Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  Wickham winced at the bitterness in her voice. “I wish to God that you could be spared this.”

  “What did the letter contain?”

  They both looked up and saw Poynter standing, watching them. Neither of them noticed his return or approach.

  “Mayhap it contains something that will prove your innocence in the matter, Madame,” he pressed.

  Estelle looked at him, the tears streaming down her face mingling with the rain. “It truly was a letter from my brother, Jacques. He is being held in Scarborough Castle, and wanted only to inform me he lives and is well.” She sobbed. “His only intent was to bring me comfort.”

  “Then pray, Madame, that the fragment that survives says precisely that.” Poynter smiled weakly and Wickham knew he personally held no such hope—he too knew the reputation of Captain Harding.

  “It is more than I can hope for. My life has been miserable from start to finish.” She sighed.

  Poynter looked at her and frowned. “Whatever can you mean?”

  She looked up defiantly into Poynter’s eyes. “I am no French peasant, Lieutenant. My parents were aristocrats who were arrested during the glorious revolution.”

  “Ah, hence your near-perfect English.” Poynter smiled.

  She nodded and continued. “My brother and I escaped with our uncle, who is sadly now dead. Our parents, Lieutenant, were taken to the place de la révolution and executed by the guillotine. We—my brother, uncle and myself—took all portable valuables—money, jewels—and fled, selling our belongings as and when we needed money. My uncle was shrewd and saved enough money from the sale of my parents’ trinkets to buy a small tavern in Vincy. We grew up as ordinary children, but my brother and uncle were always weary of the French peasantry, fearing they would execute us if they ever found out the truth.” She wiped her face with her hand, brushed her dripping wet hair from her eyes, and continued. “About eight years ago, one of the men of the village discovered the truth. None of us ever found out how. He said he would tell everyone that we were filthy aristocrats and deserved to be murdered in our beds if I did not marry him.”

  “Thibault Bernard?” Wickham gasped.

  “Oui, Thibault was the man. My brother desired to join the army, and we had a little money left to purchase him a commission as an officer. However, he was afraid to leave me alone with our ailing uncle, and with the prowling Monsieur Bernard.”

  “So you agreed to marry him.” Wickham felt her desperation and understood why she sacrificed her happiness for her brother’s sake.

  “Jacques did not wish me to do so. But how could I not? Thibault is a violent man. I have no doubt that he would have carried out his threat to have us all killed if I had not married him.

  “A couple of years later and I had little Hélène, the only silver-lining in my dreary life. Thibault likes to drink heavily, he then becomes angry at everything and takes his anger out on me with his fists.” She wept bitterly for a moment, but rallied quickly and raised her head again defiantly. “Then, I heard that Jacques was captured by the British army. We were told so many bad things about the British that I feared he would be executed, and I would be alone in the world.”

  She turned to Wickham. “And yet, after all hope had gone from my life, you came with a letter from my dear brother. You reignited the faith in my heart. His letter informed me that the rumours of British brutality were unfounded, that he was safe and treated well in Scarborough, and that he longed for the end of the war when he would return to France and take me away from my cruel husband.” Estelle turned her big dark eyes pleadingly to Poynter. “I did not expect to find love with the man who brought me the letter filled with such hope. It is ironic—is it not?—that I fall in love, and that love should bring me to my death.”

  Wickham noticed that Poynter could not speak. He, too, was choked with emotion at her tale. Poynter coughed and called to his men. “If all the horses are rested, we ought to crack on.” He walked away and mounted his horse, and Wickham knew he was too touched by Estelle’s history to speak to her again.

  As the cart jolted into motion, Wickham shifted closer to Estelle. “What you said, was it true?”

  She looked up at him, her expression cross at his words. “Pardon?”

  “What you said about loving me—is it true?”

  Her face softened and she nodded.

  “I assure you, most ardently, that your feelings are returned.”

  Estelle looked him in the eyes, and were it not for the redness there, he would not have known she wept for the rain running down her face. “But you are married, too, Georges.”

