PROLOGUE
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife, or so one might well imagine from the carryings-on of the majority of women in society these days, mine own lovely spouse included.
It is a truth rather less acknowledged that a single man lacking in such a fortune may often secure one through a fortuitous marriage, especially if, like my old compatriot Willoughby, they are of an old and respected family.
All manner of sins will be forgiven such a man, and he may easily enough find fleshly pleasures and filthy lucre commingled in the happy singularity of some young nymph of good breeding and better fortune. But for a fellow who lacks both fortune and family name, it’s not near so easy, and a degree of approbation is of course attached to the adventure, but all’s well that ends well, as the Bard would say. Which is why, years after the fact, I was rather shocked to find that there were those who insisted on dredging up old scandal.
Shouldn’t have been, though. It’s human nature, really. Rise high in the world and there’s always someone wanting to knock you down a peg or three. I didn’t give tuppence for it, myself, but there were those who were somewhat less nonchalant on the subject than yours truly.
“Oh, Lizzy… How can she be so cruel?” wailed Lydia, apparently prepared to launch into a round of her infamous histrionics. I do love the woman, but she can be quite the trial at times.
“Come, now, dear,” I said soothingly, “I rather doubt your sister had much to do with it. Our Elizabeth is many things, but spiteful she is not.” This was doing a kindness to the former Miss Bennet, who had been quite the hellion in her day, and matrimony had, I imagined, little reformed her. Still, I’d always been rather fond of the girl, and didn’t like to hear her spoken badly of, even by her sister, and even with such provocation.
“Well if this is not Lizzy’s doing, then whom would you hold accountable?” The item in question was a smallish, leather-bound brown book, which she flung contemptuously at my feet.
I bent to pick it up and sighed.“I suppose I would have to blame the author, this-” I scanned the first few pages for the name of the guilty party, but the tract was merely attributed to ‘the author of Sense and Sensibility.’ Damned odd, thought I, but aloud I said, “-well, she daren’t even name herself.” I took a chance and assumed it was one of these new-fangled lady writers – a chap wouldn’t be caught dead writing this sort of drivel.
“Well,” sniffed Lydia, “perhaps you are right. She has no doubt abused my sisters’ confidences, twisted their words, and written this perfidious account to salve her spinster’s misery.” Her face brightened, the schadenfreude seeming to cheer her momentarily.
In a flash, though, the anger shown through again. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but a close second best is a society madam who thinks her reputation smudged, though it already be ever so black. “So what do you intend to do about it?” she asked querulously.
“Do about it? My dear, I intend to do absolutely nothing. She is a nobody, writing penny romances that are worth about half that. Clearly the book is filled with scandalous rubbish, which no proper person could give credence to. Best thing is to ignore it completely. It’s been out for, what, a year? And this is the first I’ve heard of it? A week from now this book will be in the dustbin, and along with it her name, whatever that may be.”
I could tell the answer didn’t satisfy my darling wife, but as I pointed out, we hardly had time to argue the point further. “His Majesty awaits,” I chided. The shades of Pemberley might not yet be keen on my company, but the rather more corporeal Wellington demanded the presence of all his boon lieutenants on this, the greatest triumph of his life to date.
Though I had managed to distract Lydia, as I have so often been obliged to do over the years, the incident preyed upon my mind, and even after the pomp and ceremony of the day was over, something about it still nagged at me.
It was not until rather later that it occurred to me; although the particular pamphlet of romantic drivel that had so incensed my wife was of no particular consequence in and of itself, it was damned indicative of the sort of thing being written and passed off as literature in this modern age, and while it displayed a fair degree of accuracy in addressing some small aspects of polite society, it completely ignored the rather larger and more sordid facets of the world as I knew it.
Why, when I looked back upon the year of 1797, my marriage to Lydia, the hastily-arranged event which she, Lizzy, and that lady journalist had considered quite the dramatic interlude barely registers in light of the events that succeeded my posting to Newcastle.
It therefore occurred to me that I should set down my own recollections of the occurrences at the turn of the century so that a clearer and more extensive picture could be developed by the readers of a future age. Of course, since a good bit of what I’ve seen and done could be a damned embarrassment to several peers of the realm, our allies and enemies, and even my own family, I feel obliged to make some small efforts to ensure that such letters and memoirs are not published until well after yours truly has shuffled off this mortal coil.
I reckon a hundred years hence, or thereabouts, even the descendants of our good Prince Regent might be able to read such a tale with a wince and a grin, mourning the sad state of affairs that existed in the United Kingdom of yore, excusing the author his foibles and eccentricities, and finding some amusement in the various sketches of personages and events therein.
But to prepare the reader of the future to accompany me on a literary voyage through the recent past, I should quickly sketch a picture of the nature of my life, companions, and observations of the world prior to that fateful day in 1797 when I departed from Longbourn in a borrowed chaise and four, dressed in the regimentals of an Ensign in His Majesty’s 9th Dragoons, accompanied by a young and flirtatious wife, bound for Newcastle and full of youthful ambitions.
***
Author’s note: The assorted letters of Mister Wickham (to accord him here his proper honorifics would deprive the reader of the enjoyment of discovery which I believe they may, in time, experience) did indeed, according to his wishes as noted above, remain unpublished in his lifetime.
However, a significantly greater period elapsed than the mere century that Wickham himself proposed as a suitable interval; they were discovered only recently in a set of archives. The original record of their disposition was lost, apparently in the widespread destruction that wracked London during the early raids by German Gotha bombers in 1917.
Your humble servant has endeavored at all costs to arrange this manuscript chronologically, as Mister Wickham, judging from his notes, appears to have desired it, and altered the original text as little as possible to allow this voice from the past to speak to us quite directly.
Endnotes have been added to explain items of historical significance, and for these I must take responsibility; in all other respects, the credit or approbation for the language and content of this text must rest with Wickham himself.
###
CHAPTER ONE
Pemberly, 1790
The elder Mr. Darcy and I shared rather a lot in common, including, I rather suspected, a bit of blood on the wrong side of the sheets.
Certainly we were more of a character than he and young Fitzwilliam, for despite having the sort of visage and physique that the ladies swooned over, and being an excellent rider when necessity demanded it, the younger Darcy was only a reluctant sportsman at best, and much preferred to apply himself to books, letters, accounts, and things of that nature.
He had a natural bent for mathematics and literature, tho’ and I’ve often wished I’d had his head for numbers when the cards were running against me at the gaming tables.
Here was another point on which my godfather’s tastes and mine diverged from Fitzwilliam’s; we both enjoyed a good hand of cards on occasion, whereas he could never countenance the pursuit, not being opposed on any moral grounds, mind you, but on account of the statistical odds that he swore made the games a losing proposition in the long run.
The same genius that served the family fortune well when applied to accounts made him an insufferable companion at the card table.
Yes, my godfather and I were two of a kind, and as I’ve said, I have my suspicions that it was due to yours truly being merely a chip off the old Darcy block, but in any case.
As Fitzwilliam himself was obliged to admit, his father was not merely fond of my society, but indeed had the highest opinion of me, probably because our inclinations were one and the same.
Wine, women, the company of clever chaps at the club; a strong horse between one’s legs and the baying of hounds; the crack of a good shotgun on a September morning – these we reckoned to be the pleasures that made a gentleman’s life worth living.
We enjoyed watching the bewigged mob in the House of Commons make themselves ridiculous by day and allowing the painted ladies of The Strand to make us ridiculous by night; and the old man’s bottomless pockets meant that we could indulge any and all these desires as we saw fit.
On one topic only we disagreed, that of my future situation. I was dead-set on joining the Army, but that fine institution's reputation had been tarnished in the eyes of my benefactor by the humiliating loss of the war against the American rebels seven years earlier.
Instead, Mister Darcy preferred that I join the clergy, offering me the parsonage at Pemberley and the living afforded it by the little town of Kympton as an enticement, and quite the prospect it was. Larger by half than the living at Rosings Park, the adjoining estate presided over by the formidable Lady Catherine, the rectory offered a commodious house, extensive gardens, a small stable, and of course the opportunity to preside over the largest congregation in the county. A flock of lambs, said the elder Darcy with a wink, that was not without its share of fine young shepherdesses.
A taste for fleshly delights was yet another trait that old Darcy and I shared - in the course of our heated discussions over whether I should be a soldier for the King or a soldier for God, the old rascal actually had the nerve to hand me a weighty leather-bound tome alleged to contain "some stimulating arguments for the superior virtues of service in the house of our Lord."
