Poynter nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. “What on earth is the matter with you, man?”
“What?” Wickham looked at him in surprise.
Poynter lowered his voice to a whisper. “Capitaine Lefebvre asked you a question.”
Wickham looked down the table at Capitaine Lefebvre. “I beg your pardon, Capitaine. I did not hear you.”
“Clearly, monsieur. You were lost somewhere in your mind. Mayhap it is a woman, hmm?” He laughed to himself and displayed bits of food in his mouth to the men watching him. When he had finished laughing at his own joke, he repeated his question to Wickham. “I said, ze breakfast zis morning is much better wizout zose stinky fish, is it not?”
For the first time, Wickham actually looked at the table and the fare upon it. He realised there were no kippers as all. “I did not notice.”
“Clearly.” The capitaine chuckled to himself once more. “She must be a comely wench to take up so much of your zoughts.”
“You are very much mistaken, I assure you, Capitaine,” Wickham replied with a slight angry growl in his throat.
Poynter laid his hand gently on Wickham’s red coat sleeve and whispered, “Careful, now.”
Wickham looked back down on his plate. He had no intention of picking a fight with Capitaine Lefebvre, no matter how much the man wanted, or deserved, one. He wished the vulgar Frenchman was far from his presence. He served himself another boiled egg and focused on peeling its shell. He would not rise to the capitaine’s bait that morning.
As the breakfast stretched on and Wickham wished himself far from there, all chances of him having more intimate conversation with Jacques disappeared. Poynter and Turpin were demanding more of his attention, especially since the French capitaine seemed to be enjoying his goading much more than usual and was reluctant to stop.
Abruptly, Turpin pushed back his chair and stood. He threw his napkin onto the table and spoke forcefully. “If you gentlemen would excuse us, we must be getting back to our duties now.” He turned, marched over to the table by the window where the playing cards were already laid out, picked up all three of their shako hats, and handed them to Poynter and Wickham as he stomped out of the door.
Wickham and Poynter, as one man, rose from the table, nodded to the capitaine and followed their friend and colleague out of the room, fixing their hats on their heads as they went.
As one of the guards closed the door behind them, Poynter called out to Turpin, who was some way ahead of them, walking in the direction of the officers’ mess. “Turpin! What was all that about?”
Turpin stopped dead in his tracks and clenched his fists. “That blasted man!” He turned around to face his friends. “If he is not content to tell us that the French will soon win this war and is laughing at our army and the Duke of Wellington, then he is making jibes and taking pot-shots at us.”
“He is only trying to evoke a reaction, Turpin,” Poynter reasoned.
“How dare he!”
Wickham stepped forward and gripped his friend by the upper arm. “Turpin, I understand that you are angry. The man is an ass. But Poynter is right; he is only trying to get a reaction, and I, for one, do not wish to give him the satisfaction. He is a prisoner, for goodness’ sake.”
“And long may he rot in his prison.” Turpin spat with venom, turned, and entered the officers’ mess.
Lydia was having a pleasanter morning. The sun beaming in through the windows of the parlour meant she could open a window a little, and she delighted in the scent of the fresh morning air. The very thing that made Lydia’s morning perfect came with a knock at the door. At first she rolled her eyes, thinking she would be interrupted by someone with whom she did not wish to spend the morning. After all, it was common to go visiting in the mornings. However, as she followed Tess out into the hallway and watched the maid open the door, she saw that their visitor was, in actual fact, a messenger delivering a letter. Mustering all her patience, Lydia stood as quietly she could by the door to the parlour and waited for the letter to be placed in her hand. Tess pulled out her purse from amongst her skirts and paid the man. She took the letter, closed the door, turned, and placed the delivered item into her mistress’ awaiting hands.
