Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  The sea was calm and the wind that had so speedily brought them to the coast of France seemed to cease as they rowed to the beach, and Wickham shuddered with the sudden eeriness of it. Despite the furtive looks he threw periodically over his shoulder to look at the soldiers already taking positions of safety on the beach, he could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. As they neared the shore, the feeling eased, however. Why would the enemy wait for them to take cover when they had been in the open for so long already?

  The rowers lifted up their oars and the boat slowed to a stop. “That’s as close as we will take you. You’ll have to jump out and wade to shore.” Wickham knew panic showed on his face at hearing such an idea. “It’ll only be about waist deep. Not to worry.”

  Wickham turned in his seat and saw that the other men on the shore had damp breeches, too. They also must have had to wade to shore. He sighed, tentatively stood, and climbed over the side. The water was colder than he expected, and it took his breath away as his feet found the bottom and he steadied himself on the sand. Wickham lifted his sword and musket above his head and cursed quietly for not thinking of doing so before he climbed out of the boat. Now they were both wet, and he had no idea what damage that might do to the firing mechanism on the musket, but he suspected it would not do it any good. He decided to give his to one of his men to clean out and take his instead. He smiled wryly; sometimes it was good to be an officer.

  As he emerged from the surf, two of his men hurried up to his to help him. “Here, take this and clean it out, will you?” he said to the man on his left. “It got wet.”

  The man’s face dropped. “Yes, sir.”

  “And give me yours. I’d better not be unarmed out here.” Reluctantly, the soldier handed over his own musket and took Wickham’s proffered one whilst pulling a face. “There’s no need to look like that, man. It simply won’t do to have an unarmed officer.” Wickham turned away to where Poynter beckoned to him from amongst the dunes. “Besides, you’ll have that stripped, cleaned, and put back together in no time at all, and certainly long before any Frenchman discovers our whereabouts.” He was not so certain of that fact as he headed off across the sand to his friend, but he felt he ought to sound sure of himself—after all, that was what was expected of him. It was difficult to walk across the sand in his sodden boots, and by the time Wickham joined Poynter and Turpin under what appeared to be the only tree for a mile or two, he was breathing deeply and his mouth was dry. He gestured to Turpin to pass him the water skein. “Thanks,” he muttered as he gratefully quenched his thirst. “I did not expect it to be so warm.”

  Poynter shrugged. “Mayhap that’s a good thing. It might make the French lazy, and whilst they are sunning themselves, we can sneak in and attack.”

  “Attack?” Wickham looked shocked. “We have orders to attack?”

  “No, Wickham!” Turpin chuckled as he took the water skein back and pushed in the cork. “Poynter is joking. We are to meet up with the rest of our lot and then march to some unpronounceable place where we will encamp.”

  “Safely?”

  Turpin nodded. “Yes, the enemy is far from here.”

  “Then why do I feel like I’m being watched?” Wickham asked.

  “You can never trust a Frenchman. We have to keep out of the sight of the locals in case one of them takes it into his head to go running off and inform his lot where we are. The blasted fools believe Napoléon to be some sort of saint. Huh!” He rolled his eyes.

  Wickham frowned. He could not imagine how anyone could think kindly about a military dictator bent on world domination. “Did anyone see where Colonel Sullivan landed?”

  “Yes, up there.” Poynter pointed further along the beach where the dunes ended and there was a small natural barrier of rock shielding them from the village ahead. “I think he’s signalling for us to head that way.”

  Turpin turned to the men. “Ready yourselves and keep your eyes sharp.”

  As they set out towards Colonel Sullivan and Captain Brook, Poynter hissed at the men behind them, “And keep your voices down. With a breeze like this, anything you say could carry for miles.” He turned to Wickham. “It would not surprise me if one of the little beggars recognised English being spoken and raised the alarm.”

  Again, Wickham’s stomach knotted, and he wondered why he thought the military was a good career choice in the first place. His mind travelled back to England as they trudged through the sand, and he wondered how Lydia was faring. He imagined Georgie to have grown a little by now. He had no real experience of childrearing, and he wondered, with a grin, when the babe would begin to walk. He found thinking about his son helped to loosen the knot in his belly, and his fears calmed a little. How long would it be before he saw them both again, he wondered. He tried to picture the little chubby face he kissed goodbye not so long ago, and found it difficult to conjure up the image. How quickly the mind forgets and the memories fade! The harder he tried, the more clearly the face of his infant son became clearer in his head. He concentrated on that and strove to block out his fears. He longed to see his son again.

  Dinner was interminable. Lydia had thought her parents would be glad to see her at the dining table that night, but her mother lamented over what she termed the foreseeable demise of their only grandchild throughout their repast. Lydia felt herself on the brink of tears each time her mother mentioned Georgie’s name. Her father, in a somewhat uncharacteristic display of affection, declared loudly that Mrs Bennet ought to hold her tongue and not pass judgement on the child until the doctor had been that evening. “He, I believe, my dear, is the best judge of whether the babe be long for this world or not,” he stated succinctly.

  Mrs Bennet looked put out and pouted. “I merely stated my opinion.”