These "stimulating arguments" turned out to be Justine, the latest tract produced by that mad Frenchman de Sade, who was in fact a distant relative. Many of the great houses had such relations across the Channel, Darcy being simply the Anglicized version of Charles D'Arcy, the family grand-sire eleven times removed, who along with his neighbor Sir Percival de Bourgh had won his estate smashing Saxon skulls at Hastings.
Those lands had stayed in the two families due to an often prudent and occasionally lucky line of descendants who had managed to back the winning contenders for the crown in no less than nine bloody wars. The Plantagenets and Tudors came and went, along with the Black Plague and the blacker-hearted Cromwell and through it all the Darcys and de Bourghs had kept their lineage alive and their boots planted kindly but firmly upon the smallfolk of Darbyshire.
But I digress. While the good Marquis' writing was indeed stimulating, and painted a beautifully debauched picture of the liberties that a man of the cloth might take with the innocent, it was less this, and more of Mr. Darcy's all-or-nothing stance on the subject that settled the issue in favor of the Church.
I would study at Cambridge, be ordained a minister in the Church of England, and return to Pemberley to sin during the week, and preach against it on Sunday.
***
Author’s note: Wickham has made an error in his memoirs; the Reign of Terror did not begin until 1793, so Miss Younges was definitely not severed from her employers and young charges by the guillotine (though they may well have suffered that fate in the end.)
It is more likely that she was simply sacked and later (when they met again in 1796) told Wickham this version of the story, which he repeated in his letters without verifying the dates.
I find it unlikely that Wickham simply embroidered the truth himself, as his memoirs are generally uncannily accurate when it comes to dates and places of significant historical events in his lifetime.
CHAPTER THREE
Cambridge, 1792
***
* The 12th day of August, commonly referred to as the "Glorious Twelfth" was when gentlemen retired to the countryside to start the shooting season for red grouse.
** Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, had lost most of her fortune at the gaming tables by 1784; by 1786 she owed at least £100,000 in gambling debts and by 1789 her name was synonymous with bankruptcy and bad luck.
I passed the next two years in glorious idleness and dissipation. The study of the Law did not engage too much of my time, and Darcy never deigned to call on me when he visited the City on business, nor did I receive any invitations to visit Pemberley, but this only aggrieved me during the hunting season.
Instead I contented myself with calling on Willoughby at his familial estate of Combe Magna, where the pheasants were fat, and the local milkmaids keen for entertainment.
Hunting was in fact an excellent diversion for a gentleman in my circumstances, since it took me away from the distractions of the City and their various costs, and ensconced me in the bosom of a country home where I had no real expenses, nor any obligations other than to amuse my friends and hosts, which was easily managed by simply being my ordinarily charming self.
I could sleep late, eat well, ride to the hounds, shoot gamebirds and fish the whole day through, and there were not infrequent country dances and dinners to occupy the evenings.
These latter events, however, were not so common as to inconvenience me overmuch in my downstairs dalliances, and I enjoyed a half-dozen or more such delicious liaisons throughout the course of my stay at Combe Magna.
Yet one could only stay in the country from September to November; after that, the weather grew intemperate, the pleasures of the Fall drew to a close, and it was once again time to return to the City and all its expensive and dissolute pleasures.
Having learned something from the loss of my original endowment, I did rather better with the 3000 pounds I’d procured off Fitzwilliam, and by that, of course, I mean that I had rather better luck at the tables.
In the first six-month, I’d multiplied my stake to about 5000 pounds, and this I was sensible enough to invest, intending to live off the interest, which amounted to about 150 pounds per annum.
But I ran with a flash crowd, and tho’ 150 pounds might have sufficed for me to live the quiet, studious life of a law student, it was in no way sufficient to finance the fashions, food, and feminine companionship that I and my fellow libertines considered to be the most necessary of life’s small pleasures, washed down, of course, with a plentitude of beer, wine, and the Demon Rum.
Whilst my boon companions, who along with Denny and Willoughby now occasionally included such notables as Corinthian Tom and Bob Logic had family stipends to support them and the promise of inheritances to look forward to, I was obliged to dip more and more frequently into my capital, which of course reduced my income, and drove a vicious cycle which threatened to see my small fortune extinguished in its entirety.
Only my continued luck at the gaming tables and the generous credit extended to me by a variety of London merchants kept me afloat, and allowed me to continually match my friends in all their debauched excesses.
At last, I had to admit to myself that my course as a rambler and a dandy was well and truly run; I had sampled all the Cyprian pleasures of the City, and they now bored me.
I had tried my hand at the Law, and found it too dry and monotonous a profession to tempt me.
Besides as a lawyer I should be obliged to practice law, which seemed a very tedious and time-consuming way to spend one’s days.
The more I contemplated things, the more I realized my old friend and father figure, the elder Darcy had seen the right of it.
To spend my life as a country rector would be perfectly ideal; I should have a comfortable and familiar home, could take a pleasant young wife, and labor not too hard at canting sermons.
I could enjoy the simple pleasures of being a gentleman farmer, the perquisites of lording it over the small-folk of Kympton, and escape to the City on “business” for a week or two, whenever I found myself growing bored.
Perhaps I should have a son of my own, or adopt one as old Darcy had adopted me, and in due time, initiate such a young scallywag into the finer pleasures of life, wine and women and cards and the hunt.
In short, I could lead a life much like the elder Darcy himself had enjoyed, if somewhat more circumscribed by finances.
To this end, I made some enquiries, and learned that through what could hardly be termed anything but Divine Providence, the living at Pemberley had only just recently become vacant, the late rector having gone to God’s grace, and no replacement yet arranged for.
Thus I sent a letter to Fitzwilliam by express post, expressing my desire to return to the Church, to Pemberley, and to the living which his father had intended for me.
You may imagine my surprise when Darcy replied to assure me that I should never receive the living; that the papers I had signed two years before had revoked in perpetuity (a fancy legal term meaning, apparently, forever) any claim I had against the rectory, old Darcy’s estate, and Fitzwilliam himself.
In his usual prideful and prejudicial manner, he completely ignored his own father’s dying wishes, displaying none of that spirit of Christian charity which should have impelled a better man to take pity on the unfortunate circumstances of a prodigal godson who, having learned his lesson, wanted only to return to the bosom of the Church (and perhaps a few of the more welcoming bosoms to be found therein) but no.
Of course, I slandered his name far and wide for this unkindness, which only added to his reputation as a cold, unfeeling, and unpleasant sort of person, and tho’ I daresay this was no better than he deserved, still it did nothing to improve my immediate circumstances.
Altogether this was a bit of a bad time for me, as my ready cash dwindled and I seemed to have little prospect of improving my situation.
There was only one rather notable event that occurred during this period, involving my former friend John Willoughby; I say former, because tho’ we had been fast friends for some years, that bond was all but dissolved in this curious affair.
I’d met Willoughby in St James, and after exchanging greetings, inquired as to what on Earth he was doing in the City, as I had been under the impression that he was attending a wealthy relative in Devonshire.
Willoughby confided in me that the two had suffered a disagreement, and that as he now feared he should be severed from her fortune, he’d come to London for the Season* to find himself a rich wife, and therefore I should not think to see him too often in our old haunts of gaming hells and brothels.
*Author’s Note: In London society of that day, the Season traditionally began after Easter and ended with the 12th day of August, commonly referred to as the "Glorious Twelfth" when gentlemen retired to the countryside to start of the shooting season for red grouse. In Wickham’s notes on this particular incident is included a clipping from Harper’s Bazaar which lampoons the festivities as simply a grand and elaborate matchmaking scheme. That clipping has been reproduced above for the reader’s elucidation.
I commiserated with him, admitting that I myself was in need of such a wife, but that they were damned hard to come by in my social circle.
I’d hoped Willoughby might offer to sponsor my attendance at some balls or dinners for the purpose of improving my chances at obtaining such a match, but whether through absentmindedness or a desire to avoid competition, no such proposal was forthcoming.
After we parted that afternoon, I had no further word from him, nor did I encounter him in our traditional haunts, but this was much as he’d led me to expect, so I thought little of it.Thus it came as some surprise that he should burst into the gambling parlor at Almacks about a fortnight later, highly agitated, smelling of spirits, and demanding my immediate attention.
As I was hard into a game of vingt-et-un, I was less than inclined to give it. “Damn it, man,” says I, “but I’m ten pounds to the bad, and must remain here at least until I have recovered my losses.” But Willoughby would not be dissuaded, and promised me 20 guineas if I should quit my seat upon the instant. It is a testament to the sad circumstances I was in that I accepted this small inducement and strode out into the night with my friend.
