CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Immediately Wilshere and Maitland were roused from their slumber, whilst Gallagher was retrieved from the servant’s hall where he was halfway through finishing an onion pie. Darcy’s steward, Mr. Perry, was recalled from the wine cellar and questioned as to the location of Mrs. Younge’s London residence. He dashed back downstairs to his office but was unable to uncover any address in his various ledgers, as she had resided with the family during her short employment as Georgiana’s governess. It was, if you recall, after gaining the family’s trust that Mrs. Younge had accompanied Georgiana to Ramsgate and so insidiously allowed the young lady to meet and nearly elope with Mr. Wickham.
“I am exceedingly sorry, sir, to not have kept the address—”
“No, please do not apologize,” Darcy broke in. “You may have, and as much as I desired nothing more at that time than full dissolution with such infamy, I may have instructed you at some point to rid us of all connection with that vile woman. And I, for my part, cannot seem to recall any relevant details about her life before she joined the staff, other than that her late husband had been a vicar, but for the life of me I could not tell you where.”
“What about any of the maids, Mr. Perry?” Maitland chimed in. “Would any of them have shared quarters with her, or at least had more occasion to become better acquainted?”
Mr. Perry thought for a moment. “Why, yes, Maitland—I do believe she had become rather acquainted with Helena, one of our maids.” Darcy’s steward then called for Clinton, the footman, to have Helena fetched. The girl entered the room breathlessly, but two minutes later. “Helena, I understand that you were on familiar terms with Mrs. Younge during her service here?”
The maid cringed at the very mention of the name. “Yes, Mr. Perry, but not after—”
“I understand,” he cut in, calming her with the motion of his hands. “We were all quite unhappily deceived by her.” The maid managed a nervous smile. “I wonder if you might by chance recall anything of her private details—where she lived, or even in what parish her late husband was vicar?”
“I believe she made mention that her house was in Edward Street,” Helena answered, brow knit in concentration.
“Edward Street? That is excellent,” exclaimed Mr. Perry.
“There are several Edward Streets all across London,” Mr. Darcy remarked. “What about the church, Helena? Can you recall the name?”
Her mouth twisted anxiously as if she were about to apologize, but then her face lit up with cognition. “Yes, she said she had a house in Edward Street, and let rooms to workers for her support, though now looking back, I believe she may have been involved in another sort of business altogether.”
“And the church?”
“St. Clement’s in Southwark.”
“You are positive ?”
“Without question, Mr. Darcy,” she beamed. “She would complain incessantly that the pinchers and rogues would steal from her home, and I remember she would say, ‘There’s but a single man in all Southwark I trust.’ I am absolutely sure of it.”
“Thank you, Helena,” Darcy said. “Mr. Perry, see to our horses, and see that Helena receives a bottle of wine from my collection as well as a five-pound reward for her assistance.”
“Make it ten,” Bingley chimed in. “Wilshere, see to it.”
Both stewards nodded then left the room.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley,” Helena spoke through welling tears. “Thank you and may God bless you both.”
Her departure was followed by Maitland’s and Gallagher’s. The two masters went and dressed for the evening, before reconvening in Darcy’s study in twenty minutes’ time. They shared a quick glass of brandy and were met outside by their men and their horses. Wilshere informed them as they mounted that he had just learned that Mr. Bennet had left town and travelled back to Hertfordshire that day, though his brother-in-law, Mr. Gardner was still using what means he had to locate the couple. Both Bingley and Darcy found themselves silently ruminating that they had not the fortune of dispatching him to Longbourn with more favourable news. I will not see her ruined by such a man as George Wickham . The journey into Southwark was only slightly over two miles, but through tightly packed and cluttered streets, took much longer than any of them would have wished. Over Westminster Bridge, they rode on down the New Cut toward Nelson Square, where they turned north in the direction of Edward Street.
“How did this possibility escape us earlier?” Bingley asked.
