Chapter 18
Pig in the Poke Pub
Meryton
That Evening
Wickham pushed open the door to the pub and sauntered inside, glancing around and breathing deeply the agreeable aromas of wood smoke and roasting meat and dark ale.
Patrons filled the tables, with the enlisted men and locals speaking in loud and cheerful voices while the serving wenches rushed to and from the kitchen.
The maids were not so busy that they could not take notice of the newcomer, however, and Wickham preened internally as one of the girls gave him a second, interested glance.
He was well aware that he had always cut a fine figure of a man, and now, clad in a militia officer’s red coat, he lacked nothing to render his face and figure universally pleasing.
He had been assigned a bedchamber above the Pig in the Poke's taproom, and while his room did not have many amenities, it was private, and clean, and comfortable, and most importantly, the dresser boasted a very respectable mirror, which showed that he looked very well indeed.
One of the reasons why he had accepted the commission was that he knew he would shine in the garments of a militia officer.
It was a prudent decision in other ways as well.
London's bright glitter had gained an inevitable layer of tarnish, his enjoyment of the amusements offered by Town impaired by the quite unreasonable demands of ill-tempered shopkeepers dunning him most unpleasantly over piffling debts.
Their ire would cool when he was nowhere to be found, and eventually it would be safe for him to return to Town.
In the meantime, the militia would be a comfortable enough profession in which to while away some time, for his handsome countenance and charming manners, in combination with his red coat, must surely make him an acceptable addition to any lady's drawing room or card-party.
This would hold especially true in a sleepy little town like Meryton, which so rarely saw any new additions to their narrow little society.
Wickham was very familiar with towns such as Meryton and his own native Lambton, where fruit lay heavy and ripe for the plucking.
The matrons would greet him with joy, their daughters with bashful or flirtatious charm, and the shopkeepers with a pleasingly misplaced conviction of his honor.
Wickham would have no issue in opening lines of credit with merchants who would trust his handsome face and the implications inherent in his red coat.
It was a great boon to be surrounded by fools when one did not have a reliable source of income, and he had no intention of wasting so much as a shilling on his debts before the regiment moved on to the next town.
A cluster of bright red at a large table in one corner drew his attention just as his fellow officers caught sight of him.
Denny lifted one arm in a broad and summoning wave, his face pleasing without being particularly handsome and wreathed in welcoming smiles.
Wickham grinned in return and waved back, turning his steps thither.
Denny was a good companion, amiable and with an ease of manners that made him acceptable in any comfortable gathering.
They had known each other some years ago in Derbyshire, and then had met by chance only a week ago in a tavern in London, and Wickham was grateful to his friend for suggesting that he come to Meryton.
One unfortunate cloud marred his horizon, which caused him a few seconds' unease over the brightness of his future prospects.
It was a great pity that Darcy should be in residence nearby, with his tendency for moralizing and prosing on!
Still, despite all his irritating ways, Darcy had never shown the slightest inclination to interfere with Wickham beyond reciting the occasional tiresome lectures.
Even at Ramsgate, Darcy had been too high in the instep, or perhaps just too cow-hearted, to do anything more than to send Wickham packing.
Wickham ground his teeth at that memory.
He would never forgive Darcy for his interference, never!
A prize worth thirty thousand pounds snatched from his hands!
Then, to add insult to injury, he was driven off like a nobody!
He would have been a kind husband to Georgiana, and her dowry was a fortune that would have let him live comfortably for the rest of his days.
So of course Darcy, in his endless persecution of his father's godson, had sent him away penniless.
Still, Darcy was too craven to do anything more than that, even if the master of Pemberley had hissed threats into Wickham’s own ear earlier in the day.
Wickham would avoid him, and Darcy would doubtless do the same, and in this manner they could uneasily tolerate one another's presence in the town until the regiment moved on.
“Sit down, Wickham, sit down!” Denny cried out, gesturing at the only available seat. “The food is quite good here!”
Wickham obeyed and gestured to a nearby servant girl, who bustled up to the table with a merry smile.
She was an attractive wench, with black hair and dark, flashing eyes, and he made a point of smiling at her fulsomely after ordering eggs and ham and ale.
She blushed at his obvious admiration and hurried off.
Wickham turned his attention on his fellow officers and was introduced to Lieutenants Pratt and Smythe, and by the time the usual greetings and salutations had been exchanged, the girl had returned with a glass of ale and a plate of food.
