Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  “Thank you, soldier,” he rasped as he sat up. “I’m famished. My stomach thought my throat had been cut.”

  The soldier laughed. “Enjoy it, sir. There’s a little bread and cheese for afters, and I’m told a supply wagon is coming through here tomorrow. I hope they have beef.” The man grinned and exited.

  Wickham too hoped they had beef. The very thought made him salivate.

  He barely allowed enough time to chew his food as he stuffed it into his mouth and swallowed. He chided himself when some became stuck in his gullet and he searched around for his jug of water. He found the half-full beaker the soldier had brought him with his meal sitting on the table beside the jug and pitcher for washing. He picked it up, took a huge mouthful, and gulped it down. Slowly and painfully, the obstruction began to move. That will teach you, George Wickham, for scoffing your food down. He remembered Old Mr Darcy would say that to him and Mr Darcy when they were young boys and had spent the day running and playing games all over the Pemberley estate. He smiled at the memory and wished, yet again, that his life had turned out differently.

  Unhurriedly, he returned to his plate of food and, this time, chewed each morsel as he thought back over his life. He had begun to regret so much of what he had done of late. Coming face-to-face with death was a real revelation. He thought back to Ramsgate and his attempt to convince Miss Georgiana Darcy that she was in love with him, merely so he could have possession of her thirty thousand pounds per annum income—and, most certainly, to have revenge on Mr Darcy, her brother. He ought to have learnt his lesson then, when Mr Darcy arrived unexpectedly at Ramsgate and caught them. His embarrassment could not have been greater.

  No matter what he did in life, Mr Darcy, it seemed, was always there as the righter of wrongs. Wickham scowled. As his brother-in-law, there would never be any escaping from him now. They were eternally bound together as brothers. If only there was a way out of this infernal mess.

  He thought again of Lydia and their son. His heart pained him when he remembered the tiny, squirming bundle in the crib. His son. He smiled at the thought. He was painfully aware that he did not love Lydia. There was affection, certainly, and she was comely and good for some fun from time to time, but he did not love her any more than he suspected she loved him, in truth. He sighed as he finished the last boiled potato on his plate. There was no way out of his marriage. Lydia would never agree to a divorce, owing to the scandal it would cause her entire family, and he was even more convinced that Mr Darcy would talk him out of it—one way or another.

  He thought of Gretna, or anywhere in Scotland. What if I obtained a transfer to a Scottish regiment? He knew the chances were slim. Most Scottish regiments were made up entirely of Scots. Nevertheless, his mind latched onto the thread of an idea, and he did not want to let it go until he had wrung all the goodness out of it. He knew one could go to Scotland without consent for marriage and be married straight away; divorces were the same. All they would have to do would be to live in Scotland for six weeks, and then Wickham would, conveniently, be caught in the act of adultery and they could be divorced. The very thought cheered him up no end.

  Yet, what of Estelle? His heart almost skipped a beat as he thought of her. It was her he truly wanted to be with. How was he ever to convince her and Lydia to go to Scotland? He shook his head. No, it will never do!

  He stood, picked up his plate and beaker, and headed out of the tent. He found a soldier who was clearing plates and gave them to him. With a curt “Thank you,” Wickham set off on a little stroll around the camp to clear his head. The men were busying themselves cleaning boots or rifles, polishing off their dinners, or simply regaling each other with wild tales. He slowed down as he passed and listened in to little snatches that made him smile.

  He suddenly felt very alone. Poynter had changed since Turpin was killed—so had he, if he owned the truth. He wanted to be free to love Estelle, not just to conquer her, as was his wont, but also to marry her, to have babies with her, and to grow old together.

  Wickham was shocked by the strength of the emotion attached to those thoughts. He knew Poynter would not understand. Poynter had made it very clear he thought Wickham should try to make the best of his forced marriage to Lydia. Perhaps, despite how he felt inside, that was what he truly ought to do.

  He decided to look for Poynter. He walked around the entrance to the camp and then back towards his own tent when he saw him, all by himself, in the shadows sitting on a fallen log hidden in the trees. “May I join you?”

