Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  “Precisely!” Kitty laughed. She jumped up from her chair. “Make haste! We must get you changed out of that dress before you meet him.”

  Lydia looked down at herself. Indeed, her sprigged muslin gown looked tired and a little dusty from the parched roads she walked that afternoon. She nodded. “Very well. What shall I wear to meet Sir Percival?” Quietly, they exited the dining room and scurried up the stairs to Lydia’s room. “I do not have afternoon dresses, Kitty. Lord knows I cannot afford such a luxury, and Sir Percival will be used to that, to be sure.”

  Kitty laughed at her. “Lydia, none of us have such a thing…well, except for Jane and Lizzy. But what does that matter?”

  Lydia pouted. She detested to be outdone by her eldest sisters in any way. “I suppose semi-formal will have to do.”

  “What did you bring with you?” Kitty asked as she scurried over to the old-fashioned armoire, opened its heavy walnut doors, and started to examine Lydia’s gowns. “Oh, I like this pink striped muslin, Lydia.”

  “I was saving that to wear for a special occasion,” she replied as she joined her sister and peered at her clothing.

  “Lydia!” Kitty tutted. “This is a special occasion.”

  Lydia smiled at her sister. “Oh, all right, then, why not?”

  Together they laughed and gossiped and Kitty helped Lydia out of her morning dress, wash, and put on the striped muslin dress. Kitty was eager to return to the drawing room as soon as they could, but Lydia whined about her hair until Kitty reluctantly agreed to help her tidy it.

  “There, finished,” Kitty stood back and declared to her sister’s reflection in the mirror.

  “Hmm…I suppose it will do,” Lydia replied as she turned her head this way and that, examining her sister’s handiwork.

  “You honestly did not need much doing to it. Let me help you with your skullcap.”

  Kitty reached past her, picked up the delicate lace, and placed it carefully upon Lydia’s head.

  “I do dearly wish I did not have to wear such an ugly thing. Do you not think it ugly, Kitty?”

  “I think it has a certain prettiness about it.”

  Lydia turned on the stool to face her. “What a strange thing to say! How can a skullcap have a certain prettiness about it?”

  “Well…” Kitty shrugged. “…it’s a sign of your marriage, isn’t it? When anyone sees you now, they know without a shadow of a doubt that you are married.”

  Lydia snorted and held up her left hand for her to see. “Kitty, my wedding band is a visible sign that I am married.” She looked at her own hand. “And that’s pretty. The skullcap makes me look…well…it makes me look like Mama!”

  The pair of them burst out laughing and made their way thusly out of the bedroom and down to the waiting guests in the drawing room.

  They could hear the general hubbub of conversation within from outside in the hallway, and Lydia’s excitement rose. She was heartily relieved that Mr Bingley’s sister, Caroline, was not present.

  As they drew closer, she pressed her ear against the door as Kitty giggled behind her. Lydia was surprised to hear her father’s voice coming from behind the door. No matter who visited Longbourn, Mr Bennet was sure to escape to his book room after fifteen or twenty minutes, yet she could hear him talking animatedly with someone inside the drawing room.

  “Come along, Lydia. Let us enter.” Kitty was fairly hopping from one foot to the other in her eagerness to re-enter the room.

  Lydia turned and grinned at her sister as she firmly grasped the door handle and twisted it. As they entered the room, all eyes turned to look at them.

  “Lydia!” Jane exclaimed from the settee. “I’ve been waiting to see you.” She had tears in her eyes.

  “I am here now, as you can see. How are you, Jane?” Lydia felt unbalanced by such a display of affection from her sister.

  “I am very well, as you can see.” She laughed and patted her extended stomach. “Come here and let me embrace you.” Jane squeezed her tightly and Lydia wondered why. She and Jane had never been overly close, owing to the age difference, yet here she was embracing her as closely as if they were the most intimate of sisters.

  “Is everything all right, Jane?” Lydia asked when she was finally free from her sister’s arms.

  Jane patted the settee beside her, indicating Lydia should sit beside her, and nodded. “Yes. I have been beside myself with worry.”

