Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
From the day that Wickham and his companions were refused admittance to the principal houses of the neighbourhood, he devoted himself to careful observation whenever his duties permitted.
Fortunately, he had long since perfected the art of neglecting those duties, and thus learnt a great deal in the days that followed.
Most afternoons between noon and two o’clock, the ladies from Millwood Cottage set out to pay calls.
Wickham watched them with particular attention and soon convinced himself that he knew which carriage conveyed the young lady in question—Miss Grant, as he believed he had first heard her styled, the ward of the gentleman who presided over the cottage.
Within days the matter grew less certain.
At times the reported heiress seemed to be spoken of as Miss Bennet—at others as Miss Elizabeth, or something else entirely.
On one occasion a tradesman’s wife insisted that Miss Bennet resided permanently at the cottage; on another, that she was merely visiting.
Meanwhile, two additional young ladies began arriving each morning and remaining for several hours before departing again in the afternoon.
They, too, were called Miss Bennet, as he had once overheard a servant use that name when assisting them from the carriage.
Whether they were sisters, cousins, or merely companions to the young lady residing at Millwood Cottage, no one seemed entirely agreed—and Wickham himself had never been properly introduced to any of them, having seen them only at a distance as they passed between the carriage and the cottage.
As the distinctions appeared of little consequence to him at the time, he had not troubled himself to enquire further.
According to village gossip, one of them was an heiress—perhaps both. Which one depended entirely upon whom one asked.
Wickham observed the trio with growing interest, faintly amused by the contradictions.
The taller of the visitors carried herself with serene composure; the quieter one appeared thoughtful and reserved; the original young lady possessed a liveliness that set her apart.
They passed between Millwood and Longbourn with such regularity that even he began to question his first assumptions.
Were they all Bennets? Or was only one connected to the name? Had Miss Grant become Miss Bennet—or had the village merely attached a familiar surname to a stranger for convenience?
The uncertainty did not discourage him. It sharpened his appetite.
Millwood Cottage itself was modest in appearance, yet modest facades often concealed substantial expectations.
A young lady residing under the protection of an elderly guardian and receiving visitors of evident distinction must possess more than ordinary prospects.
At the very least, she would command a respectable dowry.
At best—if even half the whispers proved true—she might be an heiress of consequence.
There had even been mention of twenty thousand pounds: not equal to Georgiana’s portion, but more than sufficient for his purposes.
Nor was the guardian himself without intrigue.
It was said that Mr Grant was no mere country gentleman.
Some declared him wealthy, having amassed a fortune during the war with France.
Others hinted at influential connexions in Town.
A few went further still, lowering their voices to suggest that Mr Grant was in truth an earl—or stood so near the peerage as to make little practical difference.
No one spoke with certainty, yet neither did anyone dismiss the possibility outright.
Because Colonel Forster, unsettled by persistent rumours of officers contracting imprudent debts, had lately confined the less senior men more closely to camp, Wickham had been prevented from attending assemblies and dinners in the neighbourhood.
He had therefore seen very little of the lady himself—indeed, very few had.
She was described as fair-haired, gentle, and reserved—precisely the sort of creature who might be persuaded that her happiness lay where she was told to seek it.
If she were indeed an heiress, whether to a gentleman’s fortune or a nobleman’s, then she represented precisely the opportunity he required.
If her grandfather were as wealthy as supposed, he would be compelled to act swiftly once she was beyond his immediate protection.
A man might prove remarkably generous when his peace of mind depended upon it.
Twenty thousand pounds was not an inconsiderable sum. If circumstances were arranged with sufficient urgency, there was no telling what further concessions might be secured. An elderly guardian, anxious and unprepared, could be made very accommodating.
He needed little encouragement to pursue a course that promised both comfort and advancement. His own prospects were otherwise limited, and fortune seldom favoured the timid.
It was therefore exceedingly fortunate that rumour now held that the gentlemen who had lately resided at Millwood Cottage with the old man and his granddaughter had departed.
That suited Wickham perfectly. An aged guardian was hardly a formidable adversary, and there would be no vigilant cousin or titled protector to oppose him.
At least, so he believed.
He had no confederate in the scheme. The fewer involved, the better. Assistance invited division of advantage. Besides, the task required only boldness and swift execution. A single carriage, a country road, and a coachman unprepared for violence—what was there to fear?
After observing the equipage for several days, noting precisely where it travelled and when, he selected a bend in the road where the hedgerows pressed close and the carriage would not be seen until it was nearly upon him.
The companion who so often attended Miss Grant scarcely entered into his calculations.
One timid young lady was much like another, and neither would prove troublesome once properly alarmed.
The coachman might present some difficulty, but even that could be managed. Surprise, a drawn pistol, and an air of unwavering resolve would suffice.
A militia pistol rested easily in his grasp.
On that day, the carriage departed from Millwood earlier than usual, just past noon. As it rounded the bend in the lane, Wickham stepped from the hedgerow and called out sharply, “Stand and deliver!”
The coachman, wholly unprepared for such an interruption upon a quiet country road, drew up at once at the sight of the man and the raised weapon.
“I carry no money, sir,” he pleaded, his voice shaking. “Nor do the ladies within possess jewels or anything of value. Pray let us pass, and we shall say nothing of having met you.”
Wickham laughed.
“I have no need of your coin,” he said. “I shall have far more than enough once I have accomplished my purpose. Come down from your seat. I will take your carriage—and the young lady within.”
The coachman froze, colour draining from his face as he took in the pistol. “What can you want with the ladies?”
“I intend to make Miss Grant my wife,” Wickham replied coolly. “Once I have kept her long enough, her guardian will have no choice but to permit it and hand her dowry over to me.”
“Sir,” the coachman began, wishing desperately to explain that there was no lady named Miss Grant in the carriage at all and that his carriage held Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Mary Bennet, neither of whom possessed any such fortune as the villain imagined, but Wickham jerked the gun that was pointed at him again before he could continue speaking.
“Down,” he ordered. “If there are two ladies inside, so much the better. The other’s friends or family may pay for her return. Miss Grant may like a companion on the road to Scotland.”
Reluctantly, the coachman descended from the box.
Wickham set the brake himself, knowing he could not fire the pistol without frightening the horses.
Instead, he produced the rope he had taken from the militia stores and bound the man’s hands and feet.
A handkerchief was tied over his mouth. Finally, he used the gun to knock the coachman on the head, not troubling himself to determine whether the blow had rendered him unconscious; the man lay unmoving in the verge.
Satisfied, Wickham opened the carriage door.
Within, just as he had expected, a fair, elegant young woman sat upon the forward-facing seat beside another whose appearance was far less remarkable, her manner quieter and more reserved.
They looked vaguely familiar; he supposed that was because he had seen them several times passing outside Millwood.
“Miss Grant,” he said with a low bow, “and your friend. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is George Wickham, and I greatly look forward to becoming very well acquainted as we travel north together.”
He smiled at both ladies, indifferent to their shock and uncaring if they did not wish to go with him.
“Your acceptance is a foregone conclusion, madam,” he continued, “yet I will pretend to offer you the choice. I am come to carry you to our wedding. I hope you will be gratified to secure so handsome a husband, my dear.”
When both ladies looked startled at the sound of his name, Wickham supposed it owed more to the shock of their situation than to any knowledge of him. A woman might resist at first, but after a few days—and a wedding—she would learn to think differently.
The other girl he dismissed at once. Companion, cousin, poor relation—it made no difference. Miss Grant was the prize.
Neither woman spoke. Their silence meant nothing to him. He tipped his hat once more, shut the door, and secured it from the outside with a contrivance designed to prevent its being opened from within.