Trouble With Wickham

by Olivia Kane

  “How kind,” Lady Radcliffe uttered through clenched teeth.

  Afterwards Charlotte could not see her way through to the rest of the afternoon without some quiet time on her own. It was a sentiment shared by the rest of the party, and the women made their excuses and headed to their private chambers. Lydia led the way, declaring herself in urgent need of a nap.

  Happy for the escape, Charlotte pulled on her cloak, exited the house and headed for the stables.

  “Hello Quigley! Can you saddle up Indigo for me? I’d like a ride.”

  “Certainly my lady,” the stable head replied.

  Charlotte examined the sky as she waited, calculating her risk of getting caught in the rain. Although the clouds were threatening, she also knew that an English sky could stay grey all day and not a drop fall. To be safe, she decided she would not ride so far that she couldn’t make it back quickly if necessary.

  She mounted Indigo and headed toward the trail that wound round the front of the grounds, close to the house.

  “Good afternoon my lady,” a voice interrupted her thoughts. It was George Wickham, sitting on the front steps of Bennington Park, examining the sky as well.

  “Good day! Where have you been all morning?” she asked, unaware of the growing instability he demonstrated at breakfast.

  “I fell asleep in your father’s library. What a beautiful room,” he said, managing to rise from the steps without losing his balance.

  “Yes, we are all fond of it.”

  “I meant to read but the fire was blazing and before I knew it I had nodded off. I slept through lunch but Mrs. Holmes brought me a tray in the library upon my waking. Your poor husband had to witness my sleep.”

  “Don’t worry about Guy. As long as you weren’t talking, he was probably happy,” she teased.

  Wickham laughed along, noting with envy Charlotte’s lithe, trim figure and wondering with regret why he had not run into this particular young heiress in his previous visits to Meryton, before she was claimed. So many beautiful, rich ladies in the world, he mused. Why had he not tried harder to wriggle out of the marriage to Lydia?

  Charlotte, meanwhile, looked down with concern at his head wound. The outer edges sported a ghastly yellow-green tinge, the sight of which turned Charlotte’s full stomach. Surely he did not mean to appear at the ball in such a state?

  “I don’t mean to intrude, but do you need to see the doctor? You could make it to town in less than 20 minutes.”

  Wickham demurred. “Your father did offer at breakfast ...”

  Charlotte jumped off Indigo and offered him the reins. “Here. You can ride Indigo. She’s a good horse. I insist.” It was the proper thing for a hostess to do, she thought, to offer transport to an ailing man. Her parents would be proud.

  “You say less than twenty minutes to town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Lancaster, you are all kindness. Yes, I should probably get this taken care of before the ball tonight,” he said slyly, pointing at his head. He felt a twinge of guilt lying to the sweet well-meaning young thing, but she was as rich as the rest of them and would suffer no ill effects from his duplicity.

  Charlotte smiled softly in contentment. The duties of a hostess could be all consuming, yet there were bright moments where tending to a guest’s needs proved highly satisfying.

  “Indigo knows the way to Meryton by heart,” she instructed Wickham. A ride into town would be good exercise for her horse.

  “She’s a smart one, albeit a bit stubborn at times, just so you are aware,” Charlotte ran her hand down Indigo’s black mane and spoke sweetly to her.

  “Mr. Wickham will ride you today. Be good to him,” she whispered. “I only hope the sky does not open up on you.”

  “I do not plan to be gone for hours,” Wickham laughed. “And if the rain does come, I can hide out in the tavern until it stops.”

  “Dear me the ball will be a disaster if we have a downpour,” she fretted.

  “Don’t worry about the ball, the women have been talking about nothing else for days. It will be a smash,” he promised.

  “Perhaps you are right,” she smiled. Wickham looked Charlotte directly in the eyes and flashed her his most practiced smile. Although she only had eyes for Guy, she felt momentarily charmed by the man, thinking briefly that it was not hard to understand how both Lydia and Georgiana could be easily swayed by his attentions. She wondered if the unassuming man with the pleasing address standing in front of her truly merited the scandalous reputation that preceded him? He seemed perfectly pleasant, she decided, surely not as bad as his detractors claimed.

