She sighed and rolled over to see the door to her room was open a little. I did not leave it open. Perhaps he did visit me, and I slept too heavily! Lydia was horrified at the thought. She sat up quickly, scanning the room for anything out of place, and immediately saw the note on her dressing table and smiled excitedly. Lydia almost flew out of bed and crossed the room. She snatched up the note and read it eagerly.
You are so beautiful when you sleep, Lydia. You looked so peaceful that I was loathe to disturb you, despite the temptation.
P
Lydia clutched the note to her chest and giggled like a young maiden. She excitedly ran across the room, closed the door, then rang the bell for Tess to bring hot water and began to dress for breakfast—being careful first to carefully hide the note inside her Psalter.
Later, she remembered as she was on her way down to the dining room that she had meant to speak to her father about making Georgie the Bennet heir—how it had slipped her mind she did not know, but she fixed it in her mind now. Her first task for the day was to speak to her father, and then she would indulge herself for the remainder of the day with the pleasing Sir Percival.
The dining room was occupied by Mary and Kitty when she arrived.
“Where are Mama and Papa?” she asked.
“Mama is breakfasting in her room, and Papa in his book room.”
Lydia shrugged and looked down at the food on the table. Speaking with her parents could wait until she had slaked her hunger with the meats, breads, preserves, and chocolate before her. She eagerly sat down and pulled a plate of hot toasted bread towards her.
“Oh, Lydia, is Sir Percival not the most wonderful man in the world?” Kitty purred.
The question caught Lydia by surprise, and she clattered the butter knife in the dish. “What do you mean?” she asked as nonchalantly as possible. She rapidly buttered a slice and stuffed a piece of hot buttered toast into her mouth.
“He is so handsome and such a fine figure of a man, do you not think?”
Indeed. Lydia swallowed her mouthful of half-chewed toast and nodded as she choked on it, her eyes watering. She reached out and hastily poured herself a cup of tea to soothe her throat.
Mary deigned to respond to her sister’s question, which surprised Lydia greatly. “I have often observed that those who have a fine figure and good looks oft lose them as they grow older, and therefore, it would behove us to find a man who appeals to us intellectually, and with whom we can be friends. Beauty is but for a fleeting moment. However, that does not seem to be the case with Sir Percival. He is old, but still is handsome. I commend your choice, Kitty and I wish you all felicity.”
Lydia and Kitty stared open-mouthed at Mary. She was prone to give such vociferous opinions, but rarely one that was so agreeable.
“Thank you, Mary.” Kitty continued to look dumbstruck at her sister.
Lydia merely nodded. She was too astonished to comment.
“I wonder how long he will stay,” Kitty said dreamily. “Mama said, last night when she came to my room, that if he were to stay a fortnight, then he is certain to propose by the end of it.”
Again, Lydia stuffed more toast into her mouth to avoid saying anything out of turn. If she had her way, then a marriage between Kitty and Sir Percival would be out of the question. She wanted him for herself. She reached out to pull the meat plate nearer, and the sunlight gleaming through the window hit her wedding band on her left hand and shone in her eye—her heart sank. She was married. No matter how she felt about Sir Percival, and no matter what her heart tried to convince her it felt for the man, anything that passed between them would be no more than a fleeting dalliance.
The man was more intoxicating to her than the strongest Scotch whisky, and yet, she burned with a passion for him she never had for Wickham. She suddenly felt ashamed of herself. Not for the feelings she was beginning to harbour for Sir Percival, but of her impulsive and rash marriage to George Wickham. For the first time since they wed, she saw the folly of her actions. Her eyes filled with tears.
Kitty reached over and squeezed her hand, misinterpreting her sister’s emotional state. “Oh, Lydia, I shall be happy, you will see. He is a good man, and I could hope for nothing less.”
