Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  Wickham was led past Captain Brook’s tent and to the far side of the camp, near the lane leading to Vincy. To his enormous surprise and deep embarrassment, as they rounded the last tent, he came face-to-face with his accuser—Thibault Bernard.

  He tried to keep his face as emotionless as possible, but his clenched jaw and the throbbing vein in his neck told all of his fury.

  “This…” Captain Brook indicated Thibault Bernard with a sweep of his arm. “…is your accuser. What do you have to say for yourself now?”

  Wickham found it difficult to unclench his jaw. “That I am innocent.”

  Captain Brook turned to the man beside Thibault Bernard and ordered, “Ask him to tell us what he saw.”

  The man Wickham now knew to be an interpreter spoke French perfectly. “Qu’avez vous vu, monsieur?”

  Bernard replied with such a long, babbling torrent of words that Wickham barely caught a single one. He gesticulated in Wickham’s direction, pointed at him and in the direction of Vincy, and to the interpreter’s dismay, spat more than once as he shouted the explanation of what he claimed he saw.

  “Well?” Captain Brook interrupted the stout Frenchman in his tirade. “What does he say?”

  The interpreter cleared his throat. “He woke up at gone midnight when he heard a noise outside. He noticed his wife was not in the bed and went down to the bar to see if she was there…”

  Oh, heaven help me, the man saw me with his wife last night. He means to do me harm. Wickham felt sick at the realisation.

  “She was not, so he went outside. He needed to…” The interpreter coughed. “…relieve himself, and he did so by the side of the tavern. It was then he heard voices coming from the barn opposite. He crept closer and saw his wife, Estelle Bernard, with Lieutenant George Wickham. They talked a lot in English, and he does not speak a word, so did not understand what they said.”

  “Then,” Captain Brook asked, “how can he know they were passing information?”

  The interpreter turned back to Thibault Bernard, who gave Wickham such a glare filled with venom that Wickham was surprised no one else could see his intent. The Frenchman spat out something unintelligible and the interpreter blanched. “Because it was not the first time, and after the meeting, Madame Bernard slipped out of the village, Mr Bernard followed, and saw his wife rendezvous with a French army officer before returning home.”

  Colonel Sullivan drew in a deep breath through his nose. “It seems pretty evident to me, sir.”

  “Hmm… And to me.” Captain Brook looked daggers at Wickham, who felt himself shrink under his superior officer’s glare.

  His chest tightened and he saw visions of himself before the firing squad. “Prove it!” he bellowed. “Prove it, Bernard! Where is your proof?”

  Thibault Bernard looked snidely at him, as though he comprehended the words he said. Wickham soon understood why. “Preuve?” His smile chilled Wickham’s bones. “Vous-voulez la preuve?” The Frenchman nodded. “Je vais vous donner la preuve.”

  “He said—” the interpreter began, but Colonel Sullivan cut across him.

  “I think we can all follow what he said well enough: ‘I will give you the proof.’”

  Captain Brook walked up to Wickham and poked a finger in his face. “You had jolly well hope that he has no substantial proof, Lieutenant.”

  Wickham felt weak as the captain led the way, and they marched to Vincy. Captain Brook refused his horse—he was too angry, and he stomped along as he walked. Wickham prayed that Bernard was bluffing. He knew he had not given Estelle information to pass to a French officer. The very idea that, after their passionate encounter the previous night, she would then go and meet with an officer of the French army, made his temper rise. He was not a man given to a violent temper, but, by God, that made him angry and more jealous than he had ever felt in his entire life. He felt truly hurt by her duplicity, if she had been duplicitous at all.

  His mind raced as they rushed relentlessly towards the village. Wickham was cruelly pleased to see that Thibault Bernard could barely keep pace with the fitter and more energetic Englishmen, and he perspired profusely. As they neared the village, Wickham thought the stout man would have some sort of fit, or keel over from heart failure. Unfairly, he hoped he would, so that all accusations against him and Estelle would be dropped and this awfulness forgotten. Nevertheless, Wickham had no such good fortune, and as the village came into view, his stomach sank, and with it all his hopes of some sort of reprieve. His only hope now was that Estelle could think quickly and conjure an excuse for his presence that the captain would find plausible.