  He nodded sadly. “I am, unfortunately; I cannot deny it.” He cleared his throat and the words were out of his mouth before he even had time to think, so practiced was he at lying. “I was forced into marrying her. She made up such ridiculous tales to catch me that she endangered her very reputation.” The cart jolted as it began its journey towards Calais once again, and he almost fell over. He regained his balance and continued. “Her friends and family rallied about her and, in the end, there was nothing more I could do. I had to do the gentlemanly thing and marry the girl.” He gazed longingly into her eyes, wishing, not for the first time, that he could whisk her away to some place safe. “There is no love between us, I assure you.”

  “Oh, Georges,” Estelle cried, and he wished he could take her in his arms and erase all the hurt with his kisses. She leant against him as they travelled along and rested her head on his shoulder. He reached over and, despite the chains they wore, held her hands.

  About three miles onward, the rain stopped and Wickham noted that Estelle dozed. He turned his face to gently kiss the top of her head when the enormous explosion of a cannon blast startled them.

  Instantly, Poynter shouted commands at his men. However, a second blast from the French cannon sounded, and Wickham looked in the direction of the explosion. For one heart-stopping moment of deafening silence, none of them knew where the cannonball would hit. He could hear Poynter shouting something, but could not hear his exact words as he watched mutely, and as though time itself slowed, the cannonball’s journey towards them. For one awful moment, Wickham thought his time had come even sooner. The cannonball hit closer to its mark than the previous one and pounded into the road beside them with such force that the cart, with its cargo, tipped over and slammed onto its side with brutal force.

  Wickham, Estelle, and the guards were thrown clear of the cart and pelted with dirt and stones from the flying debris. Estelle screamed, and he saw she was hit on the side of the head by a rock as he, too, tumbled to the ground beside her. Behind him, he could hear the whinnying and neighing of horses. He assumed one of them had been hit by flying debris from the blast. There was more shouting, but Wickham was too dazed to understand it. Together, they crawled on their bellies behind the fallen cart for protection. He inched over to Estelle. “Are you all right?” he called, his hearing beginning to return to normal.

  She nodded, holding her hand up to her bleeding left temple. There was not much blood, as far as he could see, and satisfied she truly was all right, he turned to seek Poynter out at the same moment Poynter’s horse collapsed to the ground. He watched helplessly as the animal fairly screamed in pain. Poynter cocked his pistol, pointed it at the animal’s head, and, without hesitation, put the poor creature out of its misery.

  “Damn it!” Poynter scrambled away from his horse, avoiding another cannon blast, which gratefully missed its mark, and crouched next to Wickham and Estelle behind the cart. “The damned French must have been closer than our scouts reckoned. I can see them just down the hill. They will be upon us in no time, I fear.” He raised his head a little and barked at his men. “Fire at will, keep them at bay!”

  “Will, give me the pistol. I can fight,” Wickham shouted and ducked as musket fire blasted into the trees behind them.

  Poynter hesitated. “You know I cannot do that.”

  “But they are coming. We will be overrun!”
Wickham pleaded with him.

  Poynter frowned as he loaded his musket.

  “Believe me; you need all the help you can get.”

  “No, George. I cannot do that, and you understand full well why not.”

  Wickham found himself furious with his friend. “Damn it, Will. We will all die, anyway; the French are upon us!”

  Poynter locked eyes with him, and Wickham thought he saw a flicker of compassion. “Come here,” he ordered.

  Wickham did as he was bid and, to his amazement—and great relief—watched as Poynter dug into his pocket and retrieved the key to the manacles. “I will order my men to retreat. Get out of here, George. Take Madame Bernard and get as far away from here as possible.”

  Wickham could hardly believe his ears. “Where will we go?”

  “I do not much care where you go. Just get away from here.”

  He watched as Poynter unshackled Estelle, and rubbed his chaffed wrists.

  “Can we go to England?” she asked.

  “No. You and George were arrested as spies, remember? You cannot sail for England. You must know which direction you can go in, Madame. Get away from the British army, and stay clear of the French army, too. Lie low until the war is over and things have settled down.”

