Sensing danger, Wickham readied his rifle again and pointed it at the bushes as they swayed and rustled. The soldier he had lain by and another man to his immediate right moved at the same time. He was heartily pleased with their presence. They waited for what seemed like an interminable second when a redcoat came crashing through the undergrowth.
“Oh, thank heavens it’s you!” the scout cried out with a gush of relief. “Give us a hand!” Wickham rushed forward to help him. He was dragging the wounded body of another scout behind him. “He’s alive. Carson didn’t make it.” Wickham assumed Carson was the other scout. The scout stood up and stretched his back, and Wickham and another soldier lifted the wounded man off him. “You got ’em all,” he said, pointing to the dead Frenchmen on the ground.
“Yes. I think so,” Wickham replied, having a quick look about them.
“Yeah.” The scout nodded. “Four o’ them, there were.”
Wickham called to one of the other men to take the wounded scout back to camp whilst he and the other scout checked the French soldiers.
“Don’t know what you expect to find, sir.”
Wickham looked up from checking inside the Frenchmen’s uniforms. “Neither do I, but if they’re carrying any papers, I want them.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“Who do you suppose they are?”
The scout shrugged. “Just an advanced scouting party, if you ask me, sir.”
Wickham nodded. “Hmm…mayhap you’re right.” He stood and looked around him. He strained his ears to hear where the cannon fire was coming from. “The rest of their army is miles from here. It does not make sense for them to be out here alone.”
“Like I said, sir; they’re the advanced scouting party.” He shrugged again and scratched his nose. “Either that or deserters.”
Wickham instantly dismissed that thought. If they were deserters, they would most likely not have been carrying ammunition and muskets.
Between the two of them, they collected any unused shot and the rifles and headed back to the camp. Wickham would send a couple of men to dispose of the corpses later. For now, it was enough to know that the French suspected their whereabouts.
The afternoon was dreary and miserable, as far as Lydia was concerned. The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day, but because of the furore of getting the Gardiners despatched on their summer journey passed, accompanied by Mrs Bennet’s exclaiming, “There, now, we will not have the Gardiners cluttering up the house when Jane and Mr Bingley return. What would they think of us if they were to see up all upside down?” she felt despondent.
Lydia looked around her. There was, and never was, even when the Gardiners were present, anything upside down about Longbourn. It was not the finest of all houses, but it was clean, elegant, and uncluttered. She frowned at her mother and noted that her father rolled his eyes as he departed for his book room, muttering, “It’s all in your imagination, my dear.” Thankfully, Lydia felt, her mother did not hear his comment.
There was, however, nothing for her to do once the Gardiners had departed but mope around the house. She visited with Georgie up in the nursery and rocked him in her arms for a while, until that bored her. She returned to the drawing room and tried to engage Mary in conversation, but she should have known better than to even attempt that. Mary was practicing at the piano and would not be disturbed for anything, save the house burning down. Kitty too was occupied. She had promised Jane and Lizzy that she would embroider a cushion in time for the birth of each of their first children and she was busy stitching away by the window putting the finishing touches to the project.
“But I could pull up a chair and we can talk whilst you sew,” Lydia pressed.
“If you wish, but I promised Jane and Lizzy, and a promise is a promise.” Kitty barely looked up from her needlework.
Lydia huffed. “Mayhap I can sort your colours for you.”
“No, thank you,” Kitty snapped. “I know where each one is that I’m using on this pattern. I do not want them interfered with, Lydia.”
Again Lydia huffed and stomped her feet as she moved over to the settee and flung herself upon it. “There is nothing to do here.”
“Oh, be quiet, child!” Mrs Bennet snapped. She just that moment came into the drawing room from cutting fresh flowers for the Bingley party’s arrival. “If you want something to do, you can help me make these flowers up to put in the dining room.” Mrs Bennet nodded to the marguerites, roses, lavender, and assortment of flowers and greenery she carried in the basket in her arms.
