The End of Equanimity #5
Mr Wickham is the son of my late father’s steward and godson to my father.
He was bequeathed an amount of money upon my father’s death, which he was granted, as well as the promise of a living, which he rejected in favour of mutually agreed remuneration.
This he squandered in its entirety within months and soon returned with a request for more, which was denied.
Nonetheless, I have been obliged on more than one occasion to clear considerable debts in his name.
He is also a known philanderer and has not scrupled to prey upon young ladies—particularly those in possession of any significant fortune. I would ask that you be particularly vigilant of his activities in this quarter.
In acknowledgement of the harm the delay in divulging this information may have caused, I shall settle any debts Lt. Wickham has accrued that he is unable to pay himself up to the date of receipt of this letter. Thereafter, I relinquish all responsibility for the man to you.
Yours sincerely,
Mr F. Darcy
Saturday 23 May 1812, Hertfordshire
Elizabeth struggled for composure as she walked, angrily divesting the twig in her hands of its leaves, one forceful tug at a time.
The Bennets, along with many of their neighbours, had dined at Lucas Lodge the previous evening.
This morning, as all five sisters strolled into Meryton, Jane had once again begun bemoaning Elizabeth’s familiarity with Mr Bingley.
“I comprehend you feel conscious in Mr Bingley’s presence,” she said to her, “but surely you would not have me slight him simply to make your diffidence less obvious.”
“Of course not, Lizzy, but it is possible to constrain yourself to mere civilities. You need not monopolise every conversation.”
“I was not aware that I had.”
“So you have said, but your manners—well there must be something in your manners, Lizzy, for you are forever the centre of the gentlemen’s attention.”
“Is that not proof you ought to make more effort to converse if that is what gentlemen admire?”
“I have no doubt, but not everybody has wit and self-assurance in infinite measure. Besides, Mr Bingley was perfectly satisfied with my manner last autumn whilst you were busy sparring with his friend. All I ask is that you be mindful not to out vie me simply because you no longer have Mr Darcy to occupy you.”
The remark took Elizabeth aback. She had thought herself terribly clever last autumn, never speaking to Mr Darcy unless it was to demonstrate how much wiser and more perceptive she was than he.
Yet something in her manner had misled him into believing she liked him—loved him, even.
Her twig snapped in two. She threw it aside.
Had she flirted with him? Certainly not consciously, yet her sister and mother’s charges of coquetry and her aunt’s tease not to make men love her were all suggestive that her behaviour was not beyond reproof.
The possibility that Mr Darcy’s attachment (and therefore, too, his disappointment and humiliation) was of her doing was inexpressibly painful.
She dared not voice her regrets lest it excite her sister’s misgivings, but she could, and did, promise to make herself scarce whenever Mr Bingley called so as not to obtrude upon their time together.
“Lizzy,” Lydia called from behind them, where she walked with her other sisters. “Kitty says you refused to tell Aunt Gardiner in your letter that I am to go to Brighton with the Forsters!”
“Kitty is right,” she replied.
“But I asked you to put my news in your letter! I would have written to her myself had I known you would not! You are jealous that you have not been invited to spend the summer with Wickham!”
“I did not tell her, Lydia, because it is not true. Mrs Forster merely said it would be pleasant if you were to go.”
“Aye,” said Kitty, “and even she admitted Colonel Forster was unlikely to agree to it.”
“And Papa would forbid you from going even if she did invite you,” Mary added.
“Mama would never allow him to do that,” Lydia scoffed petulantly.
Her gaze flicked past them all briefly, then back, and in a challenging tone she said to Elizabeth, “Let us see who is right about my being invited.” So saying, she stepped out into the thoroughfare, waving and calling, “Denny! Sanderson! Wickham!”
Elizabeth turned to see a disorderly group of militiamen spilling from the Red Lion on the far corner, all evidently in their cups.
She and Jane called for their sister to come back, but to no avail.
With a defiant look, Lydia hitched up her skirts and ran across the road.
There was little else the rest of them could do but follow her to the throng of officers.
Wickham squinted at the approaching figure.
When it materialised into Miss Lydia Bennet, he attempted to hide behind Denny.
Denny promptly fell over, and Wickham tripped over him and stumbled to the left, shoving Brichard into Sanderson.
