Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  As she lay back down onto the soft, plump pillows, Lydia uttered, “Georgie.”

  She felt her mother pat her hand tenderly. “Don’t you fret about him now, my dear, dear girl. We have sent for the doctor, and I have sent to Meryton to fetch a wet nurse for the poor lad.”

  As Lydia drifted back off to sleep, she thought, Thank goodness. At least now I have the wet nurse I wanted for him all along.

  Wickham watched with avid fascination as the seamen aboard the cargo ship worked as one man to steer the vessel into the harbour. The skill involved in moving the mass of wood and sails so delicately into position held him in awe. Again, the captain and his fellow officers barked their orders in a language which seemed all but foreign to Wickham, whilst he watched on mutely and unable to help. No matter how interesting he found the life on the ship, he yearned to set foot once again on dry land.

  Wickham strained his neck to see past the other ships in the harbour and could make out the shape of their sister ships; one had already weighed anchor, and he saw with some envy that her crew and passengers were disembarking and being rowed to shore in small boats. He knew, of course, that Captain Brook and Colonel Sullivan would be eager to head to their briefing and learn all they could about the discovery of Napoléon in Paris, however, what Wickham begrudged most about their having disembarked soonest was that they were on stable, unmoving, and solid dry land. The thought then entered his head that the journey from Felixstowe to Calais would be on open sea, and they were more likely to encounter stormy weather in the English Channel. Inwardly, he groaned. It seemed that France was still a very long way off.

  The wait for the captain to declare the ship safely anchored and to call for the small boats to come and ferry the infantry passengers to shore seemed interminable. In time, though, they did indeed appear, and Wickham, Turpin, and Poynter had the great pleasure of disembarking before their men did. All three of them were touched when the captain and his men saluted them as they made to leave. “It’s been a pleasure having you aboard our ship, Lieutenants. You’ve been fine company, and have borne being at sea well.”

  “Thank you, Captain. The pleasure has been all ours.” Wickham responded with his customary charming grin, which he had no trouble conjuring up as he knew the small rowing boat awaited him below.

  All three of them saluted in return and before they could move, Poynter called out, “Permission to disembark, Captain.” It had entirely escaped Wickham’s memory that there was a protocol to follow for disembarking just as there was for boarding, and was glad that Poynter had his wits about him.

  “Permission granted, gentlemen. I shall see you, no doubt, ashore.” The captain smiled and drew himself up to his full, burly height. “Mind how you go.”

  Wickham felt sad to leave the old captain behind; he had been kind, and Wickham rarely encountered kindness these days. He shook his head as he prepared to climb down the rope ladder on the side of the ship. What was going through his mind? How sentimental he was becoming!

  Stepping down onto the boat made his stomach jolt. The craft was by far more unsteady than the ship, and Wickham feared the smallest movement would capsize them. With great care, he sat down quickly and hoped that Poynter and Turpin would not rock the boat too much when they climbed down into it.

  Within a few minutes, they were all securely seated and the seamen were rowing them towards Felixstowe and dry land. Wickham could not have been happier the moment his boots touched the cobbled surface of the harbour. Strangely, though, he staggered a little as he tried to walk along and out of the way of his friends as they climbed up the steps, too. “Steady on there, Wickham. Your head was just getting used to being on the sea, and you’ll feel a little odd now that you are back on dry land,” Poynter explained.

  “I certainly did not expect that.”

  “No, neither did I the first time it happened. But you will shake off the feeling in a moment or two.” He laughed. “Just try not to look as though you’ve been at the captain’s rum again.”