Mary nodded in agreement, but Lydia could still not vocalise what she thought. Her eyes did not well with tears for Kitty, but for herself and her pitiable situation. If only George were a more steady man with a decent income, then I might be able to find happiness with him. Nevertheless, deep inside of her she knew she was fooling herself. Wickham had been a flirt when she met him, and he still was. She had seen it from time to time when he thought she was not present. She remembered Aunt and Uncle Gardiner’s words, and her throat tightened. Mayhap they were right after all, and Wickham was indeed a bounder and a cad.
She listened to Kitty talk animatedly about Sir Percival, his work in Parliament, and ideas she had for her wedding—Lydia felt numb. She had wanted a wonderful white wedding and to be married from Longbourn. She wanted a husband of great worth and high reputation, too. All she had was a life living from hand-to-mouth and on the charity of her relatives, married to a man who, according to those around her, was not worth the sod upon which he walked. She envied Jane, Lizzy, and Kitty—even Mary, too, if she ever married. They would bring joy to the Bennet family. She, it seemed, had not.
Kitty prattled on for the duration of breakfast. Lydia barely spoke a word and was surprised to hear Mary occasionally offer good advice for once. It seemed even she approved of Kitty marrying Sir Percival. Despite her longing for him, Lydia knew deep in the pit of her stomach that she ought to step back and allow Kitty her chance. When Sir Percival walked into the room, however, she was not so convinced that her resolve would hold.
He looked particularly dashing that morning, and as the sunlight fell onto his hair, highlighting the flecks of silver, she gasped.
“Are you all right, Lydia?” Kitty cried.
Lydia lost all composure and quickly lied to cover her foolishness. “Yes…I…merely bit the inside of my lip.” She feigned injury and sat with the napkin against her mouth as Kitty returned to asking Sir Percival if he slept well. He watched Kitty intently and seemed truly interested in what she said to him. Mayhap Lydia was right, deep down—mayhap she ought to bow out.
Lydia hardened her resolve and excused herself from the table. She intended to immediately speak with her father, and then, as soon as the opportunity arose, she would travel north with Elizabeth and Mr Darcy when they went home to Pemberley. She was nearing her time to give birth to her first child, too, and Lydia hoped she would appreciate her presence. However, she wished rather than knew that was true.
Lydia approached the door to her father’s book room and knocked. She opened the door and entered without being bid and saw him sat at his mahogany writing desk, as he was usually found, with a book in his hand and the breakfast tray on the desk before him. “What is it, child?” he asked, looking over the rim of his spectacles.
“I wonder if I might speak to you about Georgie.”
Mr Bennet closed his book and placed it on the desk. “What about him? He is doing well now and recovering, is he not?”
“Yes, Papa, but I am not quite as concerned about his immediate health as I am about his future.”
“His future?” Mr Bennet sat up straighter in his chair. “My dear, Lydia, if this is about money, then I am afraid you have come to the wrong man.”
“No, Papa. I do not wish to speak about money.” Lydia felt the conversation was not going as planned.
“Good, because I will not, I repeat, not give that husband of yours another penny per annum more!” He poked the desk hard with his bony finger, and Lydia flinched.
She hesitated, not knowing what more to say.
“What is it you truly wish to speak to me about, child? Come along and spit it out,” he prompted.
Lydia did not know now how to broach the subject; she felt the chance of success dwindling. “I
wanted to ask about the entail.”
“What about it?” The corners of Mr Bennet’s mouth twitched, and Lydia knew immediately that he guessed what she wanted to ask, but would not save her blushes by making it easier upon her.
“You know, Papa, it is such an awful shame that your estate is entailed away from the female line and your own children.”
“As your mother reminds us all, almost daily.”
“I am set in my mind that it would be such a relief to you and Mama if the entail could be settled elsewhere.”
“By elsewhere you mean…” Mr Bennet raised his eyebrows.
“Georgie.”
“I thought as much.” He leant forward. “What is it you wish me to do?”
“I thought it preferable to place the entail upon your first-born grandson rather than Mr Collins. Therefore, if the worst should happen and Mama is widowed, then Georgie would secure her future. It is better all-round, I think.” She looked at him pleadingly.
