“When does Major Wickham return? Not at dawn, I pray,” she asked ruefully.
“Not at dawn, but Hughie is to meet him tomorrow morn,” said Lydia, displeased with Elizabeth’s attempt at a jest.
Major Kneebone was displeased as well, unhappy for Mrs. Darcy to be involved in matters that should rightfully belong to the menfolk.
“I thank you for coming, Mrs. Darcy. I was unaware that Lydia had alarmed you. These are matters for men to decide. You can rest assured that I will see to Lydia’s best interests,” he said proudly.
Masculine pride was a characteristic with which Elizabeth was exceedingly familiar.
“I do not question your gentleman’s honour for a moment, Major. But as my husband is much taken at the time by matters of business, I come in his stead. My father is dead. I will speak for the Bennet family. I am most familiar with Major Wickham and how he must be worked upon.”
It was a bit audacious, but entirely true. She believed she had an ace in the hole when it came to manipulating Wickham.
“It is a sticky situation, indeed, Mrs. Darcy. Although Lydia has been legally married, Wickham claims otherwise. He has told me that the law says he and Lydia are still rightfully wed. He claims that he will have me jailed for bigamy,” Kneebone said, worry lines threatening his forehead.
“Well, if that’s the law, the law is an ass!” burst out Lydia. “The eye of the law is a blind idiot and I am certainly not married to George Wickham—that…that…that…” she sputtered. “He is no kind of a husband to a wife! Oh, black, black, and hollow heart has he—the bloody blackguard!”
“There, there,” soothed Kneebone to his nearly hysterical wife, clearly unperturbed by her foul mouth. To Elizabeth he said, “I confess I do not know the law, but ours cannot be the first instance of a husband returning after his death had been reported.”
Suddenly, Lydia pointed directly to her baby-nurse. “You! Yes, you! This is all your fault!” Turning about, she explained her accusation, “She was whistling!”
Disgusted at such idiocy, Elizabeth told her, “That is but an ancient myth. Ill tidings can still come about when hens do not crow and young girls do not whistle.”
The girl fled the room with the baby and Elizabeth gave Lydia a reproachful look. Lydia seemed unchastened, however. Still, Elizabeth was happy to have some actual facts upon which to act.
Indeed, it was with no small amount of self-satisfaction that Elizabeth gave her legal accounting. “As it happens, my Uncle Phillips is an attorney. We have taken the precaution to inquire of him just what is done in cases such as these. Wickham either does not know the law or is purposely misleading you—the second, I might guess, such a man as he is. Truth of the matter is that if a wife remarries upon reliable word of her husband’s death and that husband is found later to be otherwise, the wife has the right to choose which husband to retain.”
Kneebone was noticeably relieved, clearly certain that he knew his wife’s mind. However, a strange expression overspread Lydia’s countenance, and in it Elizabeth saw clearly the girl of sixteen whom Wickham had seduced. Was Lydia recalling those moments of infatuation—had Wickham’s return rekindled them? In that moment she saw it was imperative to keep Lydia from Wickham’s clutches or she might be vulnerable to his easy words. In fortune, Kneebone did not recognise vacillation on his wife’s countenance. Elizabeth saw then (had she expected any other?) that Lydia’s fiercest enemy would be herself. She also experienced a giddy sense of hegemony, having come to the rescue as she had. It was fleeting, but altogether pleasing.
“Pray, is Major Wickham on hand to engage a meeting?”
The sense of command she had just felt began to waffle ever so slightly as she recalled the last time she had endeavoured to influence George Wickham—it had ended badly. (It had ended with Wickham being escorted from Pemberley at the point of a sword wielded by Darcy, but she would not allow that recollection to sway her.) It did begin to fret her just what Wickham would say in his own defence—he most certainly would have a long, involved, logical, and totally false justification for all that had occurred. It was also possible that he might deny it all. It might be imperative that she call his bluff—deny his denial. She was certain that she was a match for a seasoned liar such Wickham. It was said that the ends justify the means. She had once wondered how a man such as he was to be worked on. She was now fully informed as to that device. What she meant to do could only be called exaction—or extortion, blackmail, or coercion. None of those words were pretty, but then neither was the ilk of Major Wickham. She had right on her side—if indeed saving Lydia from herself was right. Had she not also been her husband’s protector (he would never think himself in need of protection, but that was neither here nor there) against Wickham’s re-entry into their lives, she might well have given Mrs. Kneebone the letter of the law and allowed her to stew in her own juices. But as many times as Darcy had defended her honour, she felt it was a noble calling to come to the defence of his. Righteousness gave her courage.
“Major Wickham gave an address to meet him in Limehouse—it is a public house,” said Kneebone.
“It is there where they are to duel!” interjected Lydia.
“I shall meet him instead,” announced Elizabeth.
“No, Mrs. Darcy,” cried Kneebone. “I could not allow a lady to venture there. It is a very low establishment in the worst sort of neighbourhood.”
“I have been in worse, I am sure,” she recalled the public house to which her kidnappers had taken her—a place she was apt never to forget. “I have my footman, and shall be well-protected.”
Perhaps her countenance displayed more assurance that she felt. Regardless, Kneebone acquiesced.