“This is a most perfect, yet inauspicious place to hide,” responded Darcy. “I see that quite clearly now.”
The streets were surrounded by timber yards, brewers, dyers, and all sorts of trade, but were also littered with boarding houses for the impoverished workers, brothels, and taverns. Even more alluring, perhaps, to a man like Wickham, and an impressionable young lady as Lydia, was its proximity to amusements of all kinds—the Royal Circus, for instance, with all its ballets and performances was mere blocks away. A girl from the country could easily believe she was being treated to the finest London had to offer after a night in such a place and would all the more easily become the prey of a wretch like Wickham. And at the same time, the area was so densely populated that detection could be avoided easily in the faceless hum of the crowd.
Once they reached Edward Street, it was not difficult to obtain the address of Mrs. Younge’s house. A child dressed in nothing more than rags was granted two pounds to point out the location which she did with both eagerness and delight. Littered about the place were drifters and drunkards and miscreants of all shapes and sizes. The stench of urine and waste was overpowering, and perhaps worse than in any other repugnant neighbourhood they had searched to that point. The sun’s setting only served to make the place more dismal, as long shadows were cast upon the road, turning ordinary objects into protracted monuments to vice and squander. Upon reaching the house, Bingley quickly dismounted only to be obstructed by Darcy.
“Please, Bingley,” he said as he climbed down and onto the step. “Allow me the honour.”
With a nod of Bingley’s head, Darcy turned to the door and knocked loudly. Almost immediately it swung open, and he was face to face with Mrs. Younge herself. Her eyes widened as to nearly devour her forehead upon seeing him, and out of primal instinct she attempted to shut the door as quickly as she had opened it, but was unable to, thanks to the boot of Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Younge found herself stumbling backward into the candlelit foyer; he followed her in.
“Will you not receive a gentleman here strictly on business, Mrs. Younge?”
She quivered and swallowed what felt like a lodged peach pit down her throat. “You can have no business here,” she mumbled.
“On the contrary, I do,” he replied, “I seek an acquaintance of yours, or perhaps, a business associate would be a more proper rendering.”
The fear in her eyes was matched by the trembling of her jaw. “You must be mistaken, Mr. Darcy.”
Bingley and Wilshere entered slowly behind Darcy. Their faces being obscured by the light from the street at their backs, in addition to their anonymity to her, caused a cold shudder down Mrs. Younge’s spine. Maitland, during this time, went round the back of the building to ensure that their man could not evade them by way of the alley.
“You must know the man we seek,” insisted Darcy.
“I have not the slightest idea,” she answered, her voice shivering with each word.
“George Wickham,” Darcy declared. “Where is he?”
Her lip curled upward, and her brow knitted as her eyes darted to and fro. “George Wickham—how has he offended you now?”
“It is of no consequence to you.”
She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Perhaps not.”
“George Wickham—have you housed him here?”
Mrs. Younge’s hand clutched her chest, and she heaved an audible sigh of relief. “You will excuse me, I must sit,” she remarked as she fumbled backward for a chair. Once she was seated, hand still over heart, she let a chuckle out and repeated, “George Wickham ?”
“For the last time, Mrs. Younge, is he here?” Darcy demanded.
“No, of course not,” she answered.
“But has he been?”
“Well, yes and quite frequently.”
“Of late? With a young lady?”
“He is always with a young lady.”
“When was he last here?”
“I am not at liberty to divulge such information,” she remarked with a tinge of expectation in her voice.
“How much?”
“Twenty pounds.”
“You must be touched in the upper works,” Darcy ridiculed.
“ Twenty pounds , and I will tell you when he was here last.”
