Chapter III
George Wickham had always seen himself as a rather pragmatic sort of man.
Though he knew that men such as the insufferable Fitzwilliam Darcy thought him a wastrel, immoral, and even a drain on society, Wickham fancied himself no better or worse than the next man born to humble circumstances.
The cruel vagaries of life had ensured he had grown to adulthood seeing others living in luxury, riches that had never been destined to be his—knowing what was possible for an enterprising man, he was justified in taking whatever he could, for unlike Darcy, the world would gift him nothing.
Everything he obtained would be by the force of his own ingenuity.
The way he lived his life and the number of people who would boil tar and pluck feathers if they ever knew what he was about necessitated a careful sort of existence.
Wickham was always alert for any change of sentiment, any sign that those he moved among suspected he was not as he seemed.
That he was born with a good measure of charm and a face that provoked admiration was a boon for one such as he, allowing him to do as he would until the truth of his deeds became impossible to ignore.
Then, he would move on, find others willing to see the smile and the charm, and begin the cycle again.
Meryton was just such a place, and the militia, while the structure chafed—something he had never endured—was at least a safe place from which to once again ply his trade.
As he had been in Meryton for only a few weeks, he knew it would be months yet before he must leave if he played the part correctly.
Even more, he had not been in Meryton much of late, engaged as he was in London with a bit of business that, had it paid off, would have provided a handsome profit—enough that he had even considered resigning from the militia.
The deal had fallen through, and Wickham had returned to Meryton, knowing he could not put the colonel off with platitudes much longer.
Now, it should be noted that Wickham had as yet heard nothing of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s presence in the neighborhood—had he known, he would have resigned his position and departed posthaste.
Though Wickham did not like to think about it, the truth was that there were only two men in the world he feared, and Darcy was not one of them.
The first was Thompson, Darcy’s burly footman, a man who bore him a grudge because of an unfortunate misunderstanding with his sweetheart—that the misunderstanding was the woman’s resistance to Wickham’s attempts to seduce her played no part in his thinking.
Wickham could still recall the last time he had been in Thompson’s company, could still feel the bruises that had decorated his body when he managed to escape.
Wickham was not eager to repeat the experience.
As much as Thompson frightened him, however, that was nothing compared to the abject terror that filled him at the mere thought of Colonel Anthony Fitzwilliam.
Wickham had always had a healthy, wary respect for Darcy’s cousin, even while he despised the man.
But after the unfortunate Ramsgate affair the previous summer—unfortunate only because Wickham had not laid claim to the mousy girl’s fortune—that respect had grown to terror.
When Darcy had allowed him to depart from Ramsgate, Wickham had thought the matter was closed.
That was until Fitzwilliam hunted him down.
The ensuing conversation was one Wickham did not care to recall, but it taught Wickham that should he meet the colonel again, he may not retreat from that meeting with his life.
“A new tenant at Netherfield, you say,” said Wickham the morning after his return, when Denny commented on the subject.
“Not a new tenant,” replied Denny, unconcerned. “I know nothing of him, but I believe he is a relation of Mr. Bingley. The Bingleys, along with Mr. Darcy, retreated to London after the ball, you understand.”
That was a matter of which Wickham had heard, and he could not claim to be surprised that Darcy would act to remove his friend from the savages of Hertfordshire. This relation of Mr. Bingley’s was a curious matter, but Wickham did not think it signified.
“Then Darcy has not returned.”
Denny shrugged. “Not so far as I have heard.”
Wickham appreciated Darcy’s absence, for it offered him the unfettered opportunity to sink Darcy’s character to those in the neighborhood.
Besides, there was a pretty young miss ripe for the plucking, and Wickham meant to have his fun.
She was moral, upright, and demure, yet playful—it only made the chase that much more interesting.
Wickham had rarely known his methods to fail, and he did not mean to allow this one to escape.
Thus, when the general invitation arrived for the officers to attend Sir William’s annual Christmas party, he did not hesitate to accept.
There were several months until he would need to depart, but he suspected it would take several months to crack Miss Elizabeth’s defenses.
Wickham was nothing if not patient. And should he find a young lady in this town with any hint of a fortune, why, he could have both.
ON THE DAY OF THE PARTY at Lucas Lodge, the Gardiners arrived from London.