The tale he relayed to me was outré even by my standards at the time, though in fact I’m sure I’ve since done far worse, while he himself has become so reformed as to be no great sort of company for a man of my many vices.
According to Willoughby, a little more than a year previous, he had formed an acquaintance with a young lady named Eliza whilst they were both visiting in Bath, and their tryst had led to her becoming with child.
Of course, Willoughby explained, he had no knowledge of this complication at the time, and never hearing from her after he’d left for Devonshire, supposed it was simply another libertine liaison, easily arranged and as easily forgotten.
But, the truth would out, and word reached Willoughby’s wealthy relative, the redoubtable Mrs. Smith, who called upon him to make right the wrong by marrying the girl, or be severed forever from any inheritance or acquaintance he might have expected from her.
Willoughby, not wishing to be bound to a girl lacking not only in wealth, but frankly in all other desirable attributes besides beauty, had crossed this Rubicon and taken himself to London, where he had quickly established himself as the paramour of a wealthy debutante, Miss Grey, who showed every sign that she might well secure his future through matrimony.
His one regret in the rambling monologue appeared to be that his departure from the countryside had forced his separation from a particularly charming, attractive and talented girl named Marianne, whose sole deficiency was that she was the second daughter of one of those poor but proud specimens of widow who make their way through life on the charity of their more fortunate friends and relations.
“That is all quite unfortunate, I admit,” I said, “but I cannot imagine by what means you suppose that I of all people can ameliorate this situation.”
Willoughby gave a frustrated growl and threw his head back, removing his hat and running a hand through his thick hair. “There’s more to the tale, Wickham. This girl Eliza is the natural daughter of one Colonel Brandon, another fellow from Somersetshire, and a veteran of the East India Company. He knows me, has found me out, and demands satisfaction.”
“My God, man,” I exclaimed, “do you mean to fight a duel?”
In short, this narrative, as recounted by George Wickham, sheds light on an heretofore obscure, but terribly important incident in the lives of the Dashwood sisters, an event that, had it gone differently than it did, might have marred forever any chance at future happiness that those two gentle souls stood to gain by their mutual acquaintance with Colonel Christopher Brandon.
In her history of the Dashwoods, Miss Austen recounts that the Colonel once remarked apocryphally to Elinor Dashwood, in reference to John Willoughby; “we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct.”
For an explanation of this cryptic remark, and full enlightenment of how the matter was resolved, the account by Wickham of his involvement in this affair may be of some interest, and may be immediately obtained as a free e-book for the Kindle, simply by clicking on this link or by clicking on the picture below.
And in closing, a small request. If you are enjoying this novel, please consider taking a moment today to make a donation to our Kickstarter project, or our PayPal fund.
Thanks!
Brighton & Clapham, 1797
I wanted a few weeks in London without fear of discovery by Colonel Forster, Mister Bennet, or anyone save Darcy, for that matter, and so had instructed Lydia to leave a note for Mrs. Forster indicating that we were bound for Gretna Green to get married.
It would be a believable enough story – certainly I would not be the first young gallant to abscond with his lady-love in such a fashion, as the little town just across the border in Scotland had been the site of many an illicit union since good old Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act had been voted in some forty years prior, raising to 18 the age at which a young Englishwoman no longer required her parent’s consent to tie the knot. The rascally Highlanders saw it somewhat differently – a Scots lass of 12 years was considered perfectly marriageable, and ever since the toll road had made Gretna Green accessible, the local clergy had been performing ceremonies for couples both young and old and often rather odd combinations thereof.
Lydia, herself somewhat exhausted by her exertions and the lateness of the hour nestled herself in against me and promptly fell asleep, leaving me to stave off a series of yawns with thoughts of what the next few weeks would bring.
The sun had not quite risen when we reached Clapham, and here I stopped to refresh a bit, and exchange the chaise for a less taxing mode of conveyance.
We breakfasted at a small inn, Lydia quiet for a change, but only due to her exhaustion; I am sure she was quite untroubled by worries about the impropriety of her situation.
CHAPTER TWO
Pemberley, 1791
The summer before I left for Cambridge, an event occurred that was to inflame my early passions and set the stage for a variety of later endeavors of natures both romantic and risqué.
Fitzwilliam had a sister, some years younger, named Georgiana. As their mother had died tragically in childbirth and the girl had outgrown her wet-nurse, a proper governess must needs be retained to oversee her upbringing, ensuring she was endowed with all the proper refinements requisite a young lady of breeding; a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, and besides all this, to endow her with a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, lest her fair peers and future suitors should deem her somewhat less than distinguished.
The woman selected for this fearsome undertaking was a certain Miss Younges, who in addition to an excellent grounding in the aforementioned feminine arts, was uniquely qualified to aid Georgiana in acquiring that certain something, which the French term je ne se quoi, as she herself had been a resident of Paris for several years, where she had recently been engaged by an aristocratic family to serve in a similar capacity for their daughters.
It was of course to be hoped that Georgiana might gain more by her tutelage than those previous charges, who along with their unfortunate pater and mater familias, had gone to Heaven via the little door* in the preludes of the Reign of Terror, while their governess had been obliged to leave the country under the small protections of being an Englishwoman.
Miss Younges, whose given name was Rebecca, was a tall, dark-haired woman of three and thirty years possessed of a wasp-waisted figure and a severe expression which rather belied her true nature, which was in fact quite frolicsome and libertine, though you would never imagine it by observing her at work with Georgiana.
However, an early exposure to la societe d’Paris, and to the lower associations which a working-class girl might form in that great city had given Miss Younges a range of talents that made her, in my frank and rather extensive experience, one of the most distinguished ladies I have ever known.
Certainly she had learned and then perfected uses for her tongue and fingers that went somewhat beyond forming the delicate syllables of French and Italian, or tickling the ivory keys of the piano-forte.
One might even observe that she might have just as easily been professionally employed to teach a young man swordplay as a young woman needlepoint, for she was skilled in both manipulating that euphemistic weapon of ardor, and seeing it fully sheathed in a multiplicity of feminine scabbards.
Such was her skill in these delicate matters that she proved quite capable of taking on two and occasionally three opponents at once, and though she might suffer le petit mort a half-dozen times in the engagement, she never failed to emerge the victor at the end of the contest, her sparring partners disarmed, spent, and sweating.
Certainly I learned as much or more from Miss Younges in her leisure hours as Georgiana did while her governess was at work, and I daresay my lessons were rather the more interesting and enjoyable.
Old Darcy, in loco parentis, both knew and approved the liaison, or so I gathered from the occasional double entendres he made in reference to his employee, and knowing how the two were inclined, I had little doubt that they’d be sparring soon themselves ere I left for Cambridge.
In fact, I rather suspected Miss Younges would aim to make herself the new Mrs. Darcy in time, for all that he was nearly two score years older than she, and the difference in their respective stations rather extreme.
As for Fitzwilliam, he remained blissfully ignorant of the situation, as being a year older, he had preceded me to university and was thus rarely a figure at Pemberley during that halcyon year.
But all good things must end, or at the very least be interrupted by worldly matters, so in the Fall of 1791, I headed off to Cambridge to prepare myself to take orders and return to minister to good people of Darbyshire.
***
* The “little door” was a polite euphemism for the guillotine, and referenced the small, hinged opening in which the victim’s neck was placed and held by a wooden stock before the sharpened blade came crashing down.
Author’s note: Wickham has made an error in his memoirs; the Reign of Terror did not begin until 1793, so Miss Younges was definitely not severed from her employers and young charges by the guillotine (though they may well have suffered that fate in the end.)
It is more likely that she was simply sacked and later (when they met again in 1796) told Wickham this version of the story, which he repeated in his letters without verifying the dates.
I find it unlikely that Wickham simply embroidered the truth himself, as his memoirs are generally uncannily accurate when it comes to dates and places of significant historical events in his lifetime.
###
CHAPTER THREE
Cambridge, 1792
I passed my first year at Cambridge in fine style, which the reader should not suppose means good grades, but instead good times.
I made several fine chums, notably John Willoughby and Merriweather Denny, and I am sure there were a handful of lesser acquaintances who no doubt orbited around our merry little triad in the manner of planets around brightly burning stars, but their names escape me.
However, in my second year of schooling at Cambridge, a sad event obtruded into my youthful frolics, whose results were to have lasting consequences, tho’ I little suspected it at the time.
