Trouble With Wickham

by Olivia Kane

  George Wickham however, had no such guide at his service.

  The sky turned black, the wind reached gale-like intensity and even the air seemed angry with George Wickham. The first hard drops of rain hit him smack in the face and he shook his fist at the sky and rode defiantly onward. Hugh Radcliffe was out there somewhere and he would find him.

  Presently the open fields ended and he came to the edge of a large marsh, filled with several inches of murky, standing water. He could not tell how wide it was, nor whether he could ford it safely, and to him it represented yet another obstacle the callous universe had laughingly thrown in his way. He growled with frustration but then came to his senses, gradually realizing the massive error in his logic. He paused and swayed lightly back and forth in the wind as Indigo paced in a circle beneath him.

  What was he thinking in approaching Radcliffe? What gain would come of it?

  There was no profit in that.

  No, he had been mistaken in targeting the young heir. Instead, he would go to Darcy first. In excruciating detail he could describe to Fitzwilliam the exact story he planned to tell Radcliffe. Then he would stand back and wait for Darcy to ask him his price. Darcy’s nerves were visibly on edge; Wickham guessed he’d capitulate easily. He had a figure in mind, the price of Georgiana’s reputation. And it had many zeros after it.

  A slow, wicked smile crept across his face. Fitzwilliam Darcy would provide for his Lydia and Georgie, and provide nicely. How proud Lydia would be of him. How happy she would be.

  Wickham considered the marsh before him and the possibility that Darcy was somewhere beyond it. What was this random obstacle that would keep him from his fate—nothing but a little water, a spot of soggy ground. He would not let the ground or the water or the elements stop him. He prodded Indigo to advance. She refused. He persisted, but she refused to budge.

  They circled the ground, the rain pelting them endlessly, noisily. In frustration he scanned the horizon it; it was barren and desolate and even if he were to encounter Darcy no conversation of any worth could take place now. There was no shame in retreating, he argued with himself.

  He pointed Indigo in the direction they had come and urged her forward. Perhaps another opportunity, an easier one, would present itself tonight at the ball. Yes, he could pull Darcy away then and taunt him with details and threats. Darcy would be forced to maintain his composure in public while fears for his sister’s reputation ate away inside of him. He savored the feeling of sweet intimidation as the image played out in his mind.

  Yet as soon as he thought it, Georgiana’s words taunted him.

  Did he ever fight for anything?

  Of course he had, he told himself, considering his actions of the past year or two. And yet, he could come up with no examples of such perseverance.

  He could not lay claim to one returned letter, nor had a single door slammed in his face to support his claims of perseverance. He had not braved bone-chilling cold and snow while walking miles to see her, nor tossed and turned through sleepless nights filled with endless despair.

  Instead, he had folded and taken the money.

  He seethed with shame and anger and regret at his inaction. Action. He needed to take action; nay he wanted to take action, now. Would he let the rain, a marsh, a horse, stop him in his pursuit of the pack?

  No, he would not.

  He would do this one thing, and then he would have purged any hint of cowardice from his soul. Whatever the outcome, he would look back at this one moment in time and know that, amidst the pounding rain and the wailing winds, he had taken action and made one rich man’s life miserable.

  He pointed Indigo back in the direction of the marsh and prodded her to increase her pace. As they approached the marsh he felt the triumph of his command over the earth, over Darcy, over this animal.

  Indigo, however, moved by instinct and not by the whims of her strange rider. She took Wickham to the edge of the water and then, having been trained by Charlotte to never go into the marsh, stopped abruptly. Wickham, however, continued moving forward, flying over the horse’s head and hitting the ground hard, his face sinking into the inch or two of standing water covering the marshy ground. His poor, battered skull could not withstand a second blow in so short a time span and, upon impact, he blacked out.

  Indigo, released of her burden, turned and galloped away to the cover of the woods to wait out the storm.

  The rain came down steadily; the water rose.

  George Wickham did not stir.

