Has anyone been reading The Golden Daffodil? I've noticed (whether it is pure coincidence or playing off my idea, first raised in the first draft of this story) that there is a similar storyline in that story concerning women acting in concert to save unfortunate women, although the composition of who is involved is different. Fanfiction sometimes works this way as authors may inspire each other or simply have similar ideas. However, in noticing this, for fun I decided to play off something in The Golden Daffodil in this chapter, regarding the men searching through Wickham's things.

Chapter 46: Wickham's Collection

When Mr. Bennet and I arrived at the encampment, we saw Colonel Forster for only a few moments before he entrusted us to Mr. Denny who led us to George Wickham's quarters. Mr. Denny then stood outside while we looked through George's things in his trunk that sat at the end of his bed. I was focused on finding out if there were additional letters, but soon enough concluded there was nothing of the sort, it was simply stacked clothing, a comb, soap and flannels. If George had earlier missives, he must have burned them or entrusted them to someone else.

I was soon ready to go, but Mr. Bennet said, "I shall look through his clothing, just in case there might be something concealed therein." He took up each item of clothing, shook it out and then ran his hands along it. Such was his care that he even began shaking out each folded handkerchief in what appeared to be a rather impressive stack.

"This is odd," he commented and held up the first handkerchief. I saw that it had a "K" and bright pink flowers embroidered in the corner. "Who do you suppose this could belong to?"

I had no idea and shrugged. "I rather think with such a design that it more than likely belongs to a lady and not a man."

He then showed me the next handkerchief. It had a key embroidered next to a red heart. "Some foolish woman has tried to tell that man that he holds the key to her heart," Mr. Bennet commented and then set it aside.

Upon seeing the third Mr. Bennet paused, blinked a few times and I saw his hands shake. I hurried to his side and looked at what he was seeing. I saw a large "B" with a smaller "L" and "S" on either side of it. He shook his head and opined in a quiet voice, "Foolish, foolish girl," and then said nothing more.

Mr. Bennet quickly perused the rest of Mr. Wickham's rather extensive collection of hankies. It seemed George was a collector of a sort. I wondered what each handkerchief represented to him, and Mr. Bennet must have had a similar thought for he said, "Do you suppose each hanky is a step towards a desired conquest? Perhaps given by the woman herself as a token? Or could he have stolen them, be keeping them to enact some kind of blackmail? Or even used them for engaging in self-pleasure (though at least these be clean)?"

I shrugged. Each option seemed worse than the next. I wondered if George had begun collecting these handkerchiefs while we were yet at school or if it was a more recent collection. I was not sure which option I would prefer. I also hoped that there was no handkerchief attributable to my sister within the stack and wondered if there were, if I would recognize it was by her hand (less likely as she did not like to embroider) or made for her.

"Whatever their purpose," I opined, "I do not think we ought leave them with him."

To this Mr. Bennet agreed, and so he stopped looking at each one, and instead stuffed the whole lot into his pocket, forming a prominent lump.

When we left George Wickham's quarters, we saw that Mr. Denny remained outside. "Is there anything else you might be needing?" He asked, shuffling his feet as he looked down. I noted that he was still a young man, perhaps only twenty. He had always struck me as a good-natured fellow, and I recalled he usually had a ready smile which showed a gap between his front teeth, but his smile was missing now.

Mr. Bennet asked, "You would not happen to know if Mr. Wickham entrusted anyone to keep something for him? I do not know if Colonel Forster told you, but my pocket watch is missing, and I did not find it amongst his things. But truly, there was little to find there, little more than just his clothing, no personal mementos of any kind."

I stared at Mr. Bennet then, wondering if he had forgotten about the handkerchiefs; surely, they were mementos of a sort. Mr. Bennet gave a sort of shake of his head, perhaps cautioning me to remain silent.

Mr. Bennet continued, "I found it strange, for he attended university, so I would expect him to have a few books, letters, ink and quill, those sorts of things at least. It is as if he knew someone would search through his possessions and worried what they might find." Now that Mr. Bennet had mentioned the lack of other items, although I had not particularly noted it before, I considered that matter odd, too.

"If someone has his strong box, perhaps my watch is still inside. I should not like anyone to suffer for protecting Mr. Wickham from feeling the full effects of his misdeeds, for Colonel Forster would likely punish such a compatriot of his, with stripes upon his back."

"I . . . I might know something about that," Mr. Denny said.

"Speak up, man," Mr. Bennet said.

Still, Mr. Denny hesitated, so I explained, "I expect you think Wickham is your friend, but he will always put himself first. He has no care as to whether his actions hurt others, would gladly let you take the blame for something he has done. I know when we were children, he did that often enough."

