Wickham’s prior crossing had been even less agreeable to his constitution than his current one, as on that occasion it had been on a British troop ship taking him directly into harm’s way of Napoleon’s army. That passage had been characterized by white-knuckled apprehension of the ensuing battle and an ill-timed bout of the trots. He had always been uncertain whether the roiling sea alone or the upcoming fight instigated his intestinal disturbance. Regardless, it had been a relentless seizing of his bowels which demanded he observe the whole of the crossing through a water-level port hole. Attached as he was to the slop-bucket, he had little to divert his thoughts beyond wrestling with his finely honed sense of self-preservation (which prevailed quite handily over honour and duty). Indeed, it had nagged with pertinacious determination that he fling himself overboard and swim with all due diligence for the safety of British soil.
But he had not. He had held tight to the mast and sallied forth into a battle that still haunted his sleep. That, however, was a time and place he and his little-employed conscience endeavoured mightily to avoid.
The ship upon which he returned was not of His Majesty’s Navy, but similar in size, design, and purpose. However, this one did not ferry soldiers. It carried a collection of citizens both French and British, all bent (for considerations as disparate as their identities) on making their way to England. After finally releasing himself from the security of the jib, Wickham took solitary, off-kilter walks on the gunwale whilst perfecting his version of recent events. It was imperative that he account for his time abroad.
His foremost concern was that this retelling place him in both a well-disposed and heroic light. After careful deliberation and no small calculation, he thought his rendering plausible and made for the well-populated forward deck to assess its viability amongst the general public. Effecting a discernible limp (the better to draw sympathetic attention to himself) and employing a pseudonym, he engaged first one, then another passenger in conversation, honing the tale of his whereabouts after the war to a few brief assertions—as any good liar knows, it was imperative to keep his lies to a minimum. The little decoration he added was professing great anticipation in rejoining the bosom of his fictitious family. After this tender proclamation, he would pause and gaze about, calculating which listeners were most amenable to further exposition. To them he would direct a most dazzling smile which, embellished by a small furrowing of his brow, would falter ever so briefly, thus exposing both the disquiet lying deep within his poor, troubled breast and his bravery in weathering it. With unfailing regularity, this ploy would rouse the more sympathetic amongst his audience to demand further elucidation of the vexatious events he struggled so courageously to conceal. Inevitably, these gentle hearts beat in the bosoms of the female species.
“Come, come, sir! Forbear not! It is best to unkennel what plagues you and allow us to lend our condoling hearts.”
“Yes. I suppose that is best,” said he, lowering his voice and his countenance, the better to bespeak the terrible ordeal he had endured.
He then told, with compleat humility and very little truth, a fairly graphic battle-wound fable—one remarkable for emphasising its severity without actually identifying its exact whereabouts upon his person. It should not have been his foremost concern, but he was predisposed to employ this obfuscation so as not to imply to any lady paying heed that his vigour was in any way compromised by bodily trauma. However, in light of no noticeable damage to his extremities, this ploy did not do justice to its intent. Indeed, it begat whispers regarding the exact nature of his limp and the speculation of those few whose interest was excited was not complimentary to the well-being of his manly organs. Had Wickham been aware of these conjectures, he would have been highly unamused. As it was, he mistook their expressions as enthralled admiration rather than appalled curiosity and, never one to relinquish so rapt an audience, he thought to further detail his recuperation from battle-wounds.
To the increasingly aghast listeners, he told how he had lain in excruciating pain and squalid conditions for months in the Hôtel des Invalides on the west side of Paris—his purported recuperation coinciding precisely with his leisurely abode in Césarine’s bedchamber. Initially, he had thought actually naming a hospital in Paris a particularly rich touch and congratulated himself for recollecting that edifice for his story in the event he had been espied in the area by someone who might subsequently cross his path. Regrettably, a gentleman who stood at his elbow for the entirety of his monologue revealed himself a Parisian intime. He was a bit of a dandy and on the short side, hence, when Wickham looked down upon him he obtained a clear view of the gentleman’s vain attempt at obscuring his bald crown with a generous forward feathering of what was left of his hair. Wickham took immediate measure of the man in a single glance before his attention was stolen from appraising his station to what he had to say.
