Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  “What?”

  “Yes, dearest Wickham. It is a perfectly marvellous plan. Do you not see? If we can persuade Papa to have the entailment changed so that our dearest baby boy, Georgie, inherits my father’s estate of Longbourn then we…” She giggled and fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. “…my darling, will be richer, much richer. Is it not a marvellous notion? Is not your wife a genius?” She laughed her own ingenuity.

  Wickham merely shook his head at her plan. “Lydia, are you seriously expecting your father to accept such a plan? Surely, Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy will have something to say. And, most certainly, should Jane have a son, he would be the natural heir for Longbourn, would he not?”

  Lydia stomped her foot on the ground in frustration and laughed at him. “Wickham, do you not want the very best for our son?”

  “Lydia, it is not a question of whether I want the best for our son or not. It is whether your scheme is possible or not.”

  “But Lizzy and Jane have so much. Why should our children not have something, too?”

  “That I agree with.” Wickham sat down on the settee, exhausted from his day’s exertions, and pulled off his long black boots. “I just simply believe that Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley would vehemently object to such a plan. Surely you see that, my dear?”

  Lydia frowned deeply at him. “It is not fair! Why should Lizzy and Jane have everything? They always have everything.” She gestured to the room at large. “Look at this place! We practically live in a hovel, Wickham. It is not fair, and I deserve better.”

  Wickham sighed and hung his head. “Lydia, my dearest, we do not live in a hovel. These are officers’ quarters. You cannot expect officers of His Majesty’s Army to be housed in the luxury to which you were accustomed to as a child. It simply is not possible.”

  Again, Lydia huffed and fairly threw herself into the armchair facing him, folded her arms, and pouted like a child.

  Wickham shook his head at her. “What is for dinner?”

  Dinner that evening was a simple affair of boiled chicken and vegetables. For the most part, it passed in silence between the Wickhams. Lydia was still sulking that her husband did not appreciate her plan, and Wickham had no intention, it seemed, of pandering to Lydia’s bad mood. However, as they neared the end of their meal, the maid, Tess, gave them something else to talk about. She arrived in the parlour to refill the carafe of wine, turned to Lydia before leaving, and said, “I’ll have your nightdresses pressed and put into your trunk for you, Mrs Wickham, by the morning. If there is anything else you want washed and added to the trunk, please let me know before you retire tonight, ma’am.”

  “Are you packing to leave already?” Wickham asked, a look of surprise on his face and his fork halfway to his mouth.

  “Oh, yes. Did I not mention it when you arrived home?” Lydia asked, already knowing that she had not.

  “No, you seem to have overlooked that small detail.” Wickham speared another small potato on his fork and put it into his mouth. He waited until he chewed and swallowed the vegetable before speaking again. “I assume, then, that you have heard from your mother. She is in agreement that you may stay at Longbourn whilst I am at war?”

  “Oh no, I have not yet heard from Mama.” Lydia shrugged. “Besides, she would not refuse me.”

  “And so you have taken it upon yourself to prepare for the journey?”

  “Indeed.” She smiled smugly. “In fact, I believe we are almost ready to depart.” She looked at Tess as the girl headed out of the door with her arms full of empty plates. “Is that not so, Tess?”

  The maid turned at the sound of her own name and re-entered the room, balancing the plates unsteadily. “Yes, ma’am.” She hesitated by the door in case Lydia had something else to say to her, but Lydia had turned back to her husband and Tess was forgotten.

  “So, there you see, I am all ready to go. All I need now is for Mama and Papa to send a carriage and servant to fetch me.” She smiled contentedly and pulled the dish of blancmange closer to her. She took a large serving and deposited it into her dish. Wickham merely shook his head at her. “Then, of course, I will need some coins for my purse. I will need to pay for a change of horses, and bed and board at various inns along the way.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “And mayhap I will also need money for spending. It may very well be that I might see something I desire greatly on one of our stops as we journey into Hertfordshire.”

  “Yes, dear.” Wickham sighed.

