Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  The next morning, Lydia awoke, itching all over her body. She lifted up her nightgown to scratch at her body and revealed that she was covered in bites from head to foot. She screamed and Tess came running. The young girl, fortunately, knew how to soothe such bites, which Lydia assumed were either from fleas or bedbugs, and she too was covered in them. To make matters worse, when Lydia picked up Georgie that morning to feed him, she noted the swollen red blotches that showed he, too, had provided a nocturnal meal for the disgusting creatures.

  Amid the yelps, whining, and hysterical movements that Lydia made as she flapped around the room in a panic, Tess slipped out of the room and down to the kitchen of the inn. By the time she returned, Lydia had removed her nightgown and was checking it to see if any of the creatures remained hidden therein. Tess quickly closed the door behind her lest another patron of the inn should see her mistress thus, and rushed towards her. “Here, ma’am.”

  Lydia looked up at her in surprise. She had been so engrossed in searching every fold and crease in her nightgown for any evidence of fleas hidden in the material that she was entirely unaware of the girl’s actions. She looked down at Tess’ hands, holding a small cup and rag. “What is that?” Lydia leant forward to sniff the brown liquid inside. Immediately she recoiled, appalled and disgusted. “Oh, Lord! Is that vinegar?”

  Tess grinned with delight. “Yes, ma’am.” She placed the cup down on the nightstand and dabbed the rag into it. “If we dab vinegar on the bites, ma’am, it will bring out the poison and stop the itching.”

  Lydia sidled up to her and watched her over her shoulder as she began to dab the crying baby with the vinegar-soaked rag. “Are you certain of that?” she asked.

  Tess nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But he will absolutely reek of vinegar now.”

  Tess giggled. “Only for a little while, ma’am. Me ma used to always swear by it when we little ‘uns got bitten. The smell wears off…” she said as she looked over her shoulder at Lydia’s concerned face. “Honestly, ma’am, it does.”

  “And do I have to use this?” she said, pointing to the rag.

  “No, ma’am, you don’t have to use anything. But you’ll spend the day scratching at those bites if you don’t.”

  Lydia hummed and turned away. “And you will use it, too?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I shall use it after I have bathed and soothed the baby’s bites, and yours, if you will allow me.”

  There was nothing that Lydia would prefer to do less, at that moment in time, than to bathe herself from head to foot in vinegar. However, Tess seemed to know what she was doing, and Lydia had to admit that the itching all over her body was driving her to distraction. She prayed that none of the bites would be visible once she was dressed. She would be mortified if anyone thought she was so poor that her own home might have been the source of the fleas and bedbugs. She looked over at Tess and then nodded. “Very well, then. I shall permit you to put that stuff on me.” She reached down and rubbed at the bites across her tummy. “At this point, I will try anything to stop this wretched itching.”

  In no time at all, little Georgie was bathed in the vinegar, his diaper was changed, and he was dressed again in a clean gown. However, the bathing had produced an unwanted delay in his feeding, and the poor babe grew frantic in his desperation for his mother’s milk. Lydia brought him to her breast and fed him as she stood, disrobed, in the middle of the room and Tess bathed her bites, one by one, with the vinegar. Lydia thought it was a strange sensation. The odour from the vinegar curled her nose, but she admitted that the cold liquid itself did have a peculiar soothing effect on the welts. She felt uncomfortable as she turned slowly to permit the girl to dab the rag over her.

  She was hungry; however, she felt it would be best for them all to leave the inn as quickly as they possibly could. God willing, they could arrive in Kingston-Upon-Hull before noon and break their fast in a much grander inn, and in much improved surroundings. As soon as the girl finished her ministrations, Lydia passed Georgie to her and dressed as quickly as she could. Tess then handed the now-sleeping child back to his mother and bathed her own bites. Within another half an hour, Lydia’s hair was dressed and they were all presentable enough to proceed with their journey onwards.

