After her meal, Lydia reluctantly climbed the creaky stairs in the middle of their cottage to attend to Georgie. He had not awoken yet, but she knew it was just a matter of time until he did. She was still not accustomed to feeding him in the common way, as she referred to it, but at least it did not hurt as much as when she first began. She was also glad of Mrs Ennis’ continued help. The old midwife popped in to see Lydia and the babe every few days, and she always had some wisdom to impart. Best of all, as far as Lydia was concerned, she often brought herbs to make up a draft to soothe either her, the infant, or them both.
As she sat beside the wooden crib on a short stool, Lydia could not help but feel proud. She was the first of the Bennet sisters to give their parents a grandchild and, most significantly, he was a boy.
She had given Wickham an heir. The instant she thought of that, the germ of an idea occurred to her, and she remembered something her mother said once about desiring grandsons to take Mr Bennet’s place one day. What if it were possible to have the Bennet estate of Longbourn given to Georgie as his inheritance, instead of it being entailed away? As it stood, Mr and Mrs Bennet, not having begotten any sons, were forced to have their estate in its entirety entailed away from their five daughters. It would be given over to their father’s cousin, Mr Collins, and his wife, Charlotte, upon Mr Bennet’s demise.
Lydia was of the same mind as her mother where the Collinses were concerned. The very thought of the Collinses taking possession of her family home instead of a Bennet made her sick to her stomach. Now, though, her thoughts turned to gaining Longbourn for her son, Georgie, and the seed of a plan began to take root. She was more than glad to water and nurture it, too. Surely, there was some precedent for such a thing. Her joy knew no bounds, as did the smile that spread across her pretty little face. Yes, she would speak to her father as soon as the opportunity arose. Why should the Longbourn estate not be Georgie’s? After all, he was the first grandson.
Filled with energy at the idea of being secure in her dotage through her son, and back in her family home, she rose, rang the bell, and asked Tess to fetch her travelling chest. She was determined to leave for Hertfordshire as soon as she could. The bewildered maid did as she was bid and stayed to help Lydia fold her dresses correctly into the trunk.
“You know, Tess, it is a most excellent idea…” She talked the poor girl’s ear off over the notion of changing the Longbourn entail so that Georgie would inherit. Tess, however, had very little idea of what her mistress chatted about—she knew nothing of such matters. “…and of course, my dear, darling Georgie will want his mama to come and live with him at Longbourn.”
Tess raised her eyebrow at the dear, darling Georgie comment and watched as her mistress bundled up her favourite blue sprigged muslin and fairly tossed it into the trunk. As before, Tess reached in, took the dress, shook it out, and folded it properly.
“What joy it will bring to my own dear mama to know that those odious Collinses will not throw her out onto the street the moment Papa is dead.” Lydia pouted. “I think it is frightfully unfair that an estate should be entailed away from my sisters and I, wouldn’t you agree?” She barely looked at Tess for a response. “To think, you are born to a family with land, farms, and an estate, and it is all to be given over to a loathsome stranger, just because the good Lord did not see fit to provide you with sons. Preposterous, truly it is.” She turned and tossed her white nightdresses into the chest and went back to the armoire. “I know my mama has decried it for many-a-year now. I should feel precisely as she does under such circumstances.” She spun around and grinned happily at Tess. “But now that is all to be forgotten, because I, the youngest of all their children, have provided them with an heir.” She clapped her hands with excitement. “Just think what celebrations we will have at Longbourn when I suggest my perfect idea to Mama and Papa! I am sure that Lizzy will be so jealous!” This thought gave Lydia the giggles and she laughed as she threw more clothing into the trunk, only for them to be sorted and folded correctly by Tess, until Georgie awoke and demanded her attention. The smile fell immediately off her face and she sighed. “Am I never to have a moment’s peace?” She shook her head and picked up the crying infant. “Never mind. All our fortunes depend upon you, my dearest boy.” Her smile of satisfaction slipped a little when she flinched just as the child nestled onto her breast. “Yes, all will be well for us now.”
