CHAPTER 26

George Wickham was an intelligent, handsome man with a very simple goal in life: to work as little as possible and take every opportunity life afforded him to enjoy himself. His good looks and natural charm opened many doors, beginning with his Godfather, whose name he bore, George Darcy. Out of that man's generous pocketbook flowed all of the advantages which his own birth would never have allowed him to aspire to. He had lived a consequence free existence from six to six and twenty, his youthful indiscretions as well as his less than youthful exploits had been cleaned up, covered over or otherwise managed with extraordinarily little inconvenience to himself, until the death of George Darcy heralded the succession of his son, Fitzwilliam, as the Master of Pemberley.

He regretted his lack of foresight there. Currying favour with the father at the expense of the son was not, in hindsight, the wisest of decisions, but old habits are hard to break, and he had always hated Fitzwilliam Darcy's unshakeable virtue. The Monk couldn't be corrupted, bought or charmed and he had burned that bridge long before he attempted to seduce Georgiana. He still cursed the day that brought Darcy to Ramsgate, conveniently forgetting that the same will that had granted him the living he chose to forsake, also stipulated that Georgiana's fortune could not be accessed by any husband she took without the approval of her guardians. Had he achieved his scheme he would still be a supplicant, beholden to the Monk for every penny that came his way. All that time and effort wasted, wooing that uptight little girl in a beautiful woman's body, pretending to be an honourable gentleman and making do with pecks on the cheek and other such banalities.

Still, he had managed a little revenge of his own, turning the head of that pretty Miss Elizabeth, who had seen nothing but Darcy's arrogance and pomposity and was more than compassionate towards his current reduced circumstances. The rumour was that she had given Darcy a set down over it during their dance at the Netherfield Ball! He had laughed heartily when he heard that. How delightful that he had taken a fancy to the only woman Wickham currently had the power to influence, and who already despised his, what had she called it? Oh yes, his "abominable pride". He missed her lively company, regretted pursuing the freckled little Miss King when he could have been pursuing Elizabeth. She was ripe for the plucking, a few more choice words about honour, a wistful sigh, some accidental light brushes against her bodice as they walked together. She would not be uptight, he knew. He wondered whether she would be returning to Hertfordshire before he left. He would love to hear her impressions of the inhabitants of Rosings Park. He had lived well these last few months, making hay with the mawkish sentimentality of his neighbours who loved to pity him while hearing nothing good about the pompous misanthrope, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Until recently, that is, when suddenly all of his debts were being called in and his usual frolics were being curtailed.

He slammed his tankard down in bored frustration, not tasting the watered-down ale that was served in the enlisted men's mess hall. He had been reduced to eating and drinking here as the Meryton innkeepers and taverns were no longer serving any officers who had outstanding debts and it was another week until pay day. In another month, he would be at Brighton, and many opportunities to improve his situation and get back to enjoying his life were sure to come his way. Until then, he could procure neither good drink nor a clean skirt and while debts were being called, the gambling tables were closed to him also. His fellow officers had begun comparing notes about his debts of honour amongst them, so the next few days he was going to have to lay low, hence his avoidance of the Officer's Mess also. As he was no longer keeping much company with his fellow officers, he was not made aware of any of the general invitations that had been issued to the officers from the local gentry of late. He may as well return to his quarters as there was little to no fun to be had anywhere without any coin.

"Lt. George Wickham!"

The barked order sounded strangely familiar, but his habitual languor and indolence kept him from rising immediately. Colonel Forster was at the mess door, but it was another man, striding purposefully toward his table that caught his attention. He was roughly shirt-fronted to his feet by Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, "Do you not know to stand when a ranking officer calls your name, Lieutenant!" He smiled grimly as he released him, and Wickham almost collapsed back into the chair. "What are you doing here, Wickham? The officer's mess is across the camp, is it not? It appears your ability to retain friends has not changed." Wickham affected unconcern and offered a perfunctory salute to his senior officer, "What are you doing here, Colonel? Summoned to do more of Darcy's dirty work, were you?"

"Although it is apparent that you are incapable of making a life for yourself without trading in some way on the Darcy name, some of us have other business to attend to. I am meeting with Colonel Forster in preparation for the removal to Brighton. While I am convalescing in recovery from my injuries, I have been tasked to oversee training our militia. We are working together to ensure all the militia companies attending will have every opportunity to improve their fighting skills in readiness for any future engagements. I confess I am hoping that the quality of officer to be found in the Warwickshire Militia is not exemplified by you. It is a wonder you chose the militia over the cavalry. You were never one for a real fight, but by god, you always had an excellent seat." The Colonel was speaking loud enough for the gathered soldiers to hear and slapped Wickham on the back, a little harder than was necessary for it to be strictly in good humour. Wickham rebounded into the table, toppling over the tankard with the last of his ale.