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Very well, Mama, but I do not see why so much fuss is being made simply because Jane is coming back to Netherfield. I daresay you did not go to such efforts on my behalf.”
“I daresay I did not.” Lydia narrowed her eyes and scowled at her mother’s words. “Jane is my firstborn, and she brings such joy to our lives.”
Lydia stamped her foot and put her hands on her hips. “I was the first married. I, too, gave you your first grandchild. Is that nothing to you, Mama?”
“Oh, Lydia, do calm yourself.” Mrs Bennet dismissed her.
“No, I shall not.” Lydia noticed Kitty look up from her stitching. “You do not value me or my dear Wickham as much as you do Jane and Mr Bingley, and for that matter, even that pompous Mr Darcy is valued more than I am.”
“Oh, Lydia, stop being so ridiculous.” Mrs Bennet dropped the flowers in her hands and stepped towards her youngest daughter. Lydia stood fuming at her mother as she stretched out her hand and smoothed her hair. “You are my child, too. I do not favour any of you above the others.” She cocked her head to the side. “It is simply that Mr Bingley is of far more consequence than your Mr Wickham—you must see that. Mr Darcy, too, although you disapprove of him, has been of great help to this family since Lizzy married him. He has helped your father immeasurably with the farms and finances. He truly is a generous man.”
Lydia snorted. “Humph!”
“There’s no need for that. You might accept everything that your husband has told you, but from what I gather, not everything he says is the gospel truth, my dear.” Lydia opened her mouth to protest, but her mother raised her hand to stop her. “I believe there are always two sides to the story. I have observed a good many things of late, and Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy’s behaviour towards this household, and me, have been above reproach. The game Mr Darcy has sent down from his estate in Derbyshire is such a godsend—you know full well we have no game on our estate, and the price of venison is preposterous these days!” She turned back to the flowers and started stuffing them into a white porcelain vase the maid brought in. “I do not know how some families manage. Everything seems to be increasing in price. Did you know,” she said, looking at Kitty, “that Mr Warren, the chandler, raised the price of candles last week because apparently the tax on them has gone up?” She shook her head and lamented, “I do not know what this world is coming to, sincerely, I do not!” She turned back to Lydia. “And without Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley helping your father out, I would not like to think what will become of us!” She stopped what she was doing, pulled out her handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes. “Yes,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “the Darcys and Bingleys have been very good to us.”
Lydia slipped silently from the room as her mother continued to laud her sons-in-law. She had heard enough. She detested Mr Darcy for the way Wickham said he was treated, and if her mother continued to praise Mr Bingley to the rafters thusly, she was in a fair way to detest him, too. She decided to retrieve her bonnet from her room, walk to Meryton, and call upon Maria Lucas. Hopefully, the Bingleys’ party will have arrived by the time I return, and I will be in a better mood in which to greet them.
Maria Lucas, unfortunately, was not at home and Lydia was forced to take tea with Sir William and Lady Lucas. She would not have minded, but Lady Lucas was a hound for gossip and she wanted to know every single, minute detail of Lydia’s life since she and Wickham departed for Newcas
tle with which Mrs Bennet had not already furnished her. Once that subject was exhausted, Lady Lucas launched into a painfully exhaustive explanation of Maria’s forthcoming marriage to Edmund Fairbrother, the admiral’s son, punctuated comically by Sir Lucas’ two-penny worth. Whilst in Scarborough and during interminable hours listening to Mrs Harriet Sullivan—the wife of Wickham’s superior officer, Colonel Sullivan—drone on, Lydia had learnt the art of smiling, nodding, and giving the appearance of paying attention whilst allowing her mind to roam freely. Her mind drifted as Lady Lucas chattered on.