"I have done nothing," Mr. Denny said, "but I suspect I know who might have, for I saw someone speaking to Lieutenant Wickham as he suffered in the stocks last night. But this man, he is hardly more than a boy and I am sure if he did anything, he meant well."

"Will you not tell us whom it is?" Mr. Bennet asked. "We do not want anyone else to suffer for Mr. Wickham's actions, and if he returns whatever he has, we shall never say a word about how it was missing in the first place."

"I . . . I shall talk with him," Mr. Denny said. "Please remain here." And so, we did.

When Mr. Denny was well away, Mr. Bennet commented, "I wager he has hidden Mr. Wickham's things himself, that there is no other man."

However, when Mr. Denny returned, he was not alone. There was a youth with him who was fair of skin and had flaxen hair which reached his shoulders. He did not seem old enough for the appellation of "man" for he looked as if he had no need for a straight razor, might not have reached his full height.

"This is Mr. Chamberlayne," Mr. Denny told us, and I recalled how Miss Elizabeth had mentioned his name before, and how her sister had dressed him up to look like a woman.

Mr. Bennet asked, "Do you have Mr. Wickham's things? I am looking for a pilfered item I suspect he stole."

Mr. Chamberlayne responded, "Last night as I was crossing through the camp Wickham called to me from the stocks. I came over to him and then he asked if I would keep his strong box for him. He was worried that someone might try to steal his things as everyone knew he would not be sleeping in his quarters on that night. I took his strong box and then decided I ought to take his quills, ink, paper and pen knife too, and a few other things he had lying about, his straight razor, a deck of cards, a clock and things of that sort."

We accompanied Mr. Chamberlayne to the barracks which, judging from the number of cots, he shared with eleven other men, for there were six cots to a side. He pulled several items out of his own trunk and put them on the floor. All of them seemed serviceable but nothing out of the ordinary.

I carefully examined the battered brass clock and asked Mr. Bennet to look at it, too. I wondered aloud, "Do you think, perchance, this clock might have a secret chamber? Do you recognize it as one which might be stolen from a denizen of Meryton?" I suppose I was grasping for something, anything.

"No to both." Mr. Bennet replied. "As far as I can make out it is a very ordinary clock, which has seen better days. While a wooden clock might have an extra part built onto it later, a brass clock would not. I have never seen it before, and I dare say it is his."

Having apparently heard our conversation, Mr. Denny grabbed the clock, shook it hard (there was no rattle to suggest anything was within) and then lifted it over his head before casting it down upon the floor. It clanked loudly and simultaneously there was a tinkling sound as the glass covering its face shattered most impressively. Mr. Denny reached through the jagged remaining shards and pulled off the hands and then the face, apparently seeking the hidden chamber I had asked after (although why anyone would make a chamber which the clock had to be destroyed to access, made no sense to me). Still, we watched, curious I suppose.

Mr. Denny peered at its works, and announced, "Nothing."

"You need not have broken his clock, and for what?" Mr. Chamberlayne complained. "Wickham is sure to blame me!"

"He was clocked in the face and his clock was clocked in the face, too," Mr. Bennet commented to me, seemingly amused.

"We can just put it back in his chambers," Mr. Denny told Mr. Chamberlayne. "He will never know who did it."

I said nothing. His solution seemed wrong to me, but I had no desire to buy Wickham another clock or report Mr. Denny's misdeed, indeed thought it likely that Mr. Denny would blame me for instigating his action. I was quite certain when all was said and done, Wickham would be angry at me, think I had smashed his clock as the Earl had smashed mine, in a fit of anger.

Then my mind tried to make sense of the odd coincidence in which my clock and Wickham's clock had both been broken deliberately in the space of only a few days. Naturally, I could find no real connection between the two events, but for my presence.

Then Mr. Chamberlayne knelt down and pulled George Wickham's strong box from beneath his cot. It had a dark stain and was about two feet long and perhaps nine inches across with a similar depth. It had thick iron hinges and a substantial iron lock.

"Do you have the key?" I asked Mr. Chamberlayne.

"No, I do not. Mr. Wickham should have it himself, but Captain Carter searched him last night and then Colonel Forster instructed Pratt to search him this morning and they found nothing." I recalled searching him as well but did not mention that.

"This strong box looks to have earned its name," Mr. Denny noted. "I doubt you can breach the lock, would likely need to pry the wood apart to gain its contents. I am not sure Colonel Forster would countenance that." It seemed odd to me that he was suddenly worrying about proprieties after breaking Mr. Wickham's clock.

Soon enough, the four of us were before Colonel Forster, who instructed that we were free to breach the strong box, by whatever means necessary, for as he said, "A thief's own possessions ought not be secured against those from whom he has stolen."

