Chapter 5
Three hours later
“And here we are once more, Denny,” said Wickham, leaning against the back of his chair with a satisfied expression. “As we have been so many times before.”
Captain George Denny cast his old friend an amiable look. To a man deep in his cups, as Wickham was, his countenance must have seemed open and gentlemanly.
But Lydia knew better. Below the surface of his fine manners, there was a froideur forged in aristocratic breeding and hatred of Wickham. She rubbed her forearms, trying to feel as warm as she had in that room upstairs.
“The last time we were at this table, I lost rather badly,” said Wickham, squeezing Lydia into his side as if he cherished her and the whole thing was a lark.
Her body was lax after receiving so much pleasure, and she moved as her husband directed her, lost in her thoughts and trying to avoid looking about the room.
At least it was Denny at the final table.
Her old friend had opened his purse and outlasted all comers — including Carter and Chamberlayne — to meet Wickham for the last game.
Lydia was thankful it was him and not one of the many men ringing the room now, licking their lips as they witnessed her humiliation with unseemly relish.
Lydia didn’t have the impression that her husband was particularly skilled at cards; he was naturally inattentive, and it only got worse with drink added.
But he’d been staked three times over by Lydia’s officers, and that coin allowed him to weather decisions and luck that would have emptied a lesser purse.
She studied Denny. She could do without being dragged to an inn and sold, but she’d gladly spend another night in Denny’s arms. And if he invited Chamberlayne and Carter to join…
Lydia was lost in a reverie as the end of the game approached. The crowd grew noisier until the men at the front hushed everyone to silence. “Last card,” she heard one man call.
Wickham’s fingers were like iron bands, and his sensual lips were thin. He must be on the verge of losing her yet again. More importantly to Wickham, he’d also be out a good deal of money.
A trickle of sweat ran down Wickham’s temple. Did he have more at stake than his ready coin and Lydia herself? He might be the most nervous person in this room right now, despite fighting to maintain his placid countenance.
Lydia cautiously cast Denny a smile so he could see his impending victory didn’t upset her in the least. He sent her the briefest, private nod and fixed his icy eyes on Wickham.
The innkeeper, who’d been acting as dealer since some men questioned Wickham’s shuffling a few games ago, turned the last card.
“Ace of hearts,” he announced.
Lydia wasn’t familiar with écarté, so she was initially unaware of her fate.
Wickham rose from his chair with a shout, leaving Lydia still sitting in confusion. What had happened?
The crowd muttered, and Lydia heard shoes on the floorboards as if men were exiting the room en masse. She didn’t look up, terrified of revealing something with her expression.
“Well played, Wickham,” said Denny, extending a hand to Lydia’s husband.
Lydia’s husband, who was scooping the coins on the table into his purse.
Nothing made sense. Wickham didn’t win. He’d done nothing but lose at cards, from what she could tell of their household’s ready coin. But here he was, purse flush and flushed with drink.
Wickham stared at his old friend’s hand and pointedly looked away, only grasping it perfunctorily when his avoidance grew unspeakably rude.
“Will we see you at the table again, Denny?” asked Wickham, clearly wondering how many times he could wager his wife before she’d fail to fetch good sums.
Denny rose, his spine straight. Lydia cast him a glance and wasn’t surprised to find Carter and Chamberlayne hanging back from the exiting throng, waiting for their friend.
“I don’t know that I could witness this again and call myself a gentleman,” said Denny, finally showing his disdain for Wickham.
For his part, Wickham secured his purse and glanced about the table for any stray coins. Lydia’s husband registered the hit; but he simply did not care.
And why would he? He’d been forced to marry Lydia by the sudden intervention of Fitzwilliam Darcy, now her sister Lizzy’s husband.
The cards in Lydia’s mind shuffled themselves as she realized a few things in rapid succession: Wickham had won.
His purse was nearly bursting, but he already had it in his mind that he’d wager Lydia again.
And all the appeals to honor and gentlemanly conduct failed to penetrate his armor of indifference.
Her life would never get easier from this point forward, only harder. And the next — she shuddered — the next time, she might be won by men who thought nothing of her pleasure, who might use her most terribly.
Lydia hiccupped. Which unleashed a sob.
“Gather your things,” said Wickham, grabbing her wrist. “Time to go back to our rooms. There’s no need to cry. I won. You’re mine tonight.”
His words were tinged with lust, but Lydia knew a show when she saw one. It was unlikely that Wickham had any intention of exercising his marital rights, not after so many years of neglecting them.
But what if he did? What if Wickham wished to enjoy his prize and played the husband this evening, enjoying the rights he’d have traded away so willingly?
Lydia stood from the table, her spine just as straight as Denny’s had been. She now understood what put the steel in it: resolution.
Her chair skittered on the floor, dragging over floorboards as she pushed it away with her legs.