  The bedroom was bathed entirely in darkness when Lydia finally stirred in her bed. She tried to sit up, but the room around her swam and she immediately fell back onto the plump feather pillows. She groaned. For a brief moment, she did not remember where she was. Were they still travelling? Then, snatches of the past two days came flooding back to her memory. She remembered her mother’s voice and face—surely, then, that meant she was safe at home in Longbourn. Slowly, Lydia rolled her head to the right—if this was her old room, then the nightstand would be within reach, and the tinderbox and candle, too. Gently, trying to avoid a recurrence of the dizzy spell she had moments before endured, she reached out her right arm and inched herself across the bed towards the edge. She stretched out her fingers and felt for the wood of the cabinet. Her fingers alighted on something cold, and she knew instinctively from the familiarity of the thing that this was her wooden nightstand, and this was indeed her room. Immediately, all her fears were allayed and a calmness washed over her. Sluggishly, and little by little, Lydia sat up and, after waiting a moment or two, swung her legs over the side of her bed. The room was chill, and as her eyes began to adjust to the blackness around her, she thought she saw the outline of her old, familiar pieces of furniture—the armoire, the dressing table, and the fireplace. The room smelled the same, too. She took a deep breath and whispered, “It is good to be home again.” She reached to the nightstand, fingers searching for the tinderbox. When she had found it, she fumbled to light the candle she knew intuitively was beside the box. Within an instant, the light flooded the room and Lydia blinked at the brightness of the single flame flickering atop the half-burnt down candle. She turned where she sat, perched on the edge of the bed, and looked around the room. Everything was precisely where she had left it all when she stayed here briefly before she departed for Newcastle with Wickham. As she looked around her old room, her eyes fell upon the chair by the dressing table in front of the long window and she smiled. Someone—she assumed it was her sister, Kitty—had carefully placed her old doll, Eloise, on the chair. The sight of her beloved playmate brought a lump to Lydia’s throat and tears to her eyes. In that moment, she wished she had never married and always had been safely at home with her family in Longbourn. Slowly, she slipped off the bed, retrieved Eloise from the chair, and retreated to the warmth of the bed, hugging the porcelain doll to her chest.

  As she laid her head back against the pillows and pulled the covers up to her chin, she inhaled the scent of Eloise. Her aroma sent her back through time; it was a scent Lydia could never describe in words, but to her, it meant “home.” Snuggling her nose into the doll’s hair, Lydia closed her eyes and, once more, wished the experiences of the past had never happened to her. So much had occurred in such short time, and she longed for the simpler times back in Meryton. She thought back over her life since this was last her room. She went away to Brighton, where she fell in love with Wickham; they eloped and stopped in London, where the interfering Mr Darcy found them and arranged a hurried wedding that was not to her taste. They moved to Newcastle, where things seemed to settle for a while. Then, to her utter dismay, they were forced to relocate to Scarborough. Within weeks of their move, and without a moment for them to catch their breaths, news reached them of the double wedding of Lydia’s sisters, Jane and Lizzy, to Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy, respectively. Lydia was shocked, to say the least. Everyone knew, or at least she thought they did, that Mr Darcy was the most horrid, disagreeable man ever to walk the face of the earth, and most incredible of all, her sister was to be—had consented to be—Mrs Darcy. Lydia shook her head at the memory as sleep gently crept up on her. After the double wedding, Lydia found she was carrying her first child. That had not been a happy event. After going horseback riding one day, she went into labour early and the infant girl was stillborn. Lydia’s eyes filled with tears. It was all her fault. She ought not to have gone riding at all. Before she knew it, she was with child again. This time, though, with happy results. T
he thought of her little boy, Georgie, made her want to get up out of bed and see where he was, but she was too tired, and her body ached from head to foot. I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes longer, then I will go and see to little Georgie, she thought. However, sleep overtook her and it was a little after noon when she awoke again.

  Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin waited in The Crown Inn upon the orders of Colonel Sullivan for the arrival of Captain Brook, fresh from his meeting with his superiors. Poynter took the liberty of ordering three flagons of ale whilst they waited. Wickham and Turpin looked around for an empty table. There were none, unfortunately, and Wickham was on the point of suggesting that they stand at the bar when the occupants of a table by the window stood to leave. Turpin was quick on his feet and secured the table for the three of them as soon as the previous occupants barely had vacated it.

  “Nicely done.” Wickham smiled. “Although, I think you ought to have given them a chance to step away from the table before you jumped in.”

