One possibility that he had considered was he to cadge enough money from Lydia was to fund a return to Paris. If that girl—Marie-Therese—did indeed believe herself his daughter, their connection was not severed. Indeed, a blood connection could never be put asunder. If she still had the original gems from the necklace (which he was certain had been genuine in Césarine’s day), she was in possession of a considerable fortune—one of which he would be happy to relieve her. He would either convince her that he could exchange them to her advantage in England, or he would simply filch them. What he would not do was allow himself to take any drubbing lying down. This new turn of events may not have altered everything, but it certainly painted it another colour.
What he had not done was truly address Marie-Therese’s outlandish accusations. He had avoided them. He intended to continue avoiding them until he could use them to his advantage. That he had not one daughter but two was wholly pleasing to him. If what they said was true and he had even another chance bairn still at Pemberley, that would be admirable indeed. He enjoyed the prolificacy of his loins—if they did no damage to his pocket. One small discombobulation asserted itself, however. If Marie-Therese was correct, he was most grateful not to have acted upon his initial impulse to seduce her. There were few things that were beneath him, but even he drew the line at incest—that and folk-dancing.
As he was most anxious to confront Lydia, he did not mind laying out a coin to hire a coach to hurry his way to Chelsea.
His anticipation was not disappointed. When at last he faced his inconstant wife, Lydia’s reaction was even more rewarding to him than that of her jingle-brained husband. Both were superb in their astonishment. They had not even asked where he had been. Lydia had threatened to swoon and run about rending her garments like some crazed Turk. Her opposite in every way, Kneebone stood in a stupor, his mouth agape, exposing an abominable inattention to the condition of his teeth.
Wickham had to congratulate himself. He had handled his role of aggrieved husband superbly. His poor wounded heart lay upon his sleeve. Kneebone had actually called him out! Actually duelling for Lydia’s honour? That was rich. Of course he agreed to it—what else was one to do? Lydia had thrown herself between them, begging poor Kneebone to reconsider. Under no circumstances did Wickham intend to entertain such an absurd notion, but one must always display a willingness to defend one’s name as a gentleman.
All that and the clear evidence of an infant whose age looked to make her paternity another bartering point for the dissolution of their marriage made for a most profitable call.
He knew that it would be but a matter of time before Lydia would call upon her family for remedy. It was unlikely that her father would be who she would contact. Wickham had learnt at the time of their marriage how meagre that gentleman’s purse was. He even believed he had detected a speck of indecision upon his wife’s countenance. That might be a problem. Under no circumstances did he want her to return to him. The more he thought about it, the more he fancied his withdrawal worth. He became increasingly eagre to see who would come forth as arbiter over the situation. His anticipation was keen.
***
Wickham had chosen to meet with Lydia’s arbiter in the tavern below his lodgings. It was suitably disreputable—perhaps to better display his financial…amiability, suggesting him a destitute, struggling veteran of the wars. No doubt such a disgraceful place would also keep his well-born callers uneasy.
Upon learning of their destination, Elizabeth suggested to Kneebone that they hire a hack rather than take her carriage. Considering the unfortunate neighbourhood they would be visiting, she thought it best to be as inconspicuous as possible. Therefore, she wore her simplest dress and went so far as to pull the lace from her plainest bonnet. Major Kneebone insisted upon wearing his uniform, however, which in and of itself drew attention. He also wore his sword. (The glint of its blade as he sheathed it made Elizabeth excessively uneasy.) Lydia, however, was dressed in her finest plumage—the gaudiness of which suggested an overly decorated maypole. Undoubtedly she was in want of displaying to Wickham just what he would be foregoing was he to give her up. Hence, her ensemble included a bizarre hat and her most revealing dress. Although the days were still warm, she wore—at eleven in the morning—an ermine muff. Elizabeth recognised it as once belonging to Jane, who had thought it and its dangling glass beads tasteless. In this inharmonious manner, they set off to engage Major Wickham.