Lydia looked down at the writing on the envelope and knew instantly from whence it came. There was no mistaking her mother’s elegantly slanting penmanship. Lydia yelped for joy. In her hand was the reply she had been waiting for. Eagerly, she crossed to the window seat, sat down, and tore the letter open. In her excitement, she could barely read the letter properly as she scanned the missive for the words she so longed to see. She almost cried with elation when she saw, halfway down the first page, that her mother was making plans for Lydia’s journey south.
She read aloud to Tess, who was still hovering by the door. “My darling Lydia, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see you again. Of course, you must come and stay with us whilst dear Wickham is away fighting this odious war. Of course, you must—I would not have it otherwise.” Lydia looked up at Tess. “You see, I told you all would be well.” She leant back against the wall, closed her eyes, and clutched the letter to her breast. “I knew you would not let me down, Mama.”
She opened her eyes again and this time read the letter more slowly and out loud to Tess, who patiently listened to every word her mistress said. When she finished, Lydia folded the letter and placed in her pocket. “There, you see? Mama is of the same mind as I am. She suggested the very same stops that I myself did the other day, do you remember?” Tess nodded, although it was doubtful that she truly remembered. “Mama says we are to expect the carriage the day after tomorrow.” Lydia jumped up from the window seat and skipped for joy in the little parlour. “Just think of it, in two days’ time we will be on our way to Hertfordshire.” Lydia grinned from ear to ear. “We shall have such fun.” She smiled at Tess, who returned the smile somewhat less enthusiastically, and ran up the stairs to her bedroom, where she began to open drawers and search through her things to reassure herself that she had packed everything she wished to take with her. For the remainder of the day, she could not settle at anything. She wanted so dearly to rush to the castle and tell Wickham, but she knew she could not. She was well aware—because she had done so before, when they were new to Scarborough—that Wickham would get into terrible trouble with his superior officer should she take it upon herself to rush into the castle and demand to see her husband whilst he was on duty. Therefore, she contented herself to wandering around the cottage aimlessly until he arrived home that night.
Wickham barely made it through the front door that evening when Lydia pounced upon declaring she had heard from her mother and that she was going home. Wickham could not have been happier for her.
“The day after tomorrow, Wickham. That does not give me very long to prepare. Oh! I am sure that I have forgotten something.” The wait for him to arrive home had only resulted in working Lydia up into a frenzy.
Wickham laughed at her. “Calm yourself, my dear. If you do, by any chance, forget to take something with you, I am convinced your Mama will provide.”
“Yes. Yes, you are right.” She joined in his laughter. “How silly I am to fret over such trifles!”
“I would say this calls for a celebration.” Wickham turned and called for Tess, who came scurrying directly. “Do we have any food in the house for celebrating?”
“No, sir. Only some leftover boiled chicken.”
Wickham looked at Lydia and pulled a face. “That will not do.” He turned back to the maid. “Run along and see if you cannot procure us some pies, at the very least, for I am sure the butcher is closed now.”
Tess bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, sir.”
Wickham called out to her as she opened the front door and scurried towards the town. “And get us a bottle of red wine…a good one!”
Lydia and George Wickham overslept the next morning. It was their crying son who finally awoke them. Wickham shot out of bed and knocked over the chair next t
o it as he clambered to dress as quickly as possible. “Dear God! Why did Tess not wake us?”
Lydia held her head in her hands and groaned at the sound of his voice as it combated with the bawling of little Georgie in his crib and reverberated around her head. Carefully and slowly, she climbed out of bed, put her feet into her slippers, and shuffled over to her crying infant. Why do your cries sound so much louder this morning? Lydia knew deep down that it was because of their excesses the night before that her head pounded so. It had been hard to resist—she was so excited to be going to Hertfordshire. When Wickham arrived home and suggested they celebrate, she had been more than willing. Now, though, in the cold light of day, with her head pounding from the wine she drank the night before, she wished she had exercised moderation. However, moderation was something that Lydia was not good at exercising at all.