  Lydia kissed Elizabeth, who sat opposite Jane—and did not rise, she noticed—on the cheek, curtseyed to the gentlemen in the room, and sat down next to her eldest sister and frowned at her. “Why? Whatever’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Lydia,” Jane began to weep again. “Mama wrote to me that you were so ill, and that your dear baby boy was ill, also. I could hardly maintain my countenance. I insisted that Charles bring us all down to Hertfordshire to visit with you.”

  “But now, you see, I am well.” Lydia beamed.

  “Yes, indeed. You are well.” Jane continued, however, to look grave. “How is little George?”

  “Oh.” Lydia waved her hand dismissively. “He was recovering quickly the last time I saw him.”

  Jane nodded, concern etched all over her face. “Have they kept you out of the nursery for fear of you falling ill again?”

  “Not at all.” Lydia shook her head. “I stay out of the nursery because there is nothing there for me to do.”

  “B…but…do you not wish to be with your child?” Jane now looked at her sister in bewilderment.

  Lydia ignored Elizabeth’s sharp intake of breath, however, and laughed. “Why would I want to do that? No, I would not be of use, and I do not wish to watch Hill attend to the boy all day long. I would much rather be down here, where I am wanted.” She smiled and looked around the room.

  Jane sat back in shock, looked at her husband, Mr Bingley, who, standing with Mr Darcy, was listening to the repartee, and bowed in greeting to Lydia. “It’s good to see you again. You seem recovered.” He grinned politely at her.

  “Yes, indeed I am, although I must confess I am eager to make the acquaintance of your guest.” She looked coyly over her shoulder at the man leaning on the mantelpiece speaking to Mr Bennet.

  Mr Bingley looked uncomfortably between his wife, Lydia, Mr Darcy—who looked at her grimly, as per usual—and their guest, who was deep in conversation. “I believe he is conversing with your father at present, but I would be delighted to introduce you later, when he is less intimately engaged.”

  “Nonsense,” Lydia declared in a loud voice, rising to her feet and turning to their guest. “You can introduce me now. Papa will not mind in the least, will you, Papa?”

  Mr Bennet looked nonplussed at the interruption to his train of thought.

  Mr Bingley’s face and ears turned red with embarrassment. “Er…please forgive the interruption, gentlemen.”

  “Oh, they do not mind that, do you, Papa?” Lydia grinned at her father, then turned her attention to the newcomer. Kitty was right; he is handsome for an old man.

  “Please, Sir Percival, might I introduce you to my sister-in-law…” He turned to Mr Bennet and nodded, his ears and face bright pink. “…and Mr Bennet’s youngest child, Mrs Wickham.”

  Lydia smiled coquettishly at him and curtseyed as he bowed.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs Wickham,” Sir Percival drooled.

  Lydia did not miss how his eyes travelled from her face down to her bosom. The newfound attention pleased her, and she rose to the occasion. “It is an honour to have you here with us, Sir Percival. I do hope that we can make you stay here as pleasurable as possible.” She could tell by the look in his eye that he caught the double entendre in what she said. Lydia had a sudden urge to flirt shamelessly with the man. She craved attention and here, standing directly in front of her, was the very person from whom she wished attention. Yes, he will be very entertaining. “I hope you like to dance, Sir Percival. I am certain I can convince my sister, Mary, to play fo
r us this evening.”

  Sir Percival smiled at her and lifted his head to look around the room. “Is your husband not with you? Mayhap he would prefer the honour of dancing with his pretty wife instead.”

  Lydia paled with embarrassment at the recollection of her husband. “No, no, he is in France fighting that ghastly Napoléon.” She rallied and impishly grinned at him again. “So, you see, I am all yours.”

  Sir Percival laughed and held her gaze.

  “Well, if that’s how it’s going to be,” Mr Bennet interjected, “I shall leave you to it.” He turned and walked out, calling to the room at large as he went, “I shall be in my book room if anyone wishes to speak to me.”

  Lydia barely noticed her father leave. She was so captivated by the newcomer she had no eyes for anyone else. She, also, did not see the look of hurt in Kitty’s eyes as she looked on from the window.

  With the barricade erected and their work done, Wickham and his men headed back to the camp, but he could not get the image of the French woman out of his mind.

  Once back at the base camp, he met with Colonel Sullivan and Captain Brook. He relayed what happened, even seeing the woman.