At midmorning the streets near the Thames still stunk from the previous night’s revelry. Elizabeth was tempted to hold her nose, but knew enough to keep her distaste to herself. Lydia, however, did not.
“Ewww,” she exclaimed. “I cannot bear this stench!”
Kneebone did the unlikely by shushing her with a look. He then handed the ladies out of their hired coach and gave a coin to the driver, telling him to wait. Then once again he attempted to dissuade the ladies from taking such a meeting altogether.
“This neighbourhood is most unsafe, Lydia dear. And you, Mrs. Darcy, pray allow me to make other arrangements,” begged Kneebone, with increasing apprehension.
The ladies were far more resolute than he, Lydia charging forward as if on a regimental excursion herself. Elizabeth was just as determined, but history told her to be wary. They had to step around two bodies to get to the appointed address, and she was not altogether certain one was merely unconscious. She rethought her initial inclination to meet with Wickham alone and found the notion ill considered.
“Do the authorities not take the dead from the street?” whined Lydia. “This is an abominable business.”
Kneebone toed first one recumbent form and then the other. In fortune both responded, and he and Elizabeth exchanged a look of relief. Regrettably, one disturbed figure sat up and retched in his lap, inviting Lydia to shriek. Both she and Elizabeth lifted their skirts to their ankles and hurried their step.
“Oh, Lizzy! Where are our clogs when we need them?” cried Lydia.
That was an astonishment. In times past, many a slipper had been ruined due to Lydia’s stubborn obstinacy of forswearing her clogs in foul weather. However fervently Elizabeth hoped to see an improvement in her sister’s prudence, what footwear she was disposed to wear did not appear to be a true gauge of it.
The further they betook themselves along the foetid streets, the more anxious the three of them became. By the time they located the public house Wickham had chosen for their meeting, Elizabeth had serious misgivings about the entire venture. Those reservations did not lessen when she cast her eyes upon Wickham’s smug countenance again. He, however, looked surprised upon espying her. She was uncertain whether that was in her favour or not.
Wickham bowed with the same unctuous manner he had always employed. It was mortifying to recall she once thought him charming.
“Sister Elizabeth!” he exclaimed. “How well you look. It is a great honour to see you.”
The question as to why she was there was unasked, but implied. However, she did not offer to explain. Lydia believed that no silence should go unoccupied and began to talk enough for everyone. She complained about Wickham’s choice of meeting place, that he wanted to meet, that Kneebone would not duel him no matter how badly he wanted to, and, most of all, how much must she lay down for him to leave her be?
Elizabeth cringed at her last inquiry. She was uncertain whether Major Kneebone groaned inwardly as did she or not, for she dared not look in his direction. He had been as coiled as a spring since they had left Chelsea. She was even less certain than Lydia that he could contain his ever-growing rancour. Wickham, however, behaved as if he were partaking afternoon tea, motioning them to a trestle table in the far corner.
“Had I known a lady of your station was to join us I would have arranged to accept you in the Green Room at the Argyle, Mrs. Darcy,” he smiled.
Elizabeth saw then that his conceit knew no bounds. She was exceedingly self-con
scious and wanted to be done with the meeting as quickly as possible. However, there was a moment when she was uncertain how to step over the bench to sit down and begin it. Kneebone tugged the huge wooden seat far enough away from the table so that she and Lydia could inch their way down and be seated. Kneebone remained standing, his hat in the crook of his arm. Wickham looked at him and smirked. Elizabeth was curious where Wickham had been, for he looked well tended. Because of that, she assumed she had not been wrong in supposing his choice of public house a manipulation. Despite her want of an expeditious meeting, Wickham was bent on small talk, which, under the circumstances, seemed absurd. The sheer absurdity of their situation was increased by half when a trio of men, cups of ale in hand, joined them at their table. When no one bid them leave, she became exasperated.
“I beg you, sirs,” she addressed them, “may we have privacy for our discourse?”
The men turned to each other, hooted, and pretended high manners, mocking hers. “Woohoo! She begs us, she do! What else will she beg us, I ask you?”