  “Well, I’ll be off then,” he started, as he mounted the animal cleanly. “Goodbye! See you in a little while, and thank you!”

  Charlotte waved off Wickham and then turned and sat down on the wide smooth steps of Bennington Park, watching her horse clop steadily away. The sun peeked out from behind the darkening sky. It was exactly the type of atmosphere she loved, where the light changed constantly and the wind gusts sent the leaves somersaulting across the grounds. It was the type of afternoon that gave her the feeling that almost anything could happen.

  George Wickham grinned contentedly to himself as Indigo plodded carefully ahead beneath a canopy of towering oak trees toward the front gates of the estate. He turned and gave another cheerful wave goodbye to Charlotte who, to his annoyance, was watching from the steps. A beam of sunshine broke through the cloud cover, illuminating the great golden façade of Bennington Park behind her. As soon as Indigo passed through the gate and was out of Charlotte’s sight, he turned the horse in the opposite direction from Meryton and headed full gallop down the lane where the carriages following the pack would be riding.

  Georgiana Darcy was out there, somewhere.

  Chapter Fourteen

  George Wickham was not worried about the unsightly appearance of his bulging head wound. He would have Lydia rip up some linens or a bed sheet and wrap his head before the ball, but for now a ripe opportunity to find Georgiana was there for the taking.

  All he wanted was to see her face again, he told himself.

  It had been too long, far too long.

  He had much to regret about those topsy-turvy days in Ramsgate—blissful moments convincing Georgiana to sneak away with him followed by the lingering shock that she had betrayed him by spilling all to her brother, the absolutely worst person to confide in and the death knell for his plot.

  That day, in the flurry of accusations and heated emotions, he had let Fitzwilliam Darcy drive him away from Georgiana without even the courtesy of a proper goodbye. Yes, he had been offered money and yes, he had taken it, but he had taken the money to make Darcy go away, not Georgiana. He considered the payoff only a nominal fee and not enough to puncture their plans forever. No, he fully planned to rectify the mess he had made; he just never planned on losing full and total access to Georgiana.

  But he had miscalculated his opponent—Darcy was nothing if not ruthless when it came to getting his way. Wickham had no idea what lies and untruths Darcy had fed Georgiana, all he knew was as the ensuing days turned into weeks and then turned into months he knew that time was not on his side. The longer they were kept apart the more it looked as if he had been bought off. Eventually he had moved on but he had never lost hope. He had kept up with Georgiana’s whereabouts and knew she had no serious suitors.

  So he waited, flitting in and out of society, charming all as he went while his heart stayed aloof. No woman of recent acquaintance had ever offered him as promising a future as Georgiana Darcy had. If only he could regain Georgiana’s trust, and explain how everything was Darcy’s fault, then all would be well. He could make her understand. Maybe they could be friends again. He needed friends.

  He needed rich friends.

  He kicked Indigo sharply in her side, urging her forward.

  For once in his life, Lady Luck was smiling down on George Wickham, for the carriage he was searching for was straight ahead and wo
uld soon be coming into sight.

  “We’ll be turning back now missus,” the driver informed the ladies. Georgiana approved of the decision; the sky was darkening at a quick pace and she could smell the scent of rain on the air. She had already achieved her intended goal for the morning, which was to spend as much time as possible in the vicinity of Hugh Radcliffe.

  “No way Mr. Cumberland will be carrying on with the hunt any longer with the foreboding skies, that’s a given,” the driver continued. “So settle back and I’ll have you home in no time.”

  “Just as well,” Georgiana smiled at her cousin. She slunk back against the upholstery and closed her eyes. Her stomach was full and her mind drifted back over the pleasanter memories of that morning, memories that involved her and the young heir. After her brother’s sudden departure, Hugh had positioned himself in her circle for the remainder of the picnic. He was all politeness, yet at the same time, she could sense his favor. She was falling for him, of that she was sure. She felt it most when she was away from him, finding herself drifting off into daydreams. The dreams were always the same: suddenly, she would find herself alone with him, under a tree, and always ended with her in his arms. She sighed; the feelings were intoxicating.