  Late afternoon slipped into early evening and back behind the thick walls of Bennington Park its occupants passed the time in a variety of ways, safe from the deluge. The tireless staff worked efficiently in anticipation of the ball and its supper. The men of the hunting party played billiards and marveled with relief at their narrow escape from Mother Nature’s angry thrashing. They downed Irish whiskey, compliments of Oliver Cumberland. Guy sat, snug in a burnished leather chair, in the slowly darkening library and read contentedly.

  Upstairs the ladies rested in their private quarters, primping for the ball. Mr. Darcy had succumbed to the effects of his sleepless night, and snored lightly.

  No one thought of George Wickham.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lord Radcliffe was right, of course, that the lure of a ball at Bennington Park would act as a tonic for his poor wife’s ailing social status. All the ladies of Meryton, donned in their finery, arrived unfashionably on time for the Hunt Ball. The violent rainstorm had played itself out in less than an hour and, although damp patches remained on the ground, not a single splatter of mud threatened the hems of the arriving guests.

  Lady Radcliffe wiped a tear of joy from her eyes as the entry way swirled with familiar friends and neighbors. She even had a good laugh with her son watching the startled reactions to Lady Catherine’s prominently displayed, horrific stuffed falcon.

  Her heart brimmed with pride and affection for her husband’s good sense in refusing to let her become mired in her fears and instead encouraging her to open her home. As for her fickle neighbors, well, she was more than willing to let bygones be bygones.

  Lady Catherine, in whose honor the ball was held, called the first dance.

  “A reel!” she declared. “How I do love a lively reel!” She had chosen Lord Radcliffe for her partner.

  “And Hugh must dance with Anne as well!” she ordered.

  Hugh abandoned his plan to ask Georgiana for the reel, and obediently led the reluctant Anne to the floor. As he did so he caught the eye of Georgiana. She nodded back at him good-naturedly.

  Mr. Darcy, who was refreshed from his afternoon’s rest, was now better able to commit himself to the exertion of the dance. He stepped in and took his sister’s hand in lieu of his wife’s—Elizabeth remained secluded—and joined the dance floor.

  Charlotte stood happily in the middle of the throng with her favorite partner, poised for the music to begin.

  “It is such a relief to dance with you without the evil eye of the Earl of Buckland staring me down,” Guy whispered into his wife’s ear.

  “I do rather miss the brute,” Charlotte teased.

  The reel began.

  After finishing a bout of uninspired dancing with the dull Anne, Hugh made a beeline for Georgiana, but not before noting with good humor the disdain with which Anne dropped his hands once she saw Oliver Cumberland approaching. It warmed Hugh’s heart to see Georgiana’s cheeks blush as he approached and his heart beat in anticipation of taking her as his dance partner.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “I would be delighted,” she smiled. No sooner had she accepted than Hastings appeared at Hugh’s side, looking somewhat distressed. He requested a moment alone with Hugh and pulled him into the hall.

  “Pardon the interruption, but a message from Quigley in the stables. He noted with concern that Indigo returned to the house riderless. Is your sister well?”

  “Charlotte is indeed very well and here with us on the da
nce floor. How did Indigo get out?”

  “Mrs. Lancaster took the horse herself. Quigley handed it to her in the middle of the afternoon, per her request.”

  Hugh frowned in confusion.

  “That cannot be right. Hold on.” He reentered the ball and locating Charlotte, pulled his sister aside.

  “Quigley reports that Indigo wandered back to the stables alone. What do you know of that?”

  “I didn’t know that. Is she alright?” Charlotte could not hide her distress for her horse.

  “Yes, yes, the horse is fine,” Hastings assured her.

  “I lent her to Wickham to take to town. Whatever in the world ...”

  “Wickham? But he wasn’t to be issued a horse,” Hugh said.

  “Why not?” Charlotte was completely confused.

  “He displayed more than a little instability at breakfast this morning. We thought it best not to endanger him or our animals in his condition.”

  “But he seemed perfectly fine to me. Where is he?” she asked no one in particular.

