While the Darcy children reveled in the beguiling presence of their highest born acquaintance, George reacquainted himself with the perilous exploits of Robinson Crusoe, and with the titular hero's every run-in with disaster could not but side with the father who was passionately opposed to his son's reckless passion for adventure. In no uncertain terms, Crusoe was ordered—demanded—to give up his dreams of sailing the high seas for the study of law, for a good, respectable living, and for the promises of lifelong financial and physical comfort.
Thought George, Was this demand really so unreasonable, given the consequences that ensued?
There was a time when he was thoroughly entranced with the thrilling (and violent) tales of worldly adventurers. But he was a child then, and a silly one. Now it now felt offensively foolish, that so harsh a fate was favored over the wisdom of the father's warnings, that Romance won over welfare, all the hero's wealth by the end of the novel acquired at too high a cost, nearly of his life. Crusoe himself was a lie, a contrivance, but the world he inhabited was not, and in fact too cruel, George realized, for a man to brave beyond the pages of a novel. It was a lesson learned by his own father the hard way, and at the ultimate price. By the time George came to the chapter detailing Crusoe's encounters with the Carib cannibals, his mind was firmly set on learning estate management, that of Longbourn in particular, just as soon as possible. He would announce this plan to the whole family as part of making amends for his past defiance, which should please Ben and his uncle to no end.
When George's eyelids grew heavy, he closed the book and rang for Dr. Fitzwilliam to come and sit with him until he fell asleep. As per the routine for the past two nights, the doctor arrived, blew out all but three candles, and then reclined on the opposite bed with a book of his own. George closed his eyes, and slowly drifted away, the trio of twinkling lights supplanted by dreary darkness and the disturbing reminder of that dank, drafty room in the old Beedle farmhouse. Gradually the images intensified, affecting other senses, as well. No longer did he feel a soft mattress beneath him, but a hard, rough floor, his clean nightshirt now a filthy frock coat, his feet cold and mouth parched. Obscurity. Silence. Shadows. The flash of a dagger, a muffled scream—he must flee!
George ran fast, chasing a distant light moving farther and farther away. Only in waking was he able to catch up, his breathing ragged as his eyes found the clock showing he had been out for less than an hour.
Within that time the doctor had fallen asleep, book lying on his chest as it rose up and down in deep, peaceful slumber. How enviable! and how George longed to have his brain wiped clear, leaving only the fondest recollections, from his very first in life to the morning spent fetching carrots with Janie. If only he could brush off the whole incident as a figment of his imagination, forcefully conscious to the fact he was never betrayed, and never really in danger. This mental trick he practiced on the regular, only to fall short upon one more glance at his wrist still bearing the discolored mark of Sam's iron grip.
His own mind seemed determined to haunt him, to wander constantly to that terrifying event and dwell on how, were it not for…him, he might still be at the mercy of Sam Cullen and his gang of thieves still at large, hiding out, likely wondering what became of their cohort. Might they come back for him? Might they be waiting for him to venture out of doors just to snatch him up and take him away again?
No, George determined with the smallest shadow of doubt. There was no need to fear, not while he was in residence.
"Just know you are safe," he had said before taking him straight home under no condition, no promise of reward or fear of repercussion for the capital crime just committed. George recalled how the blow had been struck – not in a fit of rage or madness – but rather impassively, as if the act were scheduled for that moment, as if he had full knowledge of Sam's design and was dispatched to foil it. What man of this earth could have performed such an act on a mere suspicion of intent? Surely he had to be otherworldly, one among the guardians so often preached about in church, sent to lend his strength and protection in the aftermath of treachery and destruction, his human expressions and weak frame a mere pretense, a ruse, so as not to betray his heavenly status, and to garner the sympathy required to be taken in for an indefinite period.
As the clock struck nine, George remained absorbed in these rather comforting thoughts. He wondered about the dinner, of what was being said and his cousins' impression of him. Was Ben now as open to George's (admittedly farfetched) notions as Janie and Malcolm? Or had he convinced them he was as mortal as any other, merely a destitute and sickly traveler who—to his own possible detriment—was compelled to thwart villainy in his snatching of a strange boy from evil's grip? In George's estimation, the more grounded concept seemed every bit as implausible as the divine one.
Fraught with curiosity, George gave up on sleep and climbed out of bed, careful not to wake the doctor as he crept past, quite determined to catch a glimpse of God's minister, if for no other reason than to gain a better notion of his purpose, which must be far greater than he or the Darcys could ever fathom.