  George Wickham saw the carriage coming toward him and stopped the horse. He realized that he did not have to move an inch. His heart pounded as he waited with anticipation for this long imagined rendezvous. He marveled at the effortless chain of events that had led him to this moment—an hour ago he was asleep on the chaise lounge in Lord Radcliffe’s library, only dreaming of such an encounter. Now, unexpectedly, he was about to live it.

  He motioned for the carriage to slow down and the driver heeded. The carriage rolled to a stop. Wickham approached the side window, bending down to peer inside. He saw her face before she saw his; he saw her expression change in quick succession from confusion to surprise to delight, as a saucy smile spread over her face. He grabbed his hat at the brim and removed it, making a quick little bow of the head.

  His weary heart, which had been asleep for a long time, began to stir.

  Georgiana rolled down the carriage window. As she did so, she heard Fitzwilliam’s warning voice echoing in her mind. She promptly ignored it.

  “George Wickham!” she exclaimed. The sound of her soft, sweet voice saying his name transfixed him. A thousand long buried feelings moved within him and he tenderly replied, “Georgiana, my dear.”

  “Do you know Miss de Bourgh?” Georgiana nodded toward her carriage mate.

  Wickham leaned forward to peer deeper into the carriage and his head spun from the sudden movement and the awkward angle. There seemed to be two Anne de Bourghs in the carriage, and two Georgianas. The double vision was an annoying side effect from the fall but it wouldn’t last, he consoled himself.

  He kept his composure, so he believed, until the double vision subsided, but his high spirits plummeted just as quickly as they had soared.

  Blast and damnation!

  He did not plan on having this conversation in front of Miss de Bourgh. He did not want a witness; he wanted Georgiana and he wanted her alone.

  Suddenly, he did not feel so lucky.

  “Congratulations on your marriage,” Georgiana smirked. “And your son.”

  Wickham blinked. There were two Georgianas again. He blinked repeatedly until the two merged back into one.

  “Thank you,” he said, sensing a lack of authenticity in her sentiment.

  “It proved me right,” she smiled back at him, and he tilted his head, not understanding her meaning.

  “How so?”

  “Fitzy always said you were a mercenary, but I told him he was wrong. Your marriage to Miss Lydia proved me right, as there is obviously no great fortune to be made in that match. So true love must have prevailed. Congratulations.”

  He felt the intended edge of sarcasm in her comments. Inside the carriage the two Anne de Bourgh’s turned their heads away from him, trying but failing to suppress a laugh. So he was an object of amusement and ridicule? Of course Georgiana would poke fun at him and Lydia; of course she would. She knew nothing of his heart or of his mind, his regrets or his recriminations. He could feel the encounter slipping out of his control, yet he did not have the self-possession to refrain from defending himself.

  Georgiana was staring at him, daring him to redeem himself, knowing that he couldn’t.

  “What do you know about me anymore Georgiana?” he asked, his anger forming, growing.

  “I knew all I ever needed to know the day you let Fitzy chase you away. You weren’t the man I thought you were George.”

  So she had cared. He thought so. Perhaps she blamed Fitzwilliam too.

  “He blocked my access to you Georgiana. And he had the law on his side. He wouldn’t even let me speak to you, and why pen a letter I knew would be burned upon receipt?”

  “You didn’t fight for me George. You folded. You took the money.”

  “I was going to come back for you.”

  “But you didn’t. You didn’t. I waited for you to come for me. I told Fitzy you would, and you didn’t. And he has never let me forget it.”

  “But Fitzwilliam made it impossible. You know how he is.”

  “Yes, I know how he is. And he is right. In the end he is always right.” She paused and then added, “I wonder, did you ever fight for anyone, or anything, other than what would line your purse?”