Apparently familiar with the hospital Wickham had referenced, an expression of puzzlement overspread his countenance. He had a French accent, but his English was superb.
“Hôtel des Invalides, you say? Are you not mistaken? I was of the understanding that hospital lodges war veterans of the French—and is one of France’s finest infirmaries. I cannot imagine the conditions you describe. And why,” he added, “pray, would you, an English officer, be sent to recuperate amongst his enemy?”
“Ah, yes. Er, no. Of course. Of course. My French is abominable, my recall even more dreadful. And I was quite ill when taken thither—out of my mind with fever. It may have been the infirmary of Salpêtrière. I was quite ill, you see…”
Wickham hemmed admirably. He knew well that the height of cleverness is to be able to conceal it. He had learnt well and he had learnt early that one confesses to little faults to prove that one has no large ones. Although Wickham continued to engage in self-censure, the inquiring man continued to look oddly at him. Even Wickham knew it was quite peculiar to have been so long in a facility that he could not correctly name. But the man soon toddled off, seemingly heedless of Wickham’s blunder. Not allowing his gaze to follow the man’s leave, Wickham turned to the others and was happy to see that the Frenchman’s questions did not divert anyone else. It was a reminder to him that elaboration could be dangerous. His smile, however, remained genial and his new friends were disinclined to be suspicious. He continued his story, but with caution.
Those who were not instantly sympathetic to his heroic sacrifice for England (his limp had become increasingly conspicuous) could not admire enough his modest admission of having rescued a baby girl he claimed to have found in the arms of her dying father.
“I cannot imagine what such a small child was doing there at all, let alone survive in such carnage!” he exclaimed. “Yet I should not be entirely surprised. More than one wife followed her husband through Belgium taking in washing and riding after his regiment in a baggage waggon.”
“Pray, was her father a French soldier, or British?”
Wickham had spent less time than he ought to polishing the reason for having a child in his possession. He preferred not to have to improvise, but knew that he could feint or parry with equal ease when called upon. Hence, a quick contemplation suggested to him that sentimentality would be better served were she of English blood.
“Her father wore a red coat,” said Wickham.
In response to his words, there was much clucking and even one half-sob. He had chosen well.
Indeed, his tale was told with pathos of unconscionable amplitude, and by bringing to mind poor Césarine’s protracted demise, he even managed to elicit a well-timed tear on behalf of that poor nonexistent son of the British Empire. His disclosures, to be sure, succeeded most uncommonly well with the feminine gender. Indeed, had he not actually had an infant in his possession, seeing how very ably this artifice went over, he might well have been compelled to go out and procure one.
For all his exalted schemes, returning very nearly penniless whence h
e came was a virtual admission of a compleat drubbing. He, however, refused to acknowledge that truth. When he had fled the battlefield, he held the highest of hopes. From the back of that galloping steed speeding away from certain death, scheming notions had flitted wildly about his head; those reverberating most prominently was the succulent Shakespearean metaphor suggesting the world was his oyster. He need only find the sword with which to open it. Although at the time he thought little could be more simple, he had never actually found that sword. And while he had not come by it honestly, he was returning with a very lucrative treasure. Had he managed to have escaped with Césarine’s treasured necklace, he knew of several money-lenders in London who would have been happy to do business with him. Regrettably, he had been a step slower than Marie-Therese. She had taken that jewel-encrusted ornament without a second thought, just as he would have. Seldom had he ever lowered himself to outright thievery (he vastly preferred chicanery), but this time had been of a singular nature. Alas for that loss. Why should some faceless creditor make off with a treasure that had once hung so fetchingly about the neck of his true love? (May she rest in peace.) It would have served him far greater benefit than Marie-Therese. She was still young, France in tumult. A woman such as she would thrive in such an atmosphere. He was exceedingly happy to have gotten away with what he had. As to why he had absconded with Césarine’s child was a scheme he had not compleatly worked out. With her parentage, the child was a valuable commodity. Once he had her safely out of France, his bargaining position would be most advantageous.