Mr Bennet watched her for a while, and Lydia felt as if he was trying to read her mind, to see if there was anything more she was not telling him. Her father always had a way of wheedling things out of her. “Lydia, let me enlighten you, as you seem ignorant of the law—on this point, at least. An entail of the sort we have lasts for a limited amount of generations. In truth, it would only last to my grandson—the son of my son, had I begotten one. An entail cannot be broken unless by myself and the heir presumptive—Mr Collins—and I can assure you, he would be more of a fool than I think him already if he willingly chose to disinherit himself. It can only be broken by myself and my son, who, sadly, was never born. It cannot pass to my grandson at all. There is only one way for it to be broken now.” He sat back in his chair again and smirked. Lydia’s eyes lit up, clutching at the thought of a way to secure her son’s future. “And that is if your mama dies before me, I marry again, and beget a son and heir through my new wife.” He chuckled to himself at the shock written across Lydia’s face and picked his book again, indicating the conversation was over.
“B…but what about Georgie? What will he inherit?” She stood open-mouthed, staring at her father with incredulity.
“He will inherit whatever his father leaves him, and I suspect that will be nothing at all.” Mr Bennet gave her a long, hard stare. “If the boy turns out anything like his father whatsoever—and I would advise you to work and pray against that, child—then he will be a good-for-nothing wastrel always plaguing poor Mr Darcy for the remainder of that man’s life!”
“Poor Mr Darcy!” Lydia could scarcely believe her ears. “Poor Mr Darcy!”
“Yes, poor Mr Darcy.” Mr Bennet raised his voice. She rarely heard her father shout, and it made her cower. “My dear, if you had the slightest notion of how many times he has had to clean up your husband’s mess and make reparations on his behalf, you would think more kindly upon the man!”
“Why is Mr Darcy always lauded so?”
“Did you not hear me?” Mr Bennet was exasperated. “Perhaps you should ask your silver-tongued husband to tell you the truth for once!”
Lydia’s lip trembled.
Mr Bennet pressed on. “He has revealed it all to us, you see. Lizzy disclosed something at first, and then I would not rest until I had coaxed it all out of him. Mr Darcy is by far one hundred times more of a gentleman that your Mr Wickham will ever be!”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Does everyone hate Wickham?” she cried.
Mr Bennet opened his book and replied without looking up, “Not everyone. I am convinced there are still those who believe his tall tales of woe.”
She remained impotently staring at him, clenching her fists by her side, her anger overcoming her hurt.
Mr Bennet returned to reading his book. “Close the door behind you as you leave.”
Wickham bristled. He wanted to see Estelle again, but had taken such a berating from Poynter on the way back to camp that he dared not even broach the subject with his friend. Neither of them slept much owing to their outing that night, and that made them testy with each other, and Wickham noticed they both seemed to be glad to be apart as they drilled the men that morning.
He remembered what his friend said as they walked back to the camp: “I said to take the bull by the horns and make the most of life. You already have a wife and son, Wickham! How you can think of breaking Lydia’s heart and running off with a woman you barely know is beyond me!”
The look on Poynter’s face still haunted him. He certainly had changed since Turpin’s death. The man he was back in England would have laughed at Wickham’s scheme, and perhaps would even have helped him to achieve it, too. He felt he did not like the new person his friend was becoming. Still, his determination to see Estelle was unabated.
Wickham drove his men hard as they practiced firing formations, and he pressed them harder still to fire and reload their rifles in less time than before. He was mad at Poynter for not understanding his feelings for Estelle and took it out on the men under his charge.
Regardless of how inappropriate Poynter thought his feelings were, with his newfound sensibilities after Turpin’s death, Wickham had no intention of staying away from Vincy and Estelle Bernard. He wanted her and, judging from her reaction to him the previous night, she wanted him just as voraciously. He promised her he would visit alone, and after Poynter’s admonition as to the folly of the thing, he was happy to do just that.
