Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  Wickham crossed the room and knelt by the fire. He was freezing; the damp from the sea mist was penetrating his bones. He decided to start a blaze himself. He wanted occupation. The longer he dwelt on the sound of Sous-Lieutenant Blanchard and Capitaine Lefebvre’s laughter, the more his blood boiled. He came that morning with the sole purpose of breakfasting with fellow officers, of communing with men of the army who knew the same life as he lived, not to dwell upon how the French differed to the English when dealing with prisoners. He needed respite, not more aggravation.

  No matter how much Wickham blew on the embers, he could not get them to ignite the kindling he laid atop them; they were almost out. He picked up the coal shovel and went back to the officers’ mess to fetch a faggot with which to light a fire. Much to his pleasure, he saw that Turpin and Poynter had arrived.

  “Wickham, you old dog! What are you doing here so early?” Poynter called across the room as he removed his cape and slung it over a chair.

  “Never mind that; why are you carrying a coal shovel?” Turpin laughed.

  Wickham looked down at his right hand and the shovel it contained and smiled. “I need to light a fire in the old stone hall. It’s freezing in there.”

  Poynter snorted. “And you thought you’d do it yourself?”

  Wickham shook his head as he crossed the room and knelt by the fire. He picked up one of the faggots on top of the kindling next to the fire companion set to the right and plunged it into the fire.

  “You know we have subordinates who could do this for you, don’t you?” Poynter and Turpin continued to laugh behind his back.

  “Aye, I am well aware of that, but I want to do it myself.” He looked up at them, daring them to make one more cheeky comment. They saw his thunderous expression and fell silent. Wickham scooped up some flaming embers with the faggot, carefully stood back up, and returned to the old stone hall. It was not until he had lit the fire, stacked some wood upon it, and stood back to admire his work that he realised Poynter and Turpin had followed him there. He turned and looked at their bemused expressions.

  Poynter’s face clearly said, ‘Are you going to tell us about it?’

  Wickham shook his head and moved to a pitcher and bowl left by the window overnight. “I just have a few things on my mind.” He made to thrust his hands into the water in the bowl, but it had frozen solid. He drew his sword and smashed the ice with the butt.

  “The little woman giving you grief again?” Poynter drawled as he hopped up and sat on the table next to the bowl as Wickham smashed the ice, and it splashed his leg. “Steady on!”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so forceful.” He sheathed his sword and washed his hands in the bitterly cold water.

  “No need to apologise, man,” Poynter replied, wiping the water from his breeches with the cloth Turpin handed him. “Now, speak up, or we shall leave you to stew in your own foul mood and not speak to you for the whole day.”

  Wickham smiled. “As if.”

  “You know us, if there’s something to be known, we’ll sniff it out,” Turpin added.

  As he snatched the drying cloth out of Poynter’s hands, Wickham sighed. “There’s certainly nothing new to tell about home. It’s always the same, and you both know it all.”

  “Then what, pray, is lying heavily on your mind?”

  Wickham looked at his two best friends. They knew all about him. They knew all of his history—or, at least, those parts he had chosen to share, including all the embellishments he usually added to put himself in a favourable light. Nevertheless, what they did not know was Wickham’s full history with Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was unsure of whether to let them into his confidence now. He was aware of them watching him think.

  “God’s teeth, Wickham! Spit it out!” Poynter shouted as he jumped down from the table, marched to the fire, and warmed up his chilled legs. “Anyone would think that you dared not confide in us!”

  “Not at all, I assure you.”

  “Then what is it?” Turpin asked more softly as he joined his friend by the fire.

  Wickham hung his head, kicked at a tiny little ball of mud on the wooden floorboards, and mumbled, “Fitzwilliam.”

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Poynter and Turpin said together.

  “The very same.”

  “What has he done?” Poynter pulled himself up straight, showing he was willing to protect his friend.

  “Did he say something to you?” Turpin asked, open-mouthed.

  “No, no. Nothing of the sort. I merely wonder why he is here.” Wickham looked up and saw both of his friends frowning at him.

  “You’ve lost me there. Why would Colonel Fitzwilliam’s presence here disconcert you?” Poynter turned back to the fire.

  “I…” Wickham sighed and waved his hand. “I…have a history with his family.”

  Their interest was piqued and Poynter sat down in one of the chairs flanking the fire, whilst Turpin leant on the back and stared at Wickham with interest. “Do tell.”

  “Mr Darcy is Colonel Fitzwilliam’s cousin.”

  “That overbearing, rich do-gooder who forced you up the altar with Lydia?” Turpin asked as he picked out three cigars from a box on top of the mantelpiece and handed them to his friends.

  “The very same. I think he wants Fitzwilliam here.”

  Poynter lit his cigar with a taper candle that was on the table and passed it to Wickham whilst puffing hard on the thing. “Why…would he…want his…cousin here?”

  “To keep an eye on me, no doubt.”

  “What?” Turpin laughed, dragging a chair from the table nearer the now-roaring fire. “Why? What have you done to merit that?”

  “Nothing, I assure you.”