  That information gave the captain cause for concern. “That worries me, Lieutenant. I was under the impression that there remained no more French near here.”

  “I believe there were one or two villages that we passed on our way here, sir. Mayhap she is from one of them.” Wickham guessed.

  “Hmm… How likely is that? She would have walked a mile or two.” Captain Brook rubbed his chin with his hand as he thought.

  “It is possible, nonetheless.” Captain Brook turned to look at the colonel. “My wife, sir, back in England, would walk a mile or two to a favourite picnic site with her sister.”

  “Quite right,” Wickham agreed. “My wife’s sister, Elizabeth, would walk further, no doubt. So you see, sir, it is plausible.”

  Captain Brook nodded. “Very well, then, Wickham, get washed up, have something to eat, and take a small group of men, so as not to cause alarm, to reconnoitre the nearest villages. Take Poynter and Turpin with you, seeing as you are friends. Take out any enemies you see and leave a couple of armed men if necessary. See if you cannot find this woman, and make sure that she is not a spy. I do not want any more blasted frogs giving away our position.” He waited for Wickham to nod that he understood, then barked, “Dismissed.”

  Wickham snapped to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir.” As he stepped out of Captain Brook’s tent, he could not believe his fortune. He personally was asked to head up a team to investigate the villages. Now he was certain he would find Estelle Bernard. There was a spring in his step as he strode across the campground and headed towards Poynter and Turpin. They were both peering over a map and looked up with curiosity at Wickham as he bounded towards them.

  “Aye, aye, someone looks extremely pleased with himself,” Turpin drooled as he leant on the table before him.

  “Indeed, I am.” Wickham beamed at them.

  “Well, are you going to let us in on what has pleased you so much, or will you keep us guessing?” Poynter laughed at him.

  “I have been asked by Captain Brook to reconnoitre the villages we passed on our way here.” He let his words sink in; his face was a picture of smugness.

  Turpin was the first to begin laughing. “Someone is smiling down on you, George Wickham, my friend.”

  “I do not believe it!” Poynter gasped. “Can we go with you?”

  “Well…” Wickham cocked his head to the side. “I surmise it could be dangerous. We are to secure the area and see to anyone who wishes to tell old Boney where we are.”

  “We?” Poynter stepped forward eagerly.

  “Yes.” Wickham sniggered. “You are both to come with me.”

  Within ten minutes, Wickham was washed, changed, and had chosen which men he wished to accompany him. Poynter and Turpin too had done the same and awaited him on the far side of the camp.

  They marched off in silence. Wickham had no idea how far they had to travel and how long it would take them to get to the villages. He knew the woman could have taken a shortcut; they, however, owing to their unfamiliarity with the territory, were forced to stick to the roads.

  The day remained hot and Wickham wished he did not have to wear his thick woollen red coat. Some of the other men had unbuttoned their tunics, and he was disinclined to rebuke them over it. He thought of the cool stream again and longed to feel its refreshing droplets on his skin once more.

  It was not long before they came upon the road sign that pointed to Vincy again. As they approached it, their tension mounted.

  “Be on your guard,” Wickham ordered.

  As one man, they turned down the lane leading to the village. Wickham’s stomach knotted. He wondered if it was entirely owing to the fact that there could be dissenters or enemy soldiers about. He suspected it was something else. He knew he was drawing closer to finding Estelle Bernard. He could sense it. He tightened his grip on his musket rifle and could not resist a smile at the excitement and exhilaration that thrilled his body—although he was acutely aware that simply seeking her out was extremely dangerous. He raised his head and scanned the pathway ahead of them; nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and he was doubtful if he would sense danger, anyway. His excitement rose at the clandestine task that lay ahead of him. He reached up and patted his inside pocket. The letter was still there, although he disbelieved it would be so simple as merely bumping into Madame Bernard in the village and slipping the missive into her hands unseen and easily. She would most likely shun contact with a British officer. The thought startled him. He had not considered that before. How do I surmount that obstacle? Suddenly, he was not so enthusiastic and chided himself. In his mind, he had made it all seem so straightforward and unproblematic to achieve. The woman most likely hates the British. Why would she wish to speak with one in private? His train of thought sobered him, and he began to think more clearly about his mission. Again, he surveyed the surrounding area. It was quiet. The only sounds were their own breathing and their footfalls on the path.