He understood how Poynter was affected by Turpin’s death and why he now seemed a changed man, but he jolly well would not accept condemnation of his actions. After all, Poynter himself had said Lydia may never be happy with him, and he certainly was not happy with her. Here, with Estelle, he found a woman who truly made him happy, and for the first time in his life, Wickham believed he was falling in love. Despite the rapidity of the thing, his feelings were genuine and would not be denied.
He drilled his men harder and harder still all morning until they grumbled when it was their turn to break for luncheon, but he cared not. He wanted to be certain that they knew what they were doing, and would do it well. He loathed the idea of more casualties. He knew there would be more—war was a bloody brutal game—but he wanted as few of those wounded to be from his company of men as possible.
They broke away to eat and Wickham saw he was the object of more than a few black looks. “You will thank me for it when we engage the enemy,” he called back to them.
He walked over to where the other officers sat eating, picked up a plate with bread, cheese, and an apple on it, groaned inwardly, and wished he were back in England sitting down to roast beef. He sat down on an upturned crate and ate his meagre lunch. It took him a while realise what Captain Brook was speaking, in a low voice, about. His ears pricked up at the name of Napoléon.
“…Yes, it seems the man himself has been spotted no more than ten miles from here.”
Wickham strained to hear more.
“From what our intelligence says, he will be marching this way with the majority of his forces within the week, if he breaks through our lines of defence.”
Mumbled curses passed their way among them.
“Whether we like it or not, gentlemen, Bonaparte is coming our way.”
Wickham paled. It had finally come to this. Naïvely, he had thought they would avoid entering the fray against the full force of Napoléon’s army. He dared to hope that they would pass the war encountering only small bands of soldiers and fighting minor skirmishes. How wrong and foolish he now knew himself to be. He shuddered and immediately thought of Estelle. What would happen to her when Boney and his men drove their army through her village? He was filled with apprehension for her safety. At that moment, he wished, more than anything, for nightfall, so he could creep out of the camp again and visit with her.
The day crept relentlessly on, the sun drew high in the sky, and he felt weak from the heat—as did many of the men, judging by the looks on their faces. The officers pushed them hard for the remainder of the day as fe
ar spread its fingers through the camp. They wanted to be certain that if Bonaparte and his army were due to march in their direction, then they would be waiting for him. They chose their battleground carefully, and Captain Brook even ordered the felling of a few trees to give the British troops more space to fight and to force the French troops into a bottleneck.
When the sun finally set, Wickham wanted nothing more than a long soak in a hot bathtub but settled, nonetheless, for a strip wash in his tent. The water was hot, at least, and he felt refreshed once he washed away the grime from the day. He was relieved, too, to notice there was a clean shirt for him on the bed. He made a mental note to find out which of his men was doing these little tasks for him and thank him. The shirt was not pressed, but clean, and it felt and smelt good upon his aching flesh.
The campfires were lit and he knew there was an hour at least until the food was served. He poked his head out of the tent and pitied the soldiers he saw marching off to begin the night watch. It was an unpleasant thing to do. He wondered if any of them managed to sleep at all during the day whilst the rest of them made such a racket with drills and setting up the bottleneck. Wickham stifled a yawn and dipped back inside his tent. He had time, he knew, to lie down on his cot and briefly close his eyes. He knew he would nap. He was exhausted and aching. He hoped someone would break his slumber and bring him some food soon, as his empty stomach growled. He also hoped that he would not sleep through the night and miss the opportunity to visit Estelle. He wanted to warn her of the army heading their way. He wanted her to leave, to get out of harm’s way, until he could come for her and they could be together.
The thought of Estelle brought a smile to his lips as sleep took him. Soon, they would be together once again and he would claim those enticing lips of hers as his own.
When he twitched awake, it was to the tantalising odour from the plate one of his men brought in. He was famished, and his stomach growled loudly again in anticipation. He sat up to see a plate of ham, peas, and potatoes. Once again, he thought he had never seen anything so appetising before in his life.
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