  The trio surveyed the dance floor from the doorway. Lord Radcliffe, noting their looks of consternation, waded into the conversation.

  “What is the problem?”

  “Charlotte loaned Indigo to Wickham and the horse returned without him,” Hugh stated.

  “I thought he was not to be given a horse?” Lord Radcliffe asked.

  “I did not know that,” Charlotte repeated. “He said he was going into town for the doctor. He seemed fine to me.”

  “He most definitely was not,” her father replied. “Get Mrs. Wickham for me, and we’ll see if she can answer for her husband’s whereabouts.”

  Lydia was dragged from the dance floor, registering no concern with the news of her missing husband.

  “The man could hardly stand up straight, or did you not notice? I hardly expect him to dance. He is not in our room and I have not seen him since this morning. Did you check the tavern?” she laughed over her shoulder as she pranced back to the dance floor.

  Lord Radcliffe turned from Lydia with disgust and could not help but mutter, “Those two were made for each other.” Then he continued: “Set out a small search party, quickly but quietly,” he advised Hugh. “The man was not well and may be ill or indisposed somewhere between here and town.”

  Before leaving, Hugh begged forgiveness from Georgiana.

  “I must excuse myself from the dance floor for now but hope you will do me the honor of saving me a dance when I return. It appears that one of our guests, Mr. Wickham, is missing. We are going to ride out and see if we can find him. Supposedly he took Charlotte’s horse into Meryton but never returned.”

  “When was this?”

  “This afternoon, after luncheon.”

  “I saw him on the road, but it was not on the way to Meryton. He stopped and spoke with us right before the rain came.”

  Upon hearing this he gently drew Georgiana into the hall with him and had her repeat the information.

  “Are you sure you were not on the way to Meryton? He was meant to get his head wrapped,” Charlotte insisted. “I was doing him a favor.”

  “No, he met with us on the road, returning from the hunt.” Georgiana was firm.

  “So he was last seen on the estate?”

  Georgiana nodded.

  “Thank you for the information Miss Darcy,” Lord Radcliffe said.

  “Fitzwilliam will want to accompany you,” she said, motioning to her brother, who quickly strode to her side. Hugh calmly explained the situation.

  “What did he say to you?” he demanded loudly, turning to his sister. The ferocity of Mr. Darcy’s reaction to hearing that Georgina had met Wickham on the road startled all who saw it. Hugh had not imagined that Mr. Darcy was so protective of his sister that he would object to even the briefest unchaperoned interaction between her and a virtual in-law, but it appeared to be so. It did not bode well for his own chances with her, he feared.

  “Nothing but his usual nonsense,” she placated him. “We met for less than two minutes.”

  “Why did you hide the encounter from me?”

  “It was hardly an encounter. Anne was there the whole time.”

  “Did he touch you?”

  “No!” Georgiana’s eyes darted wildly between her brother and Hugh Radcliffe. Suddenly, she did not want her prior connection to Wickham exposed publicly in this way, yet Fitzwilliam was rapidly losing his composure in front of their hosts. His visible anger and uncharacteristic loss of control could not fail to raise eyebrows, but the Radcliffe family retained studied masks of complete disinterest, as if curiosity was an instinct beyond their station in life.

  “I was in the carriage, he riding past us on the path,” Georgiana whispered, trying to deflate the level of emotion in their exchange.

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “No,” she hissed back at him, glaring at her brother with exasperation.

  “I should have left you at Pemberley,” he fumed.

  “Did he seem unwell to you?” Charlotte asked her.

  “I could not detect any infirmity beyond the obvious wound.”

  “He won’t be well when I get to him,” Fitzwilliam sputtered, his jaw tight with fury. He turned to Lord Radcliffe and said decisively, “I am coming with you.”

  Lord Radcliffe could not object. Then Fitzwilliam turned to his sister and said, “Georgiana, please stick close to Mrs. Lancaster while I am gone. This could be a ruse on the part of Wickham to get me out of the house.”

