Chapter 6
Six
JULY 1812, brIGHTON
T he ball was crowded with officers resplendent in their red coats, and Miss Lydia Bennet eyed them with the interest of a fox set loose in the hen house. Almost absently, she appraised them, noting a nicely snug pair of breeches on one, a fine coif on another, and a well-muscled chest on a third. She was careful in her rumination to keep herself in an attractive attitude, always wishing to entice them all, even as she determined which were to be the first objects of her flirtations.
So engaged was she in evaluating the officers that she nearly missed the prize—the exceedingly well-favoured Mr Wickham. He came behind her, nearly causing her to yelp in surprise with his voice, so low and so unbearably enticing.
“Miss Lydia Bennet. Fancy seeing you here.”
Her yelp turned into a loud bray of laughter as she turned to see him. “Why, Mr Wickham, you nearly made me lose my wits! Such a fine joke to come behind me just so!”
“Lose your wits?” He raised one eyebrow in a charming tease. “Never. I assure you, should I ever wish to relieve you of something on or about your person…” He allowed his gaze to travel her bodice which was struggling mightily to retain its hold on the bounteous flesh it barely concealed. “It will not be your wits, I assure you.”
She blushed prettily, giving him a tiny slap on the arm with her fan. “Just as wicked as ever, you scoundrel. For shame! I am a lady, you know.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “No, you are a girl. Someday a lady, to be sure, but for now, just a girl.”
Lydia, despite herself, was intrigued. She had always believed Mr Wickham to be the handsomest man of her acquaintance but had never truly thrown herself into his power, thinking he was beyond her reach. Now though if she read him aright….
“So you think me a mere girl, do you? Dare I suppose it is you who wish to help me grow into a lady?” In an effort to remind him of her more grown-up qualities, she inhaled, allowing her bosom to strain dangerously against her dress.
His eyes flared a bit, and he leant towards her. “Forgive me. It appears I have spoken in error. The captivating creature before me is every inch a full grown lady.”
She decided she would make him earn her attention. She allowed her shoulders to slump slightly, and her expression turned faintly petulant. “No, it is I who should apologise. I had nearly forgotten you are all but married. When shall I wish you joy with Miss King?”
He leant back, resting against the wall. “Miss King and I have come to the mutual understanding that our prior mutual understanding was…not so very well understood. It appeared to be in both of our best interests to part ways, and so we did.”
“Poor man. You must be heartbroken,” she murmured as seductively as she could.
“Oh yes indeed. My broken heart is in dire need of consoling, Miss Lydia, and I fear nothing but the charms of a beautiful woman will do for it.”
“A woman, hm? And here you have been so cruelly calling me a mere girl!” Lydia turned her back just slightly towards him, pouting over her shoulder in a manner she hoped was beguiling. “I seem to recall that my sister Lizzy was your favourite of my sisters, so maybe you would prefer her consolation. I shall write to her directly with the news.”
“She is not in Brighton with you?” Mr Wickham extended his arm to her, and she accepted it. He began to guide her towards a more secluded corner. “I should have thought all of your family attended you here.”
“My family does not think me a girl, as you seem to believe,” she responded pertly with a sidelong look at him. “They have entrusted me to the care of your colonel and his dear Harriet for some enjoyment. Lizzy in particular is off having the most deadly dull time touring houses in Derbyshire with my aunt and uncle.”
“I do recollect her saying something of that sort. Is she enjoying herself? ”
“Her letters are so uninteresting I can scarcely read them, all filled with details about the gardens and woods of Chatsworth and Blenheim and their like. But I understand they are to go to a haunted mansion soon! Pemberton or something like that.”
Mr Wickham stumbled, likely over a loose board in the floor. His voice sounded flat when he asked, “Pemberley?”
“That is the one!” Lydia said cheerfully. She was more than ready to leave behind the subject of Lizzy and her travels in favour of more flirty banter. She looked up at him, frowning when she saw that he was staring off at some point distant, as though she were not even there!