He opened the door quietly, making a brief survey of the empty hall before beginning the trek down a lit corridor leading ultimately to the grand staircase, a faint, far-away echo of voices hastening his heartrate as he drew closer to the brass banister running down a great number of carpeted stairs. In a slow descent, George stopped just within view of the reception hall below, where the crystal chandelier gleamed above two men conversing alone at an unchecked volume, one instantly recognized as his uncle John, and the other…
It must be him! thought George upon sight of the familiar walking stick serving more as a crutch. He was standing motionless, his hard expression fixed on a more agitated Uncle John. He now looked as well as he spoke, donning a much finer wardrobe, beard shaven away and hair sharply tapered on all sides. This new look should be counted as an altered form, though not by much as he still looked thin and frail as a reed.
George crouched down, taking hold of two balusters, his slight, shadowed figure undetected by either of them, engaged as they were in what sounded like an impassioned altercation.
Then he had come for the Russells, too, thought George. Just as he told Sam.
Now that was perplexing; for what protection had this guardian to offer a duke's son, who was perhaps as content and free of troubles as any man could be? A Lord, rich in every respect, living high on a hilltop in a lavish manor with a wife as accomplished as she was pretty, two healthy children (including an heir!), and no perceivable ills to be battled. No damage to repair or wrongs to be righted. Curious, indeed.
George then focused his attention to what was actually being said, catching the end of a firm retort made to Lord Russell.
"—received confirmation the old man was in fact still living, else I would have stayed in America." (His voice—like a rising storm—rang quite clearly in George's ears.) "And let us leave it at that for the time being. The last ten years—whether of actions or locations—are of far lesser importance; for they are in the past. Here and now is all that matters."
"Do not presume to tell me what matters," Uncle John replied heatedly (Never had George seen him so flustered!). "And just how mad are you to suppose you can pop out of obscurity, disrupt my life, and behave as if you are still in a position to make demands—"
"My one demand is the answering of a question simple as breath, a mild indulgence best sought in person than by correspondence, and that only you can satisfy."
"And what makes you think that?"
"Evelyn's own words, confirmed by her two witless spawn."
"You were in Bedfordshire? When?"
"Do not insult my intelligence by feigning ignorance. I saw it in your countenance immediately, that you've been expecting this encounter; hence you must have received warning of my visit and my pursuit. I shall give you another chance to be honest."
"Or what? You will kill me? Lord knows you've grown very adept at it."
A slight twitch of his brow accompanied an even reply. "Why the devil would I kill you, John? Am I a monster? I should have thought you of all people knew me better than that."
"I have never known you. No one has. You are impossible to know. It is always games with you, this being your cruelest yet."
"You know less than nothing of cruelty. Hear me, I would never"—the words were coughed out, then stifled beneath a handkerchief before he tried again—"would never harm you, nor would I ever, ever lie to you."
Lord Russell sighed. "I did lie. Forgive me."
"Forgiven. Understandable. And forgive my…anxiousness. I will slow down, and talk of what you may not know. Six weeks ago, I paid our dear stepmother a visit, and was lucky to find Hannah and Marilyn still in residence, as yet unshackled to my surprise. As I recall, Bedford had hoped to marry them off by their seventeenth birthday."
"I am surprised they actually received you."
"Not at first, and not easily, but I finally managed to negotiate for ten minutes of their time. Never mind how."
"I've an idea. Your usual methods of intimidation—both towards our mother and our sisters."
"Do not dare call that woman our mother! And they were never sisters to me, not even by half—only his daughters. As for intimidation, mine is only ever reserved for robbers and welchers—not the wenches of Woburn Abbey. I have other means of persuasion for the likes of that lot."
"Aye, you were always very persuasive. And so to be rid of you, they sent you to me."
"That was my initial thought, but a little more prodding convinced me that your direction was the only viable one. You are the favorite, the last hope, the ever obedient one, the one from whom he could never be estranged. I see you are reluctant, and concede my absence of leverage—"
"Leverage? Must everything be an arbitration? God, just look at you! Two years back in England and not a word—reduced to this? Tell me how!"
He glanced down, shrugging his shoulders. "I have gambled it all, John. Every penny, all that I own. There is nothing for me to offer in return but stories, which I have in abundance. Oblige me, and so help me God, I shall recount to you anything and everything. I lost my travelogue, but shall write another—a novel if you like—beginning this very night. Just answer me, John, and answer truthfully: Where is Bedford?"
Though he tried to listen, George was failing to grasp all the particulars of their knotty exchange, his thoughts rather preoccupied with his embarrassment at having spread to his cousins such preposterous notions of his rescuer's divinity, even though the truth seemed a miracle in and of itself! He struggled to come to terms with the revelation, wishing he had paid better attention when Ben talked of the strange distortion in the Russell line pending matters with the duke and his heir, having found the whole business too complicated, inconsequential, and therefore uninteresting. He understood only that Uncle John had shocked the family with his decision not to ascend; for the station and all its rewards held no charm for him, a reasoning which still felt to George like utter madness. What a man could not do with such a title, such prominence, such wealth! as a duke! as master of the finest properties in England!
