Mr. Wickham’s Widow (Mr. Underwood’s Elizabeth & Darcy #23)

Chapter One

Elizabeth shifted Emily to the other shoulder.

At a year and a half of age, the girl was getting properly heavy.

Her four-year-old son, George, stood obediently at Elizabeth’s side, waiting.

She had told George that they were going to find his papa.

George had lately been asking why he did not have a papa.

No answer.

Elizabeth knocked again on the door to the fine house overlooking the harbor in Ramsgate. Then she pounded with the brass ring repeatedly.

Still no answer.

Elizabeth shifted the side she was holding Emily with again.

She slammed the brass knocker harder, and when there was still no sign of response, she banged her fist on the door.

This time Elizabeth heard a sound from inside.

The door was opened and an untidy young maid with frazzled hair came to the door. “The family is not receiving visitors, ma’am.”

She looked over Elizabeth, probably noting that neither her clothes, nor those of the children matched what would be expected from a visitor to this address.

Elizabeth did as she always did, when telling a creditor that she did not know where her husband was, but that they would somehow be paid, or when ordering her son to stop pestering a cat, or when arguing with her father about whether she should be allowed to marry Wickham.

Elizabeth straightened her spine, pulled her shoulders back and spoke as confidently as though she was a queen.

“I am not here for a visit. I am Mrs. George Wickham, and I am seeking my husband. I have been informed that he has often been seen at this house.”

The maid’s startled reaction to George Wickham’s name confirmed that the friend who had written to tell her about Wickham’s presence in Ramsgate had not led her astray.

“He has been here, I see.” Elizabeth calmly stepped past the maid.

“I shall then direct my questions to the family—I see the drawing room is at the end of the hallway. Very good.”

George followed behind Elizabeth while she bounced Emily in her arms. The young maid helplessly shrugged and did nothing to stop them.

The rug in the hallway was covered with dried muddy footprints and there was a spot where it looked like a bowl of beef stew had been spilled, and then only half cleaned.

Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Servant troubles.

In the drawing room a young woman with a tear-blotched face and a crumpled handkerchief in hand curled up in an armchair next to the sofa on which was laid out a tall, handsome man.

The man was only half dressed, with bandages unevenly wrapped around his chest and blood showing through.

A collection of blood-crusted bandages sat in a bowl next to three half-empty bowls of congealed broth, a wedge of cheese with a single bite from it, and the crumbs from what Elizabeth guessed had been a fully eaten loaf of bread.

The invalid started up in surprise at Elizabeth’s appearance, and he clearly felt the indignity of being seen in such a state.

Well, this was a good excuse to not receive visitors.

Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, and her serious business, it was impossible for Elizabeth to not admire the person of the gentleman.

Under the bandages the strong musculature of his chest was visible, and he had well-formed shoulders, and forearms with a fine lining of hair.

The most interesting parts of his body were of course hidden by the neatly fitted white buckskin breeches.

His features were excellent, though his pallor suggested that the inevitable fever had already set in.

The gentleman’s once white breeches had a large bloodstain on one leg. The line of blood went all the way down to where Elizabeth guessed the line of his boot had been.

Had his nurse not bothered to change the gentleman’s clothes since his injury?

The man glared at her as he made himself sit up. A spasm of pain went through his face, but he still held himself erect. “Who are you?”

Oh, my. His voice was quite excellent too. And a very demanding tone. It looked as though drawing in the breath to speak so firmly caused him some additional pain.

“My name is Mrs. Elizabeth Wickham, and I am searching for my husband, George Wickham. Can either of you inform me about his present circumstances and whereabouts?”

The young woman’s head snapped up to stare at Elizabeth.

The gentleman’s expression became fixed and stiff.

Elizabeth looked at the girl, thinking she might be easier to gain information from, and smiled. “Are you acquainted with him?”

The girl made a pained moan and gripped a handful of her dress. She stood from the chair, and her hand shook as she pointed at Elizabeth. “Mr. Wickham! Is your… your husband?”

Ah.

Yes, he had certainly been here. There was no doubt in Elizabeth’s mind that her husband had made the poor girl in love with him. Once more she cursed herself for the stupid passion that four years ago had tied her to Mr. Wickham for the rest of their lives.