Wickham took a deep draught of the drink, followed by a hearty bite of eggs as the other men began speaking of the local families in the area with eligible daughters.
Naturally enough, the newly minted lieutenant pricked up his ears at these words, as the easiest solution to his continued financial problems was for him to find a wealthy wife.
“It is a pity that the Bennet daughters are not heiresses,” Denny remarked as he began cutting his ham into bite-sized pieces. “They are all of them charming, but with no money at all…”
“They own an island, apparently,” Lieutenant Smythe said, which provoked Wickham to look up eagerly. He had met the Bennets right before his unfortunate interaction with Darcy, and they were beautiful indeed.
“An island?” Pratt demanded.
“Yes, off the coast of … Essex, I believe?”
“Where did you hear this?” Denny demanded.
“At the ball at Netherfield a week ago,” Smythe replied and cast a sympathetic glance at Wickham. “You missed a ball, I am afraid. It was wonderful.”
“Back to this island,” Denny said sternly. “What do you know about it?”
“Nothing, except that the Bennets own it. Longbourn is entailed away from the female line and will be lost when Sir Thomas dies, but the family will be able to live at Emerald Island.”
Wickham lifted an eyebrow. “Sir Thomas? Is he a knight or a baronet?”
The gentlemen exchanged glances, and Denny said, “A knight, probably? He is a scientist of some renown, I believe.”
“An astronomer,” Smythe said with a nod.
“Have you met him?” Wickham demanded.
“No, as he is away on the island that the Bennets own, apparently staring at stars or something of the sort,” Smythe said.
“Very odd,” Pratt commented.
“Odd, yes,” Denny said. “But as you observed, his daughters are very handsome, especially the eldest.”
“Is Miss Bennet the heiress of the island?” Wickham asked in a casual tone.
“I have no idea,” Smythe said with a shrug. “I daresay none of the ladies are interested in marrying a poor militia officer, anyway.”
“Moreover, Mr. Bingley is pursuing Miss Bennet,” Denny said flatly, “and we have no chance given that he is rich and good looking.”
“Mr. Bingley?” Wickham asked curiously.
“Yes, Mr. Bingley,” Denny said, turning an intent gaze in his direction, “is leasing Netherfield Park, which is only two miles from here, and he is host to Mr. Darcy of Pemberley.”
Wickham realized that in his enthusiasm to set aside any thoughts of Darcy, he had forgotten that Denny and the Bennet ladies had been present during that most unfortunate interaction.
He grimaced and said, “I see.”
“Obviously you and Mr. Darcy are not on particularly good terms,” Denny said carefully, and Wickham watched as the other gentlemen turned curious gazes in his direction.
He hesitated dramatically for a moment and then said, in his most sincere tone, “I am not, but I do not … that is, I venerated his father very much and regret that his son and I are on such poor terms.”
“You knew the elder Mr. Darcy?” Denny demanded.
“Oh yes, I grew up on the Darcy estate of Pemberley, and old Mr. Darcy was my godfather. He was one of the kindest men of my acquaintance…”
***
Library
Longbourn
Friday, 22nd November, 1811
Noon
The library was quiet, with only the soft sounds that permeated any room that was lived in and loved; a crackling fire, the soft scratching of a pen, and the rustle of paper.
Warm sunlight came in the windows, making the wood planks of the floor glow amber like honey and chasing away any shadows the fire could not reach.
Had she been asked, Elizabeth would have said she was enjoying the peace, but at the moment, her mind was filled with the exigencies of the correspondence spread across the desk before her.
She dipped her pen in the inkwell and tapped it before continuing her sentence in small, neat writing.
The peace of the library was broken a few minutes later by shouts and the creak of a carriage and the clatter of horses coming from the back of the library, which faced the stables.
Elizabeth hastily laid aside her pen and jumped to her feet, hurrying over to the window and parting the dark brown curtains to peer between them.
A hired carriage stood in the stable-yard below, and a familiar figure stepped down from it.
Elizabeth smiled with joy and turned to run for the door.
She did not pause to don pelisse or muffler, and the chill air and sharp wind nipped at her nose and ears and neck as she ran out the door, but Elizabeth paid it no heed.
The sturdy back door that faced the stables slammed behind her, and gravel crunched beneath her boots as she darted across the yard.
Sir Thomas was just handing down his third daughter from the carriage, both of them well-wrapped.
Mary's boots landed on the gravel of the stable yard just as Elizabeth joined them.
“Father! Mary!” she cried out. “Welcome home!”