had to waggle it several times before he caught his eye, but he was determined that he be bid to join their group, not ask admittance. Once that was accomplished and an upward nod was proffered, he sidled his way through the press of bodies until he gained the edge of du Mautort’s little battery of what could only be described as preening coxcombs. The dandies greeted Wickham with a succession of elegant bows which, without a break in rhythm, he returned one by one. It was only then that Wickham observed that the velvet-coated and satin-slippered gentlemen surrounded a single woman.
Although she was nearly obscured by a collection of admirers, it was difficult to overlook her. Whilst the other ladies stood about, she chose to sit. And sit she did on a sumptuous tuffet of silk pillows, all of varying shades of pink. Sitting to the side on a slightly less grand mound of pillows was the lovely Mademoiselle Lambert, her position clearly of minion status. Had he any designs on Mademoiselle Lambert, Wickham quickly cast them aside. Perhaps his calculations at that moment were apparent to her, for her countenance reflected a certain sagacity that implied she was not unaware that he was making them. It was an effort for him not to give her a wink. He bowed briefly and turned his full attention to the other, more prominent beauty. Wickham gave her an even deeper bow. She, however, refused to acknowledge him beyond a slight dip of her chin. She remained partially hidden behind a sultrily undulating ostrich-feather fan.
Du Mautort cleared his throat as he undertook what he felt were momentous introductions, whispering her name almost reverentially, “Mademoiselle Césarine, s’il vous plaît, I present General Wickham.”
Being a self-anointed general, Wickham was clearly of
the opinion that if one is fabricating a persona, there is little reason to curb one’s cachet. Indeed, so thoroughly had Wickham enjoyed the grandiosity of his newly applied promotion, he was listening with far more dedication than looking. Hence, when he finally gazed upon Césarine, she had turned her face whilst stifling a theatrical yawn behind her perfectly placed, befeathered ivory fan. From thence, all Wickham could catch sight of her was the graceful arch of her neck (and the multitude of diamonds that spiralled round it, dripping teardrop-shaped rubies the size of a toe) as she spoke to Mademoiselle Lambert. He smiled a bit to himself whilst witnessing her little artifice, happy to know himself above his company when it came to the feminine wiles. (It was difficult to ignore that the other gentlemen were much discombobulated by her display of tedium, several all but convulsing into paroxysms of obeisance.)
She lingered in the half-concealment of her fan and a profusion of copper tendrils for oh-so-brief a time before deigning to peer over it in Wickham’s direction. Her eyes, half-closed in continued notification of his insignificance to her, batted softly before she raised them to meet his increasingly interested contemplation. Then, she held out one hand and two of her admirers leapt forward to assist her to her feet. It was only when she had lowered her fan to take dainty hold of a diaphanous cerise skirt to stand that her countenance was fully revealed to him. With a three-quarter turn of her aspect, she lowered her chin (a pose so unaffected that it could only have been perfected by many hours of practice in front of her looking-glass). Through a mass of unreasonably dark lashes, her eyes twinkled like penny sparklers and a coy smile toyed with the corner of her crimson lips.
Wickham stepped back stupefied. It was as if Venus had arisen from the foam. Oddly, the first thing that came to his mind was not admiration of her beauty, but that he would have to reassess his recent disdain of his cohorts’ sensibilities.
“Ma demoiselle,” said Wickham with a slicing sweep of his arm across his extended knee.
He had used the archaic French “my damsel” quite on impulse. It was a risky ploy and he awaited the rendering of its success with bated breath. It was not to be a long wait. For upon the heels of hearing him, with her chin still lowered, Césarine coyly swept her eyes the length of his figure and stopt when they gained his countenance. Her gaze was penetrating, but slightly amused. Wickham still knew not whether she thought him intriguing or simply a buffoon. He held his genuflection until she fully disclosed her opinion. She withheld it an excruciatingly long time and his weight-bearing left leg began to tremble (not from the strain of anticipating her response, but the extreme abuse of Wickham’s sycophantically charged position). His knee set to spasming so profoundly that Wickham began to fear less that he might be spurned by the bewitching creature before him and more than he might literally fall on his face when she did. Finally releasing him (it is highly improbable that she was unaware of Wickham’s distress), Césarine acknowledged Wickham’s presence.
“Bonjour, mon Général.”
His gambit was a compleat and utter triumph!
With little attempt to disguise his glee, Wickham scrambled to his feet. He then delicately kissed her perfunctorily extended knuckles. He was ever so pleased with himself to have had the audacity to wear the gold sash bearing numerous British military medals that he had found in that same little shop in the Latin Quarter where he purchased the entirety of his uniform vêtements. But more important, he then employed his own little flirtatious tilt of the head—one he had perfected through long hours before his looking-glass. If he had been a female, he would have batted his eyelashes and pressed his lips into a sulk, but as he was not he simply puffed his chest, drew in his stomach, and presented his profile.
Although Wickham was neither bored nor any sillier than the average dissolute man, Césarine’s charms had still worked their magic on his voluptuous nature with heedless abandon. He had forsaken his plan to lure Mademoiselle Lambert into le boudoir without a second’s thought. He was knee-deep in a quagmire of quite another sort. A brief liaison was out of the question now that he had seen Elysium. He truly believed his breast had just been pricked by Cupid’s little arrow of amour.
