Once he had seen that Darcy held not a weapon but a legal document, he allowed the exultation of triumph to wash over him. It was a heady feeling to have the whip-hand over the proud and arrogant Darcy. Had he been wise, he would have enjoyed his win and left it at that. But Wickham had never been particularly wise. Granted, he had an innate talent for chicanery. But he was sly, not wise. That lack of wisdom then allowed him to entertain the notion of gloating over his victory.
“A drink, my old friend?” he said amiably.
“I am not your friend,” was the reply.
Wickham shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He poured half a glass and upended it immediately. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he thought to apprise Darcy of the wine’s fine quality.
“A mistake, my friend,” he said, picking up the decanter and holding it to the light, “this is a particularly nice bottle of…”
Suddenly, Darcy reached out and grasped the decanter by its neck and cast it to the floor. It broke into a thousand pieces and the wine immediately began to seep between the floorboards.
“I am not,” Darcy said evenly, “your friend.”
“Testy, testy, Darcy,” said Wickham with a smirk, then most unadvisedly added, “’Tis a pity your wife could not come with you. I have enjoyed our meetings most decidedly.”
With that, Wickham stepped back, his hand at the ready by his waistband. There lurked a small pistol. It was but a single-shot (a pea-shooter, it was called), a lady’s gun—Lydia’s gun, actually, but one that could fell a man, even a man of Darcy’s size. Darcy, however, did not advance even at that provocation.
Wickham raised one eyebrow, as if to dare him to advance.
To his astonishment, Darcy smiled. “I believe from the size of the contusion on your head that you would do well to stay away from my wife.”
So, Wickham realised, he had talked to his wife. That irked him no end.
Darcy picked up the document, opened it, and set it before Wickham. That reminded Wickham that he was to win this confrontation. Still, he could not help but touch the goose-egg near his hairline.
“Have you no pen?” Wickham asked.
Darcy flicked his head towards the escritoire.
“Yes,” Wickham simpered, “of course.”
Employing every device of relish, he sauntered there and back, holding the pen aloft in one hand, the inkwell in the other. He set the inkwell down, dabbed the pen in it three times, and then held the pen to the light.
“Does it need mending?”
“Get on with it,” demanded Darcy.
“I suppose I should read it first.”
Wickham picked up the paper and held it close to the candle, reading it in the quasi-silence of lip accompaniment. Satisfied, he laid it down, but still did not sign.
“You understand, it is not that I do not trust you. But under these particular circumstances, might I bear witness that you have sufficient funds in exchange for this signature? Bloody war. It has made paupers of so many gentlemen.”
It was Darcy’s turn to sigh, and he gave a generous one of disgust. He reached within his waistcoat, retrieved Bingley’s bank notes, and tossed them to the middle of the table.
Still holding the pen aloft, Wickham picked up a bundle and appraised it. With the money before him in a tantalizing mound, he quickly scratched a signature upon the paper.
Darcy reached out and yanked it from beneath his pen before he had time to blot.
That impatience had little effect upon Wickham’s mood—which was by then bordering upon the giddy. “I am most excessively grateful,” he said scooping up the notes.
He gave Darcy a swooping bow.
“I bid you good-day,” Wickham said amiably.
Darcy did not respond. He picked up the document and refolded it, stashing it again in his waistcoat. Thereupon he took up his gloves and strode towards the door. At the door, however, he paused.
Looking directly at Wickham, he said with no small gravity, “I do have a second, Wickham.”
Wickham smiled and then lost it, uncertain of Darcy’s meaning.
Darcy was disinclined to explain. With one parting look, he took his leave.
“What sort of enigmatic rubbish is that?” Wickham said aloud, mimicking Darcy. “I do have a second.”
He picked up his gloves and stopt, brow furrowing. He bethought the matter further. It was troubling. Then he shook that thought from his mind, certain that Darcy was only playing with him. But then, Darcy was not much of a gamester. What could be his design? Shrugging his shoulders, he pondered more important matters. It was imperative that he make his money safe. But first, he must count. Carefully, he arranged each stack, counting the notes in each. It was indeed ten thousand. He put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes—thinking he might just weep with joy.