Kneebone turned to the men, menacingly demanding, “Leave us!” And they did directly.
Relieved, Elizabeth quieted Lydia, who was still enumerating Wickham’s shortcomings as a husband and had only arrived to count three of a possible hundred, saying to her, “Lydia dear, you may post a letter upon your own time.”
Wickham grinned. At that moment she could think of no greater want than to rid the smile from his face.
“May we be frank, Mr. Wickham?”
“I most humbly desire that, Elizabeth.”
She ignored his familiarity, “We have been advised by our attorney…”
“Mr. Phillips, I presume—lovely man. He still owes me five pounds from cards,” Wickham interrupted.
“Let her speak, Wickham,” Kneebone raised his voice.
It was incendiary.
Wickham retorted, “I do not recall one major is to command another major in what he may or may not do. I am an officer of the Waterloo battle and a gentleman. I have a history with this lady; we are friends! I beg you, leave this conversation to us!”
“Ha! You, Wickham, are neither a hero nor a gentleman!” Lydia cried.
“I do not care to be spoken to in that manner by a woman who arranges her hair with a pitchfork and dresses like a Covent Garden tart!”
Wickham had half risen. Elisabeth rose as well as she could from behind the table and put her hand between them, but to no avail.
“You, sir, are no gentleman,” boomed Kneebone. “Of that I am certain. You are an adulterer and a card-cheat.”
“You, Kneebone, who claimed you are friend to all things demure in a woman, have taken Lydia to your bed! What hypocrisy!”
Although she had never heard them before, Elizabeth knew fighting words when uttered—and there had been more than a few just exchanged. She grabbed Lydia by the hand to make away, but both were tangled in their skirts whilst attempting to escape the bench.
“Draw your weapon, Kneebone,” snorted Wickham, pulling a knife from his boot.
In a flash, Kneebone unsheathed his sword.
Suddenly, was there not alarm enough in the room, the cocking of a pistol was heard. To her horror, Elizabeth saw that Lydia had withdrawn a tiny single-shot pistol from her reticule.
When Kneebone turned to look aghast at his wife, Wickham slid the point of his blade to his fingers and drew back to throw it at Kneebone. With that came the report of Lydia’s gun. The bullet hit the knife with a ping, knocking it from Wickham’s hand and, as luck would have it, ricocheting into his foot. He did not immediately react, but looked at his foot in wonder.
Lydia looked at the still-smoking end of her gun, saying, “I thought I would be a better shot than that.”
“Whatever do you mean?” cried Kneebone. “That was magnificent! You shot the knife from his hand!”
“I was,” Lydia groused, “aiming at the curl in the middle of his bloody forehead!”
Only then did Wickham begin to hop about, endeavouring unsuccessfully to keep from howling in pain, “Are you compleatly mad, woman? Discharging a weapon at me! This is a first even for you, Lydia!”
Instantly, Lydia was by Wickham’s side, “Oh dear! Poor Wickham! What have I done? What have I done?”
Lydia was still keening whilst endeavouring to put her arms about Wickham. Kneebone was even more aghast than when she had discharged the gun. “Lydia, dearest!”
Elizabeth had had quite enough. She grasped Lydia by her bonnet strings and forced her from Wickham, dragging her through the crowd that was just then beginning to form in the hopes of seeing a person lying dead from malfeasance.
“Come, Major Kneebone!” she demanded.
He had been standing as if a statue, arms outstretched, still murmuring, “Lydia, dearest.”
At last Kneebone regained his composure and clutched Lydia about the waist, lifting her up and over what various personages laid in their way to the hack. They scrambled into the coach, neither of the ladies waiting to be handed into their seat. Indeed, Kneebone climbed onto the top with the driver, wresting the reins from him once atop. He flapped the reins wildly but could only urge the horses into an indolent canter.
It was good enough for them to make their escape.