She always had loved the interior of Lucas Lodge. She sat, nodded, and smiled at Sir William and Lady Lucas as she imagined how she would have furnished their lavishly decorated, well-proportioned drawing room. She admired the grey marble fireplace, but would not have painted the walls in such a dark claret colour—it made it seem so dark and oppressive when it was such a light and airy room. Lydia favoured a lighter, more fashionable yellow. The rugs, too, she believed, would have to go in favour of something prettier, mayhap from India. Her mind began to imagine things in greater detail, and her smile began to slip as she pondered why there was such a lack of greenery in the Lucas home. This room would be vastly improved with the addition of a few plants here and there.
“Mrs Wickham?” Lady Lucas broke through her train of thought.
“Oh, sorry?” Lydia smiled sweetly and hoped neither of them realised she did not pay attention to a single word that was said.
Lady Lucas chuckled. “I said, do you not think that a spring wedding is preferable to a winter one?”
Lydia cocked her head. “Visually, yes, I agree with you, spring is prettier, but if they are so in love, why should they not marry immediately? There ought to be no obstacle to love, just as there was not with Mr Wickham and myself.”
Lord and Lady Lucas stared at Lydia with incredulity. “Quite,” Lord Lucas declared.
Lady Lucas was discomfited and her face reddened. “I do not think we can compare Maria’s marriage with yours, Mrs Wickham, do you not agree?”
Lydia frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, your marriage—”
Lord Lucas cut across his wife. “More tea, Mrs Wickham, or some cake, mayhap?”
Tensions ran high for the remainder of the day as Wickham and a group of twenty men set up a barricade on a nearby bridge over a stream. Their orders were not to destroy it, but to make it impassable. They trawled huge chunks of stone robbed from an old mill further upstream that had tumbled down over the years. One soldier found a fallen tree and another, a broken cart. Wickham ordered branches cut from the closest trees to make wooden stakes to drive into the barricade. He did not want any Frenchman to think he could boldly scale the blockade and enter British-held soil.
It was hard work, the men were tired, and every noise they heard that did not come from them had them reaching for their muskets. Wickham had to restrain himself from snapping at the men more than once when his orders were not carried out to his liking. He tried to remember the men felt the same way he did. They were on edge. The French could arrive any minute. They would surely suspect something had happened to their scouts by now, and more were likely on their way.
One by one, they peeled their tunics off and worked in shirts with their sleeves rolled up. The breeze was welcome, but not enough to cool their skin. Wickham upended his water skein and dripped the last of the water onto his parched tongue. “Damn it!” he muttered. He looked around him. “Who else is out of water?” Slowly, most of them raised a hand. “Give me your skeins here.” He reached out his hands. “I’ll go down to the stream and refill them. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” Each of them handed him their water skein, even those with water left in them—hoping that he would fill them with fresh, cool water instead of the stale, warm water they currently contained.
He was relieved to get away from the backbreaking work and take a breather. He was not accustomed to such physical activity. Mayhap I should have entered the church just as old Mr Darcy wanted me to, he thought wryly. I certainly would not be here if I had. He ran a hand through his damp, sweaty hair and descended the lush, grassy bank down to the stream below. He knelt down in the overgrown sward and splashed water on his arms and face. It felt so cool and refreshing, he was tempted to strip off his clothes and take a quick dip in the shallow water. He knew he dared not do such a foolhardy thing given his location, but the temptation was real enough, and he savoured the sensation of the cold water running over his overheated skin.
Reluctantly, he picked up the water skeins, rinsed them out in the babbling stream, and refilled them again. As he was doing so, he heard a woman singing. His heart pounded. He did not know there were any people near here. Slowly, he got to his feet and surveyed the area, but could hear nothing. He turned his head back and forth, endeavouring to locate the voice as she sang the tune. Certain that it came from the opposite side of the stream, he ran to the nearest tree and quietly scaled its branches for a better look. He needed only climb upon its low-growing limbs to give him a better vantage point from which to spy the singing woman.
There, to his left, further upstream on the opposite side sat a woman with a basket having a picnic—unaware that she was observed, or that she was in such close proximity to the British army, and innocently relaxed.