“But I must insist that I accompany you. Your husband would never forgive me if I did not,” said Kneebone.
Knowing the truth to that particular understanding, she nodded her head once in acceptance. Lydia also invited her to stay in their home to await the meeting. Elizabeth thought that an excellent notion. She did not much want to go to the Darcy town house, where she might encounter her husband. It was imperative that this matter be reconciled beyond his notice. If Darcy learnt of it all, he would meet with Wickham and she could not be certain of that outcome. Darcy, no doubt, was wearing his pistol. She saw the correctness of that precaution—the streets were alive with thuggery and worse. That she saw the need for Darcy to be armed but that she did not hold the same fear for herself was not something she examined. She had but one goal—to relieve her husband of confronting (and possibly doing violence to) Wickham.
She would do what she had to do.
77
The Cunning and the Taken
Wickham had always been most particular in his dress; his vanity demanded nothing less. The governing principle of his life had been the ceaseless search for pleasure. To be chained to a room with spit upon his waistcoat—even this baby’s—was becoming increasingly offensive.
With the fussy baby upon his shoulder, he paced the floor and patted her back, but to no avail. Indeed, her screams increased. She had been fed, he knew not what else to do. Still juggling the infant girl, he walked purposely to the door, threw it back and bellowed, “Henrietta!”
Recollecting himself, he reduced the volume of his voice by half and allowed her name to roll off his tongue like marzipan. “Henri-etta, my sweet plum-cake!”
There was no immediate response, but in a moment he heard the reassuring steps of his landlady, Mrs. Younge.
“I cannot keep taking these stairs every time that infant cries, Mr. Wickham.”
Her mood matched his, and as it was she who was owed money by him, her righteousness was indignant indeed. Despite that, she took the baby from him, placed the child upon the bed and began to clean her.
“When did you last see to this child? Oh, never you mind—if something unpleasant needs to be seen to, men are sure to
escape it!”
He sat down upon the bedside and watched with a version of tender attention peculiar to those observing another do one’s dirty work. The baby quieted immediately.
Mrs. Younge’s singular position in Wickham’s heart was oddly manifold. One measure a mother, sometime lover, and a large part, dupe—she had fed him when he was hungry, taken him in when he had no home. And when he was on Queer Street (which was often), he could charm her out of a few coins to jingle in his purse. Their long acquaintance had advanced when she aided him in his aborted elopement with Georgiana Darcy. He had promised her two hundred pounds if he had been successful. When Mr. Darcy thwarted that scheme and ran her off for having been a conspirator, she never held that against Wickham.
“We were found out,” she laughed, as if losing her position had not been a financial setback.
The one thing she liked above all else was putting something over on the gentry. That it was a bust mattered not, she still enjoyed the thrill of it all. She liked it most especially when young Wickham came up behind her and gobbled kisses upon the side of her neck. She maintained as respectable a house as could be found in that neighbourhood and considered herself a lady in all ways except situation, but always had a room for Wickham when he happened by. She gave him allowance on his rent, and when it had accumulated to an unusual degree, he talked her into a bum-tickle in exchange for his arrears. Although she was at least twenty years his senior, he thought it a fair trade—she was firm of thigh and very enthusiastic. Her other tenants were well aware of their arrangement and when encountering Wickham in the passageway occasionally mocked him.
“That old wreck of a woman? A young buck like you?” they would tsk.
Wickham remained unchastened, and always had the same response, “There is something to be said for bedding a woman of her age.”
“And what would that be?”
Wriggling his eyebrows lasciviously, “They are always so grateful.”
That was not even a compleat falsehood, for Mrs. Younge had been more constant to him than any other of his lovers. But he had to acknowledge even she had her limits.
“Wickham, dear,” she announced an inveiglement by raising her voice into falsetto, “I am afraid I must ask you for your rent. I have expenses, y’know.”
He heaved a great sigh of exasperation, “Henrietta, dear, you know that I have too many irons in the fire at present to bother with such mundane matters. All my planning will come to fruition forthwith, and when that comes to pass, I will pay you twice what I owe—no, thrice!”
Mrs. Younge let loose with what could only be described as a giggling snort. Inwardly Wickham winced, for it was a sound quite familiar to their lovemaking.
“Oh, dear me! I quite forgot,” she said, picking up the baby and handing her directly to Wickham.
He stood up with the baby and walked her about whilst Mrs. Younge dug about her apron pocket for a letter. When Wickham spied it, he hastily thrust the baby to her in exchange for the post. He quickly broke the seal and read. Whilst he pored over it, Mrs. Younge looked upon the sight, her eyes bright with greed.
“Pray, what is it?
“Patience, woman, patience,” he said irritably. His French was unremarkable when it came to grammar, thus his progress was slow. When he reached the end, he refolded it and stowed it in his waistcoat, smiling mischievously.
“At last! A meeting is to take place! I must have my frock-coat pressed!”
With an expression that portrayed both resignation and anticipation, Mrs. Younge said, “I suppose you want me to look after the baby?”
“No, my good woman, you must say good-bye to this darling baby girl,” he looked upon her gurgling countenance with something akin to regret.
