Chapter 18 #2
Netherfield Hall was barred to him, but only because he had no desire to cross paths with Darcy.
He would have enjoyed Bingley's ball very much, but it was not worth risking meeting his old enemy.
Darcy was by habit rigidly controlled. Many was the time his sanctimonious self-control and judgment had galled Wickham, but every man had his breaking point, and the last time the two men had laid eyes on one another, Darcy had been murderous with rage, the glacial ice of his self-possession melted away in the face of his incandescent anger.
Wickham winced at the memory and firmly banished it from his thoughts.
There was no point in indulging in his own fury over Darcy's meddlesome interference.
He had been so close! Georgiana, with her dowry of thirty thousand pounds, had been entirely infatuated with him!
He had been mere days from ordering the coach which would have carried the pair to Scotland for a marriage in Gretna Green!
Wickham realized he was breathing hard and carefully unclenched his fists.
Georgiana and her dowry, too, were irretrievably beyond his grasp, and it was of no use to repine there, either.
He must focus now on damage control, on reminding Darcy of the cards Wickham still held, and most importantly, on not getting punched in the face.
His thoughts were interrupted by a brisk rapping on his door.
“Come in!” he called, moving away from the fire, which was now blazing cheerily.
The door opened to reveal Lieutenant Smythe, wearing a solemn expression on his face, with two glasses of ale in his hands.
“Wickham,” the man said, stepping within, pushing the door closed with his back and holding out one glass. “I know you just returned from Town, but would you care for a drink?”
There was nothing in the world Wickham would like so much as a drink.
“Thank you! Please sit down,” he said, gesturing at the two chairs drawn close to the fire.
Smythe did so, and Wickham joined him and took another swallow of ale. Just one of the advantages of living above the pub was easy access to the truly excellent alcohol on the premises.
“How was London?” Smythe asked.
Wickham shrugged negligently. “It was well enough, but I far prefer to be here. I am not particularly fond of the smell of coal fires throughout the Metropolis.”
“Quite,” Smythe said.
Wickham suppressed a frown. He did not know Smythe very well, but there was a strange undercurrent in this meeting which was making him uncomfortable.
“How was the ball on Friday?” he asked carelessly.
Smythe poured the rest of his ale down his throat, set the empty glass on a handy small table, and leaned forward a little.
“It was interesting. I was foolish enough to repeat some of your claims about Mr. Darcy to Lydia Bennet, who then confronted Darcy about his treatment of you during the second to last dance of the night.”
Wickham could feel the blood draining from his face.
“What?” he quavered.
Smythe grimaced. “I was a fool to tell the girl, but in my defense, she is the daughter of a gentleman, so I thought she had at least a modicum of delicacy. That was a mistake on my part, obviously.”
Wickham gulped. “What … what happened?”
Smythe leaned back, crossed his legs, and said, “Mr. Darcy insisted on explaining the situation from his perspective, and instead of dancing that set, I found myself in one of the small sitting rooms with Elizabeth and Lydia Bennet, listening to Mr. Darcy explain that you accepted three thousand pounds to give away the rights to that church living that you are fond of speaking of.”
Wickham forced his face to remain calm as he lifted his glass for another sip of ale.
“He would say that, of course,” Wickham managed a moment later. “He has always been adept at painting himself in the best light.”
“Did you accept three thousand pounds to give up rights to the living?” the other man demanded.
Wickham hesitated for just a moment. He was, he flattered himself, genuinely gifted at subtle deception, at artfully arranging his words to say one thing and mean another.
Direct lies were dangerous, though, especially where Darcy was concerned.
“I did,” he said with a soft sigh, “and I know that I was stupid to do so, but I was reeling from the recent death of my father. I had almost no money, and the lure of ready coin was too strong for me. Darcy knew that and took advantage of my poverty.”
“Mr. Darcy said that you left hundreds of pounds of debts in Derbyshire, which he paid off. Is that true?”
Wickham’s jaw tightened. One of Darcy’s only beneficial characteristics was that he usually kept his own affairs rigidly private, and that extended to his dealings with Wickham. It was outrageous that the master of Pemberley had spoken so freely at the ball. How dare he?
He was again tempted to lie directly, but Darcy had receipts, and…
“I did leave debts,” Wickham said, bowing his head, “though I do not think it was hundreds of pounds. But I was young, and…”
“I truly do not care about tradesmen,” Smythe interrupted bluntly.
“I owe my tailor in town nearly fifty pounds and will not pay him until I absolutely have to. But I do care about my money, Wickham. You currently owe me thirteen pounds, and I was at ease with accepting your vowels, but after listening to Darcy, I am not certain I trust you to pay your gaming debts.”
Wickham straightened his body and said coldly, “You need not worry, Smythe. I am a gentleman, and gaming debts are a matter of honor. Indeed, I will pay you the thirteen pounds right now if you like.”
He hoped that Smythe would wave off his offer, since he had only twenty pounds to his name, but his companion looked relieved and said, “I would like that, yes.”
Wickham stood up, walked over to where his purse was sitting on the dresser, opened it, pulled out thirteen pounds in coin, handed it over, and said stiffly, “I assume you will be destroying my vowels?”
“I have them right here,” Smythe said, removing them from his right pocket and throwing them into the fire, where they flared into ash with commendable promptness. He rose to his feet, bowed slightly, and said, “It is a pleasure doing business with you, Wickham.”
Wickham returned the bow, escorted his guest to the door, let him out, closed the door and then leaned against it with the beginnings of a headache throbbing in his forehead.
Curse Lieutenant Smythe, and curse Lydia Bennet, and curse, most of all, Fitzwilliam Darcy.
One of the reasons Wickham had joined the militia was that he knew the regiment would move from town to town, which would allow him to run up debts and leave them behind.
As for his gambling debts, well, he did not care so much about those.
His luck had been so bad for so long that it was bound to change!
But he did have needs, many needs, and if the local tradesmen heard that Wickham did not reliably pay his debts, well, they might cut him off, and then what would he do?
Oh, how he hated Darcy with every fiber of his being.