Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  Sir Percival tried, unsuccessfully, to catch her eye that evening. She could see his reflection in the long windows, but she refused to look at him. It was best that they did not have eye contact, and that they were never alone together again.

  Wickham felt wretched, and the weather, it seemed, agreed with him as they made their way to Calais—he and Estelle manacled in the back of the cart, escorted by two guardsmen and Poynter on horseback, and another two guardsmen sat up front. Estelle wept constantly, and Wickham could do nothing to ease her suffering and pain. He keenly knew he was the cause of it, and nothing he could do or say would remove her from the cruel fate he was certain awaited them in Calais.

  He thought about the man they were being sent to—Captain Harding. Wickham knew the man well by reputation alone. He had the displeasure of meeting him once in Newcastle when he was first stationed up there. Captain Harding was distinctive-looking because of a scar he bore on his left cheek. There were many rumours about how he came to be scarred thusly. Some simply stated it was from the first war with Napoléon, others were more far-fetched. One particular rumour was that he fought with the devil when he tried to take his soul—such tales made Wickham laugh derisively. Whatever the cause of the scar, Harding was a man greatly to be feared, with a vicious temper. He surrounded himself with the hardiest of soldiers, and never had Wickham seen such a band of cutthroats in his life. He knew the man would not listen to his pleading or explanations of what happened. Leniency was not a word he supposed was in Harding’s vocabulary. Kindness and compassion were similarly absent, he believed.

  He sighed and looked up at Poynter, who rode behind them. He sat facing them, but his friend did not look at him once. He deliberately gazed at a point above his head. They rode on for some time and Wickham grew angrier with his friend. Damn you, Poynter, why will you not look at me?

  As though Poynter could hear Wickham’s heated thoughts, he glanced down at his friend. The scowl mixed with the look of pity he wore wrenched at Wickham’s heart. He regretted his actions deeply and wished he could tell his friend. He doubted he would ever get the opportunity to do so.

  “Psst! Lydia!” Kitty beckoned her from her bedroom door.

  Lydia turned to look at her sister as she opened the door to her own bedroom.

  “Lydia!” she called again and waved for her to join her inside.

  Reluctantly, she did as her older sister bade and went into Kitty’s room. “You will never guess, so I will tell you what a wonderful day I have had, Lydia!” Kitty closed the door behind Lydia and then embraced her tightly.

  Lydia smiled weakly. She was in no mood to hear how happy her sister was.

  “Sir Percival is everything a gentleman should be.” She led Lydia over to the canopied bed, where they both sat down. “He is kind and attentive and speaks so well of our whole family.”

  Lydia could not help the bite in her tongue. “Perhaps he merely says so to ensure Papa’s vote in the next election.”

  Kitty’s smile did not falter. “Nonsense! He is in love with me, of that I am certain.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, indeed, it must be so, or he would not have spoken about his home in London and how he would love me to visit him there during the winter.”

  “He invited you to his home?” Lydia could not believe it, and yet her sister had said it plainly enough.

  Kitty giggled with glee. “I am so happy. If Mary will accompany me, I shall go. I know Mama will approve. And I am so convinced I will receive a marriage proposal while I am there that I am quite giddy from thinking about it!” She looked sideways at Lydia. “I would ask you, but I overheard you speaking to Mr Darcy about going to Pemberley for a time.”

  Lydia nodded. She thought she would run screaming from the room.

  “I admit I am surprised at you, Lydia. I thought you despised Mr Darcy.”

  “Well…” She shrugged. “I did… I do still.”

  “And yet you are going to stay at Pemberley.”

  “I think it for the best, Kitty.”

  Lydia watched her sister nod and think for a moment or two before speaking again. “Sometimes, when I watch Mr Darcy with Lizzy and listen to him speaking to one of us or Mama and Papa, I think he is perhaps not the man Wickham said he was, after all.”

  The same thought had occurred to Lydia, too, but she would not admit it. “Wickham says that Mr Darcy’s manners mean he is able to convince anyone of his goodness, whether it be true or not.”