  They burst into the empty tavern and made their way up the winding narrow stairs at the back of the bar to the family quarters, where they found Estelle and her daughter, Hélène, just rising. The room, Wickham noted, was hot because she had lit a fire and the windows were open. He thought it strange.

  “Good day to you, Madame Bernard. Please forgive the intrusion.” Captain Brook removed his hat and bowed to her as she hurried to stand in front of her daughter to protect her. He waited for the interpreter to begin his translation, but she interrupted.

  “It is not necessary. I speak English well enough.”

  Wickham was incensed that she would not look in his direction. He wanted so much to signal to her that something was wrong and he needed her help, but he now feared her participation in the matter. However, he did not need to warn her of his circumstance—the pistol that remained pointed at his chest told her that.

  “Messieurs, please put away the pistol in the presence of my daughter, or please allow me to send her to the other room,” she pleaded.

  Captain Brook allowed the girl to leave the room. She wept with fear and cried out for her mother as she left.

  The poor child must think we mean her mother harm. Wickham felt for her and wished he could reassure her that no harm would come to her mother while he lived. His heart skipped a beat at the very notion. If there was proof, if his innocence could not be proven, then Wickham’s life hung in the balance.

  “Madame Bernard,” Captain Brook began, “we have been informed by your husband…” Wickham noticed her look daggers at the man she married. “…that he saw you and Lieutenant Wickham here…” He moved to the side to allow her to see Wickham directly.

  He noted she looked upon him passively, not as the man in whose arms she spent the last evening.

  “…met together, and that he did give you information which you did then pass to the French army.”

  Estelle gasped and placed her hand over her mouth.

  “Is this or is this not true, Madame?”

  “C’est ne pas vrai!” She cried, “It is not true!”

  “Menteuse!” her husband yelled at her.

  “I am not lying! Lieutenant Wickham did not give me any information, and I did not pass any information to the French army.” Her eyes shot instantaneously to his, and Wickham knew in his heart it was a confession meant only for him.

  The French couple began shouting at each other, and Colonel Sullivan declared it would be better to reconvene down in the tavern, where they could interview Wickham in silence. Captain Brook agreed, and they were all halfway out of the door and into the corridor that led to the staircase when the captain stopped and rushed back into the room. “The fire! Stop!” he bawled. However, it was too late.

  Estelle Bernard had pulled a letter from her dress pocket and thrown it on the fire. Wickham knew then that his fate was sealed. She must have seen them coming and lit the fire with the intent of burning the letter from her brother Jacques being held in Scarborough Castle.

  “Get it! Someone get it out of the fire, quickly!” Brook continued to yell. In the ensuing scramble to retrieve the letter, Wickham thought of taking Estelle by the hand and running away with her, but he knew they would never make it out of the tavern alive, let alone the village. He watched her sadly as her eyes filled with tears. He saw the look in her eye and knew that she understood what s
he had done.

  “What does it say?” Sullivan asked as the smoking, soot-blackened paper was pulled out of the fire and the flames were blown out. “Be careful with it!”

  Most of the letter was destroyed, but there was a little left. Carefully, it was opened and Captain Brook attempted to read it. “Damn, it’s in French.”

  The interpreter scurried over and read over the captain’s shoulder, whispering the translation into his ear.

  He shook his head. “Such deception I have never seen before.” He continued to read. “Disguised as a familial letter…” He looked directly at Wickham. “You realise what this says, do you not?” Captain Brook screwed up his face and snarled at Wickham. “This letter, so deviously disguised as a familial letter, declares your guilt, Lieutenant. Just from this very scrap alone, one can clearly read the words, albeit in French: ‘the French prisoners of war are held in Scarborough Castle’, and ‘your brother, Lieutenant Jacques Dubois’.” Captain Brook breathed heavily through his nose. Wickham thought he might strike him. “God’s teeth, man! What kind of dunderheaded numskull are you?”