  Georgiana did not quite believe her brother’s suspicions, but she promised him anyway. Charlotte took hold of Georgiana’s hand protectively, grateful that she understood the emotions that Wickham stirred up in her guests. Georgiana could hardly look at Hugh after her brother’s outburst, such was the embarrassment she felt. Tears brimmed in her eyes.

  What fools they must look like compared to the calm and collected Radcliffes! Why couldn’t they just tell the truth about Wickham? Hiding it only made them look ridiculous, she thought to herself.

  Hugh mentally filed away Darcy’s heightened reaction to ponder later. One could not come right out and ask Mr. Darcy why he acted like he wanted to murder Wickham but oh, he would if he could, as he watched Mr. Darcy pace the hall anxiously. His mother’s admonition not to gossip echoed in his mind.

  Mr. Darcy felt no need to explain. No one would dare question his righteous anger.

  Without attracting attention, a small search party was gathered and slipped out from the ball to search the property. Much to Anne de Bourgh’s dismay, Oliver Cumberland included himself in the search.

  The music began, the women found alternate dance partners and the ball continued on. The gaiety in the brightly lit Bennington Park contrasted sharply with the quiet search party, as it spread out evenly and paced the damp grounds, the flickering light from their lanterns dotting the black night. Less than an hour later poor George Wickham’s body was discovered where it had landed in the marsh.

  Upon realizing Wickham’s fate, Mr. Darcy was rendered speechless and bowed his head in true sorrow and regret, whispering a quick prayer for Wickham’s hapless soul.

  Valiantly, the search party wrapped the dead man in a blanket, and bore his weight together as they slowly made their way back across the fields and up the grand staircase that led to the entrance of Bennington Park.

  Lydia Wickham’s reaction to her husband’s death was conveyed loudly and clearly to all who could hear. Upon seeing her husband’s lifeless body laid on the floor she let out a shriek so shrill that it could be heard above the orchestra, and possibly throughout the county of Hertfordshire itself. Before collapsing theatrically on the floor next to him, she turned to Fitzwilliam Darcy, who stood pain-faced nearby, and cried out, “Are you happy now?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the following week the newly widowed Lydia Wickham committed herself wholeheartedly to her grief. She took to her bed, alternatively weeping and sobbing, refusing all su
stenance until sunset, at which point she was overcome by starvation and thirst and then ate and drank heartily from a tray of tempting foods made up especially to please her and delivered to her bed. This pattern repeated itself daily.

  There were worse places on earth to begin her widowhood than the beautiful guest suite in Bennington Park, she had decided. Her imported bed sheets were of the finest cotton, the small fire always tended and glowing, two unlucky ladies maids attended to her every need. Notes of sympathy arrived daily; pots of flowers and cuttings of the last autumn flowers filled the room.

  She was prepared to remain in place for as long as the Radcliffes would have her. Lord and Lady Radcliffe, who felt responsible for the tragedy, believed her to be suffering from shock. Offering her the solace of their hospitality was the least they could do.

  The grieving widow held court in her guest suite. Charlotte and Hugh, both experiencing their own individual pangs of guilt, devoted an inordinate amount of time to sitting with Lydia, listening to her moaning and bawling as a form of penance.

  For his part, Hugh could not help but feel responsible for Wickham’s fatal ride. If he had informed his sister of Wickham’s obvious unsteadiness then she surely would not have handed Indigo off to him so cavalierly. Charlotte, for her part, felt to blame for not suspecting that George Wickham would have an ulterior motive for taking the horse. Both agreed that if they had not given so much deference to their guests Wickham might be alive today.

  Lydia quite enjoyed having the rapt attention of the attractive young heir and soon began to read into his visits an intent that did not exist. To her dismay, Hugh exhibited perfect decorum and was always accompanied during his condolence calls. She wished desperately for a moment alone with him but no such opportunity arose.

  Guy did not join his wife at Lydia’s bedside, claiming that his lack of acquaintance with the young widow made it inappropriate for him to witness the intimacy of her profound grief. He stayed in the library, preferring to be at Lord Radcliffe’s service during the difficult time.