A sennight earlier ….
Mr. Bingley got out of his coach and stretched. He walked to the back of the coach and checked his horse, which was tied to the back. He looked around the courtyard of the coaching inn, The Plough, in Pyecombe, the first coaching stop north of Brighton. The only other coach there was the scheduled stagecoach making the run from Brighton to London; it would be just stopping for ten minutes or so then it would be off. It had passed his coach at a gallop just before the outskirts of Pyecombe and it would leave the inn well before him.
The innkeeper came out to greet him and he made arrangements for his men and horses to be fed and watered.
He was in no hurry to get to London. He had an excellent team and he was not of a mind to kill them in a pointless race. He had left Brighton at dawn with an intended destination of Horley, thirty miles and six stops to the north. With half an hour rest at each stop his team should make it without any problem. From Horley to his townhouse in town was about twenty-five miles although London traffic would likely make the second day's travel longer than the first. Although it had rained overnight, the turnpike was in good shape. There was about fifteen hours of sunlight each day so he should not have to do any travelling in the dark.
He was glad to be heading home if that London townhouse of his could be considered as such. Maybe his coach was his home; maybe he was cursed, condemned to be a landborne 'Flying Dutchman', aimlessly travelling about Britain.
He was tired of travel. He had fled from London, fled from his family, fled from his friend, fled from her; fled with a list of estates in hand; a list his solicitor had given him of estates which were for sale.
At first, as he worked his way to the south west, he had taken his task seriously. Drawing upon the great deal of advice he had received from Darcy, and the lesser experience he had gained from dealing with problems he had encountered at Netherfield, he had examined each estate thoroughly: he looked through each building from attic to cellar, examined the books of account, talked to the steward, tenants and servants, and rode the grounds. He made copious notes. At any sign of resistance to his inspections, he shied away.
In recognition that 'no man is an island,' - one of the quotes in his copybooks - he sought introductions to the principal families in the neighbourhood of each estate he considered. When successful, he made a point of introducing himself as being from trade, there being no point in concealing it; contrary to what his sister, Caroline, might believe, the truth would out at some point. In all those neighbourhoods he never received as warm a welcome as the one he had received from Sir William Lucas. Indeed, some of his receptions were so cold he started to seek those introductions before he even bothered to inspect the estates. He would not buy an estate in a neighbourhood where he would be treated as a pariah.
He had made his way to Land's End and, standing on the most westerly point of England, stared west, over the Atlantic, towards the Canadas. They were seeking settlers in Upper Canada. Maybe there was a future for him there. The war with the Yankees would not last forever. It was something to ponder.
He turned back to the east north and worked his way through the balance of the list. He finished it, not having found any estate that caught his fancy the way Netherfield had, within an easy distance of Brighton. Having spent so much time travelling with a brooding persona he did not much care for, he thought a spell of frivolity at that seaside resort might be just what he needed to recover his old self.
He was disappointed. He had drinks with acquaintances he met but not to any drunken excess. He had been invited to a few social functions, picnics and the like, but found them boring. He went sea bathing, found it physically bracing, but it did nothing for his mental outlook. He attended a few of the public assemblies, saw nary a lady with whom he cared to dance.
As it appeared he had lost the ability to enjoy a life of frivol he decided to head north, first to London, and then on to Scarborough. It was becoming more and more likely that his future was in trade, living in sight of his mills. And so, he found himself in Pyecombe, heading north.
He walked towards the main door of the inn. Although it was early, he hoped they had fresh baking; he felt in need of a sweet bun to go along with a cup of tea. He was almost to the door when a man burst out dragging a woman by the arm.
She was protesting loudly. "No, I'm not going! I'm not going to go to London. You said we were going to Gretna Green."
"You stupid cow. I told you we have to go to London to collect the money Darcy owes me."
That got Mr. Bingley's attention.
The woman pulled her arm free and poked the man in the chest. "I said no!"
The man knocked the woman's arm away and was about to strike her when Mr. Bingley recognized him.
"Wickham!" Mr. Bingley called out.
Mr. Wickham spun around, saw Mr. Bingley moving towards him, and looked wildly about, no doubt looking for Mr. Darcy. Just then the guard on the stage coach blew his horn warning that it was about to leave. Mr. Wickham cursed, turned, grabbed the woman's reticule and gave her a shove in the chest. He ran to the stage coach and just barely clambered aboard before it charged out of the inn's courtyard.
The woman shrieked, teetered backwards, flailed her arms about, and fell backwards into a large puddle of rain water and equine effluvia.
Mr. Bingley walked up and looked down. He recognized the woman.
Miss Lydia Bennet.