  George winced at the blow.

  So he hadn’t fought for her—so what? How quick she was to forget what he had done for her and for Fitzwilliam, and for the Darcy family name. He, the useless George Wickham, had kept her secret over the intervening years, an intangible gift that neither cherished as they ought.

  She was naïve in the ways of the world, protected by a powerful, rich man like Darcy who would always pay to make any trouble go away. He had bought George’s silence and cooperation, but George Wickham was tired of cooperating.

  His heart hardened against her. The Georgiana Darcy of his memories was only a fantasy and gone forever.

  As for her questioning his honor; he owed her no answer. Not here, not now, not in front of the simpering Anne de Bourgh. He may have little on this earth, but even he had his limits. The meeting was a hapless disaster that should never have happened.

  He put his hat back on his head, said a brisk, “Good day” and trotted off but not before peals of feminine laughter rang out from the open window of the carriage and lingered in the wind.

  “You can go now,” he heard Anne shout at the driver.

  He rode away from the carriage. Anger, shame, regret, and a deep desire to retaliate battled for the primary emotion in his mind.

  How he hated that family.

  He would no longer cooperate with them. He had to think of himself, of his own name, his own son, instead of always protecting Georgiana’s name, as if her reputation was infinitely more important than his own. He and Lydia had no home of their own and no credit. What income he had was only enough to live prudently. Why would he sit back and let himself be sentenced to a life of prudence by Darcy, a man whose own cup runneth over?

  If Georgiana had not spilled the plans for their elopement to Darcy then what a life he would be living now! He would have been good to her; the money would have made it easy to do so. She, however, had never paid any kind of price for her part in the affair. No, she could be as cruel as her brother yet she was never called on it. Word had not gotten out that she had been alone with him in Ramsgate. Her present clean reputation rested solely on his silence.

  Did she merit continued good will on his end anymore?

  He hardly thought so.

  He searched the horizon for the pack but saw nothing. Only flat fields, copses of trees, and banks of heather. The sky darkened, groaning under the weight of the rain within. No one, not even the sky, could withstand such pressure.

  Yet he, George Wickham, was determined to withstand the pressures of his world. He had no status or fort
une, but he was not without ammunition. He had within him the power to ruin Georgiana’s reputation in the same the way the Darcy family had ruined his. Somewhere out in the fields was Hugh Radcliffe, a man of pedigree with parents to impress and a family reputation to uphold; how desirable would Georgiana Darcy be to him once he knew George Wickham had been there first? That he had pressed his lips against hers? He could tell Lord Radcliffe how little resistance she had put up.

  He could insinuate that they hadn’t stopped at that, either. No one could prove otherwise and to sow a seed of doubt might be all that was needed to see Darcy’s plans for his sister unravel.

  He had to do it now. He had to take advantage of this God-given opportunity to get his revenge. Darcy had been watching him ever since he arrived, distrusting him, expecting the worst. Well, he thought, never let it be said that George Wickham did not deliver what was expected of him, he laughed.

  But first he had to find Radcliffe and that was proving to be a challenge. He was at a disadvantage at not knowing the land. As he turned each corner in the road he kept expecting to see the pack appearing on the horizon but instead only a new set of hills or ground or clump of trees rose to defy him.

  He could no longer stick to the road, as he had hoped to do. He would crisscross the countryside instead. He prodded Indigo with his heel and she took off, flying evenly over the fields.

  She knows this land like the back of my hand, Wickham thought. Indigo made a fine ally, but then animals were always more inherently trustworthy than humans—more predictable, too.

  He prodded her to go even faster and she responded to his command in a way that restored his injured pride. As Indigo’s long strides took Wickham deep into the countryside little did he know that the pack he sought was arriving at the forecourt of Bennington Park, dismounting from their horses and handing the reigns over to the waiting stable hands. Oliver Cumberland, with his legendary bravura, had shepherded his wards back to safety before a single drop of rain hit the ground. For now, the fox would live to see another day.