Word arrived from Darbyshire; the elder Mister Darcy had died, of what no one could say, but that he had passed in his sleep, with a smile on his rugged visage. Tho’ we had corresponded but little in that last year, and I had seen him only twice, once for the Glorious Twelfth*, and once in London for a spree of drunken debauchery in our old fashion, it was apparent that his attachment to me remained firm to the end, for when his last will and testament was read, he placed in my care the living at Pemberley, as soon as I should take orders and the rectory become vacant, and further instructed Fitzwilliam, the executor and primary beneficiary of his estate to promote my advancement in the best manner possible.
I could tell by the look of distaste that passed o’er Darcy’s face when the lawyers read this codicil that those wishes of the deceased pater familias were unlikely to be honored, but I contented myself that the elder Darcy had bequeathed to me the immediate sum of a thousand pounds.
Now, a thousand pounds, wisely invested, was sufficient to provide about 50 pounds a year, about a quarter of what a gentleman like myself required, but I concluded that cleverly wagered, that original thousand could be multiplied two or even three times in a matter of months, thereafter reinvested, and my foreseeable future thus secured.
This plan did not work out precisely as I had hoped, for although I did enjoy some immediate success at the gaming tables, the cock-fighting pits, and the race tracks, these early victories were presently reversed, and by the time I received the sad news of my own father’s passing, some six months later, I had rather gone the way of the Duchess of Devonshire;** my fortune had been diminished from a thousand pounds to a mere two hundred, and my debts had in the meantime increased considerably.
Another thing that had fallen with my fortunes were my grades at Cambridge; I had never been terribly keen on the ministry, and with the triple losses of my real father and my alleged (tho’ which was which, I would never be certain) and of my small fortune in the same six-month, it seemed likely that if there were a God in Heaven, he was not on the side of George Wickham, and hence, why should I be obliged to sing his praises and exhort the small-folk of Pemberley to do the same?
No, better ready cash now, I decided, than an in with the Lord of Hosts on some distant day of reckoning, and so I took pen in hand and wrote to Darcy, explaining that while we both knew I was not meant for the clergy, I thought that my natural abilities of speech and manner should combine to make me a very good lawyer, and that if he would but settle the sum of six thousand pounds upon me, I should renounce my immediate claims to the rectory, and pursue a legal education instead.
Darcy, who normally could not be bothered to reply to my letters in any particular haste came directly to see me upon receipt of this particular note, bearing three thousand in bank notes, and a thick stack of papers, which I glanced at but briefly before signing.
It was half what I’d asked, but fifteen times what I had at that moment, and I reckoned there’d be more where that came from, if necessary, so I didn’t give the matter much thought.
* The 12th day of August, commonly referred to as the "Glorious Twelfth" was when gentlemen retired to the countryside to start the shooting season for red grouse.
** Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, had lost most of her fortune at the gaming tables by 1784; by 1786 she owed at least £100,000 in gambling debts and by 1789 her name was synonymous with bankruptcy and bad luck.
CHAPTER FOUR
London, 1793-1794
I passed the next two years in glorious idleness and dissipation. The study of the Law did not engage too much of my time, and Darcy never deigned to call on me when he visited the City on business, nor did I receive any invitations to visit Pemberley, but this only aggrieved me during the hunting season.
Instead I contented myself with calling on Willoughby at his familial estate of Combe Magna, where the pheasants were fat, and the local milkmaids keen for entertainment.
Hunting was in fact an excellent diversion for a gentleman in my circumstances, since it took me away from the distractions of the City and their various costs, and ensconced me in the bosom of a country home where I had no real expenses, nor any obligations other than to amuse my friends and hosts, which was easily managed by simply being my ordinarily charming self.
I could sleep late, eat well, ride to the hounds, shoot gamebirds and fish the whole day through, and there were not infrequent country dances and dinners to occupy the evenings.
These latter events, however, were not so common as to inconvenience me overmuch in my downstairs dalliances, and I enjoyed a half-dozen or more such delicious liaisons throughout the course of my stay at Combe Magna.
Yet one could only stay in the country from September to November; after that, the weather grew intemperate, the pleasures of the Fall drew to a close, and it was once again time to return to the City and all its expensive and dissolute pleasures.
Having learned something from the loss of my original endowment, I did rather better with the 3000 pounds I’d procured off Fitzwilliam, and by that, of course, I mean that I had rather better luck at the tables.
In the first six-month, I’d multiplied my stake to about 5000 pounds, and this I was sensible enough to invest, intending to live off the interest, which amounted to about 150 pounds per annum.
But I ran with a flash crowd, and tho’ 150 pounds might have sufficed for me to live the quiet, studious life of a law student, it was in no way sufficient to finance the fashions, food, and feminine companionship that I and my fellow libertines considered to be the most necessary of life’s small pleasures, washed down, of course, with a plentitude of beer, wine, and the Demon Rum.
Whilst my boon companions, who along with Denny and Willoughby now occasionally included such notables as Corinthian Tom and Bob Logic had family stipends to support them and the promise of inheritances to look forward to, I was obliged to dip more and more frequently into my capital, which of course reduced my income, and drove a vicious cycle which threatened to see my small fortune extinguished in its entirety.
Only my continued luck at the gaming tables and the generous credit extended to me by a variety of London merchants kept me afloat, and allowed me to continually match my friends in all their debauched excesses.
At last, I had to admit to myself that my course as a rambler and a dandy was well and truly run; I had sampled all the Cyprian pleasures of the City, and they now bored me.
I had tried my hand at the Law, and found it too dry and monotonous a profession to tempt me.
Besides as a lawyer I should be obliged to practice law, which seemed a very tedious and time-consuming way to spend one’s days.
The more I contemplated things, the more I realized my old friend and father figure, the elder Darcy had seen the right of it.
To spend my life as a country rector would be perfectly ideal; I should have a comfortable and familiar home, could take a pleasant young wife, and labor not too hard at canting sermons.
I could enjoy the simple pleasures of being a gentleman farmer, the perquisites of lording it over the small-folk of Kympton, and escape to the City on “business” for a week or two, whenever I found myself growing bored.
Perhaps I should have a son of my own, or adopt one as old Darcy had adopted me, and in due time, initiate such a young scallywag into the finer pleasures of life, wine and women and cards and the hunt.
In short, I could lead a life much like the elder Darcy himself had enjoyed, if somewhat more circumscribed by finances.
To this end, I made some enquiries, and learned that through what could hardly be termed anything but Divine Providence, the living at Pemberley had only just recently become vacant, the late rector having gone to God’s grace, and no replacement yet arranged for.
Thus I sent a letter to Fitzwilliam by express post, expressing my desire to return to the Church, to Pemberley, and to the living which his father had intended for me.
You may imagine my surprise when Darcy replied to assure me that I should never receive the living; that the papers I had signed two years before had revoked in perpetuity (a fancy legal term meaning, apparently, forever) any claim I had against the rectory, old Darcy’s estate, and Fitzwilliam himself.
In his usual prideful and prejudicial manner, he completely ignored his own father’s dying wishes, displaying none of that spirit of Christian charity which should have impelled a better man to take pity on the unfortunate circumstances of a prodigal godson who, having learned his lesson, wanted only to return to the bosom of the Church (and perhaps a few of the more welcoming bosoms to be found therein) but no.
Of course, I slandered his name far and wide for this unkindness, which only added to his reputation as a cold, unfeeling, and unpleasant sort of person, and tho’ I daresay this was no better than he deserved, still it did nothing to improve my immediate circumstances.
***
CHAPTER FIVE
London, 1796
Altogether this was a bit of a bad time for me, as my ready cash dwindled and I seemed to have little prospect of improving my situation.
There was only one rather notable event that occurred during this period, involving my former friend John Willoughby; I say former, because tho’ we had been fast friends for some years, that bond was all but dissolved in this curious affair.
I’d met Willoughby in St James, and after exchanging greetings, inquired as to what on Earth he was doing in the City, as I had been under the impression that he was attending a wealthy relative in Devonshire.
Willoughby confided in me that the two had suffered a disagreement, and that as he now feared he should be severed from her fortune, he’d come to London for the Season* to find himself a rich wife, and therefore I should not think to see him too often in our old haunts of gaming hells and brothels.
*Author’s Note: In London society of that day, the Season traditionally began after Easter and ended with the 12th day of August, commonly referred to as the "Glorious Twelfth" when gentlemen retired to the countryside to start of the shooting season for red grouse. In Wickham’s notes on this particular incident is included a clipping from Harper’s Bazaar which lampoons the festivities as simply a grand and elaborate matchmaking scheme. That clipping has been reproduced above for the reader’s elucidation.