As this man could have been!
Can it be true? Was he really Uncle John's brother? The heir to Bedfordshire? How enthralling!
George continued listening to the best of his ability, daring to creep even closer in the process.
"I cannot tell you," said Lord Russell with genuine disappointment. "As you correctly deduced, I did receive word from Evelyn, but her letter was not read until after our return from the continent, just ten days ago."
"How lovely," he sneered, "that the two of you are on such friendly terms."
"Hardly. Her note covered a mere four lines, and for the mere reporting of that one bit of intelligence. I received nothing from our—my half-sisters, and have neither seen nor spoken to the ladies or Papa for years, not since the trial."
"Why went you abroad?"
"To go looking for him, if you must know. His letters stopped coming and I was concerned. Scoff all you like! For better or worse, he is still our father. It was an exhaustive search covering three months and thousands of miles, but regrettably unsuccessful. I think he might have quit Europe entirely, sailed away in search of the scarce few still willing to receive him. He has friends in India, one or two in Penang. The Crown still hears from him, so they say, but beyond that are mute on the subject."
"And their patience with you surely growing thinner by the year. Were you more accommodating, so would they be."
"I'll not stand for their tactics or their terms. Let them strip me of everything for all I care. I've no need of it."
"Stunning! It appears ol' Darcy was correct. We are not the men we were ten years ago."
"At any rate, I doubt even the King himself knows where he is."
"Were he dead, you would have heard by now, I should think."
"Precisely. He simply does not wish to be found."
"I could not give a damn what he wishes. Surely his letters gave some indication of where he is, or where he went."
"I shall be happy to relinquish them to you if it is enough to fulfill my part in this mission of yours. But do you really feel it worth your time and energy? Seems you have precious little of either to spare."
"Hence my resolve, Brother."
"Meaning what?"
"Never mind. Just send over the letters if you would be so kind."
"They have proven no help to me. How are you any different?"
"I am cleverer, that's how. Pray will you send them tomorrow?" After some time, Lord Russell finally agreed, answered with a curt, "Thank you, sir. Name your cost to myself in a note and expect a prompt and full remittance. Thus concludes our business and my disruption. I'll importune you no longer. Good luck, good life, and goodbye."
"Now hold on! I never meant to suggest…that is, I am not unhappy to see you, and truly am thrilled that Matthew has agreed to take you on as a patient. There is no finer physician, and he'll work himself ragged. I must have faith you will show the Darcys due respect and treat their generosity with the gratitude it deserves. You are, to an immense degree, more my responsibility than theirs, one I should insist on claiming, but…"
"You need not explain."
"I would claim it, Brother, but I…truly, you really are better off here than Summerhill."
"Yes, truly, really—far better off. Best for everyone."
"Yes, well…I should be going now."
"So soon? Ah, well. For the best, I am sure. Do give my love to the family."
"I shall call on you again shortly."
"Wonderful! Bring the missus next time—and the children! Let them come and meet their uncle Thorny. We'll drink tea, have a laugh, play shuttlecock!" His beaming smile dropped, replaced with a cold glare. "Goodnight, Brother."
Uncle John met his gaze, but briefly, before turning away, making for the exit. On the firm shutting of the door, he—Bedfordshire's true heir—stared at it a long spell, coughed once or twice into the sleeve of his topcoat, and then blurted out, "All clear, Mr. Wickham," then turning towards the staircase, "Come on down now. Into the light, please."
George stood in speechless shock at having been found out, and from the start it would seem. Were men of his rank versed in heroics, wit and wizardry? He descended as instructed, but warily, and just barely into the sphere of light emitted from the chandelier. To his further surprise, the man did not appear cross at all, but highly amused as he narrowed the distance between them, stopping at the foot of the stairs to peer up at where George now sat at a good, safe distance above him.
Heavily he rested one elbow upon the spiraling end of the banister, the other hand gripping his cane. "Well, Mr. Wickham?"
George muttered faintly, "Well, sir?"
"Sir? Now is that how you address a marquess, young man?"
"S-Sorry…my Lord."
"There. Now you may call me 'Sir' if you like, or 'your Lordship' when and if the mood should strike you. Pity it has taken us this long to be formally introduced to one another, and rather diverting that it is done at so informal a moment. Perhaps all of our encounters, Mr. Wickham, are destined to begin just as the first: rather awkwardly. I hope I am wrong, of course."
His smile was friendlier as he then stated his actual name, or title as it were, to which George repeated with uncertainty, "Thorn-awe?"