  Turpin chuckled at that. “And risk losing a table with a fine vantage point from which to spy Brook and Sullivan from?” He pulled a face at Wickham. “Besides, we’re off to war. It is only right we have the best seats in the house.”

  Wickham could not help but laugh at his friend. “What else do you think we could have given to us with a line like that?”

  “The whole world is your oyster, as they say. I am certain that you can have whatever you imagine, eh?”

  Poynter joined them and interrupted their fun. “You’ll never guess what I just heard from the barkeep.” He sat down and pushed the flagons of ale he brought from the bar across the table to Wickham and Turpin. “Apparently, there have been ships in and out of here all day. Word has it we are gearing up for a big battle!”

  Steadily, The Crown Inn emptied of its occupants until Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin were the only ones left, and they were free to speak openly and without lowering their voices. It did not last long and few minutes later, a couple of men from the Navy joined them. Much to their relief, they knew more, and were willing to share what they knew as they bought them ale—to loosen their tongues—and ordered hot meat pies. “There ain’t a whole lot going on right now, really.” One of them sniffed as he wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. “We’ve got orders that we’re shipping out tonight. The Cap’n’s given us all a bit o’ shore leave afore we set sail, ain’t ’e?”

  His friend snorted. “Yeah, an hour. What a fat lot of good that is!”

  “Don’t be like that, Jim. It’s better ’an nothin’ and, besides, we dunno when we’ll be back in ole Britain again, do we?”

  “Where are you headed?” Wickham asked.

  Both the seamen laughed. “Don’t be daft! The Cap’n ain’t gonna tell the likes of us that sort of information, is ’e?”

  Red-faced, Wickham mumbled, “No. I suppose not.”

  Poynter stepped forward with his shoulders squared. “But it may very well be that you overheard something, could it not?” The two men squirmed under Poynter’s annoyed gaze. “Mayhap, even, some gossip reached your ears… Hmm?”

  When the men said nothing more, Turpin slammed his empty flagon down on the table. “Damn it, men! We are all off to fight the same war against the same enemy. We are on the same side. What do you know?”

  After another moment’s hesitation more, the two sailors looked at each other and muttered one word before turning and facing the bar. The conversation was clearly over.

  “What did he say?” Poynter asked.

  “Netherlands,” Wickham confirmed.

  “That’s what I thought he said.” Poynter shook his head. “Why on earth would anyone be headed there?”

  “No idea.” Turpin waved his empty flagon in the air and signalled the barkeeper for more ale. “Unless they have intelligence that Bonaparte is heading in that direction.”

  Wickham and Poynter stared at each other. “I wonder where we will be sent,” the latter murmured.

  It was dark outside and the three of them had drank more than they ought to have when Captain Brook and Colonel Sullivan entered the inn. Wickham, Turpin, and Poynter stood immediately to attention and saluted their superior officers. The sailors at the bar looked up, barely noticed who had entered, and went straight back to their drinks. The barkeeper, however, wiped his hands on his grimy apron, took down two glasses, and uncorked a bottle of wine.

  “At ease, gentlemen,” Captain Brook commanded, looking them up and down. “I hope your wait has not been too arduous.”

  Colonel Sullivan frowned and stepped forward. “How much have you drunk since you have been here?”

  Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin were saved from further interrogation by the barkeeper as he placed the glasses and bottle on the table. “I took the liberty, gentlemen. You look cold.” He grinned toothlessly up at Captain Brook and Colonel Sullivan. “And you should be proud of your officers. Finer men I’ve never ’ad in my bar, I tell you. ’Ardly touched a drop all night, mind you.” He chuckled to himself as he poured the wine and handed the full glasses to Captain Brook and Colonel Sullivan. “Now, gentleman, shall I leave the bottle?” Captain Brook shook his head. “Anything else, then? My missus does a popular meat pie.”

  The two officers shook their heads in unison.

  “That’s a very kind offer, but no, we must be returning to our ship, as must our men.” Colonel Sullivan looked directly at Wickham and frowned. He knew that Sullivan saw he had been drinking more than the barkeeper vouched for.