“I am afraid so.” Elizabeth replied with forced cheerfulness. “Mr. Wickham is a man whom I would not recommend to anyone, but if you can arrange a way to make it legal, I’d happily enough sell him to you for any decent offer.”

Emily squirmed to be put down, while George still hid behind her skirts. Elizabeth set the little girl on the floor to let her toddle.

Elizabeth smirked at her own joke.

The young woman stared at Elizabeht for a long time. Poor creature, she had been seduced, hadn’t she. There was something about the way she looked at Elizabeth that said it.

Finally, the woman pressed her hands against her face. “I see, I see. He really couldn’t marry me. He never, never meant to—” The girl sat down, and she lightly sobbed. “He told me that he was a widower. He told me that he wanted to marry me. I swear, I thought we would marry.”

“I am afraid,” Elizabeth said softly, “that I am very much alive. And that I am Mr. Wickham’s wife.

I can direct you to the register books kept by Mr. Lang and his son in Gretna Green if you doubt me.

One of the witnesses was a local innkeeper, a…

ah yes, a Mr. Lloyd. The other was a lawyer local to the area, a Mr. Smith.

It is possible that there is some earlier abandoned wife, whose claim supersedes mine, but if that is so, she has never bothered me.

I do not think that Mr. Wickham was yet the sort of man who could form a bigamous scheme when we married.

He was very young still, you see, only one-and-twenty. ”

“Oh God, that boy’s face is just like his. Just like he looked when he…he…”

The young woman’s face looked so young. So very young. Almost a child. She was even younger than Elizabeth had been when she fled her father’s house and she went by post up the Great North Road to Gretna Green in the company of her soon-to-be husband.

The woman had a dazed expression.

Elizabeth wished that she could have delivered this news in a way that would not have been deeply distressing. She knew well enough that it was impossible.

“He is not worth crying over—but at present you cannot have enough perspective to see that. Never marry to disoblige your family. I speak from experience. You shall be happier for not being able to marry him. You shall not be tied to him forever. But I was once silly and in love. I know that future advantages are a small consolation. I hope he has not done you too much harm—forgive me, I must inquire again, have either of you any notion where I might find Mr. Wickham—sir, when was the last time that bandage was changed?—who is your nurse? They did a poor job.”

Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead. His face was white and pale. The grim lines of his face suggested that keeping his seated pose caused him great pain.

“Tell me what you might, and I shall be off. I see my presence causes you—Don’t touch that.”

George stopped reaching for a finely painted blue and white china teacup. He gave Elizabeth one of his heart-stopping grins, put his hands behind his back, and upon seeing the gentleman staring at him, rushed again to hide behind Elizabeth’s back.

The whole situation was dreadfully awkward.

Emily was sitting down and busying herself with a detailed examination of the piling on the red Persian rug in minute detail. That would not damage anything.

“I am afraid,” Elizabeth repeated, “I must insist—Mr. Wickham may not be much of a husband, but he is the only one I can look to for support at present.”

The injured gentleman closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and pushed himself further upright. He drew in a deep breath and then winced and hissed with pain.

Broken ribs perhaps?

It was a professional curiosity.

Since Elizabeth had been abandoned by Wickham, one of the many expedients she had adopted to keep her children fed and clothed had been hiring out several times as a sick nurse.

The man’s voice was resonant, despite his injuries. “Madam, Mr. Wickham was killed in a duel yesterday a little after sunrise. I…” He looked confused and hesitant, and something told Elizabeth that this was an unusual state for this man. “I wish from the bottom of my heart that it was not so."

Elizabeth’s lips pressed together tightly.

The gentleman said something else that Elizabeth barely heard.

A duel.

The girl’s sobs redoubled.

“You!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I can guess the rest. You received your injury in that same duel.”

The gentleman’s eyes flickered away from hers, but then he looked back at her. He said firmly. “You are correct. I did not know that Mr. Wickham was married, or that he had children. We knew that he had been married, but he presented himself as a widower. If I had known...”

The gentleman frowned.

“No, no. It seems clear enough that he gave you ample cause for fighting. Do not say that you would have let it pass, not unless you would have.”

Now his eyes refused to meet hers. “I needed to defend my sister’s honor.”