Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In London, George Wickham was contemplating his opportunities for the next months and found none that met with any degree of satisfaction. No matter how close I come, fortune always eludes me.
For surely, he had been born to be a gentleman—a wealthy gentleman—he just knew it.
He had the sense, the education, and the manners; indeed, he was a gentleman in every aspect save for one: the fortune.
Thus was he continually forced, in a habit most undignified and unbecoming for a man of his character, to stoop to working for a wage.
When old Mr Darcy, his benefactor and the master of the estate on which he had been raised, had died, he had expected a substantial legacy.
Twenty or thirty thousand pounds would have done nicely.
With fifty, he could have purchased an estate of his own and finally assumed the place meant for him among the landed gentry.
Instead, he was left one thousand pounds and the promise of a future living at Kympton.
At least, he had managed to obtain three thousand pounds in place of the living. He had intended to increase these funds at the gaming tables, but fortune shunned him, and soon his legacy was a distant memory. His ready funds continued to dwindle until it was all he could do to scrape by.
Then one fine day, in a public house in London, he learnt of a very promising opportunity. For a mere day’s work, he would be given a sum of five and twenty pounds—paltry, but he saw immediately how he might increase it.
The payer of the wage was the twin brother of a wealthy earl.
Wickham’s work would ensure the man received his due.
Surely, once the work had been completed to the gentleman’s satisfaction, he would realise the invaluable service Wickham had provided and that his compensation was woefully inadequate.
However, if he did not understand it, Wickham would certainly help him to, perhaps with a few selected hints that their sovereign might not look upon the situation with sanguinity.
Alas, once again, fortune spat on George Wickham’s head.
He made of it what he could, but nothing had gone as planned, and in the end, he had not even received his promised wage.
To make matters worse, Wickham found himself tossed in with a group of nothings who were embroiled in an accusation of treason.
He was forced to go into hiding, spending the next years going from one miserable situation to the next, avoiding notice and barely subsisting on what few shillings he was able to obtain from occasional games or wagers.
Now, he found himself in desperate circumstances.
Funds were non-existent and prospects even worse.
Winter was about to set in, and he was nigh on being evicted from what had to be the meanest lodgings in London.
Here he sat in a tavern with nothing but the shillings in his pocket, debating whether to eat or gamble.
He strolled back towards the game tables when a man he had once known stopped him.
“Willingham! How marvellous to see you!” Lieutenant Denny was effusive in his greeting. “Allow me to buy you a pint, old friend; I have not forgotten your assistance to me with that, ah, situation in Birmingham, my good sir.”
The two men easily settled into the banter of a long-time alliance that, before too long, centred on Wickham and his current plans, or lack thereof. Lieutenant Denny had a solution: entreating Wickham to join his regiment.
“Room and board is assured, Willingham, and the work is easy enough. The pay is not much, but it will get you by, and the ladies do favour the uniform.”
Wickham considered it. As a long-term solution, a military life did not tempt him as it tended to be characterised by hard work and dedication to service, two things he found uninteresting.
However, for the present, with winter rapidly approaching and little else to occupy him, a stint in the militia might just be the thing.
Of course, he lacked the funds to purchase a commission, but perhaps Denny might spot him a bit, just until things turned around at the gaming tables.
He offered Lieutenant Denny a lazy grin. “Let us speak with your colonel, then.”
The next day, Wickham found himself once again in the public house with even fewer shillings in his pocket and prospects so dim that even a commission in the militia was beyond his touch.
Denny had laughed at the idea that he might provide the funds for George to purchase his commission.
“Willingham, you and I both know that would be money never again seen, and though I enjoy your company, I do not wish to purchase it. If I want to waste money, I shall go to the tables and have at least a chance of a return.”
The more Wickham considered it, the finer an idea the militia was.
There was little danger, and further, he had to believe that military service to the king must surely erase whatever suspicion he might be under for the little matter in Coppenhall.
Lieutenant Willingham of the __shire militia could have nothing to do with the man who had murdered a peer of the realm.
Once again, fortune—or lack thereof—stood in his way. With a sigh, he rose, preparing to walk to Mayfair and the one person he knew would forever answer to the call of family and obligation and provide a bit of comfort for the son of his father’s esteemed steward.
It was a short distance to Darcy’s house, though a world away. The filthy streets teeming with grimy, downtrodden people and miserable cattle gave way to large, stately homes and the graceful movement of fine horses pulling luxurious carriages.
Wickham smiled broadly and smoothly, tipping his hat at the disapproving manservant who opened the door. “Is Darcy in?”
Hobbs was already closing the door. “He is not receiving today, sir.”
“It is a matter of some urgency.” Wickham tried to slink into the house, but Hobbs blocked his movement.
“You will have to return another day, sir.” The door pressed against Wickham’s shoulder.
“I must see him straightaway.”
“Absolutely not, sir.”
“Mr Hobbs, I shall receive Mr Wickham.” A female voice interrupted their struggle.
Wickham looked up to see his alternate plan descending the stairs. “Miss Darcy, is it really you? Why I should not have known you! What a beauty you have become. I am certain you hear it from your suitors nearly every day.”
Georgiana blushed and giggled. “Perhaps I do, but it does not mean the repeating of it is unwelcome. See me to the drawing room, and we shall have a good discussion of all that has passed since last we met.”
With Mr Hobbs frowning in disapproval, Wickham led Georgiana to the drawing room where they sat and chatted amiably about all Georgiana had done since leaving school, which amounted to little more than to shop, rebel against her brother, and act petulant.
He did not express this opinion; rather, he pretended to be occasionally lost in admiration of her, alternately playful and bashful.
When she asked of his doings, he affected an air of humble embarrassment. “Oh, please do not make me say it. I feel quite the lazybones, I assure you, but after my bout with pneumonia…no, I would not have you be sorry for me.”
“Pneumonia! How dreadful!”
“The fever was almost gone in just a few weeks; however, the coughing lingered for some time. Many believed I might have consumption, but I proved them wrong at the last.”
She gasped appropriately.
“I am grateful for the gift of my good health, I assure you. Then again, one cannot exactly call it a gift when the apothecary’s bills come due!” He laughed riotously.
“Oh, were the bills very bad?” Georgiana asked, her blue eyes round with concern.
“He was a very reasonable fellow, first to last, and has given me due time to produce the funds. Alas, I could hardly work when I was so exceedingly ill, could I? Never mind that; I am sure I shall find a way.”
“But what will you do?”
“I am hoping I might join in with the army. Perhaps I shall soon be an esteemed colonel like your dear cousin Fitzwilliam!”
“How unfortunate that he is not here this afternoon. He stays here with me this week as my brother is in the country with Mr Bingley and his sisters.”
“Darcy is in the country? How unfortunate; I so wished to see him,” Wickham lied smoothly, thankful he had at least sufficient luck to avoid seeing the colonel. “I am sure you are enjoying time with your cousin.”
That led to a discussion of Fitzwilliam and his doings, reported by Georgiana to be regimental training exercises—which caused a great deal of relief on Wickham’s part as he had frequent dreams of the colonel coming for him.
After this conversation had run its course, Wickham rose, pretending to excuse himself.
It was a calculated effort to make Georgiana wish to keep him there and do what she could to retain his interest.
“I must be off. I must somehow find a wage sufficient to purchase my commission.” Wickham put a wistful look upon his countenance. “It is the life your father always wished for me. I do hope to honour him in some way.”
“Did he not intend you for the church?”
“Oh, he made provision should I select that for myself, but he told me often that service to God and service to king were one and the same—both a noble calling. In such a time as we live in, though, an able-bodied young man such as myself must do his duty to England. Let us have the elders among us lead by example and sermons while the young fight the good fights.”
“How much is a commission? It cannot be so dear, can it?”
Wickham shrugged and named a sum which was approximately twice that needed.
Georgiana, delightful girl that she was, leapt at the bait. “Allow me to be your sponsor! I could do no less for my dear father’s protégé!”
George immediately demurred, skilfully arguing against himself until Georgiana was so deeply convicted that she not only gave him the sum named but a good bit more besides.
“I shall only take this as a loan. You will be repaid.”
Georgiana smiled and shook her head then escorted him to the door, half in love with him already and profoundly grateful that her stupid new companion had not interrupted them while they chatted.