By this time, Colonel Fitzwilliam had been in the neighborhood for several weeks, and Elizabeth had witnessed the recovery of her sister’s spirits, the emergence of the contented, hopeful Jane from the ashes of Mr. Bingley’s abandonment.
Though Jane was circumspect and quiet as always, Elizabeth thought she caught a hint of Jane’s growing regard for the colonel—she might have harbored concerns for her sister had Colonel Fitzwilliam not shown every sign of a man who admired a woman.
The Gardiners were the especial favorites of the Bennet family, but more particularly of Jane and Elizabeth, who looked on them as models to emulate, examples they did not receive at home.
Uncle Gardiner was clever and quick, but his wife, Madeleine Gardiner, was a wise elder woman in whom to confide.
The eldest Bennets had always enjoyed their company and stayed with them for several weeks out of every year.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam?” asked Aunt Gardiner, upon hearing Lydia speak the name for the second or third time. “At Netherfield Park? It was my understanding that the tenant in residence was Mr. Bingley?”
When Jane colored, Elizabeth took pity on her and responded in her stead. “Mr. Bingley and his party returned to London in November, Aunt. Colonel Fitzwilliam is a relation of Mr. Darcy, the man who stayed with Mr. Bingley.”
“And an excellent man he is!” exclaimed Lydia, Kitty nodding by her side. “The colonel tells the most interesting stories. Why, the militia officers are nothing compared to him!”
“Yes, I heard you mention Mr. Darcy more than once. What you do not know is that I lived in Lambton for a time when I was a girl, which is no more than five miles from Mr. Darcy’s estate.”
“You know Mr. Darcy?” demanded Kitty.
“Not at all, Kitty,” said Mr. Gardiner with a smile. “Mr. Darcy was the son of a wealthy man, while I was only the daughter of a parson. The Darcys do not even attend church in Lambton, for their parish lies in Kympton.”
“Even I have heard something of Mr. Darcy,” said Uncle Gardiner, “for he is well known in town. I understand he has titled relations.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam is the son of one such relation,” replied Elizabeth, remembering the colonel’s comment about Mr. Darcy’s position in society. “The Earl of Matlock, or so I have heard.”
The Gardiners were interested in these accounts, listening while the girls spoke of the colonel and his tales of adventure and battle; Elizabeth added observations on his intelligence; and even Jane made a few comments about his kindness.
Though Elizabeth had never thought her aunt and uncle lacked understanding, the way they understood what they did not say surprised Elizabeth.
As they were preparing to depart for Lucas Lodge that night, Mr. Gardiner approached Elizabeth for a private word.
“Lizzy,” said her aunt as she stepped into the room.
Seeing Elizabeth adjusting her hair, Aunt Gardiner stepped behind her and took charge of Elizabeth’s hair, rescuing it from her questing fingers, plucking up loose curls and wrapping them into a twist with an expert hand.
All the while, Elizabeth saw her aunt’s eyes on her in the mirror, though she was not looking with censure.
“Tell me,” said her aunt as she worked, “am I mistaken or did I hear a measure of extra warmth in Jane’s voice when she spoke of this Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
“From what I remember,” replied Elizabeth with a laugh, “I do not think Jane spoke more than a few sentences.”
“That was enough,” replied Mr. Gardiner. “If it was not, then your mother’s comments on the subject more than filled in the gaps.”
Shaking her head at her aunt’s perception—Mr. Gardiner spoke a quiet word of reprimand as she grasped Elizabeth’s hair—she allowed her supposition to be true.
“If you are asking if Jane is enamored with Colonel Fitzwilliam, I do not think she is. But it is clear she likes him very well—unless I am no judge of the matter at all, Colonel Fitzwilliam returns the sentiment. Warmer, perhaps, considering he is not recovering from sudden heartbreak.”
Mr. Gardiner considered this. “Is that altogether wise?”
“Of wisdom, I know nothing,” replied Elizabeth.
“Jane cannot control a man’s interest in her, after all.
When Colonel Fitzwilliam first appeared in our midst, I spoke with Jane on the subject, and she agreed to guard her heart until Colonel Fitzwilliam makes his sentiments known.
She has followed that advice, though I cannot say how dear her feelings for Colonel Fitzwilliam have become. ”