Being bribed by a woman of such ill repute, particularly the woman who had been involved in one of the most painful affairs in his life, was so far below Darcy that his teeth gritted, and his lip curled in revulsion. Looking about the dismal room he, for the first time, heard the din all around him—the carnal sounds of sin and debauchery echoing down halls from behind closed doors; he smelt the redolence of musk and sweat. For a brief second, he imagined what his father would have thought of him even standing in such a place and felt as though he might retch then and there. The only thing that kept his hands at his side, rather than around Mrs. Younge’s throat at that moment, was the sudden recall of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s face. He first remembered her sparkling eyes and her radiant smile as she played and sang before them at Rosings Park, then the tears streaming from those same eyes and the fright in the twitch of her lips in the inn at Lambton, as she revealed to him the dreadful news of her youngest sister’s most unwelcome elopement. Reaching into his coat pocket, his heart broke for her all over again, and he determined once more that he would see himself ruined before he saw her disgraced. The corners of Mrs. Younge’s mouth nearly touched her ears as she reached out and took the notes from his hand.
“Five nights ago,” she began, “he arrived here accompanied by a young lady, rather less handsome than was typical, in my opinion.”
“And how long did they stay?”
“Not but a minute, for I turned them away.”
“You turned them away?”
“Yes, I had not any vacancy,” replied Mrs. Younge. “You see, he arrived rather unannounced, and I was at full capacity.”
“What do you mean he arrived unannounced?”
“His typical manner is to send word ahead, sometimes only a day’s notice, but I am always careful to reserve a room at that point. Last week, he arrived in a state of near panic, but having no advanced notice of his coming, I had no means of accommodating him, or them , I should say.”
“How long are his usual visits to your establishment?” Bingley suddenly asked.
“He does not stay at all,” she answered.
“I do not understand your meaning,” replied Bingley, stepping closer to Darcy’s side.
“He leaves the young lady here, collects his fee, and off he goes.”
“Collects his fee ?”
At this, a sudden pall came over her face. “I am afraid that I have already said too much.”
“Twenty pounds,” Darcy offered.
“Darcy, no,” Bingley cautioned.
“ Fifty pounds ,” Darcy upped his offer.
“As much delight as I take in accepting such a generous offer from a gentleman,” she said warily, “there is no amount of your money that could entice me to give up my own neck.”
Bingley turned and glared back at Wilshere who stood sentry near the door. “If you turned him away, do you have a notion as to where he might have gone?” he asked.
“I do,” she replied, putting her hand out palm up.
“You are mad to think you can have another penny from us, you—” Wilshere suddenly broke in.
“I believe you will have to bleed very freely if it is George Wickham you truly seek.”
“Fifty pounds?” Darcy blurted.
She smiled smugly. “One hundred-fifty.”
“You are truly mad,” Bingley began.
“And you know where he is?” Darcy interjected.
“Not with precision, but I can tell you with great confidence where he ought to be, if he is in bad bread—unless of course he is already dead, then you would be wise to search the pauper’s graves.”
Bingley reached in his pocket only to be stopped by Darcy’s hand. “You have your portion to be done; allow me to have mine,” he said sombrely. With that, Darcy handed the money over to Mrs. Younge. “You have no shame, do you?”
“Why should I be ashamed?” she replied. “My income is not generated from the luck of my forebears and the labour of peasants. Yet, should a widow not be allowed a comfortable life?”
“Enough,” Bingley chimed in. “What have you to tell us?”
“If Wickham should have half as much brains as he has bollocks, he would hide out in Dover Street.”
“And why is that?”
“There are many establishments of, granted, lower esteem than mine but none the less, places where a man might hide away, and cheaply so. It is not a very large street, but the inhabitants are dense and bawdy— use care ,” she ended with a scornful smile.
Darcy’s nature caused him nearly to bow before taking his leave, but he caught himself before allowing that woman the courtesy so clearly unmerited. As the three men turned and left, Bingley instructed Wilshere to retrieve Maitland and meet them on the corner of Charlotte Street. Once the door was closed, Mrs. Younge sat with a glare mixed of hatred and disquiet, bank notes raised to the level of her nose.