Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  I arrive in Town with no mishap and find it entertaining. The company is cheerful enough, and the Season has already started. Lady Cambourne is not in Town. Rumour has it—and it makes me chuckle with dark glee—that Lord Cambourne has been advised to avoid high living and unwholesome excitement, and that he grows exceedingly petulant if his lady does not keep to his side.

  It amuses me a great deal less to cross paths with Lady Grenville—Miss Malcolm as was. But I bear it with tolerable composure.

  What disheartens me is another downturn in my luck at cards. This time I cannot even lay the blame on William Elliot’s suspect skills; it was not him I lost to. So, there I am doing penance in Devonshire again. Dull country, this, and the dullest company. Even the new additions at Barton Cottage are as predictable as can be: the doting mother; the reserved eldest daughter; the tomboyish youngest, and the indulged middle daughter—an exuberant, young miss who makes melancholy poems her staple diet and looks upon my assistance with her sprained ankle on the moors with as much favour as if it were one of Sir Galahad’s most gallant deeds.

  This is my lot in life, it seems: to inspire damsels in distress with wildly romantic notions. So be it. The Devonshire tedium might become more bearable. On the morrow, we are to read from Mr. Wordsworth’s poems. Ha! Perhaps he had the right of it: seclude himself in the wilderness of the Lake Country like a hermit, away from other people and their whimsical demands. No gambling debts, no wealthy relations to cajole, no pandering to imaginative misses. A life free of irksome impositions.

  “Aye, but devilishly dull,” I mutter with a chuckle as I nudge Peg along the bridleway to Allenham.

  JOANA STARNES lives in the south of England with her family. Over the years, she has swapped several hats—physician, lecturer, clinical data analyst—but feels most comfortable in a bonnet. She has been living in Georgian England for decades in her imagination and plans to continue in that vein till she lays hands on a time machine. She is one of the contributors to The Darcy Monologues anthology, and the author of seven Austen-inspired novels: From This Day Forward—The Darcys of Pemberley, The Subsequent Proposal, The Second Chance, The Falmouth Connection, The Unthinkable Triangle, Miss Darcy’s Companion and Mr Bennet’s Dutiful Daughter. You can connect with Joana through her website www.joanastarnes.co.uk and on Facebook via her timeline and her author page, All Roads Lead to Pemberley. Click to connect with: Joana Starnes

  Novella II

  A Wicked Game (mature) Katie Oliver

  GEORGE WICKHAM

  Jane Austen’s most infamous rake was raised alongside her most beloved hero, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Wickham’s charisma and comely looks lured compassion to all he encountered including Elizabeth Bennet. “There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it." —Pride and Prejudice, Chapter XL. After his failed attempt to elope with Darcy’s young sister for her fortune, and later, after running off with the youngest Bennet daughter, his character was exposed as a calculating adventurer and deceitful libertine.

  His appearance was greatly in his favor: he had all the best parts of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and a pleasing address. —Pride and Prejudice, Chapter XV.

  A WICKED GAME

  Katie Oliver

  SALAMANCA, SPAIN, 22 JULY 1812

  Dust swirls around me as I urge my mount forward. The clash of bayonet and sword, the explosion of muskets, and the blood roaring in my ears vie with the cries and shouts of the men around me.

  Each moment is an eternity. There is nothing but the parry and thrust of my saber plunging into flesh, flashing and glinting in the sun.

  Our cavalry engaged with Marmant’s forces at Arapiles just south of Salamanca. Wave after wave, the enemy charged, and I fought until my arm ached and my ears reverberated with the crack of musket fire and the thunder of hooves.

  Now, my regimentals are damp and heavy with sweat, and I blink perspiration from my eyes. Smoke and death and horror surround me.

  But there is no time to contemplate the carnage. My horse rears as I fend off an attack from a French dragoon. Our blades clang together in a vicious struggle until I manage to dispatch him with a thrust to the heart. He slumps in his saddle and falls, dead before his body hits the ground.