  “How can that be so when Lizzy appears to love him deeply? I am convinced she, of all people, would not be as easily fooled.”

  “Did she not like Wickham herself at one time? I believe Mr Darcy persuaded her out of it.”

  Kitty laughed. “Lydia! What nonsense! No woman truly in love can be persuaded out of it so easily. Perhaps it is as I fear; Mr Darcy is not as Wickham tells us he is.”

  Lydia could hardly bear it. She sat, feeling dejected. At first, her sister wanted to talk about her expectations regarding Sir Percival, and then she disparaged Wickham and lauded Darcy. Lydia fought the desire to flee the room once again. “I cannot disbelieve my husband so easily.”

  “And neither would I expect you to. However, Mr Darcy does seem to be a very kind man. He and Mr Bingley have helped Papa immensely with the running of the Longbourn estate and the farms. So much so that Mama says there is more money than ever.”

  “Oh, fie! I believe it is all Mr Bingley. He has persuaded his friend to help, and thereby Mr Darcy’s reputation within the family has improved. That is all.”

  “Perchance you are correct, Lydia. I, for one, have had my mind changed about Mr Darcy. I find I like him, and Sir Percival does, too.”

  With that one single sentence uttered from her sister’s mouth, Lydia felt entirely abandoned and alone in the world. It seemed to her that she was the only member of her family truly on Wickham’s side. Everyone now believed all the goodness belonged to Mr Darcy, and that Wickham was nothing but a libertine, and a liar, to boot. “Well, I really am tired.” Lydia feigned a yawn and stretched lazily. “I ought to get some sleep.”

  “Oh, I doubt very much whether I shall sleep a wink at all tonight. I am so excited thinking about Sir Percival and my wedding. He said he did not want another bride from among the Ton; he wants a quiet, country gentlewoman for his wife. The ladies of the Ton bore him with their constant need for finery, and their elegance he finds cold.” She giggled. “It seems I am the perfect country gentlewoman he desires!”

  Lydia rose and turned to the door.

  “I wonder if the Prime Minister, Robert Banks Jenkinson, the Earl of Liverpool, will attend,” Kitty said excitedly.

  “Why would the Prime Minister attend your wedding, Kitty?”

  Kitty looked at her as though she were a simpleton. “Because Sir Percival is a Tory, too; it is his party which is in government.”

  Lydia frowned at her. “Since when, Kitty, did you take an interest in politics?”

  “Never until quite recently, I assure you.” She laughed. “However, I did truthfully know who the Prime Minister was, and which party was in power.”

  Lydia felt quite ashamed of herself and greatly jealous of Kitty. “I… Well, it does indeed seem possible. But I think perhaps he will be too busy governing the land to attend.”

  “True, I grant you.” She leapt forward and grasped Lydia’s hands. “But just think how magnificent it would be to have him present.”

  “Kitty, I do believe your excitement and imagination are getting away with you.”

  “Of course they are! I am going to be married!”

  “You do not know that yet.”

  Kitty stopped short and stood up straight as the smile fell from her lips. “If that is how you will be, you had better go to bed. I thought you were the one sister I could share this news with, Lydia, and you have been nothing but be negative and disparaging.”

  “Kitty…” Lydia felt a pang of remorse. “I apologise. I did not mean t
o hurt your feelings, but to put you on your guard. Men are fickle creatures and not to be trusted. Before you plan your wedding, please be entirely secure in his feelings for you.” She turned and reached for the door. “Good night.”

  As Lydia closed the door behind her, she looked up and smiled at Kitty, but the smile was not returned; Kitty was weeping. She wished her sister had not asked her into her room. She hung her head and sighed as she walked the length of the landing to her own room.

  Once she was safely inside, she buried face in her hands and wept. “Oh, dear God!”

  “Lydia, do not weep so.”

  She fairly jumped out of her skin at the sound of a man’s soft voice. “Sir Percival?” In the darkness, she could just make out his outline, standing by the armoire.

  “Yes, it is I.” He stepped forward so she could see him better. “What can have made you weep?”