She bent over the crib and picked Georgie up roughly; her only thought was to bring him to her breast and silence him as quickly as she could. She sat on the little wooden nursing chair and breathed a sigh of relief, closing her eyes as she did so, when the baby latched onto her breast and his crying was cut short. Behind her, she could hear the sound of Wickham putting on his boots. Soon he would be gone to Scarborough Castle, and she suddenly felt sad; this was the last day she would see him before he marched to war.
She looked down at the babe cradled in her arms and saw his blue eyes staring back up at her. Despite smiling down at the child, her eyes filled with tears as the gravity of the situation hit her with full force. She turned in her chair and looked over at her husband as he finished dressing in his uniform. He was still an extremely handsome man and cut a very fine figure in his redcoat. She was immensely proud of him. She was proud to be Mrs Lydia Wickham, and for a brief moment, she regretted any tiff, fight, or spat they had had since their marriage began. She wanted to reach out to him, to tell him how much she loved him, but she knew that he did not like her overt and exaggerated displays of sentimentality.
Wickham scurried towards her as he fastened his scabbard around his waist and kissed the top of her head. “I will see you this evening, my love,” he said and with that, turned and departed the house.
Lydia closed her eyes and allowed the tears to fall unabated. He was not an ideal husband; she, Lydia, knew for certain she was not an ideal wife, but she loved him deeply and with all her heart. Now, for the first time since their marriage, they were to be separated. She knew that she could have borne the separation well were it not for the fact that Wickham was off to the continent of Europe to fight against a formidable foe. She would have had peace in her heart if she had known the exact date on which she would see him again. However, as she sat with their only child in her arms, she felt the full gravity of his departure. The room all of a sudden felt cold and empty and she shivered. “Oh, Wickham!” She wept.
Once the baby was well fed and began to nod back off to sleep, Lydia carefully placed him into his crib and turned to dress herself. She did not doubt she had plenty to do that morning in preparation for her own journey south, so she put on the muslin dress she wore the day before and rang the tiny hand bell to call Tess to come up and dress her hair. The last thing she wanted was for Tess to realise that she was feeling melancholy that morning. Therefore, she pinched her cheeks, pursed her lips until they were pink, and put on her brightest smile when the girl arrived. “Good morning, Tess.” Despite her smile, her voice sounded exceptionally loud inside her delicate head.
“Good morning, Mrs Wickham,” Tess replied, curtseying.
Lydia held out her comb to the girl as she crossed the room. “I just want something simple this morning, Tess. But pretty, make it pretty, just in case I do not have time to change and have my hair dressed again before Wickham comes home tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tess took the comb and began to tease out Lydia’s curls.
It did not take long for Lydia’s hair to be dressed and for her to be ready to descend into the parlour that morning. As she climbed down the stairs, her stomach rumbled and she giggled. “Lord! After all I ate last night, you would think that I would not wish for breakfast this morning, but it appears I’m famished!”
Tess rushed off into the kitchen, Lydia assumed, to prepare her breakfast, and Lydia entered the parlour. It was apparent Tess had been awake for hours. The chairs were straightened, the empty bottles of wine had been removed, the plates of food they left strewn on the dining table were gone, and there was a blazing fire in the grate. Lydia looked towards the window seat and saw that all her books were collected together and piled against the old window. She wondered what had affected this changing Tess. After all, she had never straightened up the parlour unbidden before. Lydia assumed it was all due to the fact she wanted to impress her mistress, to be certain that Lydia would take Tess with her when she journeyed south to Hertfordshire the next morning.
Before long, the young maid returned with ham, eggs, toast, and jam for Lydia’s breakfast. To her mistress’s delight, she also brought hot chocolate.
“Oh, Tess! I do so love hot chocolate, it always reminds me of Longbourn.” Lydia lifted the cup to her mouth and savoured the taste of the hot brown liquid. “You know,” she said to the girl, who still hovered by the table, “I think you will love it in Hertfordshire. Despite the fact that the eldest, Jane and Lizzy, are married, my older sisters, Kitty and Mary, are still at home. We shall be such a merry bunch!” Lydia grinned to herself as she tucked into her hearty breakfast. All worries, concerns, and upsetting thoughts over Wickham were gone.
