At Last: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Anne Morris

  Though he had often viewed Mr. Bennet as a languid and bookish man, Darcy had noticed the affection between the father and the son when they had both visited him at Pemberley. He could not, and would not separate that father and son. To do so would also mean stripping that son from his mother, and then it occurred to him that he considered Mrs. Bennet as Simon's mother and not Elizabeth. Somewhere, weeks ago, months ago, his perspective had shifted, and he had forgotten that Simon was a creation of her body, or he had simply come to realize that Elizabeth was not Simon's mother, but his sister as the rest of the world thought.

  Darcy thought again of Sir John. Had the man wished to know more about Henry Mandeville, Darcy felt Sir John would have done more. If Darcy learned anything of interest in his fox hunt on behalf of Elizabeth, he would write to the old man, but nothing else.

  • • •

  Her mother had noticeably changed with two daughters married and moved from Longbourn. It was as if Mrs. Bennet had allocated a certain amount of time and energy to the getting of husbands for her daughters, and used that energy up with Jane's and especially with Catherine's weddings. Perhaps, she had expected her two most beautiful daughters to marry, and then assumed the other three would be more difficult to marry off, and were not worth the effort.

  Elizabeth had always been at pains to shield Mary from the worst of Mrs. Bennet's verbal offenses against her, as though beauty was the only accomplishment worth having in their mother's eyes. Mrs. Bennet had not seemed interested that Mr. Parry had danced with Mary twice at the monthly Assembly in October. Had it been Jane or Catherine—even Lydia, who was her new favorite child—it would have been a point to speak about, to rush about the room, and to exclaim over with the other matrons. Perhaps her health was not the best, as she had Mr. Jones to visit a number of times since they had returned from London, though the good man had assured her mother that rest was the best thing for her.

  Mrs. Bennet had also finally accepted Elizabeth's decision to not look for a husband, which had at first pleased Elizabeth. Elizabeth had decided she could never marry, that her secret, should it ever be revealed, would be too great an issue of trust in a marriage to risk, but one she could never reveal. It was a dilemma best left undone by never marrying.

  She told her mother that she had decided to put herself on the shelf, and Mrs. Bennet had, oddly, decided to agree with her. But in agreeing with her, she had taken that to mean Elizabeth would be her appointed helpmate, an entrusted companion in her later years, which was not what Elizabeth had envisioned for her future.

  She found herself at her mother's beck and call at all hours of the day now. She often even went to sit with her first thing in the morning to go over household plans which meant foregoing her walk. It was not the future she wished.

  • • •

  The address given was in the east, London proper, and not a fashionable Westminster address, but Darcy had not been truly surprised by it. A man contacting another, a gentleman, in such a circumstance, could only be seeking money.

  The lodging house surprised him when he discovered it; it was but one street away from the smell of the Thames in Wapping. Docks lined the river even out that far, past were the new London Docks had been constructed for the goods which came into London from all over the world. Three or four blocks in from the water though, there were open fields, some farmed areas still, as though the city and the country met in this little area—it was where the city gave way to become Stepney, and then gave way to eventually become Sussex proper, and the countryside, if one simply kept going up on the main highway, the Mile End Road, as one rode out of Town.

  Darcy thought it should be idyllic, but it was not, down by the docks, with a shabby and disturbing air to the street, New Gravel Lane, the lane was neither new, nor paved with gravel, but muddy, unkempt. He turned to his final destination with no one about that morning as he called at The Pear Tree.

  The lodging house had a public bar that greeted him as soon as he walked in the door, but no eager publican was at its counter when he entered. A woman dressed in second-hand clothes, though with a bearing that indicated that she owned or ran it, stopped in the process of moving from one part of the room to another, and she eyed him. Her frown was not welcoming.

  "Yes," she barked, looking at him over the side of her shoulder.

  Darcy reached into his greatcoat pocket, it had been a cold morning, and withdrew the letter. "I am looking for Mr. Worthing; I have business with him."

  "He's not here," she called back.

  "Does that mean he is not here at present but shall return, or no longer resides here?" he asked.