  As they descended the stairs in the centre of the inn and entered the bar below, Lydia muttered to Tess that she should settle the bill with the landlord and that Lydia would take the baby directly to the carriage. However, once Lydia exited the inn and stepped out into the cold drizzly morning, the carriage was not waiting for her. She stomped her foot in irritation and looked down the side alleyway towards the stables. There she saw her father’s manservant leisurely hitching the horses to the carriage. She let out a groan of frustration, and the man turned and saw her. He reached up and doffed his cap at her. “Morning, Mrs Wickham.”

  “Good morning,” she said testily. “When will you be ready? I wish to depart immediately.”

  “I’ll be with you directly,” he said and returned to the task at hand.

  Lydia looked incensed. What on earth did that mean? ‘I’ll be with you directly.’ Inside, she fumed with indignation. She felt that the man deliberately tried her patience. She would have to speak to her father about his manservant’s insolence and have him dismissed from his post. She would not have it. She was the daughter of a gentleman, the wife of an officer in His Majesty’s Army, and she demanded to be treated with civility and great respect.

  She began to pace up and down outside the inn. A moment or two later, Tess emerged, looking flustered. “He didn’t like it that I complained about the bedbugs and the fleas, ma’am.”

  Lydia’s indignation flowed over. “I care not whether he liked it. He needs to know it and do something about it. The place is an absolute hovel!” she cried loudly and looked towards the inn, hoping the landlord would hear what she said.

  “Is the carriage is not ready?”

  Lydia snapped at Tess. “Of course it is not ready. If it were ready, you would see it, and I would not be standing here like a fool.” She felt ashamed that she had chastened the poor girl so harshly, but she would not repent—she need not do such a thing with a servant.

  They remained in silence as they waited. Not long after that, the Bennets’ carriage slowly pulled out from the stable block and round to the front of the inn, where Lydia continued to huff irritably. The more impatient Lydia grew, the more slowly, it seemed, the manservant went about his work. Lydia was certain, too, that there seemed to be a smirk about the man’s eyes—as though he were laughing at her inside. She was becoming so incensed that she would insist on having the man removed from his position.

  When she and Tess were finally seated within the carriage and were moving towards Kingston-Upon-Hull, she told the girl as such. “I cannot abide such behaviour. I shall not stand for it, I tell you,” Lydia said archly and looked out the window with her nose in the air. What she did not see was the look of fear that passed across the poor maid’s face. Had she done so, she would have realised that the girl now began to be afraid for her own position if she was not extra vigilant in her care of her mistress.

  Lydia, however, was entirely unaware of her companion’s feelings or her expression as they travelled along. She stared out of the window at the passing scenery and watched as the sky grew darker and darker still, and when the rain began to fall and splashed onto her face, she pulled up the shutter, and only then did she look at the girl opposite. Lydia knew the poor child had an abusive father. She was glad to have been instrumental in removing Tess from that man, but she knew in her heart that Tess would never be able to return to Scarborough. The man’s wrath would be great against the daughter who abandoned him to travel southwards with her mistress. She would have to dispose of her and find another maid, in that case. Tess would have to be abandoned in Hertfordshire if Lydia chose to return to Scarborough once Wickham came back from war. She grew sad at the thought. The girl was not as fine as the maids she assumed
Elizabeth or Jane to have, but she was accustomed to the girl now, and more than once she had shown herself adept at taking care of her mistress and Georgie. Lydia decided then and there that, if such an occasion arose, she would do all she could to find another position for the girl—mayhap the Lucases of Lucas Lodge in Meryton would take her.

  The thought of returning one day to Scarborough made Lydia think of Wickham. She wondered if he missed her and thought of her often. She supposed he would not, as he would be far too busy with his duties. The reflection made her sadder still. She liked the idea of imagining him at home alone of an evening, pining away for her company. She wondered then if they had departed south. She heard rumours before she left on her journey that the regiment would travel to London by ship, and then would have to march on foot from there. She smiled at the idea. What an adventure it would be to travel by ship! She pondered then if Wickham would be seasick at all. She knew she would not be—she would be far too excited for such nonsense. Slowly, her eyes closed and she let her imagination wander as she thought of what it would be like on a ship sailing down the east coast of England to London. Within minutes, Lydia was asleep and catching up on a disturbed night in the flea-ridden inn.

  Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin stood by the harbour wall, watching the loading of the ships below them. The sounds and smells of the sea still thrilled Wickham as he looked up at the circling gulls above them. What did not thrill him, however, was the comprehension that they would not be sailing to London in frigates. What made him think that the Royal Navy would spare fighting frigates merely to transport the army, he did not know. These cargo ships did not fulfil the glamorous notion he had entertained of sailing to the capital as well as a frigate would.

  The sea mist was slowly lifting as the sun shone brightly down on them with the promise of a glorious day ahead. Wickham was glad. He had never sailed before, and the last thing he wanted was to get seasick in front of all the men in his charge. He lifted up his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun on the water as it finally broke through the low-lying cloud, and smiled. This day would be an adventure. All the trepidation of going to war was temporarily forgotten. He could feel the excitement building in his two friends beside him, too. None of them had been to sea. Despite the short journey south, they would save days and a lot of shoe leather this way. The men would arrive in the capital fresh and eager for their march to the south coast where—Wickham thought, and his grin widened—they would sail once more across the English Channel to the continent of Europe.

  Wickham and his companions watched as one-by-one, the cargo was expertly winched onto the ships. He marvelled at the skill of the seamen and noticed more than one of the men under his own command seemed just as awestricken. The infantry were ordered to assist the seamen as well as they could. However, this was not as easy in practice as it was in theory. The ships were on the water and the infantrymen—whom the seamen laughingly called landlubbers—were not used to the gentle movement of the ship beneath their feet as it bobbed up and down with the current, and they often lost their footing. The sides of the ships were also lined with redcoats divulging the contents of their stomach overboard whilst the seamen looked on with amusement. Wickham watched as the seamen walked the decks, climbed the rigging, and went about their duties with not one single toe out of line or wobble—they, the vessel, and the men seemed to move as one. He hoped that his men would find their sea legs quickly. The short journey southwards would seem a whole lot longer if they had to deal with sick men.

  “I did hear tell that the ‘powers that be’ wanted to send us south on foot, and with transport wagons—” Turpin muttered beside him.

  “Waggoners?” Poynter asked as he snorted at the idea.

  “—from what I overheard in Sullivan’s office this week.”

  Wickham shook his head in disgust. “Do they want us to fight or need bed rest by the time we reach the south of England?” He laughed.

  “Precisely,” Poynter agreed, and pointed to the ships below them. “As is it, we may be delayed if we cannot get a favourable wind.”

  Turpin and Wickham turned to stare at him together. “And what would you know that?” Wickham asked.

  “Oh, did I never say? My uncle—on my mother’s side—is a captain in the Navy. He’s out near Gibraltar, so rumour has it.” He looked fondly up to the spars and yardarms. “I loved to visit him on his ship when I was a child. I even wanted to follow his footsteps and join the Navy.” He grimaced sadly. “My mother wouldn’t hear of it. She lost her father and one other brother at sea, and she swore she would not lose a son to it.”

  Turpin huffed. “So you chose a much safer occupation and joined the army instead?”

  Wickham laughed and looked down at his boots. “He has a point.”

  “Yes, he does,” Poynter replied. “My father believed that the war would be over in a flash and I would never see action.” He sighed. “I am glad they did not live long enough to see me go to fight. It would have broken my mother’s heart.”

  The three of them stood in silence by the harbour wall as they continued to watch the loading of the cargo ships. Poynter’s words had a sobering effect on them all. It seemed that their spirits could only rise for a few moments before the full realisation of their situation dawned on them again. Poynter was the eldest of three children, Wickham knew, but did not know that his parents were dead. His younger sisters he mentioned jokingly from time to time as being boringly, and nauseatingly, happily married to whiter-than-white men. Turpin, however, he knew very little about. He did not know if Turpin’s parents lived or if he had any siblings at all—for all Wickham knew, the man could have been an only child. Mentally, he chided himself for never having asked him more about himself. He felt foolish now, but felt it was as good a time as any to learn such things. “What about you, Turpin? Will anyone miss you once we set sail?” he whispered.