Her behavior was alarming and unmannerly, but when had Lydia begun caring about such things?
When had she traded so much of herself away for the sake of propriety that she would sit in this inn and watch as she was wagered?
At fifteen, she’d have kicked anyone who tried such a thing, then run off laughing as if the entire scheme was a lark. At sixteen, she’d have cast a cutting glare and delivered a blow to the kidneys under the table. Who had tamed Lydia Bennet?
She looked at George Wickham. Now that she studied him, she noted that he had a rather weak chin that he attempted to disguise with a pugnacious expression in moments like this.
He wasn’t capable of taming her, not really.
Oh, he’d heaped insults upon her and treated her most vilely, but he simply couldn’t have brought Lydia low without the participation of another person.
And that person was Lydia herself.
More than anyone, Lydia had wielded the blade that clipped her own wings and made this monstrosity possible. Wickham shouldn’t have done it, to be sure, but that it could be done to the girl born as Lydia Bennet? Unthinkable in the Meryton of her youth.
As it would be again.
“No.”
The shuffling footsteps slowed, and the officers tried to catch her eye.
“Come along then, Mrs. Wickham,” said George, pretending he hadn’t heard her.
“No,” she repeated.
“I suppose I’ll see you at home,” he said jauntily, tapping his purse and making to leave. “I have someone I need to see tonight, anyway.”
Of course he did. Some widow or wife who would be happy with what George Wickham offered.
Lydia wasn’t happy with what Wickham offered; she hadn’t been for some time. He wasn’t even useful in safeguarding her reputation. The events of tonight were a prime example of that.
And so, this time, Lydia spoke more loudly.
“No!”
Wickham finally stilled. “So it’s to be like this, is it?” he asked, drink and the need to show a good face before the men of Meryton keeping his temper in check. “You refuse to come to your husband’s home? Are you abandoning me?”
Lydia looked at Carter, Denny, and Chamberlayne, trying to see what they were thinking. But their faces remained neutral; damn those soldiers for controlling their countenances!
It would need to be Lydia who decided. In the end, she must free herself if the decision was to hold.
“I am not coming home,” she said, resolute and standing as tall as she could. She recalled the bearing of an aristocratic lady she’d once met and found another half inch of height.
“Is that so?”
“I’m not coming home. And you’ll never wager me again, Wickham. I am not yours,” she said.
George affected a laugh. “I suppose you think you’re theirs?” He gestured carelessly to the officers wordlessly observing her scene.
“I don’t know their plans,” she said, her stomach dropping when she realized it was the truth. Perhaps now they had no interest in taking her away. Keeping her. Lavishing her body with endless pleasure.
But she wouldn’t be staying here. And she certainly wouldn’t be staying with George.
“I don’t know their plans,” she said. “But I know mine. And they in no way involve you.”
Her blow had landed. She could see Wickham’s rage emerge, then get folded back into a drawer like a locked letter. Tucked away so that it could be retrieved again in private. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
His face was stony. “I bid you farewell, then, madam,” he said, making a sarcastic low bow and sweeping from the room before she could further denounce him.
Lydia didn’t move. The men of Meryton realized no additional theatrics would be provided by the Wickhams tonight and found their way to the inn’s taproom. Her three officers remained.
“We have something we wish to speak to you about,” said Chamberlayne, “if you would be open to hearing us out.”
Lydia felt her body go cold. She’d heard those words six weeks ago and had fled back to Wickham. Were they really offering for her again?
“Yes?”
“We have need of someone. A woman, a dashed pretty one,” said Carter, repeating what he’d said in the Forsters’ old house after their night of pleasure.
“We require a woman to see to our needs in the bedroom,” said Chamberlayne, “and the inn, for that matter.”
“What do you say, Miss Bennet?” asked the major. “Would you like to serve three officers?”
She’d only just freed herself from an entanglement that had started when she was but fifteen. Would this be another in a series of regrets? With the added complication of three men to escape and avoid, should things go badly?
But then she looked at these old friends of hers and recalled their gentlemanly conduct when she was a free-spirited debutante. And how they’d protected and cared for her tonight. How they’d brought her unimaginable pleasure at this very inn.
This could be her reality for a time, living in the protective embrace of three officers, all devoted to her care. They really were dear men. And she wished to discover what other delights might be in store.
“I’m sorry,” she started. Their faces fell, hearing the words she’d said six weeks before. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting for me. I…I do want that.”
Denny took her hand in his and kissed her palm. Carter gave a rare smile.
“Shall we be off then?” asked Chamberlayne.
“Yes,” she said decisively.
“So bold!” cried Denny. “What if you don’t like what we’ve planned?”
“You’ve planned something? Already?” asked Lydia.
“Yes,” said Carter, escorting her out of that cursed room. “And we know you’ll like it very much.”
TO BE CONTINUED