Wickham rushed to the castle that morning. He hated being late, and he shuddered to think what Colonel Sullivan would say if he was caught. Luckily for him, the colonel was nowhere in sight as he darted into the courtyard. Poynter was standing at the door to the officers’ mess, smoking, and waved him towards him. “Hurry up! Quickly!”
Wickham did as he was bid and crossed the distance between them hurriedly.
“It’s all right. Sullivan and Fitzwilliam rode out early this morning to meet the new regiment and speak with their commanding officer before they get here.”
“That’s a relief!” Wickham said as he dashed inside the officers’ mess and took off his cape. “I thought I would be caught for sure.”
“No. No true friend would ever allow that, Wickham. I even signed you in.” Poynter pointed to the book on the table where they had to sign, date, and write the time when they arrived and departed each day.
“You did? Thank you.” Wickham looked at the pair of them in astonishment.
Poynter clapped him on the back. “Think nothing of it. What are friends for, eh?”
“What are we to do today? Did Sullivan leave orders?”
“Yes, he did. We have to drill the men.”
Wickham groaned. “For how long?”
Poynter shrugged and shook his head. “I have no idea; he did not say. The note on his desk simply says ‘Drill.’”
Wickham puffed out his cheeks and rolled his eyes. “Great.”
“Yes.” Poynter chuckled. “A whole day of military fun and games, to be sure.” Poynter sighed. “Which do you prefer first—bayonet practice or marching?”
“Bayonet practice is more fun than marching, but it exhausts the men far quicker. I’ll take marching first, if that’s all right with you.”
“It makes no difference to me, my friend.”
The pair of them exited the officers’ mess and went their separate ways to find their men. With the orders to drill the men, the day would be long and arduous as they went through their paces in preparation for war. This was a part of being in the military that Wickham disliked the greatest. He was not cut out for such a regimented life. He much preferred the socialising and enjoying himself that was to be expected from an officer to the seriousness and practicalities of army life. Nevertheless, what Colonel Sullivan wanted, Colonel Sullivan would get. No one would ever disobey the colonel’s orders.
The day passed with the tedium Wickham knew
it would contain. The tireless marching up and down in the courtyard, the musket inspections, the checking of uniforms, and the repeated practising of firing formations drove Wickham to distraction. It was somewhat of a relief when they broke for luncheon and he could rest his weary feet.
He almost fell into a chair at the dining table in the officers’ mess. “Ugh! My feet are killing me.”
“Thank God that we officers ride horses and will not have to march with the men, eh, Wickham?” Turpin laughed as he bit into a chicken leg.
“Amen to that.” Wickham nodded as he poured himself a beaker of ale.
The chance to sit with his other fellow officers was a blessed relief and extremely relaxing. The food filling their bellies and the drink quenching their thirst quickly revived them all, and it was with a much lighter heart that Wickham departed the mess hall and headed for the bayonet training ground.
Training with bayonets was much more fun than marching, as far as Wickham was concerned. He knew by the time he returned home that night, he would be hot, tired, and aching. He looked forward to a long soak in the hipbath if only Lydia would allow it. After all, this was Lydia’s final night in Scarborough. On the morrow, she would depart for her parents’ home and Wickham would be unshackled at long last. The realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning out of the blue, and he grinned to himself with pleasure at the thought of being accountable to no one once his wife was gone. Immediately, his thoughts raced as to what he might do in the evenings, how he would spend those precious moments, and, perhaps more importantly, with whom. It was not long before his mind returned to the beautiful face of Patience Miller. He had her in his mind for some time and greatly desired the young woman. She was of a forceful nature and had greatly resisted him. He loved the challenge and now knew that, with his wife out of the way, he would be able to spend more time breaking down Patience’s defences. He relished the thought, and by the time he arrived at the training ground, on the beach, Wickham’s spirits were the highest they had been for a long time.
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