I had rather hoped to be left, me and Mr. Bennet, to break into the strong-box and look at its contents ourselves, but Mr. Denny and Mr. Chamberlayne remained with us, and it was Mr. Denny himself who finally bashed a hole through the wood and then pried splintered bits out with the judicious use of a crowbar until it was a wide enough hole for a man to reach into it. However, I was disappointed when I saw its contents which Mr. Denny pulled out one by one.

First, he retrieved out some small coins, a few at a time (only one of which was a shilling). Then, he removed a handsome silver candlestick bearing acanthus detailing. Finally, he drew out one folded letter. "That is all," he announced. "I had expected some real treasure for it to be locked up so tight."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"See for yourself," he held out the strong-box to me. As my hand are rather large, it was difficult to pass one through the opening without risking splinters, but once it was in, I cast about, methodically working my hand from one end to the other. In one corner I felt a bit of cloth. At first, I thought it might be a lining of the box but found that it was part of a larger cloth, folded up around something hard with no corners. However, I could not take it out, for my fisted hand was too large. So, I let it go and removed my hand.

I said, "I found something, but my hand is too big to draw it forth." I could see the white of the cloth through the opening and Mr. Denny with his smaller hands removed it with no difficulty and set it with the rest of the items upon Mr. Chamberlayne's cot.

I felt a certain disappointment in finding that he had drawn out a plain white handkerchief which had flopped open to reveal the back of what appeared to be an oval miniature. I was almost certain when turned face up it would display the visage of either his father or mother.

I was most curious about the letter, so I picked it up and unfolded it. I immediately recognized my sister's scrawl and noted it was just a few lines in length. With much trepidation I began reviewing the words she wrote, but had hardly passed the salutation before I heard Mr. Denny exclaim, "Who is she?"

I saw he had the miniature in his hands. He laid it back upon the cot and we all moved forward to spy it. Even though from my angle the face was upside-down, I recognized the person it depicted immediately. Gazing out of the tiny painting in its oval frame, was my sister when she was just a girl.

Likely I made some exclamation or maybe even voiced some foul words just then, but I do not recall. I snatched the miniature from the cot (hardly aware that the letter had fluttered from my hand to the floor) and stuffed it in my pocket. My mind was almost fully focused on protecting my sister and I clamped my mouth shut, tried to make my face stony even as I was flooded with emotions.

Mr. Denny asked, "What are you doing? We barely saw it."

I told him, pleased that my voice did not shake, "It was stolen from me; he shall not retain it." I felt a need to escape, to get gone from there. I told him, "I am not of a mind to indulge your curiosity further. You have seen what was inside the strong box. Surely you have something else to do, given that the regiment will be leaving soon."

Mr. Denny straightened himself up. "I was tasked with overseeing you. And I had to stay with the troops last night rather than attend the dinner party. Having my curiosity satisfied is the least I deserve."

"I owe you nothing. I shall take these things," I gestured to the candlestick and the coins. "Unless Mr. Bennet wants the money for recompense . . ." Mr. Bennet shook his head in negation, "I shall give the money to Colonel Forster and be gone."

"Do not forget the letter," Mr. Bennet cautioned me. I glanced down and saw that the letter had folded up on itself upon the floor. I picked it up and folded it across to make a rough square and then carefully slid it into my pocket against the backside of the miniature, so deep that it likely touched Miss Elizabeth's ribbon at the bottom of the pocket.

"I will just get these other things for you," Mr. Bennet said, scooping up the coins and grabbing the candlestick. He did all the speaking when we saw the Colonel, which was a good thing as I was struggling to not lose all rationality from the mishmash of emotions assaulting me. At the time I could not have rationally named them, could have only said that it was all too much.

But in looking back on them, I can identify anger, worry, anxiety. Doubtless there were several more and I do recall feeling dyspeptic, having a sourness in my stomach that was a kind of physical ache; it lingered throughout much of the day.

Soon enough, we were mounted on our horses, Mr. Bennet having wordlessly placed the letter and the candlestick in my saddle bag. "Shall you return to Netherfield, or would you prefer to come to Longbourn?" He asked me.

In that moment if I could have chosen it, and had it been nearby, I would have certainly picked Pemberley, the security of my own room. But as that was not an option, I said only one word, "Netherfield," and galloped away without saying anything further.

When I returned to Netherfield, I had the presence of mind to remove the items from the saddlebag and without a word to anyone marched myself back to the guest chambers that I continued to occupy. When safely locked inside that room, with shaking fingers I drew forth the contents of my pocket, unwrapped the handkerchief and stared into Georgiana's innocent face. I had always liked this miniature for the painter had done a fine job of capturing her visage and it was this same man that I had in mind to paint someday soon the new Mrs. Darcy. While Georgiana was appropriately solemn as is proper for a portrait, there was a hint of a smile in her blue eyes.