  Wickham did not take kindly to being referred to as a dunderheaded numskull, but under the circumstances, he stayed his tongue. Were he any other man, he would have called him out and fought him over it. However, such bravado was mute. He was done for, and he knew it.

  “There is nothing for it, you realise. This evidence is damning.”

  It seemed Captain Brook waited for a response, but Wickham had nothing to say.

  “What I want to know is, why?” Colonel Sullivan piped in. “Why on God’s earth did you do it?”

  Wickham knew it was over. He knew he was for the firing squad. “It is, genuinely, a letter from Estelle’s brother,” he said weakly.

  “Damn your eyes, Wickham!” the colonel blasted at him. “You’re a disgrace to that uniform you wear.”

  “He wanted her to know that he was safe and being treated well.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth and Wickham saw their expressions, he knew nothing he could say would save him, and that he merely dug himself deeper into trouble.

  “And you did not think, for one single moment, that this is treason? Sneaking messages from prisoners and giving them to our enemies is treasonous, Lieutenant!” Captain Brook’s eyes bulged in his head. “Damn you! Damn you for a fool!” he spat and marched out of the room and down the stairs.

  “Clamp him in irons and…” Colonel Sullivan turned to Estelle. “…her, too!”

  She stared open-mouthed at Wickham, as though he could help her.

  “What will you do with us?” he asked impotently.

  “You will be taken to Calais, where the pair of you will be tried.”

  Wickham swallowed hard and Estelle began to cry, pleading for her child’s sake for her freedom.

  “I can do nothing now.” Colonel Sullivan sneered at her. “You should have thought of your daughter before you committed treason against the Crown.”

  Oh, dear God, what have I done? Wickham was beside himself with remorse as the cold hard metal irons were clamped to his wrists. He thought of the sweet little girl in the next room, who would now likely grow up without her mother’s protection and in the power of the violent Thibault Bernard. What was likely to be her fate now? His gut wrenched as he watched Estelle secured in irons and led away in front of him. The tall, elegant, attractive woman seemed to shrink before his very eyes, and it was his entire fault. Her cries of protestation ripped his heart out. To his dismay, little Hélène came running from the room where she was sent, screaming for her mama. Each of her piercing wails tore into his soul. Captain Brook was correct, damn him for a fool—he had never felt so imbecilic in his whole life. How he had thought it was a good idea and the right thing to do in bringing the letter to Estelle, he did not know. I have done some immensely irresponsible things in my life, but this is my crowning achievement.

  They were marched out to the street, through the village, and back to the camp, where they were secured to a stake in the ground and forced to sit unceremoniously on the grass until a cart was made ready to transport them to the garrison near Calais. Wickham was chagrined. The men spat at him as the word spread like wildfire through the camp.

  It was not long before Poynter came running up to them. “Dear God, so it is true what they are saying!” He looked pale and held one hand over his heart and the other over his mouth. “Whatever can I do?”

  “Whatever can you do?” Captain Brook drawled behind him. “You can personally take your incredibly reckless friend to Captain Harding, near Calais. He can deal with him.”

  “Me?” Poynter asked.

  “Yes, you. Perhaps his fate will warn you off doing anything foolish yourself. You will take four guardsmen and be back within three days, do you hear?”

  “Three days to get to Calais and back?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. This is not a pleasure ride. This pair are traitors.” He sneered at Wickham. “Push the horses hard—you can change them at Calais—and give this to Captain Harding.”

  “Aye, sir.” Poynter saluted and took the proffered packet of communiqués. He waited until the captain had returned to his tent, and turned towards Wickham as the cart and his four guards arrived. “You bloody fool,” he breathed.

  Mr Darcy took pains to speak with Lydia that evening, much to her agitation. “Mrs Wickham, please forgive my impertinence, but seeing as we are brother and sister, I wondered if I might enquire as to whether all is well with you. You seem out of sorts.”