"Yes, well, it wasn't within my funds to allow the purchase of a commission into the cavalry unfortunately, so I chose the militia."

"What, you burned through 4000 pounds in less than 5 years?! I thought you were heading for the bar, you know enough of the law from the other side of the dock, thought you might make a decent go of that!" Wickham could hear the gasps from the men in the mess and knew this revelation would travel quickly if he did not say something quickly. "What 4000 pounds, Colonel? You know I was intended for the church and was cheated out of my living by your canting prig of a cousin!"

"Oh ho! Cheated, were you? Intended for the church, eh?" Richard laughed heartily and slapped him on the back again. "I did not know a predilection for hard drinking, chasing skirt and an uncanny ability to lose all of your money at the gambling table were desirable criteria for a man of the cloth. It makes for a great story though, eh chaps, especially now he's wearing a red coat! Gets this pretty face all the attention from the lovely young misses in the High Street?" He cupped Wickham's chin and brought him nose to nose. Still smiling, the Colonel muttered, "I'll be watching you, George. I am exceedingly glad to have found you at last." Wickham sank into the chair as he was released and watched the Colonel stride from the room with Forster, who had watched the scene with curious detachment. Wickham, although a charming ne'er-do-well and practiced rake, was by no means the worst officer in his company - the militia made do with what they could get, and he was more interested in keeping his young wife happy than getting in the way of what looked like a family contretemps. If a Colonel in the Regulars, who was also the second son of an earl, wanted to spar with a lowly commissioned officer, who was he to get in the way?

Wickham sat in contemplation, realising he would probably have to make plans to escape a little early. He had planned to stay with the regiment until Brighton, recoup some of his losses and use his red coat and pretty face to find a willing, young heiress to charm into giving up her fortune. His instinct to wound Darcy through Elizabeth Bennet had misfired and what had it gotten him? Darcy was living his best life wherever he was, Elizabeth was probably too genteel to give him more than her sympathies and Colonel Fitzwilliam was even now in conference with his commanding officer planning who knows what kind of retribution. He grimaced in frustration, ignored by the enlisted men around him as a brawl had begun over a card game at another table, and loped out of the entrance, hoping inspiration or opportunity would strike soon.

He began to walk toward Meryton, skirting the main street lest he be called in directly to pay his debts when he noticed a group of familiar ladies walking towards the Philip's residence. It appeared as though Elizabeth had returned and was calling at her Aunt's house with her sisters. He did not see any gentlemen of the party, or any of his fellow officers and wondered if he could charm his way into joining them when a voice behind him arrested him.

"Lt. Wickham, is that you?" Lydia Bennet had been dawdling at the milliner's debating how to spend her last pennies and her sisters had left without her to visit with her aunt.

He turned in surprise to see her. "Why Miss Lydia, how come you to be here unaccompanied?" She laughed with the confidence of youth as she declared she was well able to walk unaccompanied to her aunt's house, but that he would be welcome to escort her if he so wished. As this was exactly his heart's desire, he offered her his arm and continued conversing amiably with her. Her conversation betrayed her youthfulness, but her figure and flirtatious manner more than made up for what she lacked in wit and her animal spirits gave her a similar vivacity, though less refined in nature, to her elder sister, Elizabeth. As they walked, he asked after her, hoping he had not mistaken her form when he espied her sisters entering the house earlier.

He stopped short upon hearing the remarkable revelation that she had returned, in company with Darcy and Bingley from London and not just in company but in actuality engaged to be married to the sanctimonious dullard. What would Darcy do with a spirited minx like Elizabeth Bennet?

"Wickham, are you well? You look as though you are about to cast up your accounts?"

"Did I hear you correctly? Miss Elizabeth is engaged to Mr Darcy?"

"Indeed, she is! What a fine joke it is! Though it is most assuredly not a joke. He is at Longbourn every day, mooning about her and trying to pretend he's personable and disinterested. I have gotten some pretty presents out of it already, so I shan't complain too much, but la, he's such a bore! And they keep warning me about all the officers, and oh! Lizzy and Jane have said the most horrible things about you! Not being gentlemanly, or trustworthy, and loose with money and morals and other such nonsense. I am valiantly defending your good name, Wickham, but I believe you will not be welcome in my aunt's house anymore!"