  Poynter sat back and checked that the end of his cigar was fully lit. “Can you seriously believe that Mr Money-bags Darcy would have such influence as to send his cousin to see what you’re up to?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t put it past him. And as we both know…” Wickham lit his own cigar. “…money talks.”

  “Aye, that it does, indeed.”

  “Yet, again we have the question of why?” Turpin finished lighting his cigar, blew out the taper, and placed it next to the box of candles on the windowsill.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Turpin.”

  All three of them turned as the sounds of footsteps and the unmistakable hum of the gabble of five Frenchmen reached their ears.

  “I think mayhap it is an unhappy coincidence,” Poynter spoke quickly before they were interrupted.

  “It could be, Poynter, but I want to be certain. What if Lydia’s letters to her sister are more revealing than they ought to be?”

  “Lydia’s sister?” Turpin asked as the door burst open, and in walked the five French prisoners, accompanied by two redcoats.

  “Aye,” Wickham whispered as he stood to greet the new arrivals. “Lydia’s sister is Mr Darcy’s wife.”

  Turpin’s face scrunched up. “Ouch. I don’t envy you that, old man.”

  “Neither do I,” Poynter joined as he too stood.

  “Good morning,” Wickham cried, cheerily turning towards the newcomers. “Or mayhap I should say bonjour, messieurs!”

  Capitaine Lefebvre looked at him and smiled. “Good morning, Lieutenant Wickham; ou, si vous préférez, nous pouvons parler en français.”

  Wickham chuckled with embarrassment. “I’m afraid my French is not up to the challenge. Besides, Capitaine, your English is far better than my French will ever be.”

  “Nonsense!” Capitaine Lefebvre waved his hand and dismissed Wickham’s comment. The other men took their places at the table as the capitaine sat beside Wickham. “All you lack eez practice.”

  “Alas, Capitaine, I also lack the time to practice.”

  The capitaine tutted. “You mean you do not find ze time.”

  The battle of wills had begun, just as it always did when Wickham and the capitaine dined together. The capitaine was always right and Wickham was
always wrong, and it irritated him. At least, he mused, I am learning patience.

  The scent of breakfast arrived before the food itself did. The doors were propped open to allow the men serving better access from the kitchens on the opposite side of the bailey to the old stone hall where they were breakfasting. Outside the doors to the hall, two guards stood sentry, just in case one of the French prisoners tried something foolish.

  The capitaine sniffed the air. “Hmm…more of your Ingleesh sausages, I think,” he drooled in his thick accent.

  “It is a frosty morning. A good hearty, hot breakfast is what’s called for, do you not think?” Wickham rubbed his hands together as a blast of icy air filled the room from the open doorway. “I, for one, hope there are kippers.”

  The capitaine’s nose turned up, just as Wickham knew it would. “I do not understand ’ow you can eat zat smelly fish in ze morning!”

  Wickham chuckled and looked to the door, noticing that Poynter and Turpin were smirking at him. “Oh, Capitaine, mayhap with a little time, you will learn to love kippers as much as we do.”

  Again, the French captain pulled a face. “I think not, Lieutenant. Zey are foul.” His face brightened and Wickham knew what was coming. “Now, if we were in France, I would serve you pastries and the finest cuts of meat for breakfast.”

  “Which would leave us starving by dinner time, no doubt,” muttered Poynter in a voice just loud enough for the capitaine to hear.

  Wickham saw that the Frenchman looked incensed. “Mayhap it is better that we shall never know, eh, Capitaine?” He raised his eyebrows at him and slowly, he nodded. He looked back at Poynter and snarled. The capitaine’s reaction convinced him that even if they were to breakfast in France, there would be little likelihood of them having such fare as he mentioned. Wickham suspected that bread and water would be their lot for any meal. The more he came to know Capitaine Lefebvre, the less he liked him, and the less he thought of him as a man of honour.

  An awkward silence filled the room then, but was soon, thankfully, broken by the arrival of numerous dishes containing their breakfast. Wickham thought the French prisoners lucky to receive such fare—kippers, sausages, bacon, eggs, an array of bread rolls and toast with dishes of butter, jams, and, of course, pots of tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. Despite the Frenchman’s disparaging comments of the English way of taking breakfast, Wickham noticed that the capitaine was not shy in filling up his own plate with as much as he could. Although, he noted with a smile, the capitaine did not touch the kippers.

  Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin loaded their plates with kippers. It seemed to be an unwritten rule amongst them that the more the French complained about the fish, the more the three of them desired to eat them. The five French prisoners and the three English officers ate in silence for a while. Once all the dishes were brought in, the men from the kitchen retreated, the door was closed, and the heat from the fire was felt once again. Instantly, the chatter started up.

  “So, Lieutenants…” The French capitaine spoke with his mouth full. “I hear zat you will be soon marching to our glorious country to fight against the Empereur Napoléon.”

  Wickham noted he said the name with strength and honour. He thought it strange how differing their opinions could be. “Aye, good news travels fast, as usual.”

  “I would wish you luck, but it will not be long before our forces crush yours in defeat.”

