Chapter 12
Wickham’s Cell
Jail
Derby
How had it come to this?
Wickham stared at the bars on the window set in the wall opposite, a scant few feet in front of him.
This was no fitting place for him, a cramped, stinking cell in some dismal provincial jail.
A layer of grime covered everything, the thin little pallet and malodorous pillow crackled with the unappealing sounds of straw every time he moved, and he barely had room to stand up and turn around.
The only redeeming feature of the horrid room was that it was private; he was not crammed into the common jail room with twelve other prisoners, who were filthy, uncouth, and most likely laden with vermin.
His only good fortune of late was that his purse had not been stolen during his confinement in Lord Throckmorton’s house.
He had ten pounds to work with, thereby ensuring his own privacy and meals that were somewhat better than the slop habitually fed to the prisoners to keep them alive until their trials.
Not that the hard, stale bread and oozing cheese would be even remotely acceptable fare under any other circumstances, but it was far superior to the bowl of unidentifiable brown glop that had been served to him the night he arrived in this dreadful place.
He had gone hungry that night, unable to bring himself to even touch the stuff that appeared to have been dippered out of a pig trough.
It had been no weighty decision after that to spend some of his remaining money on human food and a place to sleep that was not the communal floor.
He wondered if Zimmer and Dorothea Younge were even now languishing in a communal cell, though Dorothea presumably would be locked up with other women.
Privacy did have one drawback; he had seen no one but the jailer who brought his food ever since he had been placed in this cell.
His window, such as it was, looked out on the street, and if he so desired, he could watch all the passing traffic all day long.
Wickham stood from the bed and took the two steps over to press his face to the bars, looking out.
His gaze was greedy and hungry, the longing a physical pain in his chest. A thin but steady trickle of people passed back and forth by his place of captivity all day long, a rider here, or a smocked farmer on a wagon there, or a fine carriage bearing ladies or gentlemen on business or pleasure, or a lady and her companion strolling on the far side of the road, tittering at the unfortunates languishing in this noisome prison as they went.
Oh, how he wanted to be out there in the sunshine and clear air, a free man, with the liberty to go where he pleased when he pleased, to do as he pleased.
The fear rose once more, a black and choking tide, and a shudder of apprehension shook his frame.
It seemed unlikely that he would ever taste such freedom again.
A dark fate awaited him, but how dark? That was the question.
After all, he was George Wickham, named for his godfather, George Darcy, and the childhood friend of Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Surely there would be mercy for him. Surely Darcy would not dishonor his father by condemning Wickham, whom old Mr. Darcy had loved!
He wanted to cling to such hopeful thoughts, but he was terrified.
Every time he tried to buoy his own spirits, his mind replayed an unwelcome memory.
The last time he had spoken to Dorothea Younge, she had been imprisoned in the room beside his in the attics of Lord Throckmorton’s mansion.
The windows had been open to avoid cooking the prisoners in the close heat beneath the sloping roof, and though they were far too high to permit even the thought of escape, the openings had let in a welcome breeze and, further, permitted conversation between the neighboring rooms. The conversation had not been encouraging.
Dorothea had been nearly speechless with fear.
Darcy had been to visit her, apparently, and had promised terrible punishments, hanging, or if she were fortunate, transportation to Australia.
That in itself was an appalling possibility.
Horrifying stories had trickled back to England of the fate faced by prisoners there; disease, and vermin, and spiders and snakes, vicious predators and dreadful poisons, a sun that scorched and a land that parched.
It was a wild country with a thousand ways to kill a man, and no one with any pity or mercy for the criminals shipped there to slave away and die.
As horrifying as the prospect of transportation was, hanging would be even worse.
He had seen a hanging or two in his time, the swollen face, the distended tongue, the head and neck at an unnatural, unsettling angle.
Vivid imagination painted a pitiless executioner and a rough hempen rope, the looming terror of when the trap door would fall away from beneath the poor victim’s feet.
Wickham gasped, realizing that he was sobbing, silent, heaving, gasping sobs, and he slumped sideways onto the odiferous mattress.
It was a struggle to breathe through the fear squeezing vise-like around his lungs.
He could see no escape. No old lingering affection would save him, no honoring of the dearly departed.
Fitzwilliam had always been jealous of Wickham, and now that same jealousy would condemn Wickham to a terrible demise, sooner or later.
His only hope lay in beguiling the judge and jury, but apprehension choked him.
Judges were notoriously hard-hearted against the greatest of charm and tended to frown upon transgressions such as abduction.