  Wickham looked at Estelle, half-elated at their freedom, yet half-scared out of his wits as to what they would do and where they would go.

  “Go! Go now!” Poynter called as he fired a shot towards the advancing French troops over the top of the cart. “Men, retreat! Retreat now!”

  Wickham grasped Estelle by the hand and they slipped down the back of the bank and into the forest behind them.

  They had just begun to run when Wickham stopped in his tracks. “Wait here,” he cried and ran back to Poynter, who prepared to run back towards the British.

  “Wickham, you fool, what in the blazes are you still doing here?” he bellowed.

  “Lydia!”

  “What?” Poynter looked at him as though he had lost his mind.

  “When you return to England, tell Lydia I am well.”

  Poynter shook his head. “Yes, yes, now go!” He fired his musket over the top of the cart and began to reload it.

  “Here.” Wickham reached down and pulled at the signet ring on his right little finger. “Give this to her for Georgie.” He held out his hand for Poynter to take it.

  Uncomprehendingly, Poynter stared at it for a moment.

  “Please.” Wickham pleaded above the noise of the gunfire and artillery. “It is all I have to give him.”

  Poynter snatched the ring and shoved it onto his own little finger and turned to fire again. “Go.”

  Wickham nodded, Poynter fired the musket again, and the two friends parted, running in different directions.

  As soon as he joined Estelle again, he took her hand and ran with her as fast as she could until they could no longer breathe.

  Behind them, they heard the sound of musket and cannon fire, and prayed the Poynter would get back to the British troops safely and quickly.

  Lieutenant Will Poynter placed the signet ring on the little finger of his right hand and told his friend to go. It was the least he could do for him. He doubted any of them would live past the day, anyway. The French were so close he could hear them shouting to each other.

  He fired his musket and then ran, as fast as his legs could carry him, down the path and away from the advancing French army, keeping as close as he could to the tree line. He hoped it would keep him hidden until he was well out of harm’s way, and then he would slow his pace until he knew he was safe.

  He heard the blast of the cannon, but he did not know where or when it landed. He did not know that it precisely hit its target—him.

  Elizabeth and Jane stopped visiting Longbourn and things grew dull—as far as Lydia was concerned. Five days later, a messenger arrived at the house at four o’clock in the morning, waking the household. Mrs Bennet cried that they would all be murdered in their beds, but the messenger, it turned out, brought news from Netherfield Park. Jane had begun to travail and her waters had broken—the baby was on its way.

  The house was filled with joy and celebration. Mrs Bennet readied herself to attend Jane, and no matter what Mr Bennet said to advise her otherwise, she would not be dissuaded from going to Netherfield directly and at that time in the morning.

  Breakfast was set for earlier than usual and with the departure of Mrs Bennet, the remainder of the household settled down for a long, quiet morning.

  Lydia was so tired from being awoken early that she thought to pretend to go to the nursery to see Georgie, but intended to go back to her room and nap instead. She did not know how long she slept, but was rudely awoken again by yet another hammering on the front door. She looked at the clock on the mantel and saw it was half past nine. She stretched and languidly rose from the bed and crossed to the door, eager to know who it was. Perhaps the child was in a hurry and has arrived already.

  Lydia leant over the bannisters and spied through the spindles. It was indeed another messenger. She strained to hear what was said as the front door was opened to the visitor. Mr Bennet was summoned, took the letter, read it, and she heard him say, “Go to Netherfield Park immediately and send for Mr Darcy and tell him who sent you to me.” He pointed at Hill, who paid the rider, and then returned to his book room and closed the door more firmly than usual.

  “I wonder what it could be?” a voice at her shoulder asked, making her jump.

  “Oh, Kitty, you startled me!”

  “Sorry, I thought you heard me come out of my room.”

  Lydia stood up straight. “No, I did not, and I have no idea what the express could say. I heard Papa sent to Netherfield for Mr Darcy, though. I wonder why?”