To be thunderstruck as he had was an exceedingly odd sensation. He kept stealing glances at her, wondering what it was about her that had overtaken him with such fury. Not since Elizabeth Bennet had he been so taken with a woman’s air. That was but a small infatuation. His continuing and irrational craving for her, however, he had always attributed to her having been “the one that got away.” Césarine was nothing like Elizabeth. She was much better. Césarine was all parts that little country virgin was not—sophisticated, sybaritic, decadent, and the most desired woman in Paris.
As Wickham was new to all-consuming passion, even his burgeoning erection did not persuade him that it was not his heart that was inflamed. He knew but one thing—he must have her.
If he met with success, would Darcy not be pea green with envy?
37
Love Sings for Jane
It was a bold move on Bingley’s part. But he knew nothing less than a bold move would do to repair the gaping wound that he had made of his marriage. Moreover, if he was to salvage any speck of the tender love he and Jane had shared, he must make his move with all due haste. If left to fester, it might become irreparable. Therefore, he waited little more than what passed for a suitable period of penitence before he mustered the courage to go to her.
The night he selected for this matrimonial reparation was like any other—save for his own disconcertion and a portentously full moon. His toilette in preparation for this endeavour was elaborate. Once his shave was compleat, he patted his hair, licked his fingertips to smooth down his occasionally errant sideburns. Nichols stood by him and brushed his hand repeatedly across the shoulders of Bingley’s nightshirt. When he delicately picked a minute piece of lint from the sleeve, Bingley nervously waved him away. Bingley was far too fraught with anxiety to wait for Nichols’s meticulous inspection of his person. Nichols moved away, deferentially ducking his head. He bore an expression of concern that reflected Bingley’s. Of this, Bingley was quite unaware. He only knew that just beyond the heavy door separating their respective beds, Jane slept quite unawares. Still, he took the precaution of peering into the keyhole in reassurance that all was as he anticipated.
In the moonlight sweeping across her counterpane, he could make out the outline of Jane’s form.
Patting his hair once again, he took a deep breath and then managed a hesitant knock upon the door.
Although he did rap, it was in actuality little more than a scratch. This light touch served the dual purpose of obeying decorum without actually awakening her—this because he designed not to offer her an opportunity to thwart him either by an outright rebuff or feigning sleep. He opened the door forthwith and stepped into the room. (He would have liked to think that he entered with great manly condescension, but in fact it was more of a sidle.) Not wanting to cause her a fright, as he neared the bed he whispered her name once more. Still, she did not stir. He could observe the counter-pane continue to rise and fall with the deep respirations of her sleep.
With more conviction, he called, “Jane, dearest.”
She sat bolt upright, but her eyes were still half-open.
“Pray, who is ill?” she asked worriedly, thinking of no other reason than an ailing child to be disturbed after she had retired. Those instructions were implicit with nurse.
“No one, save me,” said Bingley.
He made for her bed with more haste than the mere chilliness of the floor might have influenced and, once arrived, slid beneath the covers with the same remarkable dispatch. By that time, Jane was not only compleatly awake, she was in high alert (as much at the introduction of his cold feet as the intrusion itself). The shallow indention even her slight frame made in the soft batting of the mattress was excuse enough for his forward motion to propel him directly into h
er embrace—had she held out her arms to him. But she had not.
She had, however, understood then that no one was ill. But that did little to alleviate her apprehension. From her expression of heightened alarm, she not only did not move to embrace him, she looked upon her husband’s form with compleat incredulity—almost as if some sort of nocturnal creature had made its way into her bed.
“It is only my heart…”
“I shall get my salts…” said she, but she made no move for them.
Had it been any other who spoke those words, Bingley would have believed himself the victim of sarcasm. As it was dear, sweet Jane who said it, he knew better. Rather, she brought her hand from beneath the bed-clothes as if to press the backs of her fingers to his fevered brow, but he caught them and pressed them tenderly against his lips.
Then he said quite fervently, “I need only your forgiveness.”
In a comforting tone (if one were perfectly frank, it could be described as the precise accent she used with their children) she said, “Have I not sworn my forgiveness?”
“You forgave my weakness. I fear you have not forgiven me—for I cannot forgive myself.”
With this last, he gave a small hiccupping sigh. But Jane found all untruths unpalatable, even those necessary to salve the wounds of those most dear to her heart. Hence, she could not in all good conscience declare her husband unequivocally absolved of his monumental betrayal of his wedding vows.
“I see,” said she.
That was not untrue, for she did see. She saw quite a lot. As his hand loosed hers, he found it new, if tentative, employment in drawing her nearer. She understood then that he had come to her in want of resuming their intermittent and somewhat indifferent love life. She not only saw that, she also felt it. Indeed, their bodies now perfectly aligned, she felt a stiffening that was not just his resolve. Thereupon an expression of obligatory acceptance overspread her countenance—one the dark mercifully did not allow him to behold. Hence, he was spared seeing upon her aspect what some might have mistaken for a grimace. That he did not see it did not suppose he did not know it was there. He understood well that Jane knew her duty to her husband and that she was fully prepared to accept any and all attentions he paid her without complaint. She lay quiet, her hands folded across her bosom in wifely subjugation for him to do with her as he wished.
Darcy & Elizabeth Page 25