Wickham was not certain of the hour when he finally arrived home. As he opened the front door, the first rays of light were beginning to spread across the town from the sea. It really was a heavy night of drinking. Carefully, he shook off his coat and placed it on the metal hook on the wall. He stood for a moment, listening for any sign of life in the dark house. There was none. Everyone was asleep, so he headed for the stairs.
He grimaced at the creaking as he placed his booted foot on the bottom stair. He would have to do something about that and ask Tess to fit some cork between the cracks in the wood. If Lydia awoke, there would be hell to pay. He was certain this would not be the only night he would come home late. In fact, it was becoming something of a habit. He sighed inwardly. What a terrible thought—to have to escape the arguing and tension at home by spending all night in the tavern. Was that all life had in store for him now?
He paused as another stair groaned beneath his weight. He heard stirring from their bedroom. He held his breath, but no more sounds came. Lydia must have turned over when she heard the noise. More carefully this time, Wickham continued to climb the stairs, and finally, after many breath-holding pauses, reached the door to their room. Painfully slowly, he lifted the latch to open the door and could have sworn when it made a loud click. He froze, fearful that Lydia was now awake. It seemed the more he tried to be quiet, the more noise he actually made.
For what seemed like an eternity, he stood still with his hand on the latch and the door slightly ajar. From where he stood, he, thankfully, could see his wife was still sound asleep. He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. He was grateful that closing the door and fastening the latch was a lot quieter than opening it.
He pulled off his boots where he stood and tiptoed to the chair on his side of the bed. He put down his boots, pulled off his cravat, stripped off his breeches, and pulled his shirt over his head. He placed them as neatly as possible on the chair, and then put on his nightshirt. He was breathing more easily now that all he had to do was slip into bed. He had done that thousands of times and not woken Lydia.
Within minutes, he was comfortably lying next to his wife, but as soon as his head touched the pillow, sleep refused to come.
Lydia opened her eyes as she felt Wickham climb into the bed beside her. She wanted to shout at him and berate him for coming home so late. She wanted to scold him for leaving his wife and new-born child alone in the house all evening. She wanted to know precisely where he had been, with whom he had been there, and what they had done all night. However, despite the desire to turn over and start a row with him, she was fearful of awaking the baby yet again. He had such a voracious appetite and she was feeling frightfully sore, despite the application of honey. She needed a rest from him, so the last thing she wished to do, at that precise moment, was create a scene and have him wake up demanding for her milk.
Slowly, her anger subsided and she closed her eyes as sleep reclaimed her. She would deal with Wickham in the morning.
The following morning, baby Georgie woke Lydia later than usual. She turned over and felt the bed beside her. Wickham was not there, and she assumed he had departed for his duties at the castle already—she would deal with him later over his coming home late, when he returned home that evening. She looked over to the crib. She was shocked and more than a little pleased that Georgie had so graciously permitted her to sleep for an extra hour. She felt refreshed, but the soreness of her chest made her reluctant to rise and feed the bawling babe.
Slowly, she swung her legs out of the bed and sleepily made her way across the room to the win
dow. As she bent down to pick up her crying son, she noted that nothing could be seen through the window. The sea mist had penetrated far inland that morning. She shivered involuntarily. Baby George’s appetite was just as voracious that morning, and Lydia closed her eyes and frowned through the pain of feeding him. She muttered loudly to take her mind off it: “It is at least a three, mayhap four-day journey from Scarborough to my parents’ home, therefore, so long as the roads are in good condition and there are no delays along the way, I should be there in no time at all.” As the baby suckled away strongly at her bosom, Lydia chattered to him and planned her homeward journey. “If the weather is good, mayhap we could make it as far as Scunthorpe before resting for the night on the first day.” She unscrewed her eyes and looked down at the infant in her arms. “I think it would be better to break the journey up and rest more often.” Lydia nodded. “Yes, I am decided. It would be more prudent to break our passage on the first day in Kingston-Upon-Hull, Georgie. Scunthorpe is sixty miles away, whereas Hull is a more comfortable forty-two, or so your papa says, and he knows more about such things than I.” She smiled down at him and was startled to find that he was staring back at her, as though hanging on every single word she uttered. Her breath caught in her throat and she smiled down on the beautiful blue eyes so intently fixed upon her face. “We will then have plenty of time to rest and eat well, will we not?” She chuckled to herself that she was making the trip. Nothing would please her more than to be back home with her mama. “On the second day…” she proposed to Georgie, “…we should be able to travel as far as Lincoln—another forty-three miles, I believe. On the fourth, I hope to reach Peterborough, and then on the fifth…” She sighed. “How long this journey will take! I had no idea!” Georgie made a gurgling noise and she looked down at him again. “But it will all be worth it, dear. Just you wait until you see your dear grandparents. Oh, what joy you will bring to their hearts!” As the child continued to take his fill, she pressed on with her planning. “With any luck, on the sixth day, we might cover the sixty miles remaining to Longbourn. If the horses are too exhausted, then perhaps we shall have to stay overnight with your Aunt Jane at Netherfield Park, which is nearer. Would you like that?” Lydia closed her eyes again in remembrance of the last time she was in Netherfield. “Oh, such a wonderful home it is. I would so dearly love to live in such splendour as Jane does.” She looked down at her son, who was now finished feeding, and lifted him up to her shoulder to burp him. “We shall have to see what can be done, shan’t we?”
