Chapter Eleven A Most Unexpected Passenger
Lydia spent Thursday floating upon a thick, impenetrable cloud of romantic anticipation. She was thinking of George, his blue eyes, and his crooked smile that rendered her knees useless. He had, after all, proposed to her amidst the glittering chandeliers of the Castle Tavern.
Well, he had not actually proposed marriage, but rather a scandalous midnight flight to Scotland, though it was not of great significance.
A secret carriage ride was far more thrilling than standing in a draughty parish church while someone read a tedious sermon.
Oh, a wedding under the anvil in Gretna Green! What a lark!
The magnitude of her secret was nearly unbearable. She felt like a balloon filled to the bursting point with glorious triumph.
She caught herself three distinct times before accidentally revealing the plot to Harriet.
The first occurred over breakfast. The second happened while selecting a new pair of gloves.
The third was a very near disaster involving a discussion of the Scottish weather.
She almost said I do not know, but I could tell you next week.
She also very nearly confessed to Elizabeth during afternoon tea. She had stopped herself just before the words escaped her lips, because her sister would undoubtedly ruin everything with her sensible lectures.
By the conclusion of dinner, the anticipation was a physical agony.
Lydia pushed her syllabub away, and pressed two fingers to her temples, hoping for a pained look.
“I have a pounding megrim.” She offered a weak, suffering sigh to the dining room at large. “The sea air has overwhelmed my constitution. I must retire to my bedchamber to recover.”
Elizabeth offered a look of suspicion. Harriet offered one of sympathy.
Lydia retreated upstairs.
She paced the narrow space of her chamber, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece which indicated it was barely nine o’clock. The carriage was not scheduled to arrive until midnight.
Three hours was an eternity, an impossible expanse of time for a young woman awaiting an elopement.
Lydia retrieved her dark woollen cloak from the wardrobe, draped it over her shoulders, and pulled the hood up to obscure her face.
She would walk to the militia encampment on the outskirts of town.
She had never visited the camp, but she thought it would be tremendously romantic to surprise her dashing officer before the appointed hour.
She crept down the stairs and slipped out the back door.
The evening air was cool, the streets of Brighton were empty, and the noise from the taverns echoed loudly. Lydia navigated the town with the singular, blind determination of a youth seeking adventure.
The militia encampment was an enormous sea of white canvas tents illuminated by flickering lanterns.
Lydia hovered near the edge of the camp and crept behind a large oak tree, feeling exactly like a heroine in a romantic novel. She peered around the rough bark, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar red coat.
A voice drifted from the shadows behind a nearby supply wagon.
It was a smooth, familiar voice, but it sounded somewhat high-pitched and panicked.
Lydia stepped closer to the wagon and pressed her back against the wooden spokes.
“You must grant me three additional weeks.” George was pleading. “I have an infallible plan. You will have your money, I swear.”
“We need our money tonight, Wickham.” A second voice spoke, Ensign Miller’s, Lydia realised. “You owe us fifty pounds each. We are tired of your strategies.”
“If you do not produce the funds,” Ensign Burton added calmly, “we shall be forced to break both of your legs. It will make marching quite difficult.”
Lydia pressed her hands over her mouth. Her beloved George was in danger.
“I am securing the funds tonight!” George’s voice cracked. “I am executing a compromise. The youngest Bennet girl is meeting me at midnight. She believes we are travelling to Gretna Green.”
Lydia smiled behind her hands. He was explaining their romantic flight.
“You are stealing the silly girl?” Ensign Miller laughed harshly. “Her father is a gentleman, but he is not wealthy. He cannot pay your debts.”
“He will pay to avoid public ruin.” George hissed the words. “He will empty his accounts to purchase my silence. A compromised daughter destroys the marriage prospects of the entire family. They have four other girls to settle. You shall get your money.”
Lydia lowered her hands, the smile vanishing.
“So you are getting shackled to the chit?” Ensign Burton sounded disgusted.
George let out a mocking laugh.
“Heavens, no.” He snorted loudly. “I am not marrying that exhausting, empty-headed child. Once Mr Bennet delivers the extortion payment, he may have his ruined daughter back. I shall be halfway to London.”
Silence settled over the supply wagon.
Lydia Bennet stood in the shadows, but her heart did not shatter into a thousand tragic pieces after the betrayal. She did not feel the urge to weep or faint.
She felt a burning, volcanic wave of fury.
Empty-headed child. The gall of him!
He was a liar. A scoundrel. He had no intention of marrying her. All he wanted was to steal her father’s money and leave her ruined.
Furthermore, upon sudden and highly critical reflection, his cologne was too heavy. He did not smell nearly as nice as Lieutenant Thompson.
Lydia turned on her heel and stomped away from the encampment with the furious momentum of an insulted hurricane. She ignored the streets and the uneven paving stones, her lips pressed into a thin line.
She reached Harriet’s townhouse. She bypassed the parlour and marched up the stairs, straight to Elizabeth’s door. She threw the door open without knocking.
Elizabeth sat at the small writing desk in her nightgown. She jumped, dropping her quill upon the blotter.
Lydia slammed the door shut and threw back the hood of her cloak, her face bright red with rage.
“Mr Wickham is a treacherous, foul-smelling toad.” Lydia announced the fact to the room.
Elizabeth stared at her youngest sister.
Lydia crossed the room, threw herself onto the edge of Elizabeth’s bed, and confessed the humiliating truth. She detailed the proposal in the assembly room and described the planned midnight carriage ride. She recounted the horrific conversation behind the supply wagon word for exact word.
Elizabeth listened in stunned silence, the colour draining from her face.
“He planned to extort Papa.” Lydia crossed her arms over her chest. “He called me an empty-headed child.”