Wickham was mesmerised by her voice and the haunting melody she sang. He never heard such a lovely tune before. It sounded like a French lullaby, but at the same time, it sounded sad, too. He wished he could wade across the stream and ask her about it, but she was French, and just as much of a danger to him as he was to her. He could barely tear his eyes from her. Her raven hair was loose and trailed down her back. She sat barefoot on the grass with her face upturned to the sun as she sang. Wickham’s heart lurched in his chest—she was beautiful as she sat there, and he desired her.
He, cautiously, crept back down the tree, finished his task quickly—stopping periodically to assure himself that she continued to sing and was ignorant of his presence—then made his way quietly back to where the men built the barricade.
“We need to hurry up and get back to camp,” he said in a subdued voice. “I saw a civilian woman on the other bank. We do not want to alert her to our presence.”
“The wind is towards us,” one soldier who had stripped down to his breeches commented. “Any sound we do make should be carried away from her, sir.”
“True,” Wickham conceded, “but I’d still like to keep the noise down and get out of here as quickly as possible.”
“Agreed,” they spoke at once.
Wickham looked back in the direction of the French woman and wondered who she was.
Upon her return to Longbourn, Lydia, once again, found the house in such a commotion. There were manservants, valets, and maids she had never before set eyes upon bustling to-and-fro up and down the stairs. She stood in utter amazement at the scene before her until Kitty burst out of the drawing room and saw her standing there.
“Oh, there you are!” she declared, her face breaking into a wider grin at her obvious pleasure at seeing her. “We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you. You have been gone for ages!”
“What on earth is going on, Kitty?” Lydia asked. “And who are all these people?”
Kitty grasped her by the wrist and ushered her into the dining room, which was, thankfully, unoccupied. “You will not believe who Jane and Mr Bingley have brought with them as their house guest.” She leant closer and whispered conspiratorially, as though the walls had ears.
“Apart from Lizzy and Mr Darcy, you mean?” Lydia asked plainly. She was tired and more than a little ratty from her visit to Lucas Lodge and then the walk back.
Kitty laughed with excitement. “Oh, you’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you…it’s none other than Sir Percival Etherington!”
Lydia frowned as she tried to place the name. “The Member of Parliament?”
“Yes!” Kitty clapped her hands for joy. “Is
n’t it exciting?”
Lydia raised her eyebrow. “Kitty, I would hardly call having an MP to stay ‘exciting.’”
“Oh, but it is! Don’t you see?”
Lydia confessed she did not see and pulled out a dining chair and sat down.
Kitty pulled a face and sat down next to her. “Firstly, he wants Papa and Sir Lucas’ votes, and so he is falling over himself to ingratiate himself upon them.” Lydia rolled her eyes. “Mama is so taken with him that she immediately invited him to stay a night or two here, which, as you can imagine, he gratefully accepted. Jane says it was Mama’s plan all along because…” Kitty paused for effect. “…he is a rich widower, and I mean richer than Mr Bingley.” She screwed up her face. “But not as much as Mr Darcy, I believe. He has an estate in Somerset, I think.” She shook her head. “But he has no children…” Lydia’s countenance lifted as she listened. “…and so has no heir and, according to Jane, would like to marry a young lady—with or without her own fortune, he is not particular on that front—to provide him with that much-longed-for son and heir.”
Lydia smiled at her sister and shook her head. “And you think that you might…”
Kitty nodded and giggled at the notion. “I do not wish to be an old spinster, Lydia, and I would much rather be married to a rich man than live my days alone and poor.”
“Lord forbid!” Lydia leant forward, eager for more details. “But what kind of man is he? Is he handsome?” She smirked; however, the blush on her sister’s face gave her all the answer she needed.
“I believe so, yes—for an old man.”
“How old is he?”
“Almost forty!”
Lydia gasped in shock. “He is practically in his grave!”
“Indeed.”
“At that age, you will not have to endure marriage for very many years and you can live alone with your children in luxury for the rest of your days!” Lydia grinned.
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