I commiserated with him, admitting that I myself was in need of such a wife, but that they were damned hard to come by in my social circle.
I’d hoped Willoughby might offer to sponsor my attendance at some balls or dinners for the purpose of improving my chances at obtaining such a match, but whether through absentmindedness or a desire to avoid competition, no such proposal was forthcoming.
After we parted that afternoon, I had no further word from him, nor did I encounter him in our traditional haunts, but this was much as he’d led me to expect, so I thought little of it.Thus it came as some surprise that he should burst into the gambling parlor at Almacks about a fortnight later, highly agitated, smelling of spirits, and demanding my immediate attention.
As I was hard into a game of vingt-et-un, I was less than inclined to give it. “Damn it, man,” says I, “but I’m ten pounds to the bad, and must remain here at least until I have recovered my losses.” But Willoughby would not be dissuaded, and promised me 20 guineas if I should quit my seat upon the instant. It is a testament to the sad circumstances I was in that I accepted this small inducement and strode out into the night with my friend.
The tale he relayed to me was outré even by my standards at the time, though in fact I’m sure I’ve since done far worse, while he himself has become so reformed as to be no great sort of company for a man of my many vices.
According to Willoughby, a little more than a year previous, he had formed an acquaintance with a young lady named Eliza whilst they were both visiting in Bath, and their tryst had led to her becoming with child.
Of course, Willoughby explained, he had no knowledge of this complication at the time, and never hearing from her after he’d left for Devonshire, supposed it was simply another libertine liaison, easily arranged and as easily forgotten.
But, the truth would out, and word reached Willoughby’s wealthy relative, the redoubtable Mrs. Smith, who called upon him to make right the wrong by marrying the girl, or be severed forever from any inheritance or acquaintance he might have expected from her.
Willoughby, not wishing to be bound to a girl lacking not only in wealth, but frankly in all other desirable attributes besides beauty, had crossed this Rubicon and taken himself to London, where he had quickly established himself as the paramour of a wealthy debutante, Miss Grey, who showed every sign that she might well secure his future through matrimony.
His one regret in the rambling monologue appeared to be that his departure from the countryside had forced his separation from a particularly charming, attractive and talented girl named Marianne, whose sole deficiency was that she was the second daughter of one of those poor but proud specimens of widow who make their way through life on the charity of their more fortunate friends and relations.
“That is all quite unfortunate, I admit,” I said, “but I cannot imagine by what means you suppose that I of all people can ameliorate this situation.”
Willoughby gave a frustrated growl and threw his head back, removing his hat and running a hand through his thick hair. “There’s more to the tale, Wickham. This girl Eliza is the natural daughter of one Colonel Brandon, another fellow from Somersetshire, and a veteran of the East India Company. He knows me, has found me out, and demands satisfaction.”
“My God, man,” I exclaimed, “do you mean to fight a duel?”
***
Author’s note: The remainder of this particular episode has been published as a short story that stands by itself, on behalf of the unique value it may have for readers interested in the affairs of those persons whose lives formed the basis for Miss Austen’s historiographical accounts.In short, this narrative, as recounted by George Wickham, sheds light on an heretofore obscure, but terribly important incident in the lives of the Dashwood sisters, an event that, had it gone differently than it did, might have marred forever any chance at future happiness that those two gentle souls stood to gain by their mutual acquaintance with Colonel Christopher Brandon.
In her history of the Dashwoods, Miss Austen recounts that the Colonel once remarked apocryphally to Elinor Dashwood, in reference to John Willoughby; “we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct.”
For an explanation of this cryptic remark, and full enlightenment of how the matter was resolved, the account by Wickham of his involvement in this affair may be of some interest, and may be immediately obtained as a free e-book for the Kindle, simply by clicking on this link or by clicking on the picture below.
And in closing, a small request. If you are enjoying this novel, please consider taking a moment today to make a donation to our Kickstarter project, or our PayPal fund.
Thanks!
***
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Brighton & Clapham, 1797
Affairs proceeded quickly from that point; the object of my intended seduction had taken matters into her own hands (and a few other places) and was quite the willing accomplice to all my schemes, though of course I didn’t tell her the half of it.
What I did let on was that I was to come into a tidy fortune very soon, and would rather marry her than anyone else in the world, but that I should be cut off by my benefactor if our engagement were discovered before my living was secured.
We should have to keep it a secret, I said, knowing full well that it was entirely counter to Lydia’s nature to do so – not that she wasn’t a sly, cunning little thing when it served her purposes, it was just that she took such pleasure in gossip.
But Lydia swore that she should keep quiet as a titmouse in public, as long as, she whispered with a flirtatious smile, I gave her plentiful cause to scream aloud in private.
We both made good on our ends of the bargain, at least in the beginning, and I immediately put into effect the first part of my plan, which was to borrow as much money as possible from the other officers in the Regiment, twenty pounds here and fifty pounds there, always on the pretext that I was obliged to pay a gambling debt or an account in town, and that I should repay the loan within the fortnight.
Likewise, I made sure to take up on credit all manner of items from the good tradesmen of Brighton; new boots and trousers, jackets and shirts, a fine brace of pistols, lace and ribbons for Lydia, a great deal of cloth which I stored in chests, and assorted other items of value.
None of this did I pay a penny for, leaving instead notes promising a future payment, with a bit of interest, upon my honor as an officer. In this fashion, I obtained about 400 pounds in ready cash, and perhaps double that in durable goods, and might have gotten twice as much again, except that I learned Lydia had written to her sister Kitty of our intimate acquaintance and plans to elope.
None of this did I pay a penny for, leaving instead notes promising a future payment, with a bit of interest, upon my honor as an officer. In this fashion, I obtained about 400 pounds in ready cash, and perhaps double that in durable goods, and might have gotten twice as much again, except that I learned Lydia had written to her sister Kitty of our intimate acquaintance and plans to elope.
Knowing that Lydia’s younger sister was, if slightly less talkative, than certainly no more discreet than my current paramour, I decided it was best to hasten our departure slightly, and tho’ I cursed the pair of them beneath my breath, to Lydia’s face I was all smiles and gaiety.
We left on a Saturday evening at about midnight, and I reckoned we had a good eight hours before Lydia was discovered missing, and a bit more, perhaps, to cozen that I had flown the coop as well.
I wanted a few weeks in London without fear of discovery by Colonel Forster, Mister Bennet, or anyone save Darcy, for that matter, and so had instructed Lydia to leave a note for Mrs. Forster indicating that we were bound for Gretna Green to get married.
It would be a believable enough story – certainly I would not be the first young gallant to abscond with his lady-love in such a fashion, as the little town just across the border in Scotland had been the site of many an illicit union since good old Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act had been voted in some forty years prior, raising to 18 the age at which a young Englishwoman no longer required her parent’s consent to tie the knot. The rascally Highlanders saw it somewhat differently – a Scots lass of 12 years was considered perfectly marriageable, and ever since the toll road had made Gretna Green accessible, the local clergy had been performing ceremonies for couples both young and old and often rather odd combinations thereof.
As our chaise rattled along the nighttime roads from Brighton to Epsom, Lydia was all a-twitter, regaling me with a recitation of her note to Mrs. Forster, her excitement to be going to Town, and various etcetera’s.
“ ‘My Dear Harriet,’ I wrote, and you know she is a dear, but her husband is so ridiculous and old, even if he is a Colonel, but he is only a Militia Colonel, after all, and you shall be far his superior in the Regulars, I should imagine…”
The pause as she misplaced her original thought was so momentary as to be unnoticeable to the casual observer.
“… but Harriet must be as simple as her husband is old if she cannot but immediately conclude that is you with whom I have eloped, for she cannot think it is Mister Denny, and she knows Pratt to be a disappointed man… and then I told her she may write to Ma-ma and Father if she likes, or not, it is all the same to me, but I do hope she will not, because it should be such a joke if I am to write to them myself, and sign my name ‘Lydia Wickham’ – oh, it has such a ring to it!”
I should very much have like to shut her up by giving her a good kissing, but my hands were occupied with the reins and my eyes with the road. This fact I observed rather drily, to which she saucily replied that her hands were not occupied, and if I did not desire to hear her talk, she should have to find some other manner in which to employ her lips and tongue.