  Lydia shook her head. “It is nothing, I assure you.” She stepped away from the door and further into the room.

  “Hmm…so much so, in fact, that you weep from it?” She could tell, even in the dark, that he smiled at her.

  “Do not mock me, sir.”

  “Forgive me.” He bowed slightly.

  “What are you doing in my room?”

  “I had to see you, Lydia. We have not been able to converse all day long.”

  “No, we have not, but you did not seem to mind.” She bristled. “You had Kitty to talk to.”

  “Oh, I see how it is.” He stepped closer, and Lydia felt the urge to do the same. “You are jealous, are you not?”

  “No, I am not! How dare you suggest such a thing!”

  Sir Percival laughed. It had such an endearing, musical quality to it that Lydia’s heart melted at the sound of it, and she was no longer furious at his insinuation of her jealousy. “Are you, Lydia?” he breathed.

  “Am I what?”

  He moved closer, so that they were almost touching. “Are you jealous?”

  Lydia’s breath caught in her throat and she shook her head in response.

  “I think you are.” She could feel his breath on her skin as he bent his head forward and brushed his lips against hers. “Admit it…” He kissed her so tenderly she thought she would cry from the agony of it. “You want me all for yourself.”

  “Yes,” she sighed, in spite of herself. Sir Percival slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her up against him, driving the breath from her body. She was thrilled by the feel of her breasts pressed up against the hard flesh of his chest. “Please, Sir Percival, if you do not stop now…”

  His kisses continued to increase in their intensity as he teased her soft, pink lips. “Why should I stop? Neither of us wants me to.”

  Lydia groaned with the ecstasy of knowing he wanted her as much as she wanted him, but she knew now it was wrong. She did not want to be the cause of injuring Kitty. She breathed her sister’s name aloud: “Kitty.”

  “What about her?” Sir Percival kissed his way down her neck, nipping at the skin with his teeth.

  “For her sake, we must desist,” Lydia cried, her voice thick with passion.

  Sir Percival pulled away sharply and looked into her eyes. “Explain.”

  Lydia felt lightheaded. “Will you not marry her?”

  “What is that to us if I do or not? I am a free man, Lydia, and you have enticed me.” He claimed her mouth so suddenly and so fiercely that her knees buckled beneath him. He gripped her tighter and lifted her back onto her feet.

  The pair of them froze in horror as there came a tapping on her door.

  “Quickly, into the armoire!” she hissed.

  “Lydia…are you asleep already?” a voice called from outside on the landing.

  “It’s Kitty,” she whispered. “Hurry!”

  “I cannot hide in the armoire.” Sir Percival chuckled.

  “This is not amusing.” Lydia looked around the room. “Behind the screen, then; she will not use my chamber pot, or need to look there for anything.”

  Much to Lydia’s relief, he did as she bade and Lydia rushed to the door and opened it. “Kitty, whatever is the matter?”

  Kitty pushed past her sister and into the room.

  “Come in…” Lydia mumbled.

  “Oh, Lydia!” Kitty turned and embraced her. “I am so sorry we disagreed.”

  “I am, too.”

  “I could not sleep until I had apologised. Do you forgive me?”

  Lydia smiled. “Of course I do.”

  “And will you ask me to forgive you, too?”

  “For what?” Lydia was irritated.

  “For suggesting that all men are the same, and that Sir Percival may be duplicitous with me.”

  Lydia gasped, knowing that Sir Percival heard every word of the exchange. “Of course… Please, forgive me, dear Kitty. Sir Percival, I know, is a perfect gentleman.”

  Kitty grinned. “Thank you, Lydia.” She kissed her on the cheek and ran to the door. “Good night, then. Sleep well.”

  “You too.” Lydia waved as Kitty closed the door behind her.

  “You told your sister that I may perchance be duplicitous?” Sir Percival’s voice came from behind the screen in the corner before he stepped out from behind it.

  “I merely meant to put her on her guard. She has the notion in her head that she will be your bride.”

  “And what of it?”

