Chapter 14
Four days. It had only been four days, and Jane was ready to tear out her hair.
Lydia whined and moaned and demanded shopping trips from morning until night while Wickham drank himself unconscious on all the finest of the brandy in her stores.
She had cut him off the evening before, instructing the new butler, Mr. Fackrell, to lock up the storerooms and except for a single glass of wine with dinner, he was not allowed any drink except tea.
She hoped it would induce them to move on sooner.
Unfortunately, having been denied his second favorite pastime, Wickham resorted to his first and, keeping in mind the large footmen watching his every move with the maids, decided to approach his sister-in-law for relief, trapping her on the stairs as she was descending.
“Good morning, Jane,” he drawled, sliding his finger down the skin below her sleeve.
The sensation made her skin crawl but he was too self-absorbed to see the shiver for what it truly was and when she pushed his hand away, he twisted his hand and intertwined their fingers.
“I can see your need, Jane,” he purred. “Bingley has been gone a very long time. Surely you are desperate for a man’s touch. I am pleased to offer my services.”
Her response was so instinctive that she did not even realize that she had slapped him until she began to wonder why her hand was stinging.
His surprise allowed her to remove her trapped hand from his clasp, but she was too slow to evade him and he caught her arm in a punishing grip when she attempted to push past.
“You are not in a position to deny me, sister,” he snarled. “What would your neighbors think when the servants begin to gossip about our lover’s spat here on the stairs?”
She jerked away but could not break free. “I would rather kiss a snake then be touched by you. Release me this instant or I shall scream.”
He tisked, “Think of the talk, Jane.”
She moved intuitively and brought up her knee as she pushed him away.
She was shocked when he squealed and dropped to the ground, falling down the trio of steps behind him.
The sound of running feet woke her from her stupor and she was able to reply relatively calmly when Yates asked after her wellbeing.
“I will be well,” she assured him, dropping to the stair and leaning her head on her lap. “I will be well…”
“You!” He roared, picking Wickham up by his cravat. “It is obvious that you will be leaving but not before I receive satisfaction!”
“She was asking for it!” Wickham choked, brazenly. “She is surprisingly feisty, but then perhaps you know all about that.”
“Pistols or swords?”
Wickham lost a bit of his audacity, but jerked away, pulling his coat strait. “You dare challenge a soldier?” he loosed a mocking laugh, “It is your funeral! I choose swords.”
Yates’ grin was fearsome to behold as he sent a footman running to get the swords which hung on the wall above his desk, a trophy of his school record, and Wickham began to sweat. “You clearly do not recognize me, Georgie. Yates, Jeffery Yates.”
Wickham turned a bit green. He remembered the lanky, nearly occult swordsman from Cambridge, but this man was nearly double the width of that young man. As he was frog marched to the front lawn, he could only pray that the added bulk would slow the man down.
His prayers were not answered and as he lay on his back in the grass, writhing in pain from the slashes which now crossed his cheek in a large “L” shape, he cursed his wife for ever talking him into coming to this cursed estate.
“What have you done to my handsome Wickie!” Lydia screeched, breaking away from the footman who had held her back until the duel was finished.
“You have ruined his looks! Wickie! Wickie!” She threw herself on his chest, knocking the wind from him, and wailed like a paid mourner including the same number of true tears.
Jane finally exited the house on shaky legs, relieved to see that Yates had not been hurt on her behalf. She saw several giggling maids peeking around the side of the house and called to them, “Sally! Jenny! Go pack the Wickhams’ things. They are leaving immediately.”
Lydia sat up suddenly and cried, “NO! I shall pack for us! Stay out of our rooms!”
“You have never packed your own trunk in your life, Lydia,” Mary snorted appearing from inside. She had spent the last week avoiding her most horrid sister but talk of them leaving had brought her out. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing!” she squawked. “You are distressing me! Mama will hear of this!”
“You deserve to feel some of the distress you so liberally inflict on the rest of us!”
“I do not! I am lively and fun! All the officers adore me!” She cried, puffing up like an angry duck.
“Then return to them and leave the rest of us in peace!” Mary yelled, shocking Lydia silent.