When he righted himself, he found he was no longer facing one Bennet woman, but five—Miss Elizabeth, with her potentially damning information, amongst them. He groaned.
“Wickham!” the youngest screeched, and he winced as the sound lanced through his head. “You’ll never guess what! Mrs Forster wishes me to come to Brighton for the summer!”
This news left Wickham utterly unmoved but for the hope that she might learn to temper her voice somewhat before she arrived.
“Only, she does not think Colonel Forster will agree. But you could persuade him, Wickham, I know you could.”
Miss Elizabeth appeared by her sister’s side. “Mr Wickham is the last person you should expect to help you, Lydia. You lack the only inducement that might persuade him you are worth the trouble.”
“Are you calling me plain?” she objected, resisting her sister’s attempts to drag her away.
“No,” Miss Elizabeth said under her breath. “I am calling you poor.”
Panic assaulted him. Did she know it all then?
His reduced circumstances? His less than honest schemes to acquire whatever money he could get his hands on?
If she revealed his crack at Miss Darcy’s fortune or Miss King’s or any of the others in between, it would almost certainly spell the end of his career in the militia.
And God forbid that his dalliance with Forster’s wife be discovered.
“On the contrary, Miss Elizabeth!” he blurted.
“Your sister boasts many inducements that might tempt a man.”
A gasp from Miss Bennet and the look of horror on Miss Elizabeth’s face convinced him those might not have been the most well-considered words with which to defend his honour.
He stepped backwards, attempting to meld into the safety of his regiment, only to discover the bastards had all deserted him and were halfway down the street. His head began to pound.
“I would not have thought you imprudent enough to attempt it,” said Miss Elizabeth as she turned to leave, ushering her sister before her.
Seized with the conviction the wench was threatening to expose him, Wickham’s panic swelled into indignation.
“What is your meaning, madam?” He walked after her but stumbled over his own drunken feet and staggered towards her, grabbing for something with which to steady himself.
That something turned out to be Miss Elizabeth’s upper arm. His grip span her around to face him.
“Unhand me at once, sir!”
He made to let go but thought better of it when a wave of nauseating dizziness assailed him, and he almost fell atop her. “I hope you did not mean to threaten me just now, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr Wickham, I beg you would release me,” she replied, looking about in alarm.
“I should not like to think you so cruel as to reveal whatever tales Darcy has filled your pretty little head with. It is not kind to gossip.”
“Are you preaching to me?” she said angrily. “I had been given to understand that making sermons was not always so palatable to you.”
His head thumped mercilessly, and he felt perilously close to vomiting. “I would really rather you kept Darcy’s charges to yourself.”
“And so I shall, but my charges are my own to make. You have lied to me from the very beginning of our acquaintance—”
“Lower your voice, madam!”
“Unhand me!”
She tugged her arm away, pulling him off balance. His feet scuffed forward, his head span, and he held on all the tighter, for there were now black spots at the periphery of his vision. “Stand still!”
“You have whispered vengeful falsehoods in my ear,” she said more loudly, trying to pry his fingers from her arm. “You have defamed a good man for your own promotion.”
“Enough!”
“You have ingratiated yourself into this neighbo—”
“Hold your tongue!” He heard his name called and swung his head around. People were emerging from shops the length of the street. His fellow officers were running back towards him. “Look what you’ve done, you infuriating tart!”
“Release me!” the wench squealed then stamped hard on his foot. “Mr Darcy was right about you!”
“Be quiet!” he snarled in her face. Half the town was bearing down upon him, and she was about to spill all his secrets at the top of her lungs. His pulse thundered in his ears.
“You are vicious and unprinci—”
“I said be quiet!” Addled by alcohol and fear alike, Wickham was unable to think of aught but silencing her before she exposed him to the world as a fraud. His fist connected with her temple, and she crumpled into an insensible heap at his feet.
The other four Bennet women reminded him of their presence with a collective scream.
He looked up. People were yelling and running—and very close.
He did the only thing he could do. Without a backward glance, he ran as fast as his drunken legs would carry him to the nearest tethering post, purloined the first horse he came upon, and then he ran that until it went lame.
Many hours later, as he cowered in the back room of a pounding house in Edmonton, Wickham cursed Darcy for probably the thousandth time that day. It was all his bloody fault.