  Wickham smiled weakly at him. The news from the continent did not support such a statement.

  “Whatever gives you hope, Capitaine.” Poynter raised his cup of hot chocolate to the capitaine in salute.

  “Hmm…” The sarcasm was entirely lost on him as he speared another piece of bacon. “It is only a matter of time. We have superior soldiers, officers, and firepower. And zat Field Wellington man—”

  “Field Marshal Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington,” Turpin interjected.

  “—whatever, you call ’im.” He waved his fork in the air, not looking up from his full plate. “’E does not stand a chance. If ’e thinks ’e can march ’is men across our land unstopped…” He shrugged. “…’e is a fool!”

  Wickham felt the other men bristle. The Frenchmen looked up at their capitaine’s words. That was fighting talk.

  “We beg to differ,” Poynter replied slowly. His tone warned the capitaine to be careful.

  The capitaine, however, did not look up, but continued to shovel food into his mouth. “Non. I am certain. It is true.” No one said a word. “In fact, I would stake my life on zis…when zey ’ave finished off ze Ingleesh in France, zen zey will cross ze channel and invade your puny little island. Prepare yourselves, mes amies.”

  The silence stretched out and Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin stared at him—all three of them gripping their cutlery until their knuckles were white.

  “Quoi?” The capitaine laughed. “I am—’ow you say—only joking with you!” He threw his head back and laughed until he made himself cough and had to be poured another cup of coffee by one of his men. Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin, however, were not in the slightest bit amused by his so-called joke. With the atmosphere staled, the men put their heads down and concentrated on their breakfast. Wickham wished he had not sat with the capitaine now. Instead, he looked down the table at the other men, hoping that one of them might prove to be a better companion for conversation that morning.

  One of the Frenchmen whom Wickham had not spoken with was a man they referred to as Jacques. Wickham presumed this was not the man’s real name, but a nickname. He had not, however, found a chance to ask the man whether this was true or not—until today—and he jumped at the opportunity to talk with someone other than Capitaine Lefebvre. It was not long before Wickham discovered the man was called Louis Dubois. He was not like the other men; he was quieter, and somewhat withdrawn. Wickham had also noticed him wince when his capitaine spoke ill of the English and of the Duke of Wellington. As the breakfast plates and cutlery were being cleared from the table, Wickham sidled up to the man. “I’m somewhat ashamed, monsieur, that we have not been properly introduced, and that I have never spoken to you. Allow me to correct the mistake now.” Wickham extended his hand and gave Louis Dubois his best grin. “I am Lieutenant George Wickham.”

  The Frenchman looked nervously at the extended hand before him and reluctantly shook it. “I am Lieutenant Louis Dubois, but everyone calls me Jacques.”

  Wickham grinned at him, pleased to have made his acquaintance. “Jolly good. We can converse on equal terms, now that the pleasantries are over with.” As one of the serving lads passed them, Wickham stopped him and asked, “Bring us some wine, will you, my lad?”

  “Wine, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, my lad. Water it down, but not too much to make it taste bad; it is mid-morning, after all.” He smiled back at Jacques. “Mayhap when the wine arrives, we can play a game of cards, or backgammon.”

  “As you wish.”

  Wickham could see that the man did not particularly want to speak with him. However, as he himself had no intention of going back to speak with Capitaine Lefebvre, he saw that he had no choice but to press on in the hope that the young man would open up eventually—especially when plied with a little wine. He moved over to a side table by the window pulling two chairs along with him, and placed them opposite each other at the table. He gestured that Jacques should be seated facing him. On top of the table was a small box containing dice and packs of cards; Wickham took out a pack of cards and began shuffling them. “What will it be?” Jacques looked at him with no emotion. “Loo, whist, whatever you like. I, personally, am partial to a game of Loo.”

  “As you want.”

  Wickham sighed. “You know, you can make your stay here at Scarborough Castle much pleasanter.”

  “But I am in prison.”

  “Aye, but you are an officer and a gentleman, are you not?” Jacques inclined his head in the affirmative. “Then allow us to treat you as one. The British believe in treating officers and g
entlemen as such. Hence the fact you are well treated, eat well, and enjoy our company. So, come on, what’ll it be?”

  A hint of a smile spread across Jacques’ face. “Very well. I am not familiar with your English games. Do you play Vingt-un?”

  Wickham’s own smile mirrored that of the man sitting opposite him. Finally, he was making headway with the man. “Vingt-un? Yes, I am aware of that game. It has the same name here, and is also commonly known as Twenty-One.”

  Jacques nodded. “Vingt-un, Twenty-One—it’s all the same thing, non?”

  “Indeed it is.” Wickham immediately dealt two cards each and a game of Vingt-un was begun. By the time they had played two hands each, the wine had arrived, and with the rising level of the sound of chatter in the room, Wickham felt that he could engage the young man in conversation. He was an intriguing young man, and Wickham was curious to know all about him.

  Lydia was extremely excitable when Wickham arrived home that night. She could see by the look on her husband’s face that he was curious to know what had affected such a change in her. She giggled as she told him her plan for Georgie and the end tale of Longbourn.