The Pig in the Poke Pub
Noon
Wickham squinted into the pub as he entered, vaguely grateful for the dimmer interior after the bright glare of the sun outside. The smoky old wooden beams of the ceiling and the equally dark tables and chairs were a boon to his blinding headache.
The smells wafting from the kitchen were even more so. He could smell bacon and eggs and sausage cooking, and his mouth watered in anticipation. Closing the door behind himself, he looked around for a table. The pub was largely empty at this time of day, but the red coat of the only other officer in the place drew his eye. Wickham crossed, nodding to Carter, and collapsed into the chair across from the other man.
One of the barmaids tripped up, looking very neat in her clean frock and crisp apron. "What'll you be havin' today, sir?" she asked brightly.
Wickham eyed his companion's meal. "The same as my friend here, I think," he said blearily and watched the young woman sashay away before plunking his elbow onto the table and dropping his aching forehead into his hand.
"Well, Wickham, you must be cursing your luck about now, I suppose," Captain Carter said, as he took a bite of his own toast.
Wickham did not particularly appreciate this comment on top of the enormous headache pounding his skull. He had been up very late playing cards and had lost heavily along with drinking far too much. Carter had been, as bank, the primary winner in last night's game of faro, and Wickham did not welcome the man's bragging.
"Oh, not faro last night!" Carter said, apparently understanding the other man's glower. "Your luck will turn soon, I am certain! No, it is a great pity about Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
"What about Miss Elizabeth?" Wickham demanded, nodding at the servant girl as she deposited ale and a plate of eggs and toast on the table.
"Oh, you have not heard! Well, it appears the girl has come into a great inheritance!"
Wickham had been forking a bite of eggs into his mouth, but at these words, he gaped and his nerveless hand fell to the table. "What?!"
"Yes, some great-aunt died, or something of the sort, and left Miss Elizabeth a fortune," Carter replied, enjoying the effect of these words on Wickham, who was inarguably the most charming and handsome man in the regiment. "You were quite close to the Miss Elizabeth last autumn, I think, but have been pursuing Miss King of late."
Wickham recovered sufficiently to frown and wave an airy hand. "Forget about Miss King. How much did Miss Elizabeth inherit?"
"Seventy thousand pounds," Carter said, and grinned at the shock on Wickham's face.
"What?! That is impossible!"
"Yes, and I suppose it might not be true," Carter admitted, emptying his tankard. "Rumors are rather uncertain things, after all."
"So the rumors are that…?"
"That Miss Elizabeth Bennet has inherited a vast fortune, which she will gain full control over on her upcoming birthday, which is some months away."
Wickham mulled this in silence as he devoured his food and drank down his ale. He had been attracted to Miss Elizabeth when he had first arrived at Meryton the previous November and would have gladly offered for the girl if he had known she would inherit a fortune. If it was true that she was indeed now an heiress, well, that changed everything. He would far prefer Elizabeth to Mary King, whose only value lay in her recent inheritance of ten thousand pounds.
Even if the rumors were exaggerating the situation, which was almost certainly true – really, who had seventy thousand pounds to leave anyone? – Elizabeth probably had at least had ten thousand pounds, and she would be far more enjoyable a wife than Mary, who was freckled and dull.
Wickham merely needed to worm his way back into Miss Elizabeth's graces, which would not be terribly difficult. The lady, while intelligent and witty, was quite easily manipulated.
If she was even a third of the heiress that she was rumored to be, she would be a very fine Mrs. Wickham.
/
Darcy House
London
Darcy took a sip of brandy as he watched his friend, who was eying the nearest white ball. Bingley was taking his time with the stick, and Darcy, to keep himself from fidgeting, took a moment to look around himself, even as he blew out a long breath.
The room had been designed with comfort and leisure in mind, and the heavy brown leather wingback chairs set before the lit fireplace and the tawny plush carpet reflected this. The room glowed with golden light, candles in their sconces throwing out pools of overlapping brilliance, mirrors behind the polished brass candlesticks magnifying the illumination.
Upon the sturdy oaken table against the wall reposed a silver tray. A decanter of brandy, half-full, sat in the middle of it, with two cut-crystal glasses beside. A swallow of alcohol was left in Bingley's while Darcy's sat empty; he considered refilling it before deciding to wait.