  Poynter did not respond, so Wickham joined him anyway. As he sat down, he noticed his friend’s tear-stained face and knew he was grieving over Turpin still. He wanted to say something consoling, but did not have the words.

  “I’m sorry I shouted at you this morning, George.”

  I see you are still calling me George. Wickham thought it was peculiar. “I am, too, Will.” He tried the same.

  Poynter smiled. “It seems strange to use our real names.”

  Wickham laughed. “I was just thinking the same. Why are you calling me George now?”

  “I have no idea.” Poynter shook his head. “It feels more personal than calling you by your surname.”

  “Does it make a difference to our friendship?”

  This time they laughed together. “No,” Poynter said eventually.

  Wickham shrugged. “It matters not. If you wish to call me George now, so be it.” He paused and looked at his friend. “But I still intend to visit with Estelle.”

  Poynter’s look of disappointment could not be disguised. “Why?”

  He looked down at the grass between his shoes and frowned. “Because I want to.” He held up his hand. “And before you object, I think I have fallen in love.”

  Poynter snorted, but did not reply.

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “Oh, come on, Wickham!” Poynter put his tongue in his cheek. “You fall in love at the first sight of a pretty smile and plump breasts. You know you do!”

  “Maybe so in the past…” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “But this is different. Truly it is.”

  “How so?”

  Wickham was offended at the question and the implied insinuation. “It just is. I cannot bear the thought of being without her. I think of her all day.”

  “And you do not think of your wife as often?” Poynter screwed up his face.

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, I do not.”

  “Hang it all, Wickham. Do you know what you are saying?”

  He nodded and said he did.

  “Do you? You’re proposing to dessert your wife and live in adultery with another woman.” Poynter’s breathing was hard, he was clearly angry once again. “And let us not mention the consequences for your actions in the army.”

  Wickham looked at him, confused. He had no idea what he meant.

  “You jeopardise your career as an officer should the circumstances of an affair between yourself and Estelle Bernard become public, and if it brings either you or the army into disrepute. They will demote you for certain, Wickham!”

  He opened his mouth and closed it repeatedly. He had not thought to hear anything so harsh from his friend. “I thought you were with me.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “You said you would come with me to deliver the letter to Estelle.”

  “Yes, the letter, and I was a fool to agree—I know that now.” He waved his hand. “All this nonsense, I’ll have none of. You have a wife in England, man, can you not be satisfied with her alone?”

  Wickham stared at his friend and knew he saw the doubt and indecision that flickered in his eyes.

  “Damn it, man! Do you know how many men yearn and pray for what you have, and you are so willing to throw it all away on a whim?”

  “A whim, you call it?” Wickham stood to his feet. He had heard enough. It was clear that Poynter was against him in this.

  “Aye, a whim.” Poynter stood face to face with him. �
�It is foolhardy, and could wind up getting you killed. You seem to forget the woman has a violent husband. Did you think he will step aside and let you walk away with his wife?”

  “Gentlemen, is there a problem?”

  Wickham spun around in astonishment and realised how high their voices were raised. Walking towards them was Colonel Sullivan, his face frowned with concern.

  “Not at all, sir.” Wickham tried to look calm and collected.

  “Really?” The colonel raised his eyebrow.

  “Merely a discussion that got out of hand, sir,” Poynter confirmed.

  “Hmm… Well, see to it that no more of your conversations get out of hand, will you? Half the camp could hear your raised voices.”

  Wickham paled. Had they heard the object of their quarrel, too? “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.” They both saluted the colonel and he left them standing alone in the trees. Wickham felt foolish.

  “Listen, Will…” He reached out a hand to touch his arm, but Poynter shook it off and walked away towards his own tent, leaving Wickham feeling very alone and disappointed. Well, if that is how it is! No matter how much you disapprove, Will Poynter, you do not know my heart and you do not, and cannot, ever, know how I feel about Estelle. Wickham set his jaw, his mind made up. Whether Poynter was with him or not, his heart told him what was right. He thought of Lydia and felt a pang of regret and remorse. She will understand. I know she will.