  “I think that I may even need some spending money to buy Mama and Papa a gift. I cannot very well arrive at Longbourn empty-handed, now, can I?”

  “Of course not, my dear.”

  Throughout her discourse, Lydia had barely looked up at her husband. The more she talked, the more he slumped down into his chair. It appeared that he was resigned to the fact that his wife’s trip to visit with her parents whilst he was fighting on the continent would be more costly than he had ever dreamed or expected. Lydia’s face was so contented as she chatted away to him that just one look at her assured him it was all worth it. She was more than contented. She was going home to stay with her parents—to be in the luxury in which she was brought up. She would, no doubt, visit with the friends of her childhood, and be happier there than she ever had been in Scarborough.

  Wickham retired early that night. He was tired—tired of arguing with Lydia, tired of her constant demands, and most of all, tired that their little spats deprived him of much-needed sleep most nights. As he undressed for bed, he looked over at the tiny sleeping form in the crib by the window and smiled. Little Georgie seemed to be settling into a pattern now and did not awaken so frequently during the night. Wickham hoped this night would be no different and that he would catch up on sleep he had lost recently. He folded his shirt and his breeches, placed them carefully over the back of the chair by the side of his bed, and thought over the day’s events. He had a very interesting conversation with Jacques. He had sensed there was something interesting that this man kept hidden from his fellow officers, and it seemed he was right. He hoped to uncover more of the man’s story. However, he had let slip something very interesting to Wickham. He was convinced that this man, Lieutenant Louis Dubois, commonly known as Jacques, was not your common-or-garden officer in the French military. He had indicated that he was named Louis after his father, who was also named Louis after his father, and so it had been for generations. Wickham suspected that only those loyal to the French king would have named their sons Louis for generations. It did not take much digging and cajoling, especially with the use of wine, for Jacques to intimate that his family once was indeed loyal to the now-executed king of France.

  As he pulled his nightshirt over his head, climbed into the bed, and pulled the bed sheets up to his chin, Wickham wondered if he would get more information from the man the following day. He certainly hoped so. As a man who was used to telling stories about his own life, Wickham found it interesting that in Jacques he had met another man who seemed to have something to hide. As he turned over and closed his eyes, he determined that he would get to the bottom of Lieutenant Louis “Jacques” Dubois’ story.

  Sleep took him quickly and he did not know at what time Lydia came to bed that night. Neither did he hear the cries of his son when he demanded to be fed in the middle of the night. He slept soundly, as though he were alone in the room. In the morning, he awoke refreshed and eagerly dressed to have breakfast once again in the castle with the imprisoned French officers.

  The next morning was so vastly different from the previous day, when the sea mist had rolled very deeply into Scarborough itself, leaving very little visibility. This morning dawned bright and fair. As Wickham walked along towards the castle, he basked in the feeling of the sun upon his face. He closed his eyes and looked heavenwards, smiling as he enjoyed the sensation on his skin. A voice calling from the castle gates startled him.

  “I say, Wickham, you look positively angelic walking along like that.” The m
an laughed.

  Wickham opened his eyes to see his good friend Will Poynter leaning against the gatepost and grinning cheekily at him. He laughed at his friend. “Well, it is indeed a blessing to finally see the sun after such a long winter, is it not?”

  “Aye, indeed it is.” Poynter chuckled. “It almost softens the cold, hard reality that we must breakfast with those ghastly Frenchmen again. I swear to you, Wickham, that if Capitaine Lefebvre says one more thing about Napoléon defeating Wellington and then coming on to invade England, I will slit the man’s throat where he sits, regardless of the penalty.”

  Wickham sucked the breath in through his teeth. “You would swing for a man like him?”

  “I would swing to shut the whore-son up.”

  “I am certain, Poynter, there are better ways to do it, and the majority of them will not involve you taking a long drop off a short rope.”