  If any person other than Mr Darcy asked her such a question, she would not have minded in the least. As it was, she found Mr Darcy highly ill-mannered in his assertion of her being out of sorts. “I beg your pardon, Mr Darcy?” she said testily, arching her eyebrows.

  Mr Darcy seemed nonplussed. “I asked if you were well, Mrs Wickham.”

  His affability disturbed her. She wanted to hate him as much as Wickham seemed to, but on each occasion they met, he was gentlemanly and kind to her. According to her husband, the man standing before her with a look of pure concern on his face was the means of ruining his future. “I am very well, Mr Darcy. I thank you.”

  “And are you quite recovered from the grippe?” His eyes searched her face for she knew not what.

  “Quite,” she replied curtly.

  “I am heartily glad to hear it.” He smiled and Lydia warned herself not to fall for his kindness, as the rest of her family seemed to have done. “My dear Elizabeth tells me that you would like to visit with us at Pemberley…whilst your husband is away at war.”

  She cleared her throat, remembered her manners, and smiled at him. “Yes, if that is amenable to you.”

  “Of course it is.” His smile widened and she could see how easily it was to trust this detestable man before her. “We would be delighted to have you and your son to stay with us a while. I believe my sister, Georgiana, whom you know lives with us, too, will enjoy playing with him, I am sure.”

  Why is he being so nice to me when he dislikes my husband so? “I am sure that he also will enjoy all the attention.”

  Mr Darcy laughed. It was a laugh that melted the hatred she felt for him a little more than she was comfortable with. She rebuked herself inwardly for such foolishness. Do you not realise he is drawing you in? He is trying to make you like him, and then he and all those who believe his lies about Wickham will work to convince you to think as ill of him as they do! Her thoughts brought a lump to her throat.

  “Truly, are you well?” he asked.

  Embarrassed that he saw her inner struggle, she shrugged it off. “Yes, quite well.” She decided to press him. “It is merely the thought of enjoying ourselves while dear Wickham is in some foreign land fighting…” The tears fell down her cheeks, and she was pleased to see that her ability for producing crocodile tears was still as strong as ever.

  “Calm yourself.” She thought he at least had the good grace to frown and look discomfited. “It will do you more harm than y
ou can imagine to fret about such things.” Mr Darcy did something then that truly eroded her hatred for him further. He reached into his pocket, withdrew his handkerchief, and offered it to her. “Here, take this and dry your eyes, sister. War cannot be avoided, and we know the tyrant must be stopped. However, you may take comfort in the fact that your husband is doing the country a great service. I believe all men who fight for freedom are heroes, are they not?”

  There, he had accomplished his aim, she felt. Lydia looked up at him through her tear-soaked lashes and saw him differently. He was encouraging her to see Wickham as a hero, when he was the one person she never ever thought would say anything positive in connection to her husband. “Yes, I suppose you are right, Mr Darcy. I did not think of that before.” She smiled despite of herself. “Indeed, my Wickham is a hero.”

  Mr Darcy bowed slightly. “Then we will see you happy at Pemberley, I am certain.”

  Lydia watched as he turned away back to his wife, who also smiled at Lydia. Is it kindness, or do they pity me? She could not fathom why they would be kind after the majority of her own family had disparaged her husband so cruelly in her hearing. Yet, the evidence before her very eyes was of a kindness she never thought to see.

  Yes, it will be well at Pemberley. I will rest, and within a fortnight or two of being there, I hope sufficiently to have got over Sir Percival. Enough, I hope, to have no bitter feelings or melancholy when I hear the news of his engagement to Kitty. When I travel back to Longbourn for their wedding, I hope to be entirely myself again. It will be as it was before I set eyes upon him, and I will be content as I am.

  She repeated such sentiments continually to herself that evening while they listened to Mary play the piano and sing. She would be herself again, and she would hide her dissatisfaction with her life well. After all, it was all her fault, and no one else’s. She was entirely to blame for the predicament she found herself in; she ran off with Wickham. She determined to use her head from then on.