  Lydia’s throat contracted and she gripped her knife and fork tightly. She prayed that someone would change the subject. She did not think that she would make it to the end of the meal with her nerves intact, otherwise. Her father was staring at her and poured her more wine, which she drank some of gratefully.

  “Take heart, Lydia, my dear. Many a child has battled with the grippe and lived to tell the tale.” He reached across the table and patted her hand. “And I feel young George will, too.” His smile was the breaking point for her emotions and she sobbed into her napkin where she sat.

  Mrs Bennet tutted and whined at her husband. “Now look what you’ve done!” She passed Lydia another unused napkin. “There, there.”

  It took several minutes for Lydia to stop crying and pull herself together. Her bad dream was still fresh in her mind, and she could not bear the thought of losing her son on top of the fear of losing her husband, too. Prompted by her father, she dried her face, blew her nose, and visited the commode behind the screen in the corner of the room. Whilst there, she took a few deep and steadying breaths and splashed water on her face. When she returned to the table, one of the servants arrived to announce the arrival of visitors. “Visitors?” Lydia exclaimed. She turned and looked at her mother. “Mama, how could you have invited guests this evening with Georgie lying in the nursery fighting for his life?”

  Mrs Bennet flapped her napkin at Lydia. “Calm yourself, child.” She looked sternly at her daughter until Lydia sat back down in her chair. “I did not inform you because I did not wish to excite you anymore than you are already,” she swallowed, “but I informed my brother and sister Gardiner of your situation, and your Aunt Gardiner wanted to be here to be of use to you, my dear.”

  Lydia did not know how to respond. She was cross her mother had taken it upon herself to inform her aunt and uncle Gardiner, however, she knew her aunt to be a very useful, intelligent, and genteel woman. Lydia knew from experience that they were good to have around when there was a family disaster, as they always were the calming force. When they were ushered into the room, Lydia mustered up a smile, although, judging by the look on her aunt’s face, her sadness and worry was etched on her features.

  Mrs Gardi
ner curtseyed to Mrs Bennet and held her hands whilst she prattled on, but Lydia watched as her eyes flicked often to her. Mr Bennet hallooed his welcome greeting from his end of the table and, as was his custom if guests arrived during dinner, remained seated. “Come on in, come on in! You must be famished.” He called and waved his hand still holding the fork at a maid, who quickly rushed to do her master’s bidding. “Bring them plates! See to it they have plenty of wine.” He looked at Mr Gardiner. “Travelling can be thirsty work, can it not, brother?” Mr Gardiner nodded, chuckled, and made his way to his brother-in-law, sat down next to him, and the two were lost in conversation in minutes.

  Meanwhile, Mrs Gardiner skirted around the continuously prattling Mrs Bennet and embraced Lydia. “How are you, Lydia, dear?” Lydia fought hard to control her emotions, but feared speaking would bring on a torrent of tears, which she knew her father would frown over in front of guests. In the end, she merely nodded. “And the infant? Is his health improved at all?”

  This time, Lydia shook her head and the tears flowed. She fled once again behind the screen whilst her aunt looked on pityingly. Mrs Bennet took the opportunity created by Lydia’s departure to lament the poor child’s demise once more. Lydia could hear every word her mother uttered from behind the screen, and they did nothing to improve her mood. She felt desperate. She feared being left alone, without Wickham or Georgie. She wept into her kerchief and tried as hard as she could to pull herself together. They now had guests, and despite being family, it was expected of her to play her part and be gracious to them. Oh, how she wished her mother had informed her of their arrival. She would have taken her dinner upstairs in her room had she known. She certainly was not in any fit state to engage in small talk, however, she knew she could not remain hidden behind the screen forever, either. She splashed her face with water once again and emerged, puffy-eyed and red-faced, but calmer and more in control of her nerves. Now all she needed was for her mother to cease her constant lamentations and she might make it through the remainder of the meal without another emotional outburst.

  Aunt Gardiner was kind to her. She positioned herself between Lydia and Mrs Bennet, instead of close to Mr Bennet, as tradition dictated, and squeezed her niece’s hand under the table. Much more to Lydia’s surprise and complete relief, each time Mrs Bennet saw fit to bring up the subject of the sick infant above stairs, Mrs Gardiner changed the subject deftly, as though ignoring the situation entirely and being single-minded in her desire to find out all she could about Elizabeth in Pemberley, Derbyshire. Lydia knew very well that her sister Elizabeth and their aunt were constant correspondents and that the woman most likely knew more about life at Pemberley than the Bennets did. Lydia was deeply grateful for her aunt’s assistance. She felt a flush of deep affection for her, which she had never known before her marriage. She was glad for it. It made her feel less alone, isolated, and in possession of a much-needed friend and ally.

  Dinner continued in the same vein, with Mrs Bennet lamenting and Mrs Gardiner shielding Lydia and diverting the conversation in another direction. Mr Gardiner remained in deep conversation with Mr Bennet, but occasionally looked at his wife and Lydia and smiled sadly. Lydia tried to stay out of the conversation as much as possible. Her eyes passed over her aunt and uncle’s clothing, and she thought how peculiar they seemed, dining in their travelling clothes, and she was more endeared to them then. She knew they normally would have insisted on changing their clothes and freshening up before joining the family to eat. The next time her aunt squeezed her hand, Lydia squeezed hers back—grateful for her concern and compassion.