  She turned to fully face him, put hands on her hips. She was not a large woman, but had the air of a woman one does not cross. Her answer was long in coming, and he wondered if she expected a tip before she would speak again.

  "Look, Mrs. ...?"

  "Mrs. Vermiloe," she slurred through her own name and it sounded harsh to his ears.

  "Mrs. Varmilow," he repeated as best as he could, hoping he had caught enough of it to appease her. "I have had this letter from him inquiring after some business, for a friend, Sir John." Her eyes perked up at that. "I wish to simply know if I can find him here, or if I search for him elsewhere. Worthing contacted Sir John, perhaps he has moved on and will write again, and I shall not have to disturb you." He reached into his waistcoat for a shilling and held it to her, "for your troubles."

  She came across the room then to stand next to him. Mrs. Vermiloe was small, short of stature, thick-boned but no doubt used to maintaining her composure, and staying on her feet, despite unhappy lodgers, and drunkards at her bar. She took the coin as if she was offended by it, but took it all the same. "He is here, paid up through Saturday, but not been here for two days. He does that, disappears but he will turn up, he always does. Want me to send you word? It will cost you though, Mr.…?"

  "Call me Mr. King," and he could not help but smile slightly then, 'Smith' would have been obviously a false name, "I will leave an address," and he left his solicitor's address, another coin, and departed.

  • • •

  Charlotte sat in the little east-facing parlor that was so very impractical but which she loved so very much because it afforded her a view of the sea. She had not known how much she would love the rhythms of the shore, the smell and sound of waves breaking, and watching the sun rise over the water in the morning when she was out for a walk. She was working on a composition—a happy composition—for Maria and Mr. Legget were to be married at last. Alfred—after only four months of marriage she still was not used to referring to her spouse by his Christian name—her husband, had been able to find a place for Mr. Legget in York to which Mr. Legget applied and was accepted. Charlotte was pleased to know Maria would be so close.

  She was attempting to tell her friend Elizabeth her family's good news, but was also wondering how that news would be received. She had often wondered about her friend this past year—it still shocked Charlotte, out-right shocked her, when she considered it was Charlotte that was Alfred's bride, and not Elizabeth, or even that she was a bride at all.

  Elizabeth had often spoken with an indifference to marriage, this twelvemonth especially. But Charlotte recalled those days when they were girls and had played, simply played, before their mothers pulled up their hair and placed them in stays. Back then, Elizabeth had been full of ideas of marriage and love and having children. Charlotte had never had those dreams, it was Elizabeth who had wished for romance and love, with all of the trappings that young girls often dream of when they anticipate their come-outs, and which her friend had abandoned, apparently, sometime between being that girl and becoming a young woman.

  Charlotte looked out at the rain, a soft misty rain that still did not obscure her view of the gray sea from her parlor window. She had been blessed in a way she had never thought to dream of—marriage—and if she was correctly guessing, a child—though she would not yet share that with anyone for a while. But
when had Elizabeth's dreams faded or died? Perhaps they were still there, lay buried, and some persistent gentleman would help her to rekindle them. To light a flame inside that had been blown out. In the meantime, Charlotte would share her news and hope it did not make Elizabeth morose, or more depressed, for her letters of late had been melancholy.

  • • •

  Two days later, Darcy had finished a late luncheon and was considering how to identify other enlisted men who had sailed with Mandeville when a note was delivered to him.

  "Street kid delivered it from Mr. Inwood's office who sent it over," answered the footman when Darcy inquired who had brought it. The note was from the petite lodge-keeper stating that his target had returned. Darcy ordered his carriage.

  The streets in Wapping were busier in the mid-afternoon than they had been in the early morning, the busyness of the Docks the reason. He abandoned his carriage one street away, and walked the last part, eying the assorted population that inhabited the area, workers and sailors, some men looking hungry as though searching for work to feed a need both for their bellies and their souls. Darcy wondered if they had, like thousands of others, come to the city to seek work at the new docks. He entered The Pear Tree.