  “Hmm…” Kitty wrinkled her pretty face in thought. “Would you care to walk in the garden? Perhaps we might hear snatches of conversation if Papa’s window is open.” She grinned cheekily.

  Lydia agreed and together they put on their outdoor shoes and walked in the garden, staying as close as they could to Mr Bennet’s book room.

  Mr Darcy rode to Longbourn as speedily as possible and was surprisingly accompanied by Mr Bingley. They barely noticed Kitty and Lydia walking in the grounds as they hurriedly dismounted their horses and rushed inside to be greeted by Mr Bennet, who ushered them into his book room before nary a word was spoken.

  “Mr Bingley, before you sit, please allow me to apologise for drawing you away from dear Jane’s side.” Mr Bennet looked worry worn.

  “That is quite all right, Mr Bennet. Do not trouble yourself. The midwife assures me that it will be some hours yet before the child is born.” He grinned with excitement.

  “I hope for your sake and Jane’s that we can conclude this unpleasant business and get you back to her side before luncheon.”

  “Mr Bennet…” Mr Darcy stepped forward, eager to find out what had happened. “…you seem in some distress. Allow me to pour you a glass of wine and then do, please, tell us what is the matter.”

  Mr Bennet nodded and sat himself down in the chair behind his desk. He watched mutely as Mr Darcy poured three glasses of wine and handed two of them to himself and Mr Bingley.

  “Now.” Mr Darcy sat down and sipped his wine. “Do tell us what is wrong.”

  Mr Darcy watched his face pale as he pushed a small packet across the desk towards them. Mr Bingley picked it up and unfolded it. An item fell out and rolled into his hand. Mr Darcy watched as Mr Bingley’s fingers closed around it and he then began to read the dispatch. “This is addressed to Mrs Wickham!” he declared. “Why was it not given to her?”

  Mr Bennet looked up from studying his glass of wine intently. “Take a look at the sender’s address on the front, if you will.”

  Mr Bingley did so and frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “It is from the army, Bingley.” Mr Darcy read over his shoulder. “It is an official communiqué.”

  “And that can only mean one thin
g, gentlemen, and I wish to protect Lydia if I can.” Mr Bennet spoke so quietly that it was barely above a whisper.

  Mr Darcy turned sharply to Mr Bingley. “Read what it says.”

  Mr Bingley cleared his throat. “It is a printed form, with the relevant details written in by hand. My word, how impersonal!” He looked up at Mr Bennet, who hung his head. “Mrs Wickham, it is my painful duty to inform you that a report has this day been received from France, notifying the death of Lieutenant George Wickham of the 3rd Regiment of foot guards, which occurred at Ayr-sur-la-Lys, France, on the first of June, 1815. I am to express to you the sympathy and regret of His Majesty King George III’s Army Council at your loss. The cause of death was: killed in action. Please find enclosed the article of his private property: his ring. Our deepest condolences etcetera. I am, madam, your obedient servant, Colonel Forbes, officer in charge of records.”

  A heavy silence filled the room. None of the gentlemen wished to speak.

  Mr Bennet drained his wine glass of its contents and pointed at Mr Bingley. “The ring—is it his? Do either of you recognise it?”

  “Oh…” Mr Bingley looked at the signet ring in his hand.

  “Let us be certain before we break my daughter’s heart, shall we?”

  “I do not rightly know, sir.” Mr Bingley turned to Mr Darcy. “What do you think, Darcy?”

  Mr Darcy’s heart sank as he took the ring in Mr Bingley’s outstretched hand and examined it. His mouth went dry. He knew the ring well. “I…” He could not speak. He reached out, wetted his mouth with wine from his own glass, and set it on the desk in front of him. “I…hardly know what to say.”

  “Come now, Mr Darcy, is it Wickham’s ring or not?” Mr Bennet’s eyes bored into his own.

  “I know this ring well, sir. My own father had two such like it made when George Wickham and I came of age. One he gave to me…” He extended his own right hand to show the ring displayed there on his little finger. “…and the other he gave to George Wickham.”