Mrs. Younge, of course, had no safe. But there was a strongbox in a room behind the tavern. He would borrow it until he could find permanent means of stowing his booty. A canvas bag lay upon the escritoire. He took it and began to stuff the notes into it. It had been the one that had held the ruby necklace for his brief ownership. To refill it with such a fortune gifted him no small delight.
“What is it they say about luck?” he asked himself. “Oh, yes. ‘It favours the bold.’” The thought of himself thusly made him preen just a bit, for it was a most pleasing notion.
Wickham slipped on his frock-coat and made for the door, donning his gloves as he went. He stopt once again, perplexed. There was something wrong with the fit of his gloves. The appearance of his costume was one of his many conceits. He refused to leave his room unless dressed as a gentleman. He pushed between each of the fingers endeavouring to press them into place, but to no avail. He looked at his hand. The fingers of the gloves were a knuckle-length too long on each finger. Furiously, he withdrew them both and cast them to the ground. Realising that Darcy had mistakenly taken his gloves and left his own, Wickham settled himself.
“Let Darcy have my gloves,” he thought. “I now have the funds to buy all the kid gloves I should want.”
The thought of gloves he could buy was rewarding. Still, he could not help himself from looking once again at Darcy’s gloves lying in a heap upon the floor. It was not the fineness of those gloves that so bothered him. The many gloves that he would buy would be just as fine.
What truly vexed him was the thought that even then Darcy would be endeavouring to don the gloves he took by mistake. It was not that Darcy’s gloves were too long for him that riled Wickham so, but that Darcy would realise that his were far too small.
But then, size really did not matter. Did it?
94
What Went Before
When Mr. Darcy left Major Kneebone’s house earlier that evening, he was bent only on locating Elizabeth. Wickham was nothing more than an obstacle to that means. He stood momentarily upon the stoop determining the location of the nearest coach for hire. From the shadows, Sally Frances called his name.
That he wore Major Kneebone’s coat was no impediment to her recognition of that man. Mr. Darcy’s presence was of a singular kind. Sally had seen him upon several occasions at Pemberley. Such was the observation of those who knew the couple that after Mrs. Darcy’s arrival, Sally knew it would be only a short time ere Mr. Darcy came after her. It was nice to know of a married couple who loved each other as they seemed to do. Had it not been for the Darcys and Gardiners, Sally might have believed love and respect between a married couple was only that of fairy tales.
Sally was as much Mrs. Darcy’s ally as she was hers against Mr. Wickham. She had wanted most especially to go with Mrs. Darcy when she saw Mr. Wickham, but Mrs. Darcy had asked her to stay in case Mr. Darcy came looking for her. Sally had no doubt that he would. Mr. Darcy, she had heard, was given to rescuing folks.
It worried her that Mrs. Darc
y might need rescuing. She intended to have Mr. Wickham sign a paper giving up his right to Mrs. Kneebone and pay him for his time. (It came to light she had a second document—one Sally understood equally well.) But the coachman had returned to his stand only to find that document in the seat of his coach. In fortune, he observed Mrs. Darcy’s doings and knew Sally was of her acquaintance so he returned the document forthwith to her. Sally had it with her then, tucked beneath her shawl. Mr. Darcy had been right to borrow Mr. Kneebone’s coat. Had he left in the same shirtsleeves in which he arrived, he might catch his death. Mrs. Darcy would be heartbroken were that to happen.
When she called Mr. Darcy’s name, it was clear he had no recollection of her. Still, he peered at her not with suspicion, but curiosity. He answered only yes, that he was Mr. Darcy and waited for her to speak again.
“Are ye in want of yer wife?”
“Yes.”
She liked Mr. Darcy—he was a man of few words. She learnt long ago that garrulous men were suspect.
“My name is Sally Frances Arbuthnot and I know where she went.”
