Chapter 19
Black Stork
Lambton
The table Wickham had selected was coated in a fine film of grease, while the dark weathered wood was covered in a variety of rings and dents and nicks.
It was in no worse condition than any of the other tables in the Black Stork and had the advantage of being unobtrusive and private, tucked into a corner between the massive fireplace and the wall.
None of the tables were within earshot, as long as individuals sitting at the small table kept their voices low.
Wickham looked around the barroom of the pub with contemptuous disapprobation.
Under any other circumstances, he would not have graced its classless doors with his presence.
Men of his social strata did not patronize public houses intended to serve mere grooms and footmen and farmer bumpkins and various other representatives of the lower classes.
Today, however, Wickham's intention was to be as commonplace, as invisible, as possible.
It would be utterly mortifying to be observed in his current state; he was disheveled and unkempt as he had rarely been.
He had been forced to abandon the highly identifying scarlet coat issued by the militia, of course, and though he had liberated some loose funds from his fellow-officers before making his escape, most of them were not much plumper in the pocket than he was himself.
A disguise had been in order, for Wickham's return to the land of his nativity.
It would not do for him to be easily recognized by the shopkeepers of Lambton, indignant about past debts, or the tenant farmers whose daughters had borne his bastard children.
A workman's cap obscured over long, greasy hair, which pained his soul, and a worker's smock concealed his fine figure.
Perhaps the greatest agony to his finer feelings was the unsightly scruff he had permitted to grow upon his jaw and chin and neck.
He had a fine, elegant jaw, of which he was justly proud.
It had excited the admiration of many a lady and lower-class woman alike, and Wickham hated to hide it.
Still, the nascent beard changed his looks considerably, even if he did look thoroughly disreputable.
He had, at least, succeeded in blending in with his surroundings.
He did not draw so much as a second glance, not here in this unremarkable little taproom and not at his lodging.
It was far beneath him, but for at least the time being, he was staying in the squalid little inn right outside Lambton, paying for his room each night.
He could, perhaps, rent the room on credit and require Darcy to pay that debt as he had paid the rest. The obscenely wealthy master of Pemberley could certainly stand such a piffling expense.
Prudence, however, discouraged such a course of action.
Doubtless many travelers came through and rented lodgings on credit, but it would not do for Wickham to do anything that might get him recognized in Lambton.
It was a great hardship that he was no longer a popular man in these parts.
Once, long ago, he had been welcome in every house in town.
He had been charming, and even if he was not good for his debts, his father or a Darcy would cover them.
Then his father and godfather had died, and Fitzwilliam Darcy had become master of Pemberley, shutting off Wickham’s ready supply of coin.
This had resulted in various local farmers with comely daughters, along with the various merchants of Lambton, levying inconvenient accusations about his honor.
Wickham had beaten a discreet retreat to make his way in the world elsewhere.
Darcy had assuaged his own conscience, after cheating Wickham of the living that had been meant for him, by paying the debts.
It was very telling that Darcy had chosen a course of action that, while nominally clearing Wickham's name, provided him no material benefit.
Even Darcy's supposed generosity was cruel. If the man would only have given Wickham the church living, he would have a plump income each year without fail. It was disgusting that a so-called man of honor could treat his father’s godson in such a way!
Wickham had every intention of turning the tables on his foe.
He took a deep draught of his ale and smiled smugly.
Darcy would be as clay in his hands after today.
Everything was working in his favor, as it always eventually did.
The panic and desperation that had filled him at the word Marshalsea were gone, along with the blind terror which had sent him running so ignominiously from Meryton.
It had been only a vague, half-formed idea that had sent him scurrying back to Derbyshire, where he had never intended to return.
By the time he had arrived in Lambton, his presence of mind had returned.
He was equipped with a fully fledged plan and two little slips of paper, fragile and delicate, with a value far more than their weight in gold.
How much was sweet Miss Georgiana Darcy’s reputation worth to her protective elder brother?
How much would he pay for two little notes, so innocent, so damning?
The little blue house in Ramsgate, rented specifically for Miss Darcy by her conscientious older brother, had been very like her, simple and neat and pretty, and oh so conveniently near a pleasant boardinghouse.
How effortless it had been to induce the girl into an infatuation with him!
How easy to get her to pen the love notes that would even now open the doors of Darcy’s bank vault!
How London would lap up that scandal if Wickham were to go to one of the gossip columnists and provide them delectable new fodder on the heretofore unassailable Darcy family!
The only daughter of a venerable house, the niece of an earl, planning an elopement with the son of a steward!
The rumor-mongers would be busy for one and forty days.
How it would serve Darcy right for the underhanded trick he had played on his childhood friend in denying him the living at Kympton!
Miss Darcy would be persona non grata before ever she was out, and not even that fantastic dowry of thirty thousand pounds would be able to entirely scotch the scandal.
A wealthy, vulgar Cit with ambitions to the gentry could be the best match she could reasonably hope for, and then how Darcy would bitterly wish he had let Wickham wed the girl!
It was a temptation, it truly was. Only one thing stayed his hand; revenge was well and good, but Darcy’s money would be better.
The gossip columnists would pay a hundred pounds for these letters, and count them worth every penny, but Darcy would pay far more.
He had the money to squander, and would think nothing of a few thousand pounds, more or less, not when the sum would secure the future of his shy, younger sister.
It was this thought that had sent Wickham back into the heart of Derbyshire.
Wickham had arrived in Meryton two days previously and yesterday, bored and desirous of learning the local gossip, had visited the beautiful Mrs. Emma Layton.
Married at one and twenty to one of Lambton's foremost merchants, she had found herself a moderately wealthy widow a mere three years later when a sudden attack of the heart had carried off the unfortunate Geoffrey Layton.
Young and lovely and engaging, and delightfully financially situated, she had been a natural companion for Wickham.
She had no interest in tying herself in matrimony to the old steward's increasingly scapegrace son, be he ever so charming, and refused to publicly acknowledge him as anything more than the merest acquaintance.
Behind closed doors, however, each had found in the other an eminently gratifying companion, until angry fathers and angry shopkeepers had driven him from town.
Wickham, banking on Mrs. Layton's old fondness for him, had taken the liberty of showing up unannounced on her doorstep.
Granted an audience, he was certain that his charm would be enough to rekindle her latent fascination with him.
He had not been wrong; a bit of judicious flattery and some affectionate nonsense, and she was quite happy to entertain him once more.
And Wickham was pleased to be entertained.
Though Emma had lost the dewy freshness of her blooming youth, she was but in her early thirties and still a very handsome woman.
She had invited him to stay and take the noon meal with her, and Wickham had been all too happy to accept.
Over cold pork and cheese and salad and fresh crusty bread still steaming from the oven and sweet wine, she had regaled him with all the local happenings.
The marriages and births and deaths interested him but little, but he and Emma had always shared one overarching interest, the Darcys.
According to his hostess, the Darcys had a guest staying with them, a young woman by the name of Miss Bennet, who had arrived as one of the party at Christmas.
Mrs. Layton regretted that she could not furnish him with the girl’s Christian name, but that was no matter.
Wickham instantly knew that he had found the missing Miss Bennet.
He had not expected to do so, and certainly not at Pemberley of all places, but it was a delicious happenstance.
So Darcy, straight-laced and prudish and boorishly moral, had in some manner been involved in Miss Bennet’s abrupt disappearance from Longbourn! It was fantastically fortunate.