  “I doubt it,” came the reply. “I am a fourth son. My three older brothers shine far more brightly than I ever will. Henry—the eldest—rubs shoulders with Wellington himself. George is next, and he is a lawyer. Finally, there is Arthur, who is a doctor. So, you see, the youngest son—a mere lieutenant—is not such a praiseworthy man. I rarely go home, I cannot bear it, and I rarely hear from any of them. I suspect Henry knows of my orders. I even wrote to Mother, but I have heard nothing in reply. Her letters rarely mention anything other than how marvellous Henry, George, and Arthur are.”

  “That is sad.” Wickham sighed, feeling deeply sorry for his friend.

  “Yes, it is.” Turpin breathed deeply in through his nose and straightened up. “Other than Lydia, do you have anyone who will miss you?”

  Wickham shook his head. “No. Mayhap my sisters-in-law will. We were all rather close once upon a time, but I doubt anyone else will. My father has long since passed, and my mother died when I was a child.”

  “How empty and futile life seems when you’re facing such a future as we are,” Turpin muttered.

  “Enough of this,” Poynter declared. “I say,” he said as he looked at both of his friends in turn, “that we make a pact.”

  “A pact?” Wickham was intrigued.

  “Aye. When this war is over and we are all safely back on friendly soil, we make the best of what futures we have, regardless of what our families would think. No more wallowing in misery for any of us!”

  Wickham smiled.

  “I never thought I would hear such things from out of your mouth, Will,” Turpin spurted out.

  “Well, I mean it,” he said, red-faced. “I hate this war. It makes me wish I had never joined this army. Half the men we march out with will not return, and yet we must go on and live with all that we will see in France.”

  “What do you propose?” Wickham asked, still unsure of what Poynter was getting at.

  “I intend to marry. To have as large a family as I can afford, and to make jolly well certain that I am happy for once.” He turned to Wickham and pointed a finger in his
chest. “And I suggest, my friend, that you, too, learn to be happy with Lydia.” Wickham was taken aback. Poynter turned back to look at the men below them. “Many a man down there would give their right arms to have your blessings—a wife and son. Many of them will never return and will never know such things.”

  Again, Poynter’s words sobered them. Wickham shot a look sideways and saw that Turpin’s face was a picture of shock. He too felt the weight of their friend’s words. Wickham wondered at them. It was all very well saying such things in a wave of high emotion of the eve of war, but such sentiments would not endure for all of his life.

  Could he be content with Lydia, and with her alone? Could he remain faithful to her? Was it possible for him to control himself so that his eye never wandered whenever a pretty young woman walked past? He was not so convinced that he had such self-control.

  He thought of Lydia then and wondered how her journey south was progressing. He wondered how she was coping with being restrained to a carriage all day with only their baby and the maid for company. He smiled. He imagined that she was already deeply bored and grumpy. Would the separation bring about a change in either of them? Would time work its own special brand of magic on them both? He shook his head—he doubted it. He could not imagine Lydia would ever be content with what he could provide for her in life, and he knew that the more she whined and complained about life, the less he could bear to be anywhere near her.

  Was Poynter simply being washed away on a wave of emotion, or did he really believe all he said? Wickham did not know, but he certainly did wish both of his friends happiness—and prayed that he too would find it.

  As evening fell, Wickham felt sore and was in dire need of a comfortable chair. They had been on their feet for the entire length of the day and finally, as the last rays of sun fell upon them, the last of the cargo was brought aboard the ships. The horses were next, and Wickham watched transfixed as they were blindfolded and led along the gangplank and onto the ship. Next, he and all the other officers boarded the ship assigned to each of them. Wickham felt the ground beneath his feet move as he stepped onto the deck and quickly steadied himself. If he felt so unsure on his feet, he imagined the horses would feel worse. He steeled himself and tried not to show how disconcerted it made him feel. What worried him most was that the movement of the ship made him feel giddy already, and they had not even set sail yet.