  He turned to go back to his tent and paused. And what of our son? What will Lydia tell him? He kicked at the ground with the tip of his boot. I would hate the boy to grow up hating me and thinking ill of me. I dearly would love to have him here in France with me, but how is that to be arranged? He sighed. It is not to be. How can I have two families? He leant against a tree and closed his eyes. It would be hard to let his son go. He then threw his head back and laughed to himself. He was so amused at what had occurred to him, he found it difficult not to be loud. It took him a minute or so to calm himself, then, as he walked back to his tent shaking his head, he said, “Dear God, George Wickham, are you saying you really do have a conscience after all?”

  Lydia sat in the drawing room that morning, sulking. She could not comprehend how her father could be so cruel to her and her son. To make matters worse, Sir Percival and Kitty had gone with Mary for a walk into Meryton to call upon Sir William Lucas. Apparently, Sir Percival wanted his vote, too. Lydia doubted the verity of it all. She believed the votes were now his secondary motive. After listening to her mother drone on about it for the past half an hour, she felt it was merely a ploy to force Kitty and Sir Percival together and to fan the flames of any affection there may or may not be between them.

  Her stomach knotted at the thought and she wanted to cry, but knew that would be of no use. She knew she needed to step aside. She loved Kitty dearly, and she would be the cause of injuring her severely if she acted upon the improper feelings she had for Sir Percival.

  As she sat in the drawing room with Elizabeth, Jane, and their mother, she felt worse than she ever had. She felt such a melancholy was perfectly foreign to her. She endeavoured to change the subject of the conversation. “Where did you say Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy, and Papa were today?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lydia. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  Lydia pouted; she had not expected her question to induce such snappy a reply.

  “You know full well that the gentlemen are shooting at Netherfield. I, for one, am mightily pleased they shoot on Mr Bingley’s estate. Lord knows how we do not want to hear all that racket here on Mr Bennet’s manor.”

  “No, indeed not, Mama,” Elizabeth agreed, “especially not with Jane and I so near our time.”

  “Oh!” Mrs Bennet declared, “How wonderful!” She flapped her handkerchief with excitement. “To think, you were both married together, and you will both give your father and I grandchildren together.”

  Jane laughed. “Yes, Mama. It is exciting, although I must confess to being rather tired now the time draws nigh.” She looked fondly at Elizabeth. “I am relieved you are here, Lizzy. It gives me great joy to know you are not far away.”

  “Nor I! I am not far away, Jane,” Mrs Bennet exclaimed.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Lydia watched Jane and Lizzy exchange glances. It was clear to her, as it was to them both, that Mrs Bennet’s presence in the birthing room would only add anxiety to the situation, rather than a calming influence. She was tempted to put herself forward and offer her assistance, but the remembrance of birthing repulsed her, and she recollected her declaration never to be with child again. Therefore, she was not, under any circumstances, going to assist anyone else in doing what she thought of as such a foolhardy thing.

  “Lydia, would you not very much love to have a little brother or sister for dear Georgie?”

  She paled at Jane’s question as though her sister had read her mind. “Not at all, I assure you!” She felt scandalised by the suggestion.

  “Oh, but he is such a dear boy, is he not, Lizzy?”

  “Yes, indeed, I confess he has such a cherub-like face.” Elizabeth smiled fondly. “He made me hope that I will have a son so endearing.”

  “And so you shall, of that I am certain.” Mrs Bennet nodded.

  “When we visited with Georgie this morning, he was sitting up in his crib playing with that old stuffed mouse you made when Kitty was born, Mama.” Jane caressed her swollen belly. “Such a dear, sweet child you have, Lydia.”

  She sneered at her sister.

  “Do you not agree?” Elizabeth prompted.