Indeed, it would be with considerable regret he would give up the child. He had done all he could to keep from forming an attachment, but had been largely unsuccessful. That, he supposed, was because of her resemblance to his beloved Césarine. She had dark hair rather than the copper of her mother’s, but otherwise she was her spitting image. Early on he had fancied that he would like to keep her as his own, but ultimately pragmatism won out. He simply had not the funds. It would have been delightful to have had the wherewithal to send the precious girl to the best schools, engage the best governesses, and see her grow up into a vision of Césarine—and dare any man to come near her.
He would mourn her as if a daughter.
***
Marie-Therese Lambert had proposed to meet with him at the north gate to Kensington Gardens. He was not altogether happy with such a public meeting place, but he was too anxious to make the exchange to haggle over minor details. He must keep his eye on the prize and not allow small vexations to get in the way. Once the meeting was set, he became increasingly anxious for it to take place. Every time he looked upon the baby’s angelic face, his little-used heart felt a rent. Whilst he called her his chanton, he tenderly gathered a few strands of her fine hair and tied it with a tiny pink bow, readying her for the transferral.
“Lydia should have given me daughters,” Wickham concluded. “I would have been a different father had I been gifted with daughters.”
Altogether oblivious to the dubiety of such a notion, he patted her upon her plump little cheek and pursed his lips in a kissing noise. The little girl smiled and cooed. He cocked his head to the side, smiling with approval.
It would, he admitted, be difficult to give up the baby—she had given him such unexpected joy. But he had known all along this day would come—perhaps not so soon as it had. Still, Wickham had to congratulate himself upon his cunning. For although du Mautort had complained of his poverty with great dedication, his mother was far too determined to have him return home for it to have been only to solace a mother’s heart. The only surprise was that it was the young viscount’s death, rather than his father the count’s, that brought his plan to fruition. Wickham supposed that du Mautort caught his disease from the low prostitutes to whom he resorted after Césarine’s death. Still, had not Césarine confided in him the baby’s true father, he would never have thought of it all.
“Is not fate peculiar?” mused Wickham. “So seldom could he afford Césarine’s time, but it was his seed that stormed the citadel of Césarine’s womb. Alas, to be a young blood once again!”
The baby carriage was one that Mrs. Younge had found for him; it was old, but serviceable. The driver of his hired coach did not want to take it, and when Wickham insisted, he tossed it aboard with little concern for its fragility. Regrettably, this callous deportment bent one wheel and the carriage squeaked and wobbled as Wickham pushed it along. It was not necessary for him to endure this indignity for long, for he espied Marie-Therese directly. She had not appeared to have altered since last he saw her upon the sorrowful day of Césarine’s demise—except for a small little crease between her eyebrows that aged her from the young girl he recalled.
Her expression, however, was not what caught his eye. For around Mademoiselle Lambert’s pretty throat was a necklace worth a king’s ransom. It was the ruby-and-diamond creation he had last seen about his true love’s neck. He despised seeing it thusly, for it not only reminded him of poor Césarine, dead in her grave, but that Marie-Therese had bested him in its confiscation after Césarine went to meet her maker. She also used exceedingly bad judgement to display such a treasure upon her person, even in the lovely grounds of Kensington Park. It was broad daylight, but the increasing number of marauders traversing London’s byways would leap at such a valuable accoutrement. They would not give a second thought to shoving her to the ground and ripping it from her neck before absconding up a side street. She had no one accompanying her. They would be gone ere she could call for assistance. What could Marie-Therese be thinking? He had once thought her uncommonly clever. He supposed what passed for cunning in Paris meant little upon English soil. Suffering to an audacious degree the illusion of his ow
n cleverness, that thought made him bolder still. Poor Mademoiselle Lambert, she was but a lamb to the slaughter.
“Bonjour,” he said, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat. “You have never looked more handsome. London air does your complexion compliment.”
At that remark, she restrained herself from looking about at the yellowish grey haze that passed for air in London. Even in lovely Kensington Gardens it was discernible. Wickham did not note her scepticism and believed his advantage over her was substantial. Therefore, he was happy to be generous in his compliments. It was not, after all, mere flattery. She was ravishingly beautiful. He simply had never noticed her beauty, as she had always been overshadowed by Césarine.
She returned his greeting, “Bonjour, Général Wickham.”
At this, Wickham had to smile—the girl still believed that he was a general—how droll! He would just have to humour her.
“As unhappy as I am to lose this precious bundle here,” he sighed heavily, the carriage wheel squeaking almost loudly enough to drown him out. “Duty calls. I must return to my command. It would not be in the baby’s best interest to travel behind us in a laundry waggon. I must have, however, assurances that she will be taken care of properly. I could not bear to allow her to be taken without that. As it is, my heart will break each day that I do not awake to hear her lovely laughter.”
He fancied that he had the exact mixture of resignation and sadness and looked at Marie-Therese to gauge its impact. Her countenance remained altogether inscrutable. But then, courtesans were not known for their exhibition of pathos. He was then troubled by a pang of anxiety.
“Are you certain that you can care for the baby upon the return trip? She did not take to the sea on our journey here…”
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