He came home by way of Brighton, for that was the most accessible port and it would have been suspicious to take a more circuitous route. Since 1802, it was the busiest exchange of French refugees fleeing Napoleon and Englishmen flocking to Paris to be presented to him. Amongst the surging throng of the disembarking that day, Wickham bounded down the gangway onto the Brighton dock with a bit of a strut, but his swagger was compromised by the gnomish-looking woman pulling a goat who dogged his side. He had hoped to find a suitable wet-nurse, but this woman and her nanny-goat was the best he could do for the few coins he was willing to pay. She was so disreputable-looking that he had considered just taking the goat, but was loath to have to milk it. Indeed, he quickly saw his enterprise being threatened with collapse under the sheer weight of peripheral nuisances demanded by travelling with a child. Had he not been so determined not to leave France without some sort of booty for his trouble, he might have left the child upon the first church doorstep.
He looked down at the basket and the girl-child therein, observing her fast asleep. Thereby he was gifted an inward sigh of relief. He had a brief reprieve before he would need to befriend another motherly benefactor. He was low on funds and knew not what else to do until he obtained proper lodgings. He looked about the familiar landscape of Brighton without apprehension but with what might have been a bit of melancholy.
The town was much the same as he remembered it, but those recollections were not particularly sweet. He recalled it thick with militia that injudicious summer of ’09. It was that most foolish summer that he plunged into an imprudent romance with Lydia Bennet. Had he given it any forethought, he would not have. He would have seduced a girl who was not so eagrely protected. Still, it had been an astonishment that everyone involved in the entire madcap affair was most uncompromising about such a portionless creature as Lydia Bennet. But as most men were aware, a stiff prick has no conscience.
From the relative wisdom of hindsight, he allowed that it was a profound ill-judgement to have stolen away with Lydia as he had. But she had been ripe for her age, a wild, flirtatious girl, her character marked much more by volatility than virtue. Had he not been so bloody bored with tiresome militia duty, he would not have been so unguarded as to abscond with an empty-minded schoolgirl and hie with her to London. He may have intimated to her that they would eventually be wed, but he would never be convinced that she had been wholly seduced. To Lydia, immediacy was paramount to convention. Had she not been so bloody miserly with the ultimate affection, the entire elopement boondoggle would have been unnecessary.
Indeed, the first bloom of infatuation had worn out almost as soon as they had found lodgings and he threw her across the bed and tossed up her skirt. When Darcy had shown up unceremoniously at their door, Wickham had been making preparations to take leave without her. However, as he was deep in Queer Street with creditors pressing him on all sides, Darcy’s proposal for him to take her hand in matrimony had been far too lucrative to reject. He had hoped to make away with the money and forgo the wedding. Perhaps suspecting he might abscond, that bloody Darcy had watched his every move (and had his man mind him whilst he slept). When he stood up with Lydia, he may as well have had a pistol pressed to his spine.
“Whatever happened to the notion that a runaway match was something romantic?” Wickham had lamented to Lydia. “Certainly Darcy’s understanding contains not an ounce of true passion.”
Always prone to hasty judgements, Lydia Wickham could but sniff in agreement.
He was reminded of that trip to London then for another reason, this one more immediate. The one who was instrumental in aiding them to elude Lydia’s family for so many days whilst playing at being lovebirds was whom he would again seek out. He needed a place to recuperate from his ordeal and time to contemplate his next action. He would also need someone to help him with the baby. Looking after a child was quite new to him. He had never so much as taken a babe in his arms. His own children he had admired from across the room. He had wrangled assistance from any number of ladies sympathetic to a bachelor with an orphan on the crossing (one even culminating in a bum-tickle—which might have alleviated some of the coarser conjectures regarding the nature of his “wound” had the lady in question been less circumspect), but he would have to find more permanent aid if he wanted his steps to cease being haunted by the loathsome milk-crone.
