Chapter 1 #2
We are bound for a city called Baltimore—such a droll name!
I hope the American ladies are friendly and their fashions are nice.
I shall send you our direction there when we are settled so that you might drop me a line on occasion to let me know how my darling son fares.
Just think—when next I see you, I may be the richer of us! What a laugh that will be!
Yours,
Lydia
Years! They intended to be gone for years, leaving their child behind without even the courtesy of informing those they had chosen to care for him of the need in advance!
But of course, Wickham would have known such an application was likely to be refused.
She could see the manipulation in his desire for little George to reprise his own youth at Pemberley, even if Lydia could not.
His own son had become simply another pawn in his lifelong quest to discommode and vex Darcy.
Whether her husband would agree to young George Wickham’s presence for an indefinite, and potentially quite prolonged, period was very much in question, but it was clear to Elizabeth that he would be with them for some weeks at least. With that in mind, she folded the letter, tucked it into her pocket, and said, “Mrs Laurence, I expect my nephew to stay with us for the Festive Season and possibly longer. He seems to have arrived without a wardrobe, but I think the things William outgrew in the last year should serve. I shall sit with George as he takes his refreshment. Would you please oblige me by informing the nursery maids that another bed must be prepared and those items of clothing retrieved from the attic?”
Elizabeth next addressed the butler. “Mr Laurence, please ask my husband to attend me the instant he returns. I believe it best he hears of this from me and no other.”
“Certainly, madam.” Laurence bowed, and the two senior servants dispersed to their tasks only a moment before a maid arrived with a tray containing tea for Elizabeth and milk and sandwiches for George.
He devoured the repast with something more than the bottomless hunger of youth; Elizabeth speculated that the Wickhams had either saved themselves a penny by failing to feed him that morning, or their circumstances had become so bad that he had not eaten quite enough for some while.
She did not like to think that both might be true.
Hunger sated, the boy was happy to answer his aunt’s gentle questions.
He knew that his parents were taking a trip ‘to get some money’ and that he was to be in the care of his aunt and uncle Darcy while they were thus occupied.
He was looking forward to seeing Cousin William again and hoped Cousin Jane had grown enough to play with him also.
He spoke happily of the horse that would be his when his parents returned, though he seemed to have no notion that day was so distant.
When Elizabeth could see that a full belly and a full day were taking their toll on him, she led him up to the night nursery and tucked him into the freshly made bed there.
The girls, awake from their afternoon naps, were now at play again in the day nursery with one of their nursemaids, and William would be at his lessons with his tutor for another hour before joining them.
Elizabeth hoped Darcy would return before it became necessary to tell the children that their cousin had come.
She installed herself in the private family parlour, where she endeavoured to fix her attention upon, in succession, a book, her sewing, and a letter from Jane to which she had yet to reply. Her search for a fourth occupation was interrupted by the hurried arrival of her husband.
“Elizabeth! What is wrong?”
She stood and smiled, holding her hands out to him.
Her unusual request that he attend her immediately had alarmed him, it seemed.
“It is nothing so dire as all that,” she assured him as he gathered her hands into his own and peered at her intently for a moment, as though assuring himself that she was not distressed.
“An unexpected houseguest. Come and sit, and I shall explain it all.”
He allowed her to lead him to the settee, saying, “It is not Lady Catherine, I should hope.” Since Anne de Bourgh’s death some four years previous, his aunt had occupied her time by meddling even more vigorously in the affairs of her tenants, neighbours, relations, and acquaintances, frequently travelling the length and breadth of England to deliver her opinion in person when a letter would have been more than sufficient, if perhaps more easily disregarded.
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Did I not say that the situation is not dire? No, to the best of my knowledge she is in Kent.” Retrieving Lydia’s note, she gave it over to him, saying, “This morning, our nephew George was left at the Bell and Thistle with nothing but this letter.”
He opened the page and read, his expression growing more forbidding with each passing second.
Having read it all, he sat silent and still for a moment, then suddenly leapt up and paced the chamber, unconsciously loosening his neckcloth and disarranging his hair with agitated fingers.
“I must ride after them and force them to return and take responsibility for their child. You cannot expect me to admit another George Wickham to my home, to torment my son as his father tormented me!”
Elizabeth felt herself go rigid with offence and disappointment.
“I expect,” she said sharply, arresting his frantic movements, “that with Jane so soon to be in her confinement, and Kitty and Mr Walters departing to visit his relations in Sussex on the morrow, he must remain here at least until they return. I expect my usually rational husband to recall that George is but a boy, barely seven years old, and that perhaps, just possibly, he is not a precise duplicate of his slack-handed sire. And lastly, I expect that if he does attempt to torment any of our children, or anyone at all, we shall see it and act. We shall not overlook the evidence of our eyes or the testimony of our own offspring or loyal servants.”
“As my father did,” he conceded with a sigh, shoulders drooping, his wild agitation draining away.
She went to him then, wrapping her arms around his waist and looking up at him with sympathy.
“Might we not learn from his mistakes? Recall, if you please, that when I have visited the Bingleys while the Wickhams stayed with them, George played very well with Charlie and Tom and our William also. It is true that it is well above a year since they last met, but I doubt he has been thoroughly corrupted in that time. George is not a copy of his father, and so long as he is with us, he will not be spoilt as both his parents were in their own early years. Let us enjoy the unexpected gift of Christmas with our nephew, and when that season is over, we may consider what comes next.”
He bent and kissed her. “You advise me well, Elizabeth. There is nowhere else he may easily go at present, and it is unjust of me to assign to him his father’s faults. I do wish that after all these years the mere mention of Wickham did not utterly disorder my thoughts.”
“It is understandable, after everything he did to your family and to others, and his frequent demands for your patronage since he married my sister. That, at least, is at an end for the time being. Any request he means to make of you will take months to arrive, and any reply just as long to reach him. His needs tend to be rather more immediate than such distances allow.”
“True,” he agreed with the tiniest quirk of the lips. “I have often wished he might take himself off to other lands.”
She took his face between her hands and suggested, “Pray think no more of Wickham. Think instead upon your nephew, whom you will at last have the opportunity to know. Your nephew who has been abandoned by the very people who ought to have had interest in his welfare. Even a child must feel that keenly.”
“I shall try,” he assured her.
“Come and see him,” she urged. “I believe that when you do, you will remember that he is but an innocent child.”