  “Humph…”

  The walked along in silence under the gate and into the castle’s bailey. They tried to take the path that would keep them as much in the sunlight as possible; it made a nice change, although the weak sun did not warm the cold castle very much. They entered the officers’ mess, signed in, and met up with Turpin. All three of them then made their way towards the old stone hall where they would breakfast once again with the Frenchmen. Upon entering the hall, they saw that, as yesterday, there was no fire in the grate. Tommy swore under his breath, turned around, and headed back out of the door. “I will return momentarily; I shall just find someone to start a fire for us.” They heard his grumbling as he walked away: “Why is it nothing is ever done right here? Why is it we have to order men to do things it should be done as a matter of course?”

  Poynter smirked as he watched the retreating form of his friend. “It seems little Tommy Turpin has a bee in his bonnet this morning.”

  Wickham nodded. “It does certainly seem that Turpin got out of the wrong side of the bed.”

  “Indeed.” Poynter opened his eyes wide. “Mayhap it will be Tommy who will shut up Capitaine Lefebvre this morning, and not me after all.”

  Wickham laughed, although he hoped that with the capitaine’s knack of opening his mouth far too wide on certain subjects, none of them would come to blows that morning.

  Almost as soon as he walked into the room a little while later, Wickham’s eyes locked on to Jacques’ and he sought him out for private conversation. “Good morning, Lieutenant Dubois.”

  “Good morning, Lieutenant Wickham.”

  “I trust you slept well.”

  “I am prisoner, Lieutenant Wickham. How well do you expect me to sleep?”

  Wickham had to admit Jacques had a point there. No matter how pleasant they tried to make the accommodation for the French officers, it was still a prison nonetheless. Wickham apologised. “Forgive me. I did not mean to offend you.”

  “You did not offend me, monsieur. I am in prison; however, in answer to your question, I slept soundly.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Wickham did not know what to say to the man then, and kicked himself for being so insensitive. The silence between them seem to stretch forever and Wickham wondered if he should go and speak to one of the other officers when Jacques spoke again.

  “May I enquire as to how your son is?”

  Wickham’s face lit up. This was a subject to warm his heart. “He is well. He is very well, I thank you.”

  The Frenchman nodded and smiled. “It is a wonderful thing, is it not, to be a parent for the first time?”

  “Aye, it is. I sometimes find myself staring at him in awe and wonder, and I marvel that my wife and I created such a beautiful child.”

  The glow on his face made the Frenchman’s smile broader. He nodded.

  “Do you have children yourself, Jacques?”

  The Frenchman shook his head. “Non, I do not. However, my sister does…Well, she has one child—une petite fille.”

  “A little girl? So you are an uncle?”

  The Frenchmen nodded emphatically. “Yes, I am; a very proud uncle.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Now the Frenchman’s face displayed the same glow that Wickham wore. “Hélène. Her name is Hélène.”

  “Hélène—what a beautiful name.”

  “Yes.” Jacques’ eyes sparkled as he spoke of her. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  The realisation that Lieutenant Jacques Dubois was a real man with a real life and a real family hit Wickham hard. It was so easy just to think of him as yet another French prisoner. However, now he was getting to know the real man and the sadness filled him, borne from the reality that he must miss his family profoundly. “You must miss her.”

  “Mais oui. Of course I do. I miss my belle-Hélène, and her mother, too.”

  Wickham led them both to the chairs in front of the fire, where they sat more comfortably and further away from the listening ears of the other men in the room. “I assume that her mother is your sister.”

  “Yes. Her mother is my sister, Estelle. I lie awake some nights and wonder what has happened to her now that I am not there to take care of them both.”

  Wickham was intrigued. He was learning more about the man this morning. In fact, he was learning more about him in these few short minutes then he had in the whole time they spent together since the Frenchman’s incarceration in the castle. “Does she not have a husband to take care of her?”

