Chapter 1 #5
“We saw him!” Lydia announced, stamping snow from her boots. “At least, we are quite certain it was him.”
“The man searching for a young lady,” Kitty added, pulling off her gloves. “He has been to every shop in Meryton.”
Elizabeth stood quickly. “Tell us everything. What does he look like?”
“Uncommonly handsome,” Lydia said, her tone part admiration, part unease. “Dark hair, fine features. Dressed as a gentleman, though his coat wanted pressing and his cravat was not well tied.”
“He had a bandage on his hand,” Kitty interjected. “The right one. We saw it when he was speaking to Mr. Clarke outside the draper's.”
Anne went rigid on the bench. Her face drained of all colour. “A bandage?” she asked sharply.
“Yes, wrapped quite thick about his palm,” Lydia confirmed. “As though he had injured it.”
Elizabeth's gaze flicked to Anne, whose hands had begun to shake violently.
“What did you hear?” Elizabeth demanded. “What story did he tell?”
Lydia settled onto a crate, clearly enjoying her role as intelligencer despite the gravity of the situation. “He told Mr. Clarke that his young wife had run away during a stop to change horses. That she was not quite right in her head—prone to fits of fancy.”
“He said she was wilful,” Kitty added. “That she required a firm hand, but he was an exceedingly patient man.”
Anne made a small, choked sound.
“Some of the men seemed sympathetic,” Lydia continued, her voice darkening. “Mr. Morris at the posting house said wives needed proper managing, that young girls today were too indulged by their fathers.”
“Not all were convinced,” Kitty said quickly. “Mrs. Long was in the haberdasher's when he came in, and she said afterwards that something about him did not sit right. That his smile was too quick, his manner too smooth.”
“Where is he now?” Elizabeth asked.
“At the White Hart,” Lydia replied. “We did not go near—we only heard it from the apothecary's boy. He said the gentleman has taken a room there and has been drinking heavily since yesterday evening.”
“There was a woman, as well,” Kitty said, lowering her voice. “We caught sight of her near the inn. Older, perhaps five and thirty, dressed fine but her face is plain. She was speaking with him in the yard.”
Anne's breathing had grown rapid and shallow. “What did she look like?”
“Tall, thin. Dark hair going grey at the temples. She wore a travelling cloak trimmed with fur—quite expensive.”
“Mrs. Younge,” Anne whispered. “My best cloak.”
“Mrs. Younge is there?” Elizabeth said flatly. “She is still with him.”
“She must be,” Anne whispered. “She would not abandon him until she received payment.”
Jane turned to her. “Payment?”
Anne looked down at her hands. “I heard them at the inn, before he began drinking. They were arguing about money.”
“What did they say?” Elizabeth asked.
“Mrs. Younge wanted her share at once. She said she had taken all the risk, that she deserved to be paid before anything else happened.” Anne's voice was flat, recounting facts.
“Mr. Wickham told her to be patient. That once the marriage was consummated, he would have access to my fortune, and she would receive her portion.”
“Her portion,” Jane repeated slowly. “What did he promise her?”
Anne's face flushed. “Five thousand pounds.”
The silence was absolute.
Kitty's mouth fell open. Lydia stared. Even Elizabeth, usually so ready to speak, seemed for a moment at a loss for words.
“Five thousand pounds,” Mary said faintly. “For betraying her charge.”
“That is her share,” Anne continued, her voice small. “The total—my dowry is—” She stopped, seeming to realise she had said too much.
“How much?” Elizabeth asked, though her tone suggested she already suspected the answer would be extraordinary.
Anne did not look up. “Thirty thousand pounds.”
The room remained silent, the weight of the sum settling over them all.
Lydia recovered first. “Thirty thousand pounds? Did she say thirty thousand?”
“That is why,” Anne whispered. “That is the only reason he pursued me. Not because he cared for me at all. It was always only the money.”
Jane's face had gone pale. “Thirty thousand pounds. Dear God. No wonder he pursued you so relentlessly.”
Elizabeth's expression had hardened further. “So Mrs. Younge was promised five thousand for delivering you to him, and Mr. Wickham intended to gain control of the remaining sum through marriage.”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Younge will not leave him till she has her payment,” Jane said slowly, tracing the conclusion. “It follows that she will assist him. She has too much depending on his success to abandon him now.”