Wickham sat in the dark, cold parlour and stared at the dying embers in the grate. He could not sleep a wink despite how tired he was. Instead of tossing and turning whilst waiting for sleep to claim him, he rose. The chilly parlour was preferable to making Lydia furious at him because he woke her by constantly turning over in his attempt to find sleep. However, he could not put that man from his mind—Colonel Fitzwilliam. Why was he in Scarborough? He frowned and leant his head back against the padded wingback chair. For certain, the man was injured—that was plain for all to see. Nevertheless, what irked Wickham was why the colonel was there in Scarborough when, surely, being at home with his parents in Matlock was preferable in his condition. Wickham clenched his jaw and scowled. “Darcy has sent his cousin to spy on me,” he whispered into the darkness. He turned his eyes up towards the whitewashed ceiling and sighed. He was shackled at home, walked on eggshells around Lydia, and now he would have to watch his step at the castle if Colonel Fitzwilliam was there to spy on him. He shook his head and smiled wryly. “Going off to war may be a blessed escape.” He rose, picked up one of Lydia’s shawls that was lying across the settee, and lay down upon it. He hoped to get some sleep before he had to return to the castle in a few hours’ time.
Unfortunately for him, Wickham could not sleep well on the settee, either. So he got up and prepared to go to the castle early. He left for his duties before Lydia even stirred. One of his more pleasant duties awaited him that day. Amongst the French prisoners of war were several officers, and owing to the courtesy accorded them, some of the British officers would join them for a meal, or to play cards and socialise. Captain Brook insisted that all officers were treated as gentlemen, regardless of their captive status. Therefore, Wickham looked forward to joining the French officers for breakfast and was glad of a reason not to join Lydia for the repast. Whatever she intended to say to him would have to wait until evening, and hopefully, Wickham thought, her temper would have calmed by then.
The air was crisp, but the birds sang gaily. He was not certain that it promised to be a fine day, as he could see mist rolling in gently from the sea, but all the same, it was a glorious morning. Wickham’s mood lifted as he walked along. By the time he arrived at the castle, he was in a much better frame of mind. He walked in through the portcullis gate and into the inner bailey. He looked up as he approached the inner buildings and the officers’ mess and saw the reassuring sight of the ‘red coat’ musketeers patrolling along the curtain wall.
“You there!” he called to the nearest soldier. The man looked around and saluted down at him. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Ogilvy.” The man put his hand to his ear and Wickham shouted again.
“Down in the dungeons, sir.”
Wickham saluted his thanks and entered the mess. Gratefully, he found he was alone. Thankful that he did not bump into Colonel Fitzwilliam so early in the morning, he signed his name in the ledger to say he had arrived and went immediately down the dungeons to relive his night-counterpart.
