Chapter 18
George Wickham tossed and turned, eager for morning to arise.
After one night in the tenant hovel, he understood why nobody inhabited it.
Fortunately, the night was warmer here than in the north, and the holes in the roof might have provided an exceptional view of the stars …
had the luminaries not been covered with clouds.
He also understood why the cot had not been reclaimed. Itchy, red welts spotted his flesh. The more he scratched, the more they itched.
Still, he was optimistic. If all went well, his misery would end, and he would return to the regiment that same morning.
But he must make certain first.
Sneaking over fields and sticking to the shadows, Wickham crept to Longbourn, not too close but close enough to observe the goings on.
The servants were up, and there was that new footman he had so narrowly escaped from noticing him the day before, sweeping the flagstones outside the kitchen.
The younger maid came out wielding a large tub. Wickham watched her closely. There was nothing different about her manner, and when Mrs. Hill summoned the footman to the kitchen, there appeared to be nothing out of sorts with her either.
No tears. No solemnity.
Maybe it was too early yet. Nobody had noticed.
What a bother. He would have to linger longer to be sure.
Wickham’s stomach rumbled, and he cursed. Bitten, cold, hungry, and bored. Would that this misery would end.
He glanced at the house once more, determined there was nothing more to be learned, then returned to his hovel to partake of his meager breakfast — stale bread and hard cheese.
Belly mostly calmed and blood warmed, exhaustion claimed him, and he woke several hours later.
Donning a coat he had snatched from a clothesline, and shoving a farmer’s hat down over his head, he walked gingerly to Longbourn. The family would be awake now.
He crept as close as he dared, listening, watching. But he heard none of the sounds he expected. No mourning. No wailing. No cries.
He lurked from his hiding place between the hedge and the carriage house, hoping to see evidence that his plan had met with success. But there was none.
Abomination! He was supposed to leave today, and now he would have to stay to help things along.
What could he do? He needed something quick. Something efficient. Something nobody could foresee or prevent. Not even him. There was no guilt in an accident.
Wickham’s gaze scanned over the yard. What to do? What to do?
A door creaked and slammed, and Wickham clung to the side of the carriage house, holding his breath when footsteps grew louder and only peeking around the corner when they faded.
It was Mr. Bennet. At least, that was who Wickham supposed it was under the bizarre costume he wore: a broad-brimmed hat with what looked like a wedding veil fluttering around it and stitched to a long, white coat of coarse fabric and long sleeves with matching gloves.
Wickham lost precious time staring at the gentleman in his extraordinary ensemble, but when he came to his senses, he scrambled along the thicket for a better view.
Mr. Bennet wandered beyond the back of the house in the direction of his fruit trees.
Opportunity? Or another stalemate?
Having nothing better to do, Wickham followed.