I recognized the miniature as it had been painted for my father at the same time as the one made of myself and George, about eight years ago. The three had hung with several miniatures of our family above the mantle in my father's favorite sitting room at Pemberley, just as my father had left them arranged before he gained his eternal reward.

I recalled that the one of Georgiana had been found missing shortly after that. Mrs. Reynolds was the one who had pointed it out to me. She told me, "The miniature of Miss Darcy is gone and none of the maids seems to know anything about it. Perhaps it fell and was damaged and someone hid it out of shame." I had accepted her probable explanation and has not thought about the matter further, but to regret that it was gone. Now I suspected that when George had come about his inheritance, he had stolen the painting then.

I was not sure what to do with the tiny portrait. It was a vivid likeness of Georgiana the child, but it felt tainted because it had been in George Wickham's possession for so long and I had accepted its absence. I pondered what to do with it for a while before I selected one of my own handkerchiefs, wrapped it inside of that, and then put it at the very back of a drawer.

As for George's handkerchief, I took up a knife and made a large cut on one side, and several smaller cuts beside it. Then I ripped the hanky into several strips until it was as destroyed as it could be by this method. Then, as the fire was unlit, I placed the pieces in my chamber pot and pissed upon them. Still, I was hardly satisfied, for so much anger was still within me.

Yet, I had enough rationality by then to wonder why George had taken her portrait, what it might mean. I did not like any of the explanations my mind conjured. My eyes then chanced to glance at the letter and the silver candlestick which I had set a top a table next to a wall, which were reflected in an oval mirror mounted beside it. I was not sure why I had taken the candlestick, but for the fact that I had wanted to leave the camp immediately.

I knew I would have to read the letter, but first I picked up the candlestick, wondering if I had been justified in taking it. Perhaps, like the clock, it was simply one of George's possessions and now I had stolen from him, just like Mr. Bennet.

I noted that the candlestick was heavy and well crafted, pleasant to the touch. I carefully turned the candlestick over in my hands, looking for its maker's mark, spotting it almost immediately near its base. I noted the hallmark for the silversmith along with other marks indicating that it was made in the reign of the current King George and the year, and a large S.

I recalled as a boy noting marks on the silver tea service and asking my mother about them. She had patiently explained their meaning and then spent the rest of the afternoon taking me around Pemberley and showing me the marks upon several of our silver pieces.

If I recalled correctly, the "S" meant it was made in Sheffield and the maker's mark was for John Roberts & Co., a preeminent silversmithing company known for its high quality. I knew that several pieces my mother had purchased had come from that company, although I did not recognize this particular candlestick.

It was incongruous that George would have something so fine in his possession. It would not have been anything the Wickhams' were likely to have given Mrs. Wickham's spendthrift ways and interest in outfitting herself well rather than taking pride in her house. Additionally, George not having the set of two was also rather odd, candlesticks like candelabras come in pairs, have more value together. Having just a single candlestick is as odd as possessing just a candelabrum. I supposed, though, that my father might have given something of that caliber to the Wickhams and George might have sold just one, retaining the other out of sentimentality.

However, I was not of a mind to be generous with George or to wrestle with the morality of me retaining what was rightly his. And so, I decided, saying it aloud as if to more firmly resolve it in my mind. "He must have stolen this from Pemberley. Mrs. Reynolds is sure to remember it." I then put it away in the self-same drawer as the miniature.

Finally, there was nothing left to do but look at the letter. I picked it up and forced myself to read it slowly (as I was hardly in a state to comprehend anything I might read without taking my time). It read as follows:

Dear Mr. Wickham,

I thank you for your condolences and memories of my mother. I am glad to know she shall be missed. She passed from this life with Brother and I at her side and I trust that even now she is with God and my father.

But you are right; it hurts to be left behind, to know I shall pass through the rest of my life without them. You were kind to write to me.

Sincerely,

G. Darcy

Once I had read it, I could breathe again. The letter was nothing, nothing at all. I recalled that George had written to Georgiana after our father died; he must have done the same when my mother died, too, though she had made no mention of it that I could recall. While generally it was not proper for her to write back to a man who was not related to her, I believed that given that she was still a child and he had known her all of her life, I doubted it would be considered too unseemly. It hardly seemed to be the sort of item which would work to blackmail her.

I put the letter away with the other objects and tried not to think about any of them. However, I could not put my thoughts away as easily as I could put away those things.

It occurred to me that there was something decidedly odd in George retaining such a brief note from my sister, when he had kept no other correspondence whatsoever. "What is it all about?" I asked myself. "Why steal her portrait and keep her note? It does not make any sense."

But perhaps it did. Perhaps what I had thought was an opportunistic scheme to marry my sister and get at her dowry, had instead been his plan for many years, was his plan still.