  Lydia felt backed into a corner. She never had felt particularly maternal, and now, in a room with the eager-to-be-mothers Jane and Elizabeth, she felt obliged to give them the answer she believed they wished to hear. “Well, he looks a little like my dear Wickham. I am certain he will be just as handsome when he is all grown up.”

  Mrs Bennet made a face. “I am not so convinced. I believe there is something of the Bennet line in his chubby little cheeks.”

  “I believe, Mama,” Elizabeth pointed out, “that we will simply have to wait and see how the boy turns out. As it stands, he is a darling. He gave Jane and me such a tight embrace when we played with him.”

  “Yes!” Jane exclaimed.

  Again, Lydia felt she needed to say something. “It seems I am the only one who can stop him crying at night. Hill says his shrill scream drives her to distraction.”

  “Well,” their mother scoffed, “I am hardly surprised at that, Lydia, my dear. After all, you are his mother.” She looked fondly at Jane and Elizabeth. “All babies know their mother. I never did fathom, though, whether it was my scent or my voice that soothed you all so much.”

  “Perhaps it was both.”

  “Indeed, Jane,” Elizabeth agreed. “If a child knows its mother, as you say, Mama, then surely it follows it will know the mother’s scent and voice.”

  “Yes, I do believe you are right, Lizzy. Without a doubt, I do.” Mrs Bennet nodded sagely.

  Lydia groaned inwardly. She wanted to change the subject from infants to something more agreeable. She would hardly have called such fussing and talk over babies to be agreeable in the slightest.

  “When will you return to Derbyshire, Lizzy?” The question was obviously unexpected and drew frowns from her family.

  “Well, Mr Darcy and I had not thought of returning so soon.” She smiled wryly and stroked her engorged belly. “We felt, although we wanted our first child to be born at Pemberley, that to be nearer to my family would be beneficial.”

  Lydia nodded at that. She remembered needing her mother’s advice on more than one occasion during her confinement, and after the birth, too.

  “Are you so eager for us to depart, Lydia?” Elizabeth looked at her with a sideways grin.

  “Oh, not at all!” Lydia sat up in her chair. Her plans would be ruined if Elizabeth thought that for one moment. “No, no. I merely wondered. That is all.”

  �
�Do not make yourself uneasy, Lydia. Lizzy knows full well what you mean.” Jane shook her head and smiled at Lizzy.

  Lydia envied their friendship. She was close to Kitty before she married Wickham, however, her absence and time had driven a wedge between them, and although they still enjoyed each other’s company, it was not the same.

  “Jane is right, I assure you, Lydia.” Elizabeth laughed. “I hope you do not take offense.”

  “Not at all.” Lydia smiled back. “I was wondering, though, if it would not inconvenience you too much after the birth, if I might travel back with you. I would so dearly wish to see Pemberley.”

  For one fleeting moment, Lydia thought Elizabeth would say no, but she smiled broadly instead. “We would be delighted to have you and little Georgie stay for a while during Mr Wickham’s absence.”

  The addition of ‘during Mr Wickham’s absence’ was not lost on her. She smiled and thanked her sister, knowing full well that her husband would never again be welcome at Pemberley. At least this part of her plan was working out. “I assumed that you would not be going to London this season.”

  “You are right. I do not think town to be a place for a new-born babe.” Elizabeth frowned and Jane nodded in agreement.

  Lydia perked up a little and cheerily chattered away about life in Newcastle, which she adored, compared with Scarborough, which she did not like at all. She was relieved that she had asked Aunt Gardiner about taking Mary to London for the season; it would do her good. However, she hoped that Elizabeth and Jane would have their children sooner, rather than later. She dreaded the thought of having to endure Kitty’s wedding to Sir Percival. She wanted nothing more than to be able to send a note stating she was unable to travel, owing to the weather. Whilst they continued to converse, she prayed for the babies to be born quickly and for it to snow that year—a lot.

  Wickham battled with his conscience as he lay on his cot. His heart had always ruled his head, but this time, it seemed, his head wanted to have the last say. However, as he drifted to sleep, what his head had not bargained on was the intensity of his feelings for the Frenchwoman.