  * * *

  Beside me, one of our regiment fights off a pair of cavalrymen. He is losing the battle. I lunge forward and run one of his attackers through, then the other, without mercy or hesitation, and wonder at my own detachment. I spare no thought for their wives, or family, or the children they might leave behind; there is no time. I am conscious of only one thing. Survival.

  “Thank you,” the Englishman rasps, his face seamed with dirt and sweat. “I am indebted to you, sir.” He gives me a brief nod before he turns his horse away.

  I pause, and in that moment grapeshot rips into my chest and shoulder. My hold slackens and the sword falls from my hand. I tumble to the ground, intent only on avoiding the hooves of the horses rearing and galloping past me.

  Consciousness comes and goes as the hot Salamanca sun beats down on me. All I can think of as I lie there is my wife, Lydia, whom I left behind in England. She is with child. My child.

  Despite the sun’s heat, a chill grips me. Poor girl. I seduced her. Ruined her. It was only through Darcy’s intervention that I agreed to marry her at all… for a price. I groan. No one can deny that I have behaved despicably. How can I expect Lydia to forgive me when I cannot forgive myself?

  No soul is beyond redemption.

  Those were the vicar’s words when I spoke to him before joining Wellington’s men in Spain. I did not want to go. The thought of dying in battle in a foreign land held no appeal.

  I considered deserting, fleeing to a place where I might never be found. But I could not in good conscience leave Lydia and the baby behind. I am a father now with not only a wife to think of but a child as well, and I must provide my little family with all the comforts and security they deserve.

  All around me I hear the piteous cries of the dying. Like me, they lie forgotten on the battlefield, awaiting death. Begging for an end to pain. Rubbing shoulders with my own mortality has made me realize the terrible fragility of life. In the end, I did the honorable thing and decided to face the enemy, to return home either a hero or a dead man. But I would run no longer.

  A laugh burbles up now in my throat. How noble—I close my eyes—how fitting. When at last I vow to mend my ways, I am struck down in battle, left to die an unlamented death in a field in Spain. What will the inscription on my headstone read, I wonder? Surely, I have done nothing to inspire respect or admiration.

  Here lies George Wickham, liar, cheat, and profligate womanizer,

  a reprobate who failed to distinguish himself on the battlefield or in life...

  but who wore his uniform exceedingly well.

  Not much of an epitaph, to be sure.

  As the sounds of battle diminish, I wonder how long I have lain here. Ten minutes? An hour? I cough at the dust stirred up by the retreating French and attempt to lift my head but dizziness overcomes me, and I fall back against the hard ground. The enemy is vanquished. The battle is over.

  I drift in and out of consciousness and add up my transgressions like an accountant totting up numbers in a ledger. Squandering my inheritance? Guilty. Refusing the offer of a respectable living as a curate? Done. I had attempted to tarnish my boyhood friend Darcy’s good name out of jealousy and spite, and nearly persuaded his young sister Georgiana to elope, not for love but for want of her thirty thousand pounds. Were that not enough, I seduced Lydia Bennet into my bed, as well as countless, unremembered others, and wed her only after securing payment and promises from Darcy… among them a commission in the Regulars, which meant the risk of dangerous duty overseas but more money in my pocket.

  What a persuasive, charming, thoroughly contemptible man I have been.

  And now, as my life ebbs away, I carry
a deep and abiding shame for my actions, and for those I have wronged. It is too late to change, to start anew, and become the man I would like to be, a man my wife and her family—even Darcy—might be proud of.

  Death will see to that.

  Pain wracks my body, and my vision softens and fades. Peace settles over me. The sun warms my face as it climbs higher in the sky, and I close my eyes, remembering another summer morning when I set myself so recklessly on the path that led me here…

  DERBYSHIRE, 1800

  A sharp tap sounded upon my bedroom door. "It's nearly time, George. Are you ready?"

  It was Sunday, and Sunday meant church.

