Chapter 27
On the Road to Pemberley
The carriage rolled along with appreciable smoothness.
As the eldest daughter of Longbourn, it had often been Jane’s prerogative to ride facing forward, though not every time.
Ordinarily she was quite a good traveler and had no problems riding forward or back, but today she was grateful to be riding facing forward and with no more noisy or boisterous a fellow passenger than her dear Charles.
She was queasy every day now and could only be pleased that the Bingley carriage was nicer and better sprung than the one belonging to the Bennets; the smooth locomotion was much easier on her unsettled stomach.
Beneath the malaise, though, she harbored a secret, joyful hope. Her illness had started but a few weeks previously, and she was quite hopeful that she was with child.
After the Bingleys’ wedding, Mrs. Bennet had not taken long to start dropping hints about how nice it would be to have little Bingleys inhabiting the nursery at Netherfield Hall, but then she had done an impressively comprehensive job of discouraging Jane from ever becoming pregnant.
The experienced mother of five daughters, Mrs. Bennet was full of enlightening and hair-curling tales of pregnancy misery, pain, suffering, and unceasing illness night and day.
Jane had endured these anecdotes patiently and reassured Mrs. Bennet that she hoped for a child within a reasonable timeframe and saw her mother off with palpable relief.
In what she believed was her own pregnancy, so far she had experienced nothing like what her mother had described, only a vaguely general unwell feeling that could be carefully nurtured away with rest and tea and toast. The quickening was still some months away, so there was time for everything to change, but the prospect could not dampen Jane’s happiness and nascent excitement.
The day itself was conducive to an uplifted mood.
Warm spring sunshine was beaming down on a slowly waking world, coaxing seeds to lift tiny green heads and unfurling a riot of blues and purples and whites in fields of early wildflowers, a faint green mist softening the harsh silhouettes of bare branches.
Rolling hills were pink with blooming heather, and birds sang among the trees lining the road.
Streams, released at last from their icy prison, gurgled along merrily, sometimes running beneath the carriage wheels that rumbled across solid wooden bridges.
Jane felt like singing as she observed all this beauty.
In a few short hours, she would finally be reunited with Elizabeth.
All the worry, all the fear at the sudden disappearance of her sister would at last come to end when she could see for herself that Lizzy was safe and well, could hug and hold her beloved younger sister.
***
Wickham’s Bedchamber
Mrs. Younge’s Boarding House
Noon
London
Wickham’s head pounded, and his mouth both tasted and felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton wool.
Light was a lancing agony stabbing into his poor eyes, every leap of the fire a fresh swirl of pain through his head, the shadows dancing on the walls taunting his nausea.
The idea of wheedling some tea and toast off of Dorothea Younge, who could be counted upon to provide such remediations even if she grumbled about it, was vaguely alluring, but it was not quite tempting enough to get him out of bed.
His blankets were thick and warm and not worth trading for a mere chance at alleviation of the headache throbbing in his skull.
Really, life had been too cruel of late.
The Providence that had always seen him through thick and thin seemed to have suddenly abandoned him.
For a few short, glorious weeks, he had eight hundred pounds to his name, and he felt replete and satisfied with life.
Brandy and wine and ale, dice and cards and chips, had flowed freely through his fingers, but somehow, without his noticing, his losses had begun to outstrip his victories.
He had made a terrible mistake the previous evening in Polly Fairbank’s gambling hell.
The brandy had been excellent, the company convivial, the play not too deep, and Wickham had been certain, absolutely certain, that his luck would swing about at any moment.
Polly, a lovely woman with a distracting nature, had been hanging over his shoulder and laughing and egging him on, and March had wagered that gorgeous watch that Wickham had coveted forever.
How could he have been expected to resist, really? It had only been fifty pounds.
It had been, he realized too late, his last fifty pounds.
It was really most unfair that he was already penniless again.
The thought brought a fresh wave of agony crashing through his poor, beleaguered skull, and he scrunched down further into bed.
His lack of prospects was almost as depressing as his depleted pocketbook, and for once he had no ideas on how to change that.
Even this bed and this shelter might soon come to an end.
Mrs. Younge still tolerated his presence here, but ever more grudgingly, and her resentment would only increase now that he was in penury.
Wickham moaned. If only … if only he had not joined that last game!
He had been so certain his luck was about to change!
He should have kept back that last sum and gone back another night when the cards were more in his favor.
The door opened suddenly, and he closed his eyes firmly and said, “Come back later, Dorothea. I have a horrible headache.”
The door closed none too gently, and after a moment, a brisk hand ruthlessly pulled his covering off his warmly clad body. He opened his eyes and blinked until his paramour’s anxious face came into focus.
“What are you doing?” he rasped.
“You must get up, Wickham,” she hissed. “Colonel Fitzwilliam is here and looking for you.”
The wispy cobwebs disappeared in an instant, and Wickham found himself on his feet.
“What?” he gasped.
“I saw him coming up to the front door from the street, and my maid is dealing with him. You need to leave, George! Take the back door and then hurry into the alley! If it is safe to return, I will keep a lantern in the kitchen window tonight.”
Wickham swayed in alarm as Dorothea turned to rush out the door, and he forced himself to think in spite of his throbbing skull.
Richard Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s cousin, was a terrifying individual who would care nothing for running a sword through his gullet or, if he was not feeling quite that bloodthirsty, would happily throw him into Marshalsea!
Five minutes later, he was dressed and had thrown his few remaining coins and change of clothing into a knapsack. Five minutes after that, he had successfully departed via the back entrance and had scuttled into a dark and odiferous alley.
He leaned against a slimy wall and turned a mournful look toward Mrs. Younge’s house. It had been a safe haven for months, but now Colonel Fitzwilliam knew where he was, which meant that Darcy knew where he was too. He could never safely return.
Where would he go?
***
Drawing Room
Pemberley
Two Hours After Noon
The door to the drawing room opened, and Elizabeth looked up from the letter she was writing. A moment later, she was on her feet, and she rushed over to embrace her elder and favorite sister.
“Jane!” she cried out joyfully. “Oh Jane! How happy I am to see you!”
Jane returned the embrace with joy and then pulled away to inspect her carefully.
“Oh, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bingley said, her eyes glistening with happy tears. “How very well you look, my darling sister. It is such a relief to see you again, and looking so happy!”
“I am truly happy,” Elizabeth said with a glowing smile, and she turned toward Bingley, who was watching the reunion of the sisters with open satisfaction.
“Charles,” she said, “it is so good to see you again.”
“Jane and I are very pleased to be here,” he replied with a grin. “Is Darcy around?”
“He should be…,” Elizabeth began and then stopped as the tall, dark, handsome figure of her husband appeared in the doorway.
She smiled adoringly at him, and he returned the smile before saying, “Bingley, Jane, welcome to Pemberley.”