This the little vixen proceeded to do, and the vigor with which she pursued her task and the occasional bouncing of the carriage over rut and stone combined to make it a most enjoyable drive for yours truly, although presently I found myself quite drained of all energy and might easily have dozed off had not the necessity of guiding our little carriage required my every attention.
Lydia, herself somewhat exhausted by her exertions and the lateness of the hour nestled herself in against me and promptly fell asleep, leaving me to stave off a series of yawns with thoughts of what the next few weeks would bring.
The sun had not quite risen when we reached Clapham, and here I stopped to refresh a bit, and exchange the chaise for a less taxing mode of conveyance.
We breakfasted at a small inn, Lydia quiet for a change, but only due to her exhaustion; I am sure she was quite untroubled by worries about the impropriety of her situation.
***
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
London, 1797
I found a lad willing to return the chaise to Brighton for two quid, and paid six shillings for passage on a hackney coach bound for London, which by and by deposited us at an address on Edward Street. This was the residence of none other than my sometimes paramour, occasional correspondent, and original tutor in the amorous arts, Mrs. Rebecca Younge.
I knew from our infrequent letters that she was now the owner of a large house whose rooms she let to lodgers; moreover, I knew by the nature of these particular "lodgers" to be, on the whole, a lot of flash mollishers, for whom my dear friend played the charitable matron.
She greeted me quite warmly, tho’ with a hard eye for Lydia, who languished drowsily in the parlor after the most minimal of introductions had been made. I asked her if she might put us up for a spell; I had no doubt that Darcy had marked her as one of my sole acquaintances in London after the debacle with Georgiana would no doubt have little trouble in ascertaining her whereabouts.
I thought she might be a bit recalcitrant, and had planned therefore to grease her palm nicely for her troubles, as I had been rather responsible for getting her sacked when I’d seduced Darcy’s sister.
It wasn’t her palm that wanted greasing, tho’, as her innuendo made quite plain; and it turned out that she bore me no ill-will, as her current profession as a procuress and flash-house proprietress had made her rather a better living than she’d ever enjoyed working for the Darcys, at least since the elder Darcy had gone on to his eternal reward.
She even warmed to Lydia, once the girl had gotten some proper sleep and a rather improper awakening, and had regained that joie de vivre that was her customary nature.
In fact, our hostess was only half joking when she suggested putting my fiancé to work, and I have no doubt that Lydia would have been only too happy to oblige, given a little inducement.
But I meant to make a somewhat honest woman of her myself, and told Mrs. Younge that in any case Lydia was far too high-class to be working so far east of St. James. "Too fine a bird for this rookery, my dear," said I with my usual charm, "but I reckon she’d let you stroke her feathers if you were so inclined."
Since our first tumble in the woods, Lydia had been quite keen to learn all about my history with women, to share her own limited experiences, and to wax philosophic about the future possibilities of sampling the various and sundry perversions she’d read about in Colonel Forster’s shockingly diverse collection of smut.
I had my doubts on that score, as any number of her fantasies required the combined contents of a Turkish pasha’s seraglio and a monastery full of perverted priests, but there was no harm in letting her expound upon the subject, at least when we were in private. Both of us generally found the topic to be rather the aphrodisiac, in fact.
She’d actually been delighted to discover that there was an older, more experienced woman in my past, crowing that it was just as she had thought; that I was after all a modern-day Tom Jones, and all my many conquests had only made the fact that she would take me to the altar a greater triumph for her. A strange way of looking at things, perhaps, but perhaps she had a point.
Over the course of the next two days, Lydia became as intimate with Mrs. Younge as she had been with Mrs. Forster, and on the third evening of our visit, after consuming more than a little of the Blue Ruin, we all three became rather more intimately acquainted than I, at least, had ever been with Harriet Forster.
Having sampled the various pleasures which the French refer to as ménage a trois, Lydia declared she would enjoy trying a few variations on the theme, and given that we were ensconced in a bawdy house as the particular guests of a proprietress whose nature was rather similar to my own, it was not too difficult to indulge her wicked whims.
But all these frolics were too soon cut short, for on that Friday, Mrs. Younge had a particular gentleman caller, one quite above the station of her usual male guests, and one rather unacquainted with the etiquette of such establishments. Mr. Darcy had arrived.
Of course Mrs. Younge put him off upon that first encounter, but he left a card with the strictest instructions that she should call if I appeared, and along with the card, a bit of ready cash to ensure her cooperation.
Had he left well enough alone, he might have gotten the very information he desired for half the price, but ever impatient, he showed up again upon the morrow to inquire whether I might have been found; again my clever friend put him off, and again she pocketed a little something for her efforts.
We conferred and determined it would be best if when I were discovered, it was not in the very house at which Darcy had previously called, and so arranged a carriage and the recommendation of another lodging-house in St. Clements, to which we removed that afternoon, with fond goodbyes to Mrs. Younge, and the promise of a small share of the earnings of the adventure.
***
London, 1797
Our accomplice managed to hold out only another day; on Monday our new matron announced that we had a visitor, and down to the parlor we went to meet my estimable god-brother.
“Mister Darcy,” says she, “you cannot hope to understand, for everyone knows you to be a very stern and prideful fellow, but I am in love with Mister Wickham. I know you came here thinking to rescue me, but good Sir, I am not in need of rescuing, and anyway, even if you did save me from Mister Wickham’s depredations, I am sure it would do no good, as I could never find it in my heart to love you, even if you are the richest man in all of Derbyshire.”
This response caught me quite as off-guard as it did Fitzwilliam, and it took me a moment to realize that she was completely serious. When I did, it was all I could do to avoid laughing out loud – my self-centered little hussy actually thought that Darcy was here to rescue her from my wicked clutches with the intention of making her his lady wife!
As soon as she was out of the room, Darcy began to speak quickly and earnestly, he damning me for a blackguard and a rambler, I nodding in agreement with every imprecation he hurled my way.
“Every word you say and more is true, brother,” says I, knowing how that term grated upon his nerves, “but I’m the only man who can offer you what you most want in this world.”
Before he could regain his poise, I launched into my carefully rehearsed speech. I knew of his proposal, and the fair lady’s answer; moreover, I knew the reason he had been repulsed. I knew women, as well he might be aware, and there was only one way to win Elizabeth’s heart. I knew that as well, and would happily share the information with him – but here he snapped out of his daze.
Here Darcy interjected with a surprising degree of politeness that he had happened to see the Gardiners in the vicinity of Derbyshire a few days previous, and that Mr. Gardiner had intimated that he and his wife were returning to Town that very evening, as some sort of business – here he shot me a malevolent look – had arisen to require Mr. Gardiner’s immediate presence.
“Oh, lah, with my Uncle it is always business,” sighed Lydia dramatically - “he is a dear man, but it must be so very tiring to be in trade. I suppose I could go to amuse my Aunt while he is occupied with his dusty ledgers and whatnot, but then I should be so terribly lonesome without my darling Wickham.”
I made a convincing display of sadness that we should be parted for even a few days, but conveyed the necessity of the arrangement – saying nothing of the fact that it was the least that propriety demanded, but instead alluding to the fact that I required a bit of time alone to settle my estate preparatory to marriage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
London, 1797
Our accomplice managed to hold out only another day; on Monday our new matron announced that we had a visitor, and down to the parlor we went to meet my estimable god-brother.
Darcy was furious, of course – you could see it in his eyes, but he managed to keep a civil tongue on account of Lydia’s presence, and made a great show of concern for her. In short, without coming right out and calling me an incubus and seducer, he begged her to remove herself from my company, which he intimated might be considered by some to be a disgraceful situation, and to return to her friends and family, but Lydia was quite resolved on staying just where she was.
“Mister Darcy,” says she, “you cannot hope to understand, for everyone knows you to be a very stern and prideful fellow, but I am in love with Mister Wickham. I know you came here thinking to rescue me, but good Sir, I am not in need of rescuing, and anyway, even if you did save me from Mister Wickham’s depredations, I am sure it would do no good, as I could never find it in my heart to love you, even if you are the richest man in all of Derbyshire.”
This response caught me quite as off-guard as it did Fitzwilliam, and it took me a moment to realize that she was completely serious. When I did, it was all I could do to avoid laughing out loud – my self-centered little hussy actually thought that Darcy was here to rescue her from my wicked clutches with the intention of making her his lady wife!
If I found the idea laughable, Darcy clearly did not, and probably thought that she was taunting him at my behest. I only wish that it was I who had put that notion in her pretty little head, for then she’d have had an excuse for what was otherwise simply put the most stunning display of hubris I’d ever seen in any woman, let alone a country girl of barely fifteen years who hadn’t a penny to her name.