“Thank you, Miss Arbuthnot, but I know as well,” Mr. Darcy said. Then he eyed her again, “I was just in that neighbourhood—but it was daylight still. I fear I may not find the way in the dark. Do you know Gowell St.?”
“Like the back of my hand,” she assured him.
“Come,” he commanded, “I will pay you well.”
“I had no doubt ye wouldn’t,” she assured him, “but I got my reasons fer helpin’ ye.”
As they were crossing the street to the single remaining coach, Sally brought forth Elizabeth’s lost document.
“Mrs. Darcy forgot this in her coach. The driver brought it to me.”
Darcy took the instrument from her and squinted in the dim gaslight to discover its contents. Ever in want of being of assistance, Sally said, “It’s a paper sayin’ that Wickham is dead, and one that says there ain’t no Wickham no more.”
Mr. Darcy looked at her in a singular manner and she added defensively, “I can read.”
“Is the coachman here who took Mrs. Darcy to Mr. Wickham’s?”
Sally was not about to allow Mr. Darcy to leave her behind, but she did not have to fib to obtain that objective. “Naw, sir. He went ’ome.”
Mr. Darcy opened the door to the coach as Sally told the coachman their destination. She began to scramble in, but Mr. Darcy took her hand and helped her in like a proper lady. Sally was altogether pleased to be treated as such. So pleased was she, she thought it only fair to apprise Mr. Darcy of all she knew of the despicable doings of wicked Mr. Wickham. In doing so, she also thought it prudent to advise him of her connection.
“That soldier he kilt? He was me brother,” she told him.
That information gifted Mr. Darcy the strangest look.
“Your brother?” he repeated, then queried, “Your family name is Arbuthnot?”
“He’s me half-brother—same Ma, different Pa.”
“I see,” said he.
“I mean to kill ’im,” Sally announced.
“Who?” Mr. Darcy inquired.
“Why, Mr. Wickham, of course,” she said impatiently.
“I believe it best to allow the authorities see to Mr. Wickham,” Mr. Darcy replied, as he attempted to ascertain the contents of the papers Elizabeth had written in the low light and incessant rocking of the coach.
“That’s just what Mrs. Darcy said,” Sally marvelled.
“Mrs. Darcy knows of your connection?”
“Indeed,” Sally replied, “I’m her associate in this business.”
He looked at her a bit dubiously, and she retorted, “She told me I was.”
His smile was not of the condescending variety. Apparently, asking for help from the likes of her was a turn of his wife’s that he admired.
“I gotta tell ye, sir, that this time a night things can get a might rowdy down around Gowell St.”
“No doubt.”
He seemed unfazed by such a notion, and Sally wondered would he remain unfazed when faced with the likes of night life in Seven Dials? Moreover, she wondered when faced with the likes of Mr. Darcy, would Gowell St. be unfazed by him? It might be necessary for her to call upon past associates to make their way unassaulted. She had not been to that neighbourhood for many months, but she doubted much had changed.
***
Indeed, the coachman arrived at an approximation of where Darcy had last been taken. They had approached it from the other end, so Darcy’s sense of direction was a bit askew. The street had been fairly bustling at dusk. The girl’s description of what he would find when he arrived had him expecting a veritable circus of drunkenness and debauchery. A circus he did not see. The street was dark and almost deserted. He did not leave the coach until he caught sight of a landmark he recognised. The one he saw was the upturned arrow barely visible in the low-cast lights from the windows.
He opened the coach door and alit, placing but one page of the document in his breast pocket, the other he folded again and tucked into his waistband and instructed the coachman to wait.
Reaching in his waistcoat for a coin, he told Sally Frances Arbuthnot, “I thank you for your aid. I shall go alone.”
“Ye ain’t leavin’ me,” said Sally, leaping to the ground—having given up hope that her impetuosity would be rewarded by him taking her hand and escorting her from the coach.
“I think it best if I proceed alone. The streets are altogether vacant. I see the lodgings but a few steps from here.”
“Vacant, huh?” Sally snorted.
Darcy put his hands upon his hips, dissatisfied at his charge’s impudence.