Lydia looked crestfallen, but as Wickham had been debating how best to detach himself from the situation, not wishing for a confrontation in the home of the town solicitor at this very moment, he very gallantly accepted her apologies, kissed her hand and decamped from her side as fast as dignity could allow. She watched him walking away with compassion and regret and vowed to continue defending him to her family and that odious Mr Darcy and to find a way to restore his former position in society or give him the comfort only she could provide. She directed her steps to her aunt's and once inside became involved in her favourite parlour game and was instantly diverted from any of her serious thoughts of Wickham.

Lydia Bennet was fifteen years old, and never once in her short life had she troubled to think deeply about herself, her situation, her character or her consequence. Her mother declared her beautiful, vivacious and charming, and had continued to do so even when her precocious and attention-seeking displays outgrew the sweetness of infancy and became the vulgar and indecorous demands of shallow self-absorption. She was the baby of the family and the apple of her vain mother's eye, who delighted in the reminders of her bright and happy youth where she herself had been the belle of every assembly ball and had consequently made a very advantageous match, on paper at least. Her husband, being too indolent to seek to improve his wife, or make any effort to find her agreeable, took solace in his library and retreated to his books, employing his wit against his wife's insipidity in the only enjoyment available to him within his marriage.

His relationship with his daughters was predicated on very simple terms - if they could engage his intellect, he would exert himself to improve their minds and their principles. If they could not, he stepped back as if to savour the disaster slowly unfurling before his eyes. He took little responsibility for their character, behaviour or introduction to society, except to allow the two eldest frequent trips to London from an early age, which they enjoyed increasingly as they grew older, being able to sense the vast expanse between the sense and propriety displayed in the Gardiner home, and the lack thereof displayed at Longbourn. It is possible that Elizabeth and Jane would have retained their inherently gentle characteristics, intelligence, poise and grace without the benefit of a refined aunt and uncle, but that is neither here nor there. What is clear, is that the three daughters who did grow up without such benefit, had retained none of the same.

Wickham's path back to the barracks was even more furtive than his meanderings out. He thanked his lucky stars for happening upon Lydia unescorted and for the information she had revealed. That his chances for amusement in Meryton had all but vanished was apparent, but the presence of Fitzwilliam coupled with the astonishing news of Darcy's engagement to Elizabeth gave him pause. Something was afoot, and he was damned if he was going to get caught in the noose. He cursed his luck in choosing the same little benighted village where Darcy chose to holiday, never once reflecting on his own part in fanning the flames of resentment and spreading his slanderous tale of misuse. He could not even use his botched elopement with Georgiana anymore as his thoughtless pronouncements against her, as a proud and disdainful creature like her brother, ensured no one would believe that they were star-crossed lovers kept apart by her cold-hearted brother.

He skirted the edge of the barracks and ducked in behind the wash tents where he quickly rifled through the officers clothing, looking for and finding all the loose change he could. That he was reduced to this kind of petty theft was shameful, but not beneath him, give his current circumstances. It was imperative that he flee, immediately. He could not afford to wait until pay day, or even the move to Brighton, where he had always intended to part ways with the militia. Much easier in a bustling seaside resort town than in a country village in the middle of Hertfordshire, but he appreciated the easy distance to London. If he was forced to, he could go on foot, and he would be harder to track in that instance. His pockets a little heavier with his bounty, he wondered if it was safe enough to gather his few possessions from his quarters.

He made his way out, blending with the other redcoats and skirting behind the ablutions area, studiously avoided by most of the men because of the stench. Where would the Colonel be lodging? He must be staying with Darcy at Netherfield. As he was deciding he chanced to hear part of a conversation between two of his fellow officers as they were passing the latrines. He heard enough to know he ought not to risk returning to his quarters today. There were rumours a Colonel in the Regulars was here with enough creditor's notes to send a man to Marshalsea for the rest of his natural life. Wickham fled with nothing but his stolen coins and the shirt on his back, having shrugged out of his redcoat and tossing it into the privy as he bolted into the neighbouring woods in the general direction of London.

Absconders from the local militias were too common to spend much time and money pursuing. Days later, Lydia reported that she had given up asking the other officers for news of Wickham, who had little of good to say of him. At his disappearance he had left behind debts with the local trades and shops, which had been anonymously paid for by an agent from London, and debts of honour in even greater amounts, if the gamblers were to be believed. The general populace had attributed the generosity to one recently affianced gentleman farmer from Derbyshire, and although these reports were denied, his standing among the people of Meryton could not but improve. Even Lydia eventually parroted her mother and her aunt in telling her acquaintance she had always mistrusted Wickham's appearance of goodness. She turned her attentions to Lieutenants Denny and Carter and then began the long and tedious process of wearing down her father by bewailing the loss of the regiment and demanding to go to Brighton at every opportunity.

© Janine van der Kooy 2022