  Men stood just inside, and others leaned against the public bar along one wall. He did not spy Mrs. Vermiloe; a thin man was behind the bar waiting on those in need of libation. Darcy nudged past the men and moved farther into the room. There were two small tables on either side of a fireplace at the end of the room and holding men seated on benches.

  "Mr. King," his hostess appeared through a doorway on his left, and he nodded at her. She moved forward to stand near him; he thought she meant to be near enough that the others in the room did not see him pass her any coins. "He's over there, at the tables. Blond gent who dresses well," she pointed to the table on the left side of the unlit, blackened, and neglected-looking fireplace, then held her hand in front of her. He placed coins in it.

  "Thank you," he replied, and headed towards his subject. Two men sat at that small table, a blond one, and a curly headed one whose hair was dark, almost black, and Darcy thought he must have some Gaelic in him. "Mr. Worthing," he called, and then his feet stopped as he focused again on the blond man whose hair was longer than was currently fashionable, a man who had neglected to have his hair cut, because he was too cheap to pay to do it: Mr. Wickham.

  "Darcy!" cried Wickham as he turned to look at his visitor. He was surprised, and even a little panicked, but then he schooled his face to look accommodating. "Rhys, do you mind if I speak to this man alone?" Wickham called over to the dark-haired man across from him. Mr. Rhys nodded, pulled his feet from under the table, and vacated the bench without a word.

  Darcy stood in place, going over this new angle in his mind as quickly as he could. How did Wickham come to know Sir John Mandeville, and was it at all related to Elizabeth Bennet and Wickham's time in Hertfordshire, or was this coincidental? and Wickham did happen to have information about Henry Mandeville? He could come to no conclusion, as anything to do with Miss Bennet clouded his mind. Darcy stepped forward to pull the bench out from beneath the table with his foot and sat down opposite George Wickham. He noticed the friend, Rhys, had left a half-full tankard behind, but Wickham was, apparently, not drinking, at least not yet.

  "How do you come to be in the Pear? Not your usual sort of establishment, Darcy. This is not your side of Town," said Wickham.

  "I am hunting some information, for a friend, and looking for a contact," began Darcy, whose mind still whirled as he attempted to piece together George Wickham's part in this, "and I was told by Sir John Mandeville to contact a Mr. Worthing who lodged here," he put his hand flat on the table. "I am surprised by this turn of events." He looked at Wickham; the last time he had spied him, with Georgiana on his arm at the Assembly ball in Meryton, he thought it would be the last time he would need to see his face, and yet here he was. He could not understand the connection; Darcy pulled his fingers up into his palm to make a fist.

  "I am Mr. Worthing here," answered Wickham. His eyebrows came together in what looked like a frown, but the rest of his demeanor was one of a man who had the upper hand, and Darcy knew that he did. Darcy had come to speak to a 'Mr. Worthing' knowing he would most likely pay for information about Henry Mandeville. But this man before him knew Darcy's worth, knew any tricks he might play, knew if he withheld any information when he began to negotiate; their history together condemned him. Darcy felt it would cost him equally as much as it had when he bought Wickham's inheritance off of him to buy this information off of Wickham. He pulled his hand from the table.

  "Sir John Mandeville is old and infirm; he cannot walk, and does not accept visitors," said Darcy. "He sent me as his emissary."

  "You are here because of my letter to Sir John?" The furled brow lessened, the brows were raised.

  "Yes," it was his turn to be terse and not give away more than he should. Wickham was one man who could still read him, despite the mask. "Mr. Worthing, which you tell me is you, stated that he knew the final disposition of his grandson, Henry Mandeville."

  "How did you come to be his emissary?" One side of Wickham's mouth raised in what was probably an inviting smile, but Darcy found it infuriating—no doubt it charmed the ladies.

  He stared at Wickham not wishing to answer. "I heard stories about the owner of Netherfield when I stayed there with Bingley. I wrote to him when I was in London, and he invited me to visit," it was truthful, though it was not, perhaps, exactly the truth.