***
When they arrived home from the encounter with Wickham, all involved were quite happy to have absconded—not only with their lives, but from the constabulary as well. Disturbed by that possibility, they sat with the drapes drawn for the remainder of the day, with Kneebone taking periodic trips to the window to watch for their apprehenders. In time, Lydia realised she would not be dragged off to Newgate and remained unrepentant. Still, as attempted murder was frowned upon in any neighbourhood in London, Lydia begged Elizabeth to keep the confidence of her actions. Elizabeth agreed readily. She truly did not care for Darcy to learn of it, particularly in light of her similar exertion in his aunt’s direction. Her poor husband might come to the conclusion that her entire family was a threat to tranquillity. Hence she was not inclined to be called forth to the magistrate as an accessory to such a crime. Had anything more than Wickham’s dignity (and only a tiny bit of his big toe) been injured, the outcome might have been quite dissimilar.
After the initial fright was over Elizabeth was so angry with Lydia, she was all but rendered speechless, “Really, Lydia!”
She did not inquire as to where Lydia had acquired a pistol. It seemed pointless. After all, Lydia was not entirely to blame. Hers was not the first weapon drawn. The entire fracas recalled to Elizabeth an episode in her own life that was not so benign. In want of not recalling that horrifying event, she suffered from a headache that evening. In light of such a fiasco of a negotiation, as Elizabeth saw it, their foremost challenge was not that nothing was decided. What most worried her was the revelation that Lydia was not immune to Wickham’s wiles. Kneebone was not inconsolable, but was clearly miffed—uncertain which held the greatest weight, that Lydia endeavoured to kill Wickham in his defence or that she threw herself at Wickham’s feet after the fact.
As for Lydia, she vowed to Kneebone that she had not meant to go to Wickham as she had, but, “When I saw what I had done, I could not bear to be his murderer.”
Kneebone allowed that grounds for remorse, but did not appear altogether convinced of her loyalty. It was then that Lydia came to Elizabeth to implore her to be rid of Wickham on her behalf.
“If you do not,” she said, “I cannot answer for what might come to pass.”
Those were the first genuine tears she had ever recollected of Lydia. (Even as a child, she had taken advantage of her mother’s partiality and her position of youngest, wailing like a banshee at the smallest injury and weeping buckets with any cross words.) It was clear to Elizabeth that neither Kneebone nor Lydia could be trusted to meet with Wickham again. Such a violent outcome had made her more r
esolute against Darcy engaging him as well. The pendulum had again swung upon the issue of seeing Wickham by herself. She believed that her initial instinct to see Wickham alone had been correct. Having seen him for as brief a time as she had, it was still not a pleasing prospect. It did not take much intuition to tell her that she had not seen the last of him.
After a sleepless night, the next morning she held in her hand a note that she had scribbled to Wickham. She looked it over once again before she bade a messenger to deliver it to Wickham at the public house where last they saw him. When she gave the boy the address, Lydia tried to surreptitiously read what was written from over her shoulder, but Elizabeth quickly folded it and shooed her away.
Had Lydia seen it, she would have read:
As I had not the time to tell you, we have been advised that the law reads that in cases such as yours, a wife may choose between her first husband and her second. Moreover, if desertion is proven, the husband has morally dissolved the marriage as well. I only ask you to leave Lydia in peace.
If you choose not to desist, I must advise you that information to your detriment will be used against you.
This, of course, was a compleat bluff. They had no real evidence, only hearsay. Wickham was officially a hero, killed in hostilities for the Crown. At that moment she was desperate not to meet with him again—most certainly not alone in a vile tavern. Moreover, the longer she stayed in London without advising Darcy, she knew she was at risk of injuring his trust. She was even more convinced after the altercation the previous morning that she wanted Darcy nowhere near Wickham.
She sealed the folded letter with red wax only and handed it to the boy with a half-crown for his trouble. The boy looked at her in wonder, gave the coin a bite just to make certain it was real, and took off on a hard run. Elizabeth marvelled at his sense of purpose. When she closed the door and turned, Lydia stood before her.
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