  "I'll be downstairs shortly," I told Darcy and rolled out of bed with reluctance. I thrust on breeches and shrugged my arms into a shirt and waistcoat, hoping there might be time for breakfast before we departed Pemberley.

  The thought of sitting on a hard pew to endure the weekly strictures against lust, greed, and other sinful vices on an empty stomach filled me with the same resigned dread a prisoner must feel as he is led to his execution.

  I wanted it to be over—quickly.

  I pulled on the boots I had polished the previous night and studied my reflection in the mirror as I tied my cravat. I wanted to look my best, not so much for our Lord as for the ladies. I might have no money to recommend me, nor a title or property... but am told I have a pleasing manner and an agreeable nature. And such qualities are always looked on with favor by the fairer sex.

  We arrived at the parish church a short time later. My mind wandered as the vicar's voice rose and fell, the cadences swooping and diving as he shared Sunday's homily with the congregation. I heard not a word. A growing sense of ennui settled upon me and I found I had little patience for spiritual matters.

  Summer stretched out before me like a vast and indifferent sea that I was impatient to cross. In autumn, I would begin my first year at Cambridge. The desire to be gone, to leave Derbyshire far behind, made me restless, and I shifted position on the Darcy family pew. My movement earned me a reproving glare from my godfather and another from Darcy himself.

  I suppressed a sigh and pretended to study the stained-glass windows.

  As a boy, I welcomed the summer months at Pemberley. There was much to fill the idle hours, from riding and walking to staging elaborate theatricals, and the days passed in a pleasant blur. In these things Darcy was my stalwart and constant companion.

  But time, and my realization of the social chasm that divided us, changed all that.

  Of course, I am grateful for the kindness and generosity of the Darcy family and owe them a debt I can never repay. I cannot imagine what my life would be had they turned me out after my father’s death.

  Nonetheless, I am not, will never be, on equal footing with one so far above me in social standing as Fitzwilliam Darcy. I am the son of his father’s estate manager. Someone to be provided for, educated ... treated, inasmuch as possible, like one of the family. Yet, I am not one of them. I know it, and I feel the sting of my inferiority most keenly.

  But I refuse to indulge in self-pity. I am lucky to have a friend like Darcy and a godfather so generous as his father has been. My options after graduating Cambridge may be limited to law or the clergy, but thanks to Mr. Darcy, I will have an excellent education. I swear I will make something worthy of myself.

  When the service ended, I trailed several paces behind Mr. Darcy and his son, in no particular hurry to join them outside. I glimpsed John Seldon, the local squire’s son, and paused in the vestibule as he greeted me.

  “Wickham, you devil. You’re looking well, as always.”

  As I gripped his hand in mine it was impossible not to return his smile. “I thought you’d gone abroad for the summer.”

  “I depart for Italy in four weeks.” He lowered his voice. “Wine, women, and… well, what else is there, eh?” He grinned and clapped me on the back. “I understand you plan to join Darcy at Cambridge in the autumn.”

  “King’s College,” I confirmed. “To study divinity.”

  Seldon lifted his brows. “Divinity? You?” He let out a smothered snort of laughter. “Lud, Wickham. Somehow, I cannot see it.”

  I felt a flicker of irritation. “My godfather has offered me a curacy upon my graduation.”

  “A curate? You’ll make no money. And you shall go slowly mad with boredom.”

  “I shall have the parsonage at Kympton,” I said in my defense. “And a small parcel of land.”

  He chuckled. “You—tilling fields, and herding sheep and lost souls? Why, the very idea is preposterous.”

  The sight of a new face ahead of us spared me a reply. She was slim, with a stovepipe bonnet tied beneath her chin. Unlike the other ladies, she wore a somber gown of gray crêpe, and despite its plainness and lack of trimmings, the dress did nothing to lessen her beauty. I glimpsed only a portion of her face, but what I saw of it, the curve of her cheek and a cluster of dark curls, intrigued me.

  “Who is she?” I asked him and inclined my head discreetly in the direction of the young woman conversing with Mrs. Fanshaw and her daughters.