She looked almost hurt for a moment, but her gaze quickly turned crafty and she straightened her spine. “Then we shall! I will pack immediately, but you shall have to give us your carriage, Jane, for we do not have the funds to rent another.”
“Then you shall travel by mail,” Jane decreed. “I shall call the cart to take you to Cheadle.”
“I will not take a cart like a servant!” Lydia cried, whipping about to face her. “If you do not send us in the carriage I shall refuse to get in and we will be here forever!”
“Ma’am,” Jenny called as she hurried through the doorway. “You must come see. Their trunks are filled with silver and other small objects. They must have been roaming the house at night nicking things!”
“Cant, Jenny!” Mrs. Toole exclaimed, bustling out after her. “I have sent for the magistrate, Mrs. Bingley.”
Wickham yelped and fell back to the ground holding his face.
He had attempted to run without thinking.
Mrs. Toole called a maid to retrieve a specific bottle from the kitchen storeroom and when she reappeared, took it and sprinkled it on his cut.
He had held still, thinking she was doctoring his wounds, but when the powder began to burn, he screamed.
“That was lye, Becky!” Mrs. Toole exclaimed, looking at the jar more closely. “Someone get some water!”
“Oops!” the girl sang, taking it back to the kitchen.
The footman took his time fetching water and by the time the lye was washed from the wounds, it was obvious that the scarring would be prodigious, but the bleeding had been stopped. His cries continued unabated.
The servants drug the blubbering Wickham into the house and dropped him on the floor in the study. Lydia’s unceasing complaints grew louder as she too was pushed into the room by a unforgiving maid.
“Jane! I did not really take anything as you found it, so it was not stealing!” Lydia cried, completely ignoring her husband’s pathetic moans.
“You cannot call the magistrate on your own sister! You know that Mama always gave me whatever I wished, it is only right that I have the things I had collected. You have loads more money than I do! You would hardly miss it at all!”
She did not realize it, but every word of entitlement she spoke stiffened Jane’s resolve. They must suffer some consequences, or their behavior would never change. On and on her complaints and accusations went until Jane thought she would be forced to slap her as well, just to silence her tirade.
Once she had slowed, Jane finally answered her, “Had Mama taught you as she ought, you would not feel entitled to everything that you see, as if it is your right. It is not right that your sisters were forced to give you everything you wished, it was wrong of Mama to spoil you in such a way, but now you will have to learn that none of that was ever acceptable.”
“No! I do not believe you! I have always gotten everything that I want. You are wrong!” Lydia stomped her feet.
“It is not right for you to have so much and not share it! Mama says that you have a new dress for every day of the year! It is not fair! I am the most beautiful and most lively! I should have everything I want!”
“So you are admitting to the theft?” the gentleman who had been led to join them during her tirade asked.
“I deserve beautiful things!” Lydia cried. “Wickie promised that we could sell the things in London and he would take me to balls and parties every night!”
“What was taken?” Mr. Walters asked, addressing Jane.
“There were two trunks worth of items, Mr. Walters,” Jane explained as two footmen presented the trunks.
He looked through the items, his brows rising further as each was pulled forth. “There is enough here to see them hang, Mrs. Bingley.”
Lydia screamed, Wickham fainted like the coward he was, and Jane turned green.
“Please, Mr. Walters,” she gasped, fighting the gorge in her throat.
“I do not wish for such a permanent consequence, Lydia is only seven and ten. Surely, she has time to reform?” She nearly retched as her sobs became frantic.
“Mrs. Bingley, calm yourself,” Yates stepped forward offering his handkerchief. “It is not good for a woman in your condition to worry yourself so. Will you trust me to handle this? I will ensure that they both live.”
“Thank you, Mr. Yates,” Jane sobbed, covering her face as she attempted to settle herself with little success.
“Mrs. Toole, will you see Mrs. Bingley to her room and get her a small glass of sherry? Miss Bennet, would you accompany her and see that she rests?”
The women stepped forward and did as he asked, practically carrying Jane up the stairs as she was so distraught. When the noise of her passage had faded, Mr. Yates silenced Lydia with a glare.
“Mr. Walters, you follow the old ways. Can we not brand them and force them to depart from the area?” he suggested.
“I suppose. It is a good plan if Mrs. Bingley’s soft heart prevents what they deserve.” He nodded ponderously.