Time to regroup and plan. And a visit from Mr. Denny.
Chapter 5
While Mr. Wickham snored, Lydia took Amelia into the dining room and sat her down with a large bowl of stew. Kitty followed, her gaze drifting to the putrefying basin of Mr. Wickham's congealing vomit by the sideboard. There were many things Kitty was willing, and even happy, to do for her sister, including shoving her useless drunkard of a husband off a cliff if it came to that. She was not willing to scrub that same useless drunkard's stink. A woman had to know her limitations.
Kitty glanced anxiously at the clock. Mrs. Gardiner would return within the hour. What would she think of all this?
Their aunt had been sanguine about her opinions of Mr. Wickham. Kitty did not suppose her aunt liked the man. But she also doubted that dislike extended to murder. Or attempted murder in this case.
Poorly attempted murder.
They would do better next time, Kitty vowed.
Her musings were interrupted first by Eugenia's cries. Lydia ran to tend to her second child and returned, toddler in arms, to sit her down with her sister in front of a bowl of stew. Then came the knock at the door.
"Aun' Gar'ner?" Amelia exclaimed.
It was as yet early for Kitty's aunt, but perhaps she had completed her other errands and calls quickly. Kitty stood. "Let me see." She stood and walked to the door. Through the window, she saw the outline of someone decidedly not her aunt: a male, hatless and carrying something.
A knock came, sharp and quick, and then the front door rattled.
"Who is it?" Kitty asked.
"Lt. Denny, by your leave, Miss Kitty," the officer returned, and Kitty felt the tension leave her shoulders. "Mr. Denny," she said with more cheer. As Kitty opened the door, she heard Lydia's light footsteps coming up behind her. Her younger sister fair shoved her out of the way to greet the gentleman.
Ah, so it was like that then.
Kitty wanted to approve. The memory of Mr. Denny's kind gestures towards her and her sisters lingered in her mind. But brief kindnesses, while positive, did not offer the full weight of a gentleman's character. Mr. Wickham had also charmed, and he and Mr. Denny were friends.
"Forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Wickham," Mr. Denny said as he stepped inside. "I was just passing by and thought you might enjoy these leftovers from my kitchen."
"Mr. Denny," Lydia breathed, "how thoughtful of you." She accepted the bundle he held, the delicate arrangement of pastries and savory morsels clearly not the mere scraps of a hurried meal.
Kitty's brows rose as she watched the tender exchange, the subtle shift in her sister's demeanor. There was a softness in Lydia's eyes, a warmth that had been absent for far too long.
Denny's gaze flickered to the sleeping figure in the armchair, his brow furrowing. "I see Mr. Wickham has had a bit too much to drink."
Lydia's smile faltered, and she cast a quick glance at the basin. "Yes, well, the brandy did not agree with him." She wrung her hands, guilt and fear clear to Kitty in every word and gesture. "He said it's taste—" She sighed. "It does not matter."
Mr. Denny's face hardened, his brow furrowing. "It is the same brandy as in my home," he said, stepping around — or at least attempting to step around — Lydia to approach the sideboard.
"No!" Lydia shouted, throwing herself in front of him.
On the armchair, Mr. Wickham snorted, shifting with a groan as Lydia bit her lip, eyes widening with alarm.
Mr. Denny tilted his head, confused. "I meant no disrespect, Mrs. Wickham." He waved a hand towards the basin, his nose twitching. "Was he ill? And he blamed the brandy and not his penchant for overindulgence." The latter was spoken with a low and cutting disdain.
Kitty had the urge to laugh, the impulse striking her as both inappropriate and just perfect at the same time. Perhaps Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham's were not such close friends as all that.
"There is nothing for you to concern yourself with," Lydia said, keeping herself between Mr. Denny and the sideboard where the brandy sat. But Mr. Denny stepped around her, moving with efficient grace towards the decanter. "I watched them pour and seal it myself, and I admonished him to drink it sparingly. It has a kick."
The admonishment to drink sparingly had gone in one ear and out the other with not even the briefest stop in his conscious thought.
Lydia, her arms full of the sweets and savories, struggled to keep pace with Mr. Denny as he strode across the room. "You really need not concern yourself," she protested, the words tumbling from her mouth in a rush.