  Jacques snorted, turned his face away, and stared into the fire. “Yes, she is married, but not to a man who takes care of her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I hated it when she married him…” He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “…but what choice did she have? Our uncle, who had taken care of us since our parents were killed in the glorious Revolution, died and left us friendless and virtually penniless.” The man was staring into the fire and did not seem aware that Wickham was listening now. Indeed, he did not seem aware of his surroundings at all. Wickham was content, therefore, to allow the man to speak freely. “An innkeeper in the village near where we lived, called Thibault Bernard—a fat, lumbering oaf—had his eyes on my sister and decided he would marry her. What choice did I have but to allow it?” His hands clenched the wooden arms of the chair that he sat upon until his knuckles were white. “Mon Dieu, I wish I had never allowed it. What price has my sister had to pay to live in security?” Jacques appeared lost in thought. It seemed that he would not speak again, and Wickham felt he ought to say something consoling when the Frenchman spoke suddenly. “He promised to take care of my sister. He promised to provide for her whilst I joined the army. He promised she would be happy. He said he loved her. How foolish I was to fall for that!

  “I knew that she did not care for him. How could she care for such a man? But she was content. She said she could live such a life, with such a man, as long as he truly loved her. And, I swear to you, he displayed all the affectations of a man deeply in love. I was persuaded that it was in the best interests of my sister to allow the marriage to take place. I wanted to go into the army, however, I could not join the army and leave my sister destitute. It seemed in Thibault Bernard that I found the solution to all our problems. I was too eager for a solution. They were married and I moved to Paris with my regiment.

  “In the beginning, Estelle wrote to me regularly—every day, actually. Then her letters became fewer and fewer. Eventually, they all but stopped. Convinced that my sister was ill, I obtained leave to visit her. I travelled to our village and what I saw there I will never forget until my dying day. After everything we went through as children, after seeing our parents brutally murdered at the hands of the mob, she then stood before me, battered and bruised. Her left eye was nothing more than a slit in her face. She could not see out of it, it was so swollen from the beatings she had received at his hands. I was sick to my stomach. It was my fault. I had allowed this to happen to her.”

  Wickham was loathe to break the spell, and so sat as quietly and as
still as he possibly could.

  “My dearest sister, Estelle, used so ill, and all because we did not have the money for her to live independently. I did all I could for her then; I even paid for her to see a doctor. He assured me that the wounds would heal, the bruises would fade, and she would still be as beautiful as she was before the brute laid a hand on her. I could not understand why a man who could profess so much love could do such an evil thing to his wife. The doctor told me then that she was with child. I feared for both her life and the unborn child’s. What could I do from so far away? How could I take care of my family whilst I was in Paris training to be an officer in the army of Napoléon?

  “I wanted to take my revenge on Thibault, but Estelle begged me not to. It grieved me deeply to see her living such a life. I pleaded with her to leave him, to come with me to Paris. She would not. Then she was devout in her Catholic faith. Now, though, I believe he has beaten all the belief out of her.

  “My deepest desire is to be released from this English prison and go back to France, rescue my sister from the beast she is married to, and live with her in complete safety, far away from prying eyes. Estelle and Hélène are all I live for now.”

  Wickham was speechless. He had never dreamt that the man had such a story. Moreover, what a story it was! Wickham was horrified at what his sister endured. He deeply believed that any man who beat his wife was no man at all. He felt pity for the man sitting opposite him. He wished he could do something to help him, but such thoughts were futile—for he was an officer in His Majesty’s army and Jacques was the enemy. They remained seated in silence until breakfast arrived and together, they sat at the table with the rest of the men.

  Wickham was deep in thought throughout the meal and thankfully did not have to listen to the gloating and boasting of Capitaine Lefebvre at all. He hardly had any appetite for the food set before him that morning. He did not have a sister of his own, but had sisters by marriage—and two of them were married. He wondered how he would feel if either of their husbands did such an atrocious thing. His belly churned and he felt sick to his stomach. No woman should have to endure such action. He looked up from his breakfast—the contents of which he had been pushing around the plate—and glanced along the table. Even though they were prisoners and captors, not a man amongst them would allow such injustice to go unpunished. He regarded their faces in turn and dearly wished they would leave the room so that he could converse alone with Jacques Dubois.