  Lydia could feel his displeasure from across the room. “I feel that knowing what is between us, you might not indeed marry her as she believes you will.”

  “Lydia, what passes between us and my intentions toward Kitty are wholly unconnected.”

  She did not like the edge to his voice, but she lifted her chin in defiance. “I believe they are. As her sister, I cannot in all conscience take you as my lover if you intend to marry Kitty.”

  He laughed, and this time it did not thrill her in the least. “You have developed a conscience very quickly, my dear.”

  “I am merely thinking of my sister, and putting her happiness before my own.”

  “Really?” He stepped forward and traced a finger down her cheek all the way to the heaving mounds of her breasts. Involuntarily, she whimpered at his touch. “I thought as much.” He bent his head and nibbled at her earlobe. “I could have you whenever I want.”

  She slid her arms around his waist. “Oh, Sir Percival.”

  “And yet, I find I do not want.” He stepped back from her.

  Lydia stood staring at him, wide-eyed, her breathing ragged. “Pardon?”

  “You are correct, Lydia. You make my blood run hotter than it ever has, and yet, she is your sister.”

  She panted as she fought for breath.

  “I freely admit I want nothing more than to spend a night of passion in your arms. Hang it, all the nights for the rest of my life, if the truth be owned.” He sighed and Lydia watched, mesmerised, as his chest rose and fell. “I cannot do this to her. If I am to make her my wife—and you know I do, because I want a young pleasing wife to give me a son—then we cannot in all honesty indulge ourselves this night or any night…no matter how much that pains us both.” He reached out and took her hand in his, squeezed it, then brought it to his lips and kissed it lingeringly. “My dear Lydia, thank you for the taste of what might have been. I sincerely wish you every happiness in the world.”

  Sir Percival departed Lydia’s room, leaving her numbly standing staring into the space he had previously occupied. She could scarcely believe her ears. Sir Percival rejected her in favour of her sister! Her cheeks burned with humiliation. She warned her sister about his duplicity as a man, then, within his earshot, apologised for such a slur on his character. She had no suspicion that her words would be taken by him in such a way. That they would fire his own conscience and cause him to walk away from their dalliance.

  Slowly, the feeling returned to her limbs and she silently walked to the bed. She fell upon it and wept bitterly. Life is so unfair to me! She cried herself to sleep, not caring that she
was still dressed. The only thing Lydia cared about was that she was rejected. Sir Percival wanted her, he said as much, but chose not to have her. He chose Kitty instead.

  Wickham wanted to very much to reach out to Estelle and tell her how sorry he was. However, he knew he had no words to console her with in their present situation. Anything he did say would make the situation worse, he was certain. It would not be long, he knew, before they reached Calais; they would be separated, put into different cells, interrogated, and then reunited—possibly for the last time—when they faced the firing squad together. She continued to weep as they travelled along.

  Respite came when Poynter had them stop in an abandoned village and ordered his men to draw fresh water from the well.

  “I’m sorry this has happened to you, Madame,” Poynter murmured as he offered her some water.

  She raised her eyebrows, but did not reply. She reached out her hands, bound together with the heavy clanking iron chains, and gratefully took the proffered beaker.

  “You have to help us, Will,” Wickham pleaded with his friend.

  Poynter leant in towards him and hissed, “I tried to help you, if you remember. I warned you not to go back to the village. You are beyond my help now.”

  Before Poynter could step away from the back of the cart, Wickham reached out and grasped him by the wrist. The cold iron around his own wrist dug bitingly into the flesh as he did so. “I beg of you, Will!”

  The snarl on Poynter’s face was foreign to Wickham. Never before had he seen such loathing in his friend’s eyes, and feared that they were friends no longer. An icy chill settled in his bones that had nothing to do with the driving rain. He watched as Poynter ordered his men to water the horses with such a sense of loss that he began to give up all hope of living past the next day.

  He turned again to the woman by his side. “I am truly sorry, Estelle. I would never have wished this upon you, not in a thousand years.”

  She sniffed and nodded. “I know. Our love was not to be, and we are being punished for it.”