“I told her in the strongest terms I could…” he muttered. Then seeing Lydia’s scrutiny, he said, with a distracted smile, “No doubt they will run screaming when they see it. To call Pemberley dilapidated would be a compliment.”
“Oh, you know Lizzy. She will want to go see the library or some such. The fact that it is falling apart will only make it more interesting to her.”
“It is rumoured that those who dare approach the house become ill or insensible a short time after breathing in the air… Or so it is said. I am no expert, to be sure.” He gave an awkward-sounding chuckle, as if he were the very opposite of amused. “You should write directly and tell her so.”
“Lore such as that would only raise Lizzy’s curiosity,” Lydia scoffed, placing one hand on her hip. “Are we merely to stroll about all evening? You are an impudent one chatting to me all this time with nary an offer for a dance! Naughty Wickham! Now if?—”
“But surely your sister would not be imprudent.” Mr Wickham’s tone had grown loud. He spoke quickly and looked oddly agitated. “Someone must warn her. Or-or your aunt and uncle. They will not want to roam about a cursed place.”
“Cursed?” Lydia laughed loudly and unrestrainedly. “No one believes in that sort of silliness.”
“Curses are real,” he said urgently. “Never doubt it. Ever.”
Lydia drew back, momentarily surprised into silence by his fervour as much as his seeming disinclination to dance with her. She had heard the music starting, and though it was not to be her favourite dance next, she wished to join the line as soon as may be.
She answered in an irritated voice. “All I can say is that from her last letter, Lizzy said they were planning to have a look.”
“Pemberley is a dangerous place,” he insisted.
“Well, it is nothing to me, is it?” Lydia watched as Mr Wickham ran his hand over his mouth, his eyes still blank, and his mind clearly on something that was not her, or dancing with her, or even fetching her some punch.
“I must get the glass back from Denny,” he said, clearly speaking to himself.
“The glass?”
“Opera glass,” he replied. “Have you seen Denny hereabouts? ”
“Oh the opera glass? Denny does not have that,” she told him, “because he lost it to me!”
“He did?” Mr Wickham exclaimed, with his attention suddenly back upon her. “Miss Lydia, I need it back most desperately for it was a prized?—”
“Oh, I did not keep it!” She snorted. “What good would such a thing do me? I traded with Lizzy for some ribbons or a comb, I think.”
He stared at her a moment before bowing stiffly. “Excuse me, an urgent matter has just been recalled to me. I must be off.”
With a fierce scowl at his back, Lydia placed her hands on her hips. “Of all the ungentlemanly behaviour!”
Mr Wickham did not respond, instead moving off at a rapid pace, muttering something about the post coach while pulling his watch from his pocket and glancing at it. His steps quickened until he gained the door, where he nearly broke into a run towards the officers’ quarters.
Lydia watched him go, mystified and more than a little piqued by his peculiar behaviour. She learnt the next morning at breakfast from Colonel Forster that a family emergency had called Mr Wickham to London quite suddenly.
Following the death of her husband, Jessabelle had made her home in London. A relief, for Wickham did not know if he could have borne the anxiety of days of travel to Derbyshire from Brighton. He got lucky leaving Brighton, finding an overnight mail coach departing at just the right time, even if he was required to ride on top of it.
At least there is no rain . He pulled his hat over his face and managed to get a few minutes of sleep before dawn broke, and they arrived in London.
Jessabelle was dressed but was lingering over her breakfast when Wickham arrived at her house. Without hiding his alarm, he told her about the travel plans of Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her Gardiner relations. He said nothing of the opera glass, not wishing to bear her wrath if it was not necessary.
“According to Miss Lydia Bennet, they mean to go to Pemberley. It might be there already. Miss Elizabeth is the curious sort and will poke about all sorts of places she ought not,” he concluded.
Jessabelle sighed and pressed two fingers to her temple. “Did you even try to warn her off?”
“I did! I told her it would be distressing to her aunt, make them sick...in short, I tried to persuade them against it in every possible way.”