  "So he does accept certain visitors, if of the right station," growled Wickham. To this, Darcy did not answer and they sat mutely, looking at each other. The sounds of the room began to intrude into the space between them, and they both turned to look as a group of men came through the door, grumbling and calling to others in the room, and striding immediately to the bar, all sharing the same unhappy looks. Wickham inclined his head slightly, "something you would never know, not knowing how you shall earn your next shilling, or if you shall eat again when your coin runs out." He turned to look back at Darcy with a darkened face.

  "How would you know of Henry Mandeville? He was on the HMS Revenge; he disappeared, and is officially listed as missing at Trafalgar. That was eight years ago." Darcy had been worried that too much of himself could be read by this old adversary, but he could see shadows of something pass on Wickham's face. Again, the man did not answer, and the sounds of the public room filled the space between them as they watched each other, two tom cats unsure if to fight or to run.

  "I saw action at Trafalgar, old man," Wickham broke the silence at last, "I was done with school; had to do something—see the world!" The smile was there, that lady-charming smile, and his eyes shone though with what, Darcy did not know, since Wickham had no drink before him. Wickham looked out and beyond into the room. "I was not welcomed back at Pemberley," those eyes snapped back at him. "Mr. Darcy made that clear—he thought I ought to try my hand, be on my own, cut me loose to set sail," his lips smiled, but his eyes were hard, "and I did, I joined the navy. I was on the HMS Revenge with Mandeville."

  Darcy's gut twisted at the way Wickham even dared to reference his father, and Darcy thought he might be ill right there in a public house full of men. It had been difficult seeing his father's preference for this charismatic young man, but this was a piece of news he had never known. His father had apparently asked Wickham to attempt life away from Pemberley on his own—to make his own living in the world, without the senior Darcy's help. It was like a small breeze, a small relief, to discover that fact, in this otherwise difficult conversation. "I had not known you were in the navy," said Darcy.

  "War, Darcy, I went to war," he growled. "And this is where we negotiate," both of Wickham's hands came up to rest on the table.

  Darcy looked at him and thought that it would be like the negotiations over the Kympton living, which took over a week of growling and groveling and arguing, and cost him three thousand pounds. He
was not sure what Wickham would ask this time.

  "Are you staying in London long?" Wickham's hands moved back to the edge of the table, and he used them to push himself back from their conversation as if disgusted by it, and to distance himself from Darcy. The change of subject caught Darcy off-guard.

  "I had not planned to, no. Georgiana and I were to go to Weymouth for a month, until we return to Town for Christmas," he answered. Wickham's hands still rested against the tabletop, and he drummed both of them, running from his little finger to his pointer through multiple times before he looked from his hands back up to Darcy.

  "You shall not wish to delay your leaving then. Two hundred and fifty pounds, and we call it an evening. I can buy the lads here a happy night, and then disappear as I am only paid through tomorrow, and get on with my life. And I tell you Mandeville's fate."

  Darcy had to wonder at such a small amount, and yet did had no wish to argue, "yes," he agreed nodding, and reached to an inside pocket of his jacket to produce the required amount. Wickham made no further comment that such an amount lay in Darcy's pocketbook, and that he had come prepared to pay Mr. Worthing—though that was before he knew Mr. Worthing and Mr. Wickham were the same man.

  Darcy passed the money over, and Wickham folded it into his palm, and then tucked it into his own jacket. It was then that Darcy considered he was no longer in militia uniform; he had not expected Wickham to last in the shire, but he wondered if anything had occurred to force him out. Darcy should write to Colonel Forster.

  "Mandeville?" prompted Darcy.

  Wickham smiled, then looked over Darcy's shoulder, across the room to the skinny barman where his friend stood talking to him. "Rhys was on the HMS Polyphemus, only two ships back from us in the Lee column. His ship only had six casualties, two dead, four wounded," Wickham turned his gaze back to Darcy. "There were seventy-nine casualties on the Revenge that day, including Captain Moorsom, bastard. All the officers were bastards." He spat beside him. "Almost thirty dead and that included Mandeville. It was a mess that day, a bloody royal mess, but I saw his body; Bill and Tim threw it into the sea along with the others."