Mary, who had been silent throughout, said at length, “It renders them the more to be feared. We have not to do with one desperate man, but with two persons whose interest is the same, and who will think little of the means, if only they may secure their prize.”
“In no case will they secure anything,” Elizabeth corrected, her voice hard.
Anne rocked back and forth on the bench, her lips trembling. “He claims we are married, but I did not agree. I did not even speak but to say ‘no.’”
“Might a lady be bound by such a ceremony, when she is not yet of age?” Mary asked.
“I do not comprehend how any clergyman should consent to perform a ceremony where the lady says ‘no,’” said Jane.
“Did he not boast of having a licence?” Lydia put in. “Would that make it valid?”
“We must learn what the law actually is,” Elizabeth said. “Not what we imagine it to be, nor what we might wish. We must know.”
“Mr. Phillips,” said Jane.
“Our uncle,” Kitty explained to Anne. “He practises as an attorney in Meryton.”
“We cannot go to him,” Mary objected. “He would ask too many questions. He would feel obliged to inform Papa, or worse, the magistrate.”
“Not if we ask hypothetically,” Lydia said suddenly. All eyes turned to her. She flushed but pressed on. “I shall ask him. About—about marriage law. What age a girl can marry. Whether she needs her guardian's consent.”
“Why should you be asking such questions?” Mary demanded.
“Because I am fifteen,” Lydia said, lifting her chin. “The same age as Anne. It would be natural for me to wonder about such things. Uncle Phillips would think nothing of it—he already believes me to be silly and romantic.”
Elizabeth studied her youngest sister with new appreciation. “That might do.”
“It would do,” Lydia insisted. “I shall ask him at the Gouldings’ dinner to-morrow. I shall flutter and giggle and ask him all sorts of foolish questions about marriage and age and consent, and he will think me a ridiculous child and tell me whatever I wish to know.”
“If he suspects—”
“He will not suspect,” Lydia said firmly. “Men never suspect me of having any sense at all. It is quite useful.”
A Companion's Report
The library at Ashford Park was warm, the afternoon light slanting across shelves of leather-bound volumes that the current owner had collected with more enthusiasm than discernment.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood at the window overlooking the park, a glass of claret untouched on the side table, watching the beaters move through the stubble fields below.
The shooting had been adequate. The company, less so. His host's friends were the sort of men who confused loud talk with wit, and Darcy had excused himself from the drawing room with a claim of fatigue. They had not noticed his departure.
He ought to have remained at Pemberley. The autumn work on the estate demanded his attention—the tenant farms required inspection, the steward had written of a necessary repair to the east cottages, and Georgiana's piano required attention from the tuner in Derby.
When Bingley had pressed him to join the shooting party at Ashford, Darcy had extended his usual autumn visit.
A prolonged absence from town, he had thought, would do him good.
Georgiana had approved of the arrangement.
In her last letter from a week prior, written in her graceful hand from London, she had assured him that she was settled with Mrs. Younge, that she had resumed her music lessons, that she was perfectly contented.
The letter had been warm, if brief. Georgiana was not a prolific correspondent.
Still, he had expected her to write again by now.
The post arrived at three o'clock. Darcy heard the groom in the vestibule below, the shuffle of envelopes being sorted, the butler's footsteps ascending the great staircase.
When the knock came at the library door, he turned from the window with an anticipation he did not care to examine too closely.
The butler entered bearing a salver. Three letters: one from his London solicitor regarding the settlement of a disputed boundary claim in Derbyshire, one from his steward at Pemberley, and one sealed with an unfamiliar hand.
He broke the seal without ceremony.
The letter was brief:
My Dear Mr. Darcy,
Your sister is well. She sends her regards and assures me that she is content with her present situation. I have taken great pains to ensure her comfort and intellectual advancement. She has been occupied with her music and with reading, both pursuits at which she excels.
Mrs. Eleanor Younge
Darcy read the letter twice. The paper was of good quality, the hand neat and educated. The sentiments expressed were precisely what a conscientious companion ought to convey.
The signature was Mrs. Eleanor Younge.
Not Georgiana.
He set the letter on the mahogany desk and stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the words without comprehension. It was a small thing—a companion writing on behalf of her charge was not extraordinary. Mrs. Younge was well paid to manage Georgiana's household and correspondence when necessary.
Darcy crossed to his own correspondence desk and withdrew Georgiana's last letter from a week prior. He laid them side by side.
The difference was immediate and irrefutable.