  When Lydia finally was able to escape and retreat to the nursery, it was a blessed relief—she could not have borne another minute in her mother’s presence. Upon entering the nursery, Lydia saw that Hill still stood sentry over the crib, and much to her surprise, Georgie seemed to be sleeping more soundly. She crept nearer and looked down at her son, clutching his blue crocheted blanket, with a broad smile on her face. “What did you do?” she asked.

  Hill shook her head. “Rubbed a little goose fat into his chest, gave him some warm cow’s milk now that drunken wet nurse is gone, and he went off straight away, as good as gold. Poor mite, he’s exhausted, bless him.”

  “Goose fat? Is that all?” Lydia stood, astounded at the change brought on by such a simple treatment.

  “Well, it warms the chest up, doesn’t it? It helps him breathe more easily, to be sure.” Hill folded her arms matter-of-factly and nodded down at the sleeping babe. There was barely a sound coming from his chest now. Lydia hoped it would last. “The doctor’ll be here in a trice now dinner’s over. I’d better get myself downstairs to greet him.” She turned to Lydia. “You can sit and watch over him, if you like.”

  Lydia smiled and nodded. She did like that idea. That sleeping bundle wrapped up in the crib was now becoming so precious to her that she feared letting him out of her sight.

  With Hill dismissed, Lydia pulled the rocking chair closer to the crib and settled down to watch Georgie sleep. She watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath, and soon the hypnotic movement made her feel drowsy, and she too nodded off to sleep. She was awakened by the sound of Dr Noakes’ voice echoing up the stairwell as he ascended with Hill. She fairly jumped up out of the chair, and as the portly, bespectacled doctor emerged into the room, she was smoothing down her dress and beaming brightly at him in greeting. “Good evening, Dr Noakes.”

  “Ah, Mrs Wickham. I trust you are well now.” Lydia nodded in confusion as his gaze intensified. “I see you do not remember my visiting you this past week.” He placed his bag on the rocking chair behind Lydia and put a hand on either side of her jaw, lifted her head, and looked into her eyes. “Hmm…you seem to be recovering well from the grippe and the milk fever. See to it that you do not overexert yourself and get plenty of rest, do you hear?” He looked over his spectacles at her. “Now…” He sucked air in heavily through his nose. “Shall we take a look at this young chap here?” He pointed down at the crib. Lydia moved out of the way so the doctor and his large, black-coated frame could get closer to his patient. He leant down and roughly picked up the sleeping child. Georgie let out the greatest scream of protestation Lydia had ever heard. Hurriedly, the doctor shoved the screaming child into Hill’s arms. The woman tutted loudly and took Georgie, who calmed a little at her cooing. “Undress him. I wish to examine him,” Dr Noakes barked, seemingly put out by the infant’s lack of cooperation.

  Lydia backed away towards the door. She disliked the sound of her son screaming so and wished with all her heart that he would stop. Her wish came true, however, when the babe had a coughing fit. She watched as Hill rubbed and slapped Georgie’s back in order to loosen what he attempted to cough up. Lydia’s heart sank when the doctor clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shook his head. He watched the baby over the rim of his spectacles and muttered, “Not good. Not good at all, I’m afraid.”

  Colonel Sullivan and Captain Brook sent scouts out into the village. Much to everyone’s immediate and palpable relief, it appeared to be abandoned. The ancient stone buildings had been left to ruin and bore the obvious scars of cannon and musket fire. Captain Brook still cautioned them all against complacency and told them all to keep alert as they marched on towards their rendezvous point. Wickham was pleased to note their route took them through some forest to shield them from enemy eyes. With scouts ahead of them, they were assured that no ambush would be laid for them and that they could proceed in silence and relative safety for the time being.

  The day was bright and fair, the sun beat down through the breaks in the trees, and Wickham lamented the thick woollen red coats they all wore. Whoever designed these uniforms obviously had not had the pleasure of marching any distance in them, he thought as he wiped sweat from his brow. He took a quick look at the men around him and saw that they similarly suffered. There was more than one face that was just as red as the coat the man wore. Wickham hoped there was a stream o
r brook up ahead, where they men could take off their coats and cool off a little before continuing on their way. He had no idea how far they would have to march to the camping ground, but knew if the day continued to be so hot, they could not continue at this pace, and more than one man would possibly begin to lag behind.

  The path wound its way through the forest and occasionally disappeared in the dense undergrowth. More often than not, they came across large clumps of trees surrounded by dense, impassable brambles, which snagged on breeches and stockings as the men tried to cut a way through. Eventually, they gave up and were forced to find a way around such obstacles, adding much time to their estimation of when they would arrive at the camp.

  Captain Brook sighed. “I intended for us to be at the camp site by nightfall. We are to rendezvous with the departing regiments. At this rate, we will have to march through the night. I will not stay overnight in this damnable forest.”