Lydia, as usual unconscious of the expressions of those around her, continued on in a similar vein. “Yes, Mister Darcy, I am afraid you have come too late. I am sure that Mister Wickham and I are to be married very soon, or perhaps later, it really does not signify. Now, will you take some tea with us, good Sir, or must you soon be on your way?”
Darcy grudgingly accepted her offer of tea, that social lubricant without which English society should no doubt grind to a screeching halt. I’m more for gin myself, but it was only ten in the morning.
As soon as she was out of the room, Darcy began to speak quickly and earnestly, he damning me for a blackguard and a rambler, I nodding in agreement with every imprecation he hurled my way.
“Every word you say and more is true, brother,” says I, knowing how that term grated upon his nerves, “but I’m the only man who can offer you what you most want in this world.”
Darcy laughed aloud at this riposte, and a bitter laugh it was. “George, I own half of Derbyshire and have ninety-thousand a year. You rent a room in a brothel and are on
the run from a mountain of debt. I can’t think of anything that you could give me that I would want, save news of your sudden and inexplicable demise.”
the run from a mountain of debt. I can’t think of anything that you could give me that I would want, save news of your sudden and inexplicable demise.”
I smiled at his cruel words, and replied with a pair of my own. “Elizabeth Bennet.”
The very words seemed to stun Fitzwilliam; in my Cambridge readings, I recalled from Le Mort’d Arthur that wizards, witches, warlocks and the like were rendered helpless if one only knew their true names, but it appeared that it Elizabeth’s name was sufficient to similarly disarm Darcy.
Before he could regain his poise, I launched into my carefully rehearsed speech. I knew of his proposal, and the fair lady’s answer; moreover, I knew the reason he had been repulsed. I knew women, as well he might be aware, and there was only one way to win Elizabeth’s heart. I knew that as well, and would happily share the information with him – but here he snapped out of his daze.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll share it with me, you villain,” says he with a wry grimace “but at what cost?”
I began to sketch out the plan, but Lydia returned with our hostess, a serving maid, and a spot of tea and biscuit, so perforce our discussion was put on hold, and we were obliged
to discourse about the weather, the very thin nature of London society at the present time, and similar etcetera’s. I rather think I surprised them both when I suddenly said, “Lydia, dearest, I have just remembered! Mr. Darcy has suggested that you pay a visit to your aunt for a few days, while I attend to the arrangements for our wedding.”
to discourse about the weather, the very thin nature of London society at the present time, and similar etcetera’s. I rather think I surprised them both when I suddenly said, “Lydia, dearest, I have just remembered! Mr. Darcy has suggested that you pay a visit to your aunt for a few days, while I attend to the arrangements for our wedding.”
Darcy’s eyes flashed daggers at me, but Lydia just laughed. “Oh, Mister Wickham,” says she, “you are quite the drollest fellow, and almost as forgetful as you are handsome. Haven’t I told you just last week that the Gardiner’s are in the Lake District? And Lizzie is with them, no doubt waxing philosophic over the rocks and trees. But what are rocks and trees compared to men like you, dear Wickham?”
Here Darcy interjected with a surprising degree of politeness that he had happened to see the Gardiners in the vicinity of Derbyshire a few days previous, and that Mr. Gardiner had intimated that he and his wife were returning to Town that very evening, as some sort of business – here he shot me a malevolent look – had arisen to require Mr. Gardiner’s immediate presence.
“Oh, lah, with my Uncle it is always business,” sighed Lydia dramatically - “he is a dear man, but it must be so very tiring to be in trade. I suppose I could go to amuse my Aunt while he is occupied with his dusty ledgers and whatnot, but then I should be so terribly lonesome without my darling Wickham.”
I made a convincing display of sadness that we should be parted for even a few days, but conveyed the necessity of the arrangement – saying nothing of the fact that it was the least that propriety demanded, but instead alluding to the fact that I required a bit of time alone to settle my estate preparatory to marriage.
And so it was that Mr. Darcy conveyed my fiancé to her uncle’s house that very afternoon, with a promise to return at once to discuss the particulars of our arrangement.
***
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
London, 1797
After that it was all a matter of agreeing on terms. I requested a Lieutenant’s commission in the Life Guards; Darcy replied that I should have an Ensigncy in the 20th Regiment of Foot.
He had no intention of allowing me to remain so close to London, and to see me banished to Liverpool with the Fourth would serve his purpose nicely - for my part, I had no intention of remaining a foot soldier.
In the end, as with most negotiations, we met somewhere in the middle; I should have an Ensigncy in the Princess of Wales's Fencible Cavalry, a regiment billeted near Newcastle, which satisfied Darcy’s desire that I should be far removed from London and Derbyshire, and fulfilled my wish to pass my days riding sleek horses and my nights – well, you can easily imagine.
As for money, I should have my debts paid off, my commission paid for, which was worth about another eight hundred pounds, two hundred pounds for horses, and another hundred for my uniforms.
A thousand pounds was to be settled on Lydia for her own use, and in addition, her father should grant her a hundred pounds a year for pin money, and bequeath her an equal share of the family fortune upon his decease.
None of that should have satisfied me, without a more substantial enticement; I made it clear to Darcy that I still cherished hopes of making a fortune by marriage in some other country, and that though I was certain I could wed, with little difficulty, an heiress worth at least thirty thousand, I might be inclined to take on Lydia for perhaps half that sum.
Darcy was furious, and damned me for a villain, swearing up and down I’d get five thousand pounds, and not a penny more. I had to remind him of how quickly I had spent the thousand pounds I’d been bequeathed by his father and the three thousand I’d gotten in exchange for the living at Kympton, and all that without the additional expenses of a wife and family.
At last he agreed to ten thousand pounds, but with a variety of codicils; first that the money itself should be held in trust with a lawyer, and I should only have the interest on it. I reckoned this to be about four to five hundred per year, and I should have my earnings from the Regiment of another hundred and fifty; add to this what I aimed to make from gambling, and the cash and durables I’d obtained in Brighton, which my gullible god-brother was about to pay for, and I reckoned I’d be well set for a least a few years.
Another codicil ensured that the money was mine so long as I was married to Lydia, which meant divorce was out of the question, but if illness or childbirth should claim her life, as it had both Darcy’s mother and my own, I should have the money free and clear.
I could also claim it once I was fifty years old; I’m sure Darcy was counting on my profession and my libertine tendencies to see me into an early grave and return the ready cash to his pocket, but I had other plans.
These particulars were decided in a week; in another we were to be married at St. Clements, in the parish where I’d made my new lodgings.
I paid Lydia a call a time or three at Gracechurch Street, but received a predictably frosty reception from the Gardiners, and therefore always made my visits as short as possible, for the benefit of all concerned – only Lydia seemed to mourn my hasty departures.
“I am so bored and frustrated, dear Wickham,” she wailed on one occasion, “and my uncle and aunt are horrid unpleasant all the time! Would you believe I have not once put my foot out of doors? Not one party, or scheme, or anything. And Aunt Gardiner will not even call a doctor, even when I’m feeling quite hysteric.”
I felt for the poor girl, really I did – it’s no good to have that sort of passion go unsatisfied, and I reckoned I’d have my work cut out for us on our wedding night.
But if Lydia was not allowed out, I was rather less constrained, and paid more than a few nocturnal calls to my favorite bawd and accomplice, Mrs. Younge, to reward her monetarily and with payment in kind for the various services she had rendered me most recently.
Monday arrived – and with it Darcy, to ensure that I did not fail to make my appearance at the altar. He found me in the parlor of my lodgings, fortifying myself with a stiff drink. “Care to join me, brother?” says I, causing Darcy’s face to twist in a predictable grimace.
“For God’s sake, man, it’s barely half-past nine!” he exclaimed, but I paid him no heed.
“You’ve done me a good turn,” says I, “and I’m obliged to make sure you get your money’s worth, see… So do sit down and let’s go over this one more time.”
Darcy lowered himself stiffly into the seat across from me, and I waved my hand airily at him. “Go on, then, let’s hear what you’re to do…”
I’d laid out the plan for him a bit at a time, in between signing this warrant and that note, with his lawyers and Mr. Gardiner’s men, Stone and Haggerston always hovering about, but this would be the first time I’d heard him recite it, start to finish.
Darcy sighed. “First, I’m to acquaint Charles Bingley with the fact that Jane Bennet is in love with him, and he with her…”
“Go on…”
“Then I’m to convey Bingley back to Netherfield, set him towards Jane’s doorstep, and renew my suit to Elizabeth.”