“See here, miss,” he began.
Sally grabbed his hand and tugged him into a shadowed niche. He had the good judgement to follow her lead and be quiet. Two men crept by them, one carrying what could ably pass as a bludgeon, in the other’s hand, a knife glinted. Their whispering discourse involved the gentleman they had just seen and interest of where he might have gone.
“Rowdiness?” he mouthed to Sally.
She shrugged, but Darcy was affrighted to his toes. His own head was not his concern. His fear was for Elizabeth, who had trod upon these very steps not hours before. Silently, he looked skyward, begging God to look after her. Rather than cautioning him, the appearance of the men merely spurred his determination to locate her. His compleat recollection of her abduction and its aftermath had not yet descended upon him, but it was on the cusp of his thoughts. His heart told him to draw his pistol and walk down the middle of the street until he reached Wickham’s lodgings, march up those stairs, and kick open the door. His head insisted otherwise, lest his rashness incite her murder.
“I must enter those lodgings,” he whispered to Sally. “There by the arrow—upstairs.”
He all but took a step onto the walkway, when Sally again tugged his arm.
“This way!”
Into an alley and up several buildings, Sally found an unlocked door. Weaving through barrels containing reeking substances (the contents of which he chose not to ponder) they made their way through what appeared to be a kitchen and into some sort of parlour. The remains of a silk scarf strewn over the top of a lamp cast a reddish hue through the room. It occurred to Darcy that such an arrangement was a fire-hazard, but by the time his eyes adjusted to its particular glow, he was nonplussed enough to have forgotten that trail of thought.
Seated about the room were several ladies, none of whom were fully attired. One nearest him immediately rose and went to him, putting her arm around his waist, announcing through a grin that evidenced a single tooth, “This ’ere’s mine!”
To the murmurs of the others’ disgruntlement at having been forestalled, Mr. Darcy unwrapped her arm from about his waist, observing, “I do beg your pardon, this is a misunderstanding.”
&n
bsp; Not so easily rebuffed, the heavily rouged, scantily clad sexual vendor investigated the goods beneath his great-coat, saying, “See here, pretty feller, doncha worry, I’ll be gentle.”
To that, screeches of laughter erupted.
Mr. Darcy announced (far too primly), “Unhand me, madam.”
“Unhand me, sez ’e,” the woman mimicked. “Unhand me—like ’e’s some little virgin! Take off that hat and them gloves and I’ll shew you what ye been missin’!”
Gratefully, his guide through this particularly lewd bawdy house then spoke in his defence. “Leave ’im be! ’E’s after a murderin’ scum, ’e is.” To the general lack of sympathy upon their faces, she added, “This murderin’ scum ’e’s after is a gentleman!”
Ahhs of appreciation were heard all round. One plump tart wearing curl-papers and an orange kimono knew the description well.
“Ye must mean that feller who lodges across up the street, in Mrs. Younge’s house. He keeps more than one chit in pink stockings,” she said knowingly.
Just then came an interruption.
“Oh hush up, Mellie!” said a voice from the stairs. “And take those curl-papers out o’ yer hair. How’d ye think a man’s gonna want to tail ye lookin’ like that?”
Once again, Darcy’s new admirer clamped on to his waist with one arm and sent her hand scurrying for the inside of his leg. “Whoa, Papa Bear! What family jewels ye got.”
Whilst endeavouring to unpeel her fingers and disengage the personage attempting to caress his vitals, Darcy caught sight of possibly the oddest-looking apparition of his recollection. Before him stood a female no more than four foot tall, her yellow hair and ermine tippit much in evidence.
“Daisy!” Sally cried. “I been lookin’ fer ye.”
“I been right ’ere,” said Daisy, unsuccessfully endeavouring to hide her delight at seeing her young friend. “Brought us a customer, did ye?”
To the woman with whom Darcy was still wrangling with over ownership of his genitals, Daisy demanded, “Let ’im be!” Then to Darcy apologetically, she offered, “I can do better for ye, she’s got a face to inspire chastity if ever I saw one.”
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