“Yet, they went.” Jessabelle pushed aside her breakfast plate and went to retrieve the sherry she kept in the drawing room. Wickham grimaced. He might have preferred some ham and eggs, but he supposed the sherry would be better than nothing.
“I have a bad sense about this,” she said as she returned to the dining room. “It will not end well for us.” She handed him a glass of sherry and then, taking her own, began to pace.
“You have him set in neatly. Likely they will fall ill as others have done before them and remove from the place as quickly as they can.”
“I do beg your pardon.” Jessabelle stopped to glare at him, eyes glittering with fury. “I had forgotten of your extensive experience in the cunning arts. Let us not forget, dear brother, your expertise is in the seductive arts, not those of artifice and cunning.”
Her footsteps rapped loudly on the wooden floor as she began to pace more agitatedly. “Tell me about this Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Is she the nervous sort? Given to vapours?”
Wickham pursed his lips, reluctant to speak the truth.
“Well?” She prompted with a little stamp. “Is she?”
Wickham looked down at the floor. “It will take a great deal more than some overgrown hedges and muddy paths to put her off, if she is so determined. But surely, it will do no harm. She will poke about, see an odd painting perhaps. What can it signify?”
“Because the spell I have placed upon him and upon Pemberley is a curse of loneliness, of desolation, and of isolation.” Jessabelle said each word distinctly and slowly. “It is utterly dependent upon the complete derision of the world and abandonment of all who ought to love him.”
“Obviously, she has no love for him. She has never even heard of him,” Wickham said. “And surely, she could not fall in love with him! He was never that agreeable in his usual state, much less under a spell.” He forced himself to chuckle.
“If she falls in love with him, all is lost,” she explained, sinking suddenly into a chair across from her brother. “The complete and pure love of one soul, one person who cares to look past all that is mean and stingy about him—that will defeat the curse as surely and soundly as if it had never existed.”
“How could she possibly fall in love with a painting? Of the house itself no less!” Wickham attempted to console her. “She might not even notice it, and if she does, it will be a cursory examination at best. It is not so very interesting, to be truthful.”
“No,” Jessabelle said absently. “You are right. There is only one way she might be able to see and speak to him…but no, the chances are quite minuscule, and in any case, you have it, yes?”
Wickham was at once exceedingly interested in his sherry, knowing exactly what she was asking. “Have…what?”
“Lady Anne Darcy’s opera glass.”
Lady Anne’s opera glass was the one means by which someone might see past the outward image of her son, to see the man he truly was or could be. Having received it as a present on the very day that he quickened in her womb, it embodied all of the love that went into creating him, all of the hopes and dreams that rested upon him.
Even though Lady Anne herself had had no idea of its power, Jessabelle had and thus had taken it from Pemberley the day she cast the spell on Darcy. She had given it to her younger brother for safekeeping. He resisted the urge to squirm beneath her gaze .
“Where is the opera glass, George?” Jessabelle’s voice held a warning tone.
“Well, why do you make me keep things for you? I suspect you only wish me to swing for stealing if anyone should ever discover them!”
“Where is it?”
There was nothing for it. He would need to admit the truth. “I left it with a friend.”
She immediately leapt to her feet. “Stupid?—”
He also leapt up. “I can get it back!”
“What friend?” she demanded.
“An acquaintance. Someone from my regiment.” Wickham licked his lips nervously. “Denny.”
“Denny?” Jessabelle asked, the name ending in a high-pitched shriek. “From your regiment in Hertfordshire ?”
Reluctantly, he nodded. “Meryton. The town near the Bennets’ estate.”
“So, Mr Denny of the regiment quartered in Meryton has the opera glass. And what, might I ask, do you think he has done with it?” She glared at him fiercely. “The truth, George.”
“He lost it to Miss Lydia Bennet… and she evidently traded her sister some ribbons for it.” He swallowed, painfully. “Her sister Elizabeth.”
Jessabelle’s rage was expressed in a scream that curdled her brother’s blood.