  The road ahead bent to the right and Wickham halted the men. “You two…” He pointed to two men he knew had keen vision. “…scout round the bend and report back immediately.” He hoped he was being overly cautious, but not to be so would be reckless.

  They did not wait long before the men arrived back. “Well?” he asked.

  “The village is at the end of the lane, but nothing unusual.”

  Wickham frowned. That was hardly the report he expected. “Nothing unusual?”

  One of the soldiers shrugged. “We saw just a couple of people. They look like farm hands.”

  Wickham’s frown deepened and the hair prickled on the back of his neck. “Farm hands? At this time in the afternoon?”

  “Sounds suspicious,” Poynter added. “Do you want us to approach through the forest and check it out?”

  “Hmm…” Wickham nodded. “That would be a good idea; this does not sit well with me.” He turned back to the men. “What were they doing?”

  “Milling about outside the tavern.”

  Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin looked at each other. “Something is not right. No farm hand would be milling about outside a tavern in the middle of the afternoon.”

  With as little sound as it was humanly possible to make, they made their way into the forest on their right and continued to draw nearer to the village. At every sound, movement of the forest fauna, or if one of them cracked a stick underfoot, they stopped. Wickham felt his heart would burst out of his chest in those moments. The forest floor was fairly clear of brambles and the like; Wickham supposed it was due to the forest being foraged frequently.

  Up ahead, they saw a barn conveniently situated to allow them to enter the village unseen. Wickham signalled for the men to enter the barn and take up positions therein. Thankfully, the gaps between the wooden planks afforded them a good enough view of the main street, and afte
r spying to see if it was unoccupied, they darted inside. Some of the men climbed up into the hayloft and lay down with their rifles trained on the men in the street below.

  Immediately, their suspicions were confirmed. “Look,” Turpin whispered and nodded to a man seated directly facing them. “He’s not drinking.”

  Wickham watched carefully and saw that each time the man raised the beer mug to his lips, his eyes scanned up and down the street. He sighed and signalled for Poynter and Turpin to follow him as he drew back from the barn wall and entered into a horse stall. “Damn it, it’s an ambush. They are waiting for us. That man’s either a spy or a soldier,” he rasped.

  “Soldier, I’d say. Did you notice he kept his coat pulled over his left side? I reckon he has a pistol under there,” Poynter added gravely.

  “What to do?” Turpin looked up at Wickham.

  “We carry out our orders, of course.” There was no doubt in Wickham’s mind as to what he had to do.

  “How many of them are there? Did either of you count?” Turpin’s face paled.

  “Five, at most, from what I could see, Tommy.” Poynter clapped him on the back encouragingly. “With ten men and we three, we’re thirteen.”

  “Right, then. We should be able to take them with ease. I want as little damage done to the village as possible,” Wickham rasped to the rest of the men, “and I most certainly do not want any civilian casualties.” He crept towards the barn doors and peeped out. “Any Frenchman who runs is to be killed. I’ll not have him running back to the rest of his army.” He turned back to them, his face severe. “Is that understood?”

  As one, they nodded. Poynter signalled the men to move out and take up positions surrounding the men in the street. The three officers waited in the barn and winced more than once as they heard the sound of a man or two tripping on stones in the long grass.

  Wickham crept to the wall again, his pulse racing. They were not the only ones to hear the sound of the stones. The man on the stool was alert and looking in the direction of the sound. “They are onto us,” he whispered to Poynter and Turpin. “We will have to make our move now.” He crept back to the doors, knelt down, and raised his rifle. He took aim through the gap between the door and the wall of the barn, pointing the sight on the barrel at the centre of the man’s chest. He shifted his hands on the rifle. He had done this so many times whilst practicing in Scarborough castle; however, it was an entirely different matter when he was staring down the barrel at a real man. He raised his head and looked at the man. He looked no different, apart from his dress, to an English man. What makes this man my enemy? Wickham shook his head, dismissed the treasonous thought, and looked along the sight again. His allegiance to a bloody dictator makes him my enemy. He gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger.