Chapter 20 #2
Bennet stared at his noble guest, his thoughts a maelstrom of fury and indignation.
Fury because how could Elizabeth have done this to him, to her mother and sisters?
He had imagined her starving in a gutter, and now it appeared that she had been living in immense comfort under the roof of Darcy and his relations.
Indignation because, while he might not be a member of the haut ton, he was a gentleman, and Longbourn had been in the Bennet family for many generations.
Indeed, it was his desire to keep Longbourn in the family which drove his insistence on the match between Elizabeth and his heir!
How dare Lady Catherine insult him in such a manner?
Not that her vituperation was a surprise, given her arrogant demeanor.
“Well, Mr. Bennet, will you assist us in this matter?” Lady Catherine demanded.
He frowned at her, confused. It appeared he had missed something.
“Assist you? I am as unhappy and unsettled as you are, Lady Catherine, but I am not certain what I can do about it.”
“I have a plan,” the woman said, pointing her patrician nose skyward.
Bennet sighed. “Tell me.”
***
Mrs. Younge’s Boarding House
London
Wickham relaxed back in his chair, adjusting his grip on his tankard and the plate on his knees.
Ale and toast were not usually enough to sustain him, but it would suffice for now.
He was warm and comfortable and had not expended much energy today.
His chair was by the window, and the view, like the food and the boardinghouse itself, was adequate rather than terrific.
The falling snow was charming, but the soot staining it was less so.
London was dreary in the winter, but even if the view was unprepossessing, Wickham was glad to be inside away from the chill and the beggars and the perpetual grime.
It was a shame that Mrs. Younge had decided to set up her boardinghouse in such a dingy part of town.
The neighborhood was not as unsavory as some, where vice and crime and misery haunted streets that saw little hope or happiness, but any man or woman with any pretensions of gentility would not choose to remain in the locale after nightfall.
In Wickham’s opinion, his former lover should have done much better for herself than to purchase the house she had.
Of course, Mrs. Younge’s current employment was Darcy’s fault, not her own.
She had been a faithful companion to Miss Darcy, and Darcy had turned her off without her last payment, or character references, or anything.
If only Darcy had not arrived at Ramsgate just when he had!
Wickham’s plan had been so close to fruition; Georgiana had been entirely infatuated with him, her head turned by his careful flattery and charm.
Her dowry of thirty thousand pounds had nearly been within his grasp, and he would not have forgotten his co-conspirator.
Mrs. Younge would have received her recompense.
At least Dorothea’s choice of occupation was convenient for his own comfort.
She kept the rooms clean, and Wickham was currently sleeping in one of the better chambers in the house.
The room was not large, but it was comfortably furnished and neat.
A coal bin sat beside the hearth, kept full by the proprietress, and Wickham assured that his fire stayed well built and burning warmly.
He sat and drank his ale and ate first one piece of toast, then the other, thinking as he did.
Once again, thanks to Darcy, he was left adrift without a specific plan for his life.
He had money now, courtesy of Lady Catherine de Bourgh and those notes of Georgiana’s that he had cleverly kept, and he need not worry about the future just yet or fear starving in the gutter.
Perhaps he could even lay up some portion of the sum he held for later.
He could count on having this room for at least another month, or possibly more.
His former lover, for all that she pretended to be stern, had opened her doors to him at once and showed every sign of still being half in love with him.
Wickham was confident that, with time, he could fan the flames of her admiration and wrap her entirely around his finger once more.
The door swung wide, and Wickham turned as Dorothea Younge entered the room, dressed in a plain blue dress with a simple cap on her head concealing her blond curls.
Dorothea was a full eight years older than he, but that did not matter a great deal.
He did not care what age a woman was, so long as she was useful.
If she was pretty, as Mrs. Younge was, so much the better.
“Dorothea, my dear,” he said, rising from his chair and striding over to embrace her. “How are you this morning?”
The woman returned the embrace with enthusiasm, and within a minute they were kissing passionately. She truly was a cozy armful, and Wickham pulled her gently toward the bed, only to be startled and displeased when Dorothea yanked herself free and shook her head.
“No, Wickham,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes were narrowed. “No, none of that until we talk. What are you really doing here?”
“I told you last night,” he said in an injured tone.
She planted her hands on her hips and constricted her eyes yet more. “No, you did not, Wickham. You merely said you had come into some money and wished to spend time with me, but I want to know, how much money and how long are you staying?”
He studied her for a moment and then gestured toward the chair nearest the fire. “Sit down, my dear.”
She did so, and he took a simple wooden chair a little farther away. She had, he noted, aged rather a lot in the last few months. Perhaps that was no great surprise. Running a boarding house was much more work than acting as companion-governess to the rich and spoiled Georgiana Darcy.
“I have five hundred pounds,” he lied. In truth, he had eight hundred pounds, but it was wiser to tell her a smaller number.
Her eyes widened, and she said, “That is excellent, Wickham! Where did you get the money?”
He leaned back in his chair, smiled, and said, “I received it from Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings.”
This provoked an admiring look of surprise. “What did you do to separate that old biddy from her money?”
“I sold her the letters that Georgiana wrote to me.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Younge said, her brow furrowed. “That is quite a decent price, Wickham. I am surprised that she was willing to pay so much. What did you do, threaten to tell them to the gossip columnists?”
“Not exactly,” Wickham said. “No…”
He proceeded to explain about Elizabeth Bennet’s disappearance from Longbourn, and his discovery that she was currently residing under Darcy’s protection at Pemberley, followed by his hasty journey to Rosings, whereupon he convinced Lady Catherine that she had best intervene before Darcy married the impecunious daughter of a country gentleman.
“You do not think Darcy will really marry this woman, do you?” she said when he had finished.
He scoffed and said, “No, of course not. Darcy is far too high and mighty to wed a simple country girl, but he has not married Miss de Bourgh either, and Lady Catherine, while no genius, surely is concerned about that. I merely had to fan the flames of her fear, and voila, she handed over five hundred pounds in return for letters which will help her force Darcy to wed her daughter.”
Dorothea smiled and said, “It could not happen to a nicer man, but I am certain that Lady Catherine would not truly release the letters publicly! It would destroy her reputation nearly as much as Darcy’s given that they are close relations!”
Wickham shrugged nonchalantly and said, “I am not certain of that. Lady Catherine is a stubborn old bat, and she might well lash out foolishly if Darcy proves difficult. But I cannot bring myself to care, for I have money now and wish for nothing more than to spend a few weeks with you, my darling.”
She tilted her head, sighed, and stood up. “You can stay, Wickham, but I do expect you to pay for your lodgings and food. Now I need to return to cleaning.”
He stood, stepped forward, took her hands in his own, and kissed them dramatically.
“Until later then, my love,” he said with a smile.