  He followed my gaze. “Ah. I do not recall her name, more’s the pity, but according to the latest on-dit, she’s visiting Mrs. F for the duration of the summer.” Approval registered on his face as he studied her trim figure. “She’s a diamond of the first water.”

  “Indeed.” I could not stop myself staring at her.

  "George, there you are." Darcy detached himself from his father and a small group of parishioners standing inside the entrance and joined us. He did not look pleased. “Seldon,” he added and delivered a curt nod. “How do you do?”

  “Very well, sir, thank you.”

  Darcy turned to me. "Pray, do not linger too long. Father wishes to depart soon."

  "Of course." I turned back to Seldon. “Will I see you before you leave for Italy?”

  “You may depend upon it.” He nodded politely to Darcy, gave me a roguish wink, and took his leave.

  As I made to follow him outside, Darcy stayed me. “George, a moment, please.”

  “Yes?” I was impatient to be off.

  “In the future, I suggest—no, I must insist—that you extend young Mr. Seldon nothing more than the merest civility.”

  “What?” I blinked. “Why? We are friends, good friends, and have been for many years.”

  “I understand. But you were boys then. Now you are grown, and your lives will soon take you in very different directions.” He paused. “I trust you will meet more suitable companions when you join me at Cambridge.”

  “More suitable…?” I regarded him in disbelief. Who was more suited to keep company with Squire Seldon’s eldest boy than myself, the steward’s son? My face darkened and I opened my mouth to object, both to his advice and his insufferable snobbery, but an interruption spared me from uttering the angry words that remained unspoken on my lips.

  "Mr. Darcy!" a voice behind us exclaimed. “How lovely to see you.”

  A matronly woman, clad in a gown of primrose sarsenet and matching bonnet, sailed towards us. I recognized her at once. She and her husband and daughters had let Mannering, a small but charming property several miles from Pemberley. Behind her, I glimpsed two young women. One of them I knew as her daughter; the other, whom I had admired only moments before, stood quietly behind her. My heart commenced to beat faster.

  “Mrs. Fanshaw,” Darcy said and inclined his head. “I hope this Sunday finds you well.”

  “Very well, Mr. Darcy, thank you.” She turned to the girl standing beside her and drew her forward. “I believe you have not met my eldest daughter, Celia.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Fanshaw.” He bowed.

  Celia’s blush deepened. “I am very pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “And this,” Mrs. Fanshaw added as she turned to the young woman in gray, “is my sister-in-law, Lady Clémence Harlow. Lady Harlow, this is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”

  “Bonjour, monsie
ur,” she murmured and extended her gloved hand to Darcy, who bowed stiffly over it.

  “Lady Harlow. A pleasure.” He straightened and turned to me. “May I present a close friend of the family, Mr. George Wickham?” he said in correct but clipped tones. “He leaves for university in the autumn.”

  So, she was French. And married. Of course, she was. How could a creature of such style and beauty not already be attached?

  I swallowed my disappointment and bowed over her hand. At least Darcy had done me the courtesy not to mention my status as the former estate manager’s son. "I am honored to make your acquaintance."

  She bestowed a smile on me. "It is you who do me the honor, monsieur. If you are a close friend of Mr. Darcy's then I hold you already in high esteem."

  Her manner was subdued, but delightful...and hers was the most enchanting countenance I had ever seen. Her lips were as pink and perfectly formed as a rosebud; her eyes mirrored the tranquil blue of the early summer sky. With one look, she took my heart captive as surely as any Barbary pirate.

  "You are newly arrived in Derbyshire, then?" I inquired as Darcy turned away to converse with Miss Fanshaw and her mother.

  "Yes. I am staying with my husband's sister and her three young daughters. It is quite a lively household."

  "I have no doubt they are glad of your company."

  "They have welcomed me most graciously." A shadow passed over her face. “Since my husband's death last year, his sister and my nieces are all the family I have left."

  “I am sorry to hear it,” I said. Now I understood her somber attire and subdued manner. “Please accept my condolences.”