He was in his own home in London, with a hot and comfortable fire, with his closest friend, and without his closest friend's irritating sisters, and yet he felt gloomy and anxious. He missed Miss Elizabeth Bennet so very much. He…
The sound of the cue striking the ball pulled his attention back to the billiard table, where Bingley had just caromed a ball away from a pocket instead of into it. The younger man huffed and took a step away. "Your turn, Darcy."
Darcy, as he examined the table, allowed his mind to shift to Bingley. Yes, that was another problem; Bingley, usually the most cheerful of companions, had not been himself for many months, not since the beginning of the previous December when he had left his most recent love, Miss Jane Bennet, behind in Hertfordshire.
It had, Darcy conceded, been a reasonable decision on Bingley's part to lease a country estate the previous autumn. Bingley, whose family hailed from the north of England, was the grandson of a tradesman, and his fortune of over one hundred thousand pounds was a very substantial one indeed. Bingley's father had wished to purchase an estate, but had died before being able to do so, and his son Charles, desirous of learning to oversee an estate before owning one, had decided to lease Netherfield in Hertfordshire. Darcy had come along to help his friend. He, as master of Pemberley, had been overseeing a much larger estate than Netherfield for more than five years now and had plenty of good advice to share.
He had not expected to be so strongly attracted to the second daughter of Longbourn.
And then, of course, Bingley, who was prone to falling in love with ridiculous rapidity, had also fallen in love, with a blue-eyed, blonde goddess who was, even to Darcy's cynical eyes, quite one of the most handsome women in all of England, along with being charming and kindly. But Miss Jane Bennet, Elizabeth's elder sister (Miss Elizabeth! He must think of her as Miss Elizabeth) was a staid, sensible creature, quite unlike her vibrant younger sister. She had encouraged Bingley's overtures much like a lady encourages a puppy. That would not have been so bad if Miss Bennet's family was not so dreadfully connected and improper.
Darcy compressed his lips as he hit the red ball, and it knocked one of the white balls into a pocket. Improper was not a strong enough word, actually; Mrs. Bennet and the two youngest Bennet daughters were vulgar, forward, and utterly without propriety. It would have been catastrophic for Bingley to marry the woman, nearly as catastrophic as Darcy marrying Miss Elizabeth, he thought with little conviction.
Thus Darcy and Bingley's sisters had not hesitated to convince Bingley to abandon Netherfield and Hertfordshire some months previously.
It had not been safe for him to stay either, he knew that. Those sparkling eyes, that enchanting wit. She was not worthy of him and his name, and thus he had been thankful when friendship and prudency had called for him to relocate to London in December, far away from the temptress whose arch speech and cheerful disagreements still haunted his dreams.
Bingley generally fell in and out of love rapidly, but he had not recovered from his attachment to Jane Bennet. He was still a cheerful and agreeable companion, but there was a soberness in his demeanor that had been quite absent a year previously, and more notably, he had not paid any attention to a single young woman since his departure from Hertfordshire.
Darcy was thinking with such intensity that he missed his next shot and left the second white ball in a perfect position, which enabled Bingley to knock it into another pocket and provoked a grin from the younger man.
"I won, and that is a rare thing, Darcy," he exclaimed.
"Indeed," Darcy said and grinned. "Another game?"
"No, no, I have been summoned to the Hursts' house tonight for a dinner party and must prepare myself," Bingley said, and then lifted winsome eyes to Darcy and added, "Indeed, you are invited, though I told Caroline that you likely were engaged elsewhere, but if you wish to accompany me…"
"No, no," Darcy said, with more haste than courtesy, and then, at his friend's knowing smile, colored a little and said, "I am rather tired tonight and will likely turn in early."
That was true enough. He was not sleeping well, distracted by dreams of her.
"Of course," Bingley said and then slapped a congenial hand on his friend's shoulder. "I know that Caroline is tiresome, and I am grateful that you continue to be my friend even though she is overly obvious in her desire to become the mistress of Pemberley. But I really must leave."
"Until later, then," Darcy said, and watched as Bingley hurried out the door.