After stopping in a shop for a replenishment of his favourite cologne, he went straightaway to inquire of the next post-chaise to London. It was a seven-hour trip and if they did not leave forthwith, they would be delayed yet another day, for travelling on Sunday was not done. The agent was busy with a young woman who wore what appeared to be her best travelling clothes. She was told that the next post’s departure was imminent and she was to make her way down the footpad without delay was she not to be left behind. Wickham hastily purchased his ticket and took his place next to her as their trunks were loaded into the boot. He could sense it when she looked to him, but he did not return her interest. She gazed inquisitively at the bundle he carried and only looked a little puzzled as he oversaw the goat being loaded. The crone first objected at how the nanny’s feet were being tied and then fussed as it was pulled up onto the top of the coach.
“Take care!” said she in French. “Faites attention!”
When at last that troublesome pair were both settled (the goat’s bleating no worse than the old woman’s), Wickham turned his attention to the cumbersome task of making his way inside the coach with the baby basket. Only then was he forward enough to tip his hat to the young lady. She turned her head away from his impudence, but he observed her to smile coyly as she did. Once all was ready, with gentlemanly grace, he handed her into her seat. He took his place across from her and perched the baby’s basket on his knees. From thence came stirring noises. Wickham affected a look of concerned discombobulation as he fussed with the baby’s shawl. The carriage lurched forward.
On the door of the coach just below the window was stencilled the name “Lightning.” How fitting, thought Wickham. He believed he would be quite happy to see London once again.
55
A Season Ignored
When love is strong—yea, even when love is not—the birth of a baby is both an inestimable blessing and a thankless bother. When into the lives of parents longing for but one child there are born two, it is reasonable to expect both labours and adulations to increase
two-fold. As the Darcys’ circumstances were more fortunate than most, little were they bothered with labours they did not solicit, hence they had ample time to enjoy their generative windfall. Regardless how often their father insisted their babies consisted of nothing but caterwauling at one end and unexpected discharges at the other, it was clear to his wife that he was absolutely smitten with them both.
Although she was not fooled by her husband’s ostensible reserve when it came to the pleasure he took in his children, neither was Elizabeth fully aware of just how foremost they were in Darcy’s every reflection. It was unfortunate she was unwitting, for had she been, she would have been both pleased and uneasy. For he was uneasy—uneasy and apprehensive.
Darcy’s world had once been inert, stubbornly fixed, revolving around Pemberley, its wants and needs, its consequence. Now his world was moveable, seemingly from day to day. It had fast become a wonder to Darcy how very quickly two separate souls could so compleatly redefine his interpretation of family. When once it had been embodied in but a single word—Pemberley—now that great estate was merely a single leg in his particular holy trinity—Pemberley, Elizabeth, children.
But just as marrying Elizabeth brought both unalloyed happiness and palpable fear that some misfortune might befall her, fatherhood brought the additional alarm that attends one who has much to lose. This alarm had, in that single heartbeat of a moment when his children were presented to him, increased three-fold. If Elizabeth doted on, and in turn, feared for, the well-being of her offspring, he did so in remarkably similar fashion. Elizabeth was much on the alert for immediate dangers; his worries only began there but scattered onto those eventual. Soon, his children would not keep to the nursery; they had just taken them upon the road to Brighton. He had not meant for Elizabeth to learn that he was armed upon their journey. He had kept his pistol at hand, but out of sight. But he could in no way ever again take to the road with his family in any other manner. As husband, father, and master of his domain, he was not inclined, however, to expose his apprehension. That was unseemly. It was the duty of a man to weather the daily perturbations of keeping his family alive and healthy with all the aplomb he could collect. As a man confident in his manhood and bearing no small self-possession, anything less was unacceptable. At whatever cost, he would not give in to public disquietude. He would apportion that to nurse and his children’s mother. He would stand in silent watch over them all.
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