  Captain Brook pulled over two chairs from the adjacent table and he and Colonel Sullivan sat down. “It’s a nasty business, this, men,” he said, hardly looking up from his wine glass. “It appears that Napoléon Bonaparte has been spotted in Paris, and all intelligence says he is moving in the direction of the Netherlands.” Wickham looked instinctively in the direction of the two men at the bar, and noted they were listening in. “The Field Marshal, His Grace, The Duke of Wellington wants all new troops joining the fray to head in that direction. The idea is to encircle the little weasel and trap him.” He swallowed down the remainder of his wine and sighed. “And that is all I am at liberty to disclose,” he concluded matter-of-factly.

  Wickham groaned inside. They had found out that much themselves through gossip and hearsay. He stood, as Captain Brook and Colonel Sullivan themselves did.

  “We pray you all have a safe crossing, and we will see you in Calais,” Captain Brook said with a salute and departed, with Colonel Sullivan close behind him.

  Wickham, Turpin, and Poynter held their salutes until the door had closed behind their commanding officers and as one, they breathed out loudly. They looked at each other, knowing that, indeed, a huge battle was coming—one that they would not be able to avoid, even if they wished to. None of them were under any illusions that they would be having a picnic in France, but the realisation that together, a unified British military force was going to hunt down the evil Napoléon Bonaparte and put him away for good, settled in their minds that they were going to see some tough action. For the first time that day, Wickham thought of Lydia and Georgie and wondered if they were safe in Hertfordshire by now or not.

  Slowly, Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin sat back down on their chairs as the barkeeper shuffled over to their table and refilled their flagons of ale. “Well, by the looks of your long faces, you could all do with at least one more of these.” He looked at his punters, but none of them spoke in response; they merely each picked up their own flagon and drank deeply.

  “Quiet down!” Lydia heard her mother whisper loudly. She rasped that she did not know if Lydia was still asleep or not. Either there were people in her room, or she was dreaming it. “Feel her brow, Kitty.” There was her mother’s voice again. “Is it still hot?” she asked.

  “No,” came the reply in what Lydia was certain was her sister Kitty’s voice. “I think the fever has finally broken, Mama.”

  Fever? What fever? Lydia thought. I must be asleep. This mu
st be a dream. I have not had a fever; I’m simply exhausted from the journey, that is all. Nevertheless, try as she might, Lydia could not move herself to wake up fully from her slumber, so she listened to all that went on around her and tried to guess who else was in the room with her mother and sister.

  “Oh, what a relief! I feared the worst, I do not mind confessing.” Lydia felt her mother sit down on the edge of the bed. “Oh, my poor nerves!”

  “Shall I fetch for the doctor, Mama?”

  “Doctor! Doctor! What do you want to fetch him for?” their mother screeched. “Your father cannot bear the expense of calling for the doctor every few hours, child.”

  Kitty huffed. “I just thought he would be able to confirm if Lydia is over the worst of it or not.”

  “It matters not what you thought, Kitty. The doctor will be here in any case this evening to see to the baby. We need not call for him twice in one day. Lord, think of the bill your father will receive!”

  Lydia felt a cool damp cloth touch her forehead and Kitty’s voice whispered near her ear, “I wonder how Lydia will react when she learns how ill her son is.”

  At first, her sister’s words did not register with her as she listened to them discussing how high the baby’s fever was. It took a minute or two for their words to register. She realised there was only one baby in the family—her son, Georgie. She tried to move as panic gripped her. Georgie, her baby son, Wickham’s baby boy, was ill. He too had a fever. What if he dies? The thought jolted through her body like a bolt of lightning and she immediately opened her eyes. “Georgie!” she cried through dry lips.

  “Oh, Mama! She is awake!” Kitty cried, leaping up off the bed and standing back.

  “My dear, dear daughter!” Mrs Bennet leant closer to Lydia and kissed her on the forehead. “I feared the very worst.”