Wickham could not see anything as soon as he descended beneath the castle. The dungeons let in very little natural light, and that which did come in was through narrow slits in the stone walls of the cells themselves. He stepped carefully and let his right hand feel his way along the damp wall as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Unhurriedly, he made his way through one corridor and took a right turn to where he knew the soldier on guard always sat at night. Ahead he saw a lantern hanging on the wall, its light barely penetrating further than its immediate vicinity, and beneath it was the hunched form of the man he sought sitting on a stool. “Oglivy, is that you?” he mumbled as he strained to see the man in the dim light from the lantern.
The man looked up, stretched, and yawned loudly. “Ah, morning, Wickham!”
“Morning, Ogilvy. I’m here to relieve you.”
“Good, good. You’re early today.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that—new babe and all, eh?” He chuckled. “I know that I will be glad to get home and to my bed.” He stood up and faced him.
Wickham smiled and slapped the man on the shoulder. “Anything of interest happen that I should know about?” he asked as he nodded towards the cells, which lined both sides of the corridor.
“Not a peep out of them all night, apart from the snoring.”
“What?” Wickham grinned. “Not even the usual tedious jibes about our food?”
“Not a peep.” Ogilvy shook his head, tittering. “Although I don’t see what’s so good about their food—all that butter will set a man to be gouty and lazy, and his stomach bad, to boot.”
Wickham laughed at his comment, then looked at his fellow officer and frowned. “Why are you down here in the cold and dark instead of one of your men?”
Ogilvy pulled a face and shook his head. “You aren’t going to believe this,” he said, chuckling to himself, “but Nichols reckons he saw a ghost down here last night.”
Wickham sneered. “A ghost? Was he drinking on duty?”
“Wickham, with God as my witness, that is what he said.” Oglivy continued to laugh. “And I smelled his breath—he hadn’t touched a drop.” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “The things the men will say to get out of guard duty down here in the dungeons. Still, I will have to write him up for this, of course. Unless…” He turned to leave.
“Unless what?”
“Unless someone else sees this apparition of his,” he replied with a smirk
on his face.
Wickham laughed at that. “That is not very likely, now, is it?”
Again Ogilvy chuckled, clapped Wickham on the back, and departed, picking up his musket as he went. “You tell me, Wickham. You tell me.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he called after Ogilvy’s retreating form.
“Well… there are always rumours.”
Wickham shrugged and shook his head. “Apparitions, indeed.” He nervously looked around him. His eyes could not penetrate the darkness and he knew that the mind could play cruel tricks in such an environment. He quickly turned and strode up and down the corridor, looking into each of the cells as he passed. Assured that all was well, he returned to the clean, fresh air of the castle above. Upon seeing another soldier arriving for his duty shift, Wickham called to him. “You there!”
“Yes, sir.” The man stopped mid-stride, stood to attention, and saluted his superior officer.
“Who is to watch the prisoners today?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Then you are until whomever it is arrives, understood?”
“Yes, sir.” The man looked crestfallen and more than a little annoyed at Wickham’s sending him to the dungeons.
“Dismissed.” Wickham watched after him as he saluted and marched away. At least this was one place where what he said was obeyed without question. Once the man had disappeared down the steps and into the darkness, Wickham turned and marched to the old stone hall closest to the cells. It was here that the French officers were allowed their ‘courtesy,’ and this morning, Wickham was in the mood for a good hearty breakfast, even if it was to be with Frenchmen.
He entered the hall and shivered in the crisp morning air. He would have to find someone to light a fire in there as soon as he could. He walked the length of the hall and looked about him. It was sparsely furnished with an old table, six chairs, and two rocking chairs flanking the fire. There were no paintings adorning the walls, although there was a small bookcase with a few books and a side table with cards and games upon it, but Wickham thought how dreary the place looked. He once asked the French officers how well English prisoners of war were treated. The smirks and mocking laughter which greeted his enquiry told him all he needed to know. English officer prisoners of war in France were most likely cramped into the same cells as their men. After that, Wickham, Poynter, Turpin, and even Colonel Sullivan wanted to be as curt as they could to the Frenchmen, and to deny them, if possible, all the luxuries they had thus far received. However, Captain Brook was having none of it. He insisted that they be treated with the same level of respect that they themselves would wish to receive if they were imprisoned in France. All their protestations fell on deaf ears.
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