Wickham lurched to his feet and began pacing like a caged animal in the tiny space allotted to him.
Abduction was such an ugly word. Abduction was what highwaymen did, sweeping down on unsuspecting carriages to steal and perpetrate violence their passengers.
He had simply … arranged for a way to insist that Georgiana Darcy become his bride, that was all.
He would have committed no violence against her, would not have harmed a hair on her pretty head.
For some reason, he believed the jury might not see it his way.
He feared the men, doubtless plebeian, strait laced merchants and the like, would lump Wickham’s refined plans in with the mindless violence of bandits.
He shook his head and continued pacing, unable to bear the thought of receiving a bandit’s penalty.
His mind shied away from envisioning his own self falling, his own neck cracking.
No. No! The worst would not happen. Wickham had never been in too tight of a spot for long.
He could not be so blessed, with charm and a fine figure and handsome features and a good education, only to find his end like a common criminal.
He had even spent a few months studying law before finding it unprofitable …
sadly it was not clear it could help him in his current situation.
He sat down on his cot again, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He had read about court cases only a few years previously. There were rules about how a prisoner could defend himself. Perhaps there was some hope.
He sat up straighter and nodded once, though no one was there to observe his movements. He was intelligent, and he would find a way out of this mess.
***
Private Parlor
The Golden Daffodil Inn
“It looks so beautiful,” Elizabeth mused, staring out the window towards the sunken garden behind the inn.
“It does indeed,” Mrs. Gardiner agreed, wandering over to stand next to her niece, who was relaxing on a padded chair.
“I wish I could go out and wander around,” Elizabeth said wistfully, “but I suppose that would be unwise.”
“It would, my dear,” Mr. Gardiner remarked from his position near the fire. “I have been impressed by your sense in staying off that foot, and urge you to remain patient so you do not injure yourself further and delay your healing.”
“What if I do not wish to be patient?” Elizabeth demanded in a comically whiny tone.
Her older relations chuckled and then turned as the door opened to reveal Mr. and Miss Darcy.
“Good evening,” the gentleman said, stepping inside with his sister on his arm. “I hope you have all settled in well?”
“We have, thank you,” Mrs. Gardiner assured him. “Dinner was excellent, and Elizabeth and I were just admiring the gardens.”
Miss Darcy approached the window and peered out, and her lips parted in wonder. “Oh, it is beautiful indeed! I do not think we have been here in June before, and it is as splendid as I have ever seen it!”
“It is lovely,” Mr. Gardiner agreed, and then turned to Darcy. “Sir, I wondered whether you have any news regarding the upcoming trial. I do not know about Elizabeth, but I find myself a trifle anxious about it.”
“I am anxious, too,” Elizabeth admitted.
“I am as well,” Georgiana whispered.
“Do sit down, everyone,” Darcy suggested
He was obeyed, and when all were comfortably settled, Darcy said, “I have been exchanging letters with the solicitor who is writing up the brief regarding the crime. He has hired an experienced barrister, Mr. Talbot, who will argue the case before the judge and jury.”
Elizabeth frowned. “A barrister?”
“Yes, the solicitor in question is organizing the information on the crime, but he is not permitted to enter court, and thus we require Mr. Talbot, who has been following the court circuit for a full decade now.”
Based on Miss Darcy’s expression, she was still bewildered, which made Elizabeth feel better about her own lack of understanding.
“The specifics do not matter a great deal,” Darcy said quickly. “I merely wished to explain that when you are called to the witness stand, Mr. Talbot will ask you questions about what happened. He will design the questions to bring out the situation in detail for the benefit of judge and jury.”
“Will Miss Bennet and I be the only witnesses?” Miss Darcy asked timidly.
“No, Mr. Gantry and Mr. Blair will be arriving here in Derby on the morrow and will also serve as witnesses, along with the mistress of the Tea Emporium and one of her servant girls, both of whom can provide valuable information about Mrs. Younge’s part in the scheme.”
He turned to his sister, who was looking troubled and said kindly, “Do not worry, my dear sister. All will be well, and Mr. Wickham will never be a danger to you again.”
Miss Darcy openly relaxed, and Elizabeth said, “Do you know when the trial will be?”
“Not precisely. It will be in the next week, but it depends on the judge’s decision. There are likely many trials waiting to take place.”
“I understand,” Elizabeth said, though inwardly she hoped her time on the witness stand would be sooner rather than later. She was eager to be done with this unsettling affair.