"Nonsense. A friend can show concern," Mr. Denny replied, with a hint of the gallantry she had noted before. "I did loan Mr. Wickham the funds for this, and thus I bear some responsibility. But better brandy than gin."
Lydia paused mid-step. "Gin?"
"It was a jest, I am sure."
Judging from Mr. Denny's expression, Kitty did not think him sure. He thought the gentleman most perturbed.
Before Lydia could place the basket down and push him away or find some other means to physically stop him, Mr. Denny reached over her and took the decanter. Pulling off the stopper, he held it to his nose and sniffed.
He cocked his head to the side, pursing his lips. "It does not smell off." He held the decanter up, swirled it. Settled at the bottom, Kitty saw a shadow of the berry skins and pulp that had not fully dissolved. Kitty hoped he did not notice it. He lifted the decanter as if to drink, and Lydia cried, "No!" again, freeing up one of her hands to grab at his arm. "You cannot. Please. I cannot stop my husband from drinking, but-"
"Of course." Mr. Denny's expression softened, and he lowered the decanter, placing it again on the sideboard. "You must dislike spirits, considering…"
Lydia nodded, the relief obvious on her face. Just as obvious to Kitty was the gentleman's consideration. Though he and Mr. Wickham might have friendly relations, the two gentlemen were not cut from the same cloth. For that, Kitty was most grateful.
Mr. Wickham snorted and shifted, a loud exhalation of breath filling the quiet. Lydia started, glancing over at her husband.
"How much did he have?" Mr. Denny asked. "He was well sauced before we left the tavern, truth be told."
Lydia shut her eyes. "He had liberty from his duties, then?" she asked.
"Just the afternoon. He asked me to come, but I could only stay a short while. More the fool him, I say, leaving his wife and daughters at home to come and carouse with his mates. But there it is, and there is no changing a man when he sets his mind on folly."
"Indeed," Lydia agreed.
"Though brandy should not affect a gentleman this severely." Mr. Denny frowned, jaw clenched. "I have a mind to take this to the shopkeeper and demand recompense."
"Please, no!" Lydia cried.
Mr. Denny's brow furrowed. "Whyever not? I loaned your husband the coin, and we purchased the brandy together. I will insist on having the money returned at the very least, else I shall demand satisfaction."
Lydia's lips moved as they did when she was frantically thinking through something. After a few seconds, she said, "But it will cause a scene. And if everyone knows my husband as a drunkard... She blinked rapidly and took a sharp breath. It was the edge of a sob, a mix between affect and genuine. Her hands shook. "We will pay you for the liquor. But please..."
"Piffle. I would not take money from the mouths of your babes. The coin is not so important as that, not if the retrieval of it brings you distress. Still, I fear it is for the best we dispose of this." Mr. Denny shook his head and, with a chuckle, set added, "And if your husband wakes with an aching head, it may persuade him to restrain his overindulgence."
Lydia nodded, but the movement was too jerky to be convincingly eager. "Perhaps," she agreed. "Now, you must at least have a taste of your own largess," she added, waving Mr. Denny to follow her to the dining room.
Mr. Denny looked down at the pot and its contents. With a set jaw, he knelt and picked it up. "We will need to dump this as well," he said.
Kitty watched, amazed at Mr. Denny's solicitude. How often did he drop by with gifts? How did Mr. Wickham not recognize Mr. Denny's clear affection for Lydia and what it could mean?
What it must mean?
Lydia and Mr. Denny went out to the garden gate to dump their wretched loads, and as Kitty watched them through the window, the angle of their bodies, the hint of their expression visible through the wobbly panes, she asked herself how was it a gentleman and lady in their positions could look so much like they were at a ball, him asking her interests, and her flirting from behind her fan.
Or in this case, poisoned brandy.
Kitty shook her head. The two children had finished with their stew, and they both peered at the basket Mr. Denny had brought with obvious interest.
Kitty smiled. "I wonder what we have here," she said with all the brightness she could muster. If... no, when Mr. Wickham met his end, at least her dear sister would have a suitor. One who seemed a far better choice than George Wickham had ever been.
But they still had to do the deed.
THANK YOU FOR READING! If at first you don't succeed, try, try again! Kitty and Lydia will be trying again next chapter :)