"Thornhaugh," he said slowly, clearly and distinctly. "Try again. The softest 'h' in the middle, throat fully relaxed on the second syllable." When George succeeded on the next go, his smile extended. "Well done. And you are also to be congratulated for now holding a particular advantage over your three Darcy cousins, I'd wager for the first time ever."
"Sir?"
"An advantage, Mr. Wickham, but I'll not say what it is. Better you work that out for yourself. As a gambler, I am constantly measuring the cleverness of others. Mr. Cullen, for example: an amateur, a dullard, but potentially lethal by virtue of sheer desperation. Took mere seconds to know what he was about, the next spent in outflanking him. It is a skill—among others—which takes years to perfect."
George looked at him, confounded. "A gambler, sir? And a marquess?"
"Can a man not be many things at once?"
"Of course, sir. Sorry, sir."
"At ease, young man. You'll not be censured for raising dispute, not by me." He then took a step back, exhibiting his wardrobe. "Well, Mr. Wickham, how do I look? Less menacing, I hope."
"Er…yes, sir. And less…hairy, sir."
His Lordship chuckled. "Less the marauder, and more the marquess. Your uncle has been most charitable. Some are born, whether in poverty or luxury, as casualties of circumstance. They dress the part they reckon themselves born and forever destined to play. A gambler, however, decides his own destiny, his look therefore mirroring his success, or lack thereof. But I expect this veneer to in no way improve anyone's perception of me, least of all yours; and I think it only fair that the other children know me not as well as you do. You have well earned that privilege, and I fault you not a whit for sneaking."
"Miss Baxter says it is wrong to spy."
"As any governess would impart to her pupil. That is her role after all, to encourage only whatever knowledge is sanctioned. And I see a difference between spying and sneaking. I was a stealthy lad myself. There is more knowledge—better knowledge—to be gained by such means than a formal education." His grin faded into a more earnest expression as he asked, "Is your health improved?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the nightmares. Are they decreased?"
George flushed deeply, impressed as he was unnerved. Did nothing escape this man's notice? "Sir?"
"Warm milk helps," he said knowingly. "And activity, whether of mind or body, ideally of both. Your time is best spent out of doors."
"Dr. Fitzwilliam says I might stay in bed through the week, sir."
"Whatever for? No good will come from lying about for days on end."
"The doctor says not, that I must"—he strained to remember— "'rest and reflect, in order to re-energize.'"
"Remarkable remedy, in theory. I speak rather from experience than rhythmic resonance. Pray what is your favorite diversion in the whole world?"
George perked up at the question. "Riding, sir."
"Ah," he smiled again, "I am fond of the sport myself, and as well find companionship most beneficial. No better cure for bad dreams than good company. In fact, we've a merry outing planned for tomorrow, your guardians and I. Tell me, is Pemberley really as fine as they say?"
"Oh indeed, my Lord! The finest in the world!"
He harrumphed. "I am still fairly confident I've seen better, though I'm not sure even Darcy himself shall make the best tour guide. He is always so stiff in his manner of speaking. Mrs. Darcy can be relied upon to bring out that better part of him, but…I say, might you be persuaded to join us, Mr. Wickham? to add a youthful charm to the occasion?"
"Me, sir?"
"Of course!"
"And my cousins, too?"
"Certainly! An excellent idea, sir! I shall make the arrangements with your uncle directly."
"But…what if Uncle does not approve?"
"Then I welcome the challenge, as my powers of persuasion are as yet unmatched."
"Oh! Uncle John said that, too. I remember that part!"
"And do not forget it, young man. I've moved the stubbornest of mules, Mr. Darcy among them. We go back some years, he and I. Now you go on back upstairs, get plenty of rest. Think only of tomorrow. Sunshine, birdsong, fresh air, and the finest mount you can manage."
George dared not argue, nor had he the chance as the man then promptly turned and walked away, calling "Goodnight, Mr. Wickham" on his way out.
Mighty steeds of all varieties galloped through George's mind as he headed back to his room, all-a-gog at the thought of riding again, and resolved to prove—both to his relations and the marquess—that he was vastly superior to his former, naughtier self in every regard, including the equestrian.
Dr. Fitzwilliam was still asleep when he crept into the bedroom, just able to find his way back into bed with the aid of the three dying candles. He crawled beneath the covers, utterly exhausted but too excited to sleep. Ten or so minutes passed before three knocks at the door roused the doctor, who rose drowsily to answer as George shot up, quite certain (and rather fearful) it was someone come to report he had stolen out. A few whispers later the door was shut, the doctor turning to George with a tall glass of milk in his hand and befuddled look on his face.
"You rang for this?" the doctor asked.
George smiled.