Elizabeth stood up, the shock vanishing, replaced instantly by determination. She crossed the room and sat beside her sister.
“He is a monster, Lydia.” She placed a hand over Lydia’s arm. “You are safe, that is all that matters. You are safe, and we know the truth.”
“I want him punished.” Lydia glared at the far wall. “I want him humiliated. I want the entire regiment to laugh at him.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister, and a slow, dangerous smile curved her lips.
“You shall have your wish.” Elizabeth stood up again. “We are going to need assistance.”
Lydia watched her sister pacing the room. Elizabeth’s mind was working in full force. They were no longer victims awaiting a disaster. They were Bennet women, they had been insulted, and this could not be left without retribution.
“We are going to lay a trap.” Elizabeth stopped pacing. “Mr Wickham believes he is meeting a lady at midnight. He will receive exactly that.”
George Wickham sat upon the wooden bench of the hired carriage, his collar turned up against the cool night air. The street corner near Colonel Forster’s lodgings was quiet, bathed in the pale light of a half-moon.
He held the leather reins loosely in his gloved hands, and congratulated himself upon his brilliance.
This was not the grand, comfortable escape he had envisioned when the regiment marched into Brighton.
He had sincerely hoped to secure fifty thousand pounds at least, and a docile, romantic wife who would pay his tailors without asking tedious questions.
He thought of Lady Margaret Clement, and mentally consigned the dowager to the deepest pit of hell. Her public thorough set-down in the royal stables had been catastrophic, destroying his ability to operate within polite society. The heiresses were inaccessible.
But George Wickham was, above all things, a survivor.
The Bennet girl was not a prize. She had no significant dowry. She had a loud laugh and no intellect. However, her true value lay in her accessibility and her father’s respectability.
Wickham smiled into the darkness.
It was a beautiful scheme. He would drive the foolish child far enough from Brighton to ensure her reputation was thoroughly compromised, secure lodgings at a discreet inn, and write a demanding letter to Mr Bennet in Hertfordshire.
Mr Bennet would panic and empty his modest accounts to purchase Wickham’s silence. It would be enough to pay Ensigns Burton and Miller and save his fine legs from being broken.
And then, he would return the girl to her father. The Bennets could marry her off to some old country vicar or banish her to an obscure relative; it was no concern of his. He would have his funds, and he would remove himself to another county—perhaps the North—to locate fresh, unsuspecting targets.
He adjusted his cloak. The plan was flawless.
The distant chime of a church clock drifted across the rooftops.
Midnight.
Wickham leaned forward on the driver’s bench and peered into the shadows towards the back entrance of the Colonel’s house.
A figure emerged from the alleyway.
It was draped in a dark cloak, the hood pulled low, obscuring the face. The figure moved with a slightly hunched, hurried gait, clutching a small parcel beneath the fabric.
Wickham felt a surge of triumph. The silly girl had actually managed to escape without waking her sister or her hostess.
He whistled softly, a low, urgent signal.
The cloaked figure scurried to the carriage.
Wickham leaned down from the bench. He placed a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he hissed into the night air. “Do not speak. We must not alert the watch.”
The figure nodded emphatically.
Wickham reached down and unlatched the carriage door. The figure scrambled inside with surprising agility. The door clicked shut, securing his hostage and his financial salvation.
Wickham snapped the reins.
The horses stepped forward. He kept them at a slow, steady walk, navigating the cobblestone streets of Brighton with utmost caution.
He maintained a sedate pace until they reached the outskirts of the town, ensuring they did not attract the attention of the night watchmen or lingering patrons stumbling from the taverns.
Once they passed the final tollgate and the open road to London stretched before them, Wickham cracked the whip.
The horses surged into a rapid trot, the carriage rattling and swaying over the uneven dirt road.
Wickham drove for a full hour. The sea air faded, replaced by the scent of damp earth and summer foliage, excitement singing in his veins. He had outsmarted Darcy and Miss Elizabeth, securing his future.
He spotted a small, secluded grove of trees slightly off the main road, and pulled the horses to a halt. The silence was broken only by the breathing of the animals and the chirping of crickets.
It was time to inform his captive of the revised itinerary.
He secured the reins and climbed down from the driver’s bench. He approached the carriage door, preparing his most charming, regretful expression. He would explain that Gretna Green was too far, that they must rest at an inn, and that he loved her too much to risk her health with continuous travel.
He grasped the handle and pulled the door open.
The interior of the carriage was mostly dark, but the pale moonlight slanted through the open door, illuminating the passenger sitting upon the squabs.
Wickham froze.
The hood had been thrown back.
It was not Lydia Bennet. It was not a foolish sixteen-year-old girl.
It was a very old woman.
Winslow sat comfortably against the cushions. She held the remains of an apple in her right hand. She offered a single-toothed smile.
Scrape.
She gummed a piece of the fruit.
“Why did you stop, young man?” Winslow’s voice was a dry, raspy croak that shattered the quiet night. “Gretna Green is still far away. I was hoping to see the Scottish border as soon as can be. I’ve always wanted to admire the heather.”
Wickham stared at the scullery maid.
His mind ceased to function. The impossible absurdity of the situation broke his capacity for rational thought. He looked at the old woman, then at the apple, then back at the old woman.
The elegant extortion scheme collapsed into dust. The Bennets had known. Elizabeth had known. She had orchestrated this exact scenario to humiliate him.
His legs were going to be broken by sunrise.
Wickham did not shout. He did not curse. He did not demand an explanation.
He slowly, methodically, closed the carriage door and turned around. He slid his back down the wooden carriage wheel until he hit the dirt road. He sat upon the damp grass, surrounded by silence and the reality of his complete ruin.
He pulled his knees to his chest.
George Wickham, the most charming officer in the militia, lowered his head into his hands and wept.