I shook my head emphatically. “No, no, no…”
“What?!” Darcy sounded as frustrated, exasperated, and confounded as I’d never before heard him, and while I gloated on the one hand, it was damned annoying to see him so blind about things. I took a deep breath, a draught of my gin, and reminded myself that my damnable god-brother was a rank amateur when it came to dealing with the fair sex.
“No, no, a thousand times, no,” says I. “You must be patient, man – let her come to you…”
“She never would. The girl’s as proud as I am,” he said ruefully, but his tone betrayed him – he actually admired her for it. Fitzwilliam Darcy was well and truly smitten, I reckoned.
“She will,” says I, “mark my words, only you must not rush things. Deliver Bingley to Miss Bennet, and then make your excuses and return to London for a week at least, or better yet a fortnight. Mind, of course, that Charles knows his business and makes a creditable offer before you think to return.”
Darcy looked straight into my eyes, with a wistful expression that conveyed both hope and fear, rather than the malice with which he usually regarded me.
“You are quite certain, George?” says he.
“Fitz, old chap,” says I, “I’ve studied the Good Book, the Law, and the Drill Manual, and know damned little about any of them. Three things I do know, and that’s horses, cards, and women. Be patient, man, be humble, be the author of her sisters happiness, and Elizabeth Bennet will be your wife.”
We held each other’s gaze, saying nothing. And then the spell was broken, our moment of bonhomie was over. I drained my glass, Darcy sighed, and we both rose and strode out the door and down the cobblestone street toward St. Clements.
The wedding was nothing to speak of; on Lydia’s side were the Gardiners, with Mr. Stone and Mr. Haggerston, flanked by their dour wives, sitting in the pews.
Darcy stood as my best man, which is damned funny if you think about it, handing me first the ring, and later, after I’d helped Lydia into the carriage, a packet containing my commissioning letters for the Dragoons, and a thick stack of notes to purchase my horses and uniforms.
Lydia’s thousand had been settled upon her through Haggerston; she was blissfully unaware of its true source, and the bulk of my newfound wealth was of course tied up in escrow, with the interest to be paid out in monthly installments. All’s well that ends well, thought I, little imagining that this ending was merely the beginning of a most extraordinary adventure.
“Remember,” I said, as I mounted the carriage, “patience.”
Darcy merely glowered in reply, which filled me with more than just a little cheer.
***
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Meryton, 1797
The carriage conveyed us to Longbourn in fine style, and we arrived very near to dinner-time, all the better since I was quite famished.
The family was assembled in the breakfast room to receive us - smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty but her husband looked impenetrably grave; and her other daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy.
Lydia could scarcely contain her exuberance, and she ran headlong into the room, and her mother’s rapturous embrace. That worthy lady then gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to me, and wished us both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of our happiness.
Our reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom we then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. I suspect our air of easy assurance was quite enough to provoke him, but he wisely held his counsel, for what could he possibly say?
I stole a glance at Lydia’s sisters - Elizabeth appear disgusted, and even the usually genial Miss Bennet seemed a shocked. But Lydia was Lydia - untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.
As for myself, I was at least conscious of the impropriety and awkwardness of the situation, which was apparent to everyone save my wife, Mrs. Bennet, and Kitty, who was quite in Lydia’s thrall. But I’d been in an awkward spot or two before, and knew the best thing was just to bluff it out, so I smiled and made my manners so pleasing as to delight them all, and help make it easier to overlook that my character and marriage were not exactly what they ought to have been.
Under the powers of my charm, Mr. Bennet and Mary began to warm slightly, but some of the clan was made of sterner stuff – Elizabeth blushed, and Jane blushed; but I, the author of their consternation suffered no variation of colour. Never imagine limits to the impudence of an impudent man, thought I, smiling all the more brightly. Seeing my sisters-in-law, the probable future wives of Bingley and Darcy so discomfited gave me a peculiar satisfaction.
While we waited for dinner to be ready, there was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough; and I, who happened to sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring after my acquaintances in that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she seemed very unable to equal in her replies. I knew she was just dying to favor me with a sharp remark at every turn, but good manners and Miss Bennet’s approbation obliged her to hold her tongue.
My darling wife and her mother seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world. “Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! When I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! Though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.”
Mr. Bennet rolled his eyes Heavenward, and Miss Bennet looked distressed. Elizabeth glared expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, “Oh! Mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.”
At this, Elizabeth got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, until our party was passing through the hall to the dining parlour. She then rejoined us, just in time witness the spectacle of Lydia taking her mother’s hand and admonishing her eldest sister, saying “Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman.”
It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them; and in the meantime, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
“Well, Mamma,” said she, when dinner was over and we had all returned to the breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, Mamma, we did not all go.”
“Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”
“Oh, Lord! yes; there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and Papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.”
“I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.
“And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over.”
“I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth acidly, “but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands.”
***
CHAPTER THIRTY
Meryton, 1797
We were not to remain above ten days at Longbourn, as I had received my commission, still sealed in an oilcloth packet before we’d left London, and was obliged to join my new regiment at the end of the fortnight.
Mrs. Bennet was quite vocal in communicating her regrets that our stay would be so short; but Kitty appeared to be the only one who shared her view, and these two made the most of the time by visiting about with Lydia, and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not.
Lydia was exceedingly fond of me. I was her dear Wickham on every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with me. I did everything best in the world; and she was sure I would kill more birds on the first of September, than anybody else in the country, and this proved quite an astute judgement – it was quite fortunate that the third day of our visit coincided with the first of September, and I was thus able to venture afield to go shooting a time or three, for there’s only so much tea and gossip a fellow can take.
Other times, I contented myself with merely slipping out for long walks to escape the feminine nonsense that pervaded the Bennet household and drove poor Mr. Bennet to disappear into his library.
It was on one of these occasions, as I was rambling past a little copse of trees, when who should appear but my sister-in-law and former confidante, Elizabeth Bennet. She seemed a bit distressed, and was tucking a letter into her reticule as I approached.
“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” I asked quizzically, as I joined her on the path.
“You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”
“I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and now we are better.”
“True. Are the others coming out?”
“I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.”
She replied in the affirmative, and I continued on.
“I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.”
“Yes, she did.”
“And what did she say?”
“That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had… not turned out well. At such a distance as that, you know, things are strangely misrepresented.”
“Certainly,” I replied, biting my lip. Elizabeth had always had a clever wit and a sharp tongue, and I can’t say I was surprised, all things considered, to find them turned against me. I should have been perfectly happy to walk on in silence, but I recalled that I did owe Fitzwilliam a little something, and so I endeavoured to raise his name in conversation.
“I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”
“Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said Elizabeth, a little bitterly. “It must be something particular, to take him there at this time of year.”
“Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.”
“Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”
“And do you like her?”
“Very much.”
“I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.”
“I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”
“Did you go by the village of Kympton?”
“I do not recollect that we did.”
“I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place! Excellent parsonage house! It would have suited me in every respect.”
“How should you have liked making sermons?”
“Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine; but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?”
“I have heard from authority, which I thought as good, that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.”
“You have. Yes, there was something in that; I told you so from the first, you may remember.”
“I did hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business had been compromised accordingly.”
“You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.”
We had now almost reached the door of the house, and she favoured me with a good-humoured smile, saying “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one mind.” So saying, she held out her hand and I kissed it with the usual affectionate gallantry, and so we ended our conversation, and entered the house.
For my part, I was so perfectly satisfied with this exchange that I never again distressed myself, or provoked my dear sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it, and the day of our departure for Newcastle came soon enough, in any case.
Poor Mrs. Bennet was obliged to bid adieu to her favorite daughter and only son-in-law, and this leave-taking was precisely as dramatic and ridiculous as that pair of married women could make it. “Oh! my dear Lydia,” cried Mrs. Bennet, dabbing at her wet eyes with a handkerchief, “when shall we meet again?”
“Oh, Lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.” Lydia was exaggerating for effect, as usual – I suspected we’d be guests again at Longbourn within the twelvemonth.
“Write to me very often, my dear,” implored my mother-in-law, to which Lydia only laughed.
“As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for writing. My sisters may write to me. They will have nothing else to do.”
Quite the heartless little minx, was my blushing bride, with nary a thought for the feelings of anyone else, but in the spirit of familial harmony, I endeavoured to make my farewells a trifle more affectionate than my wife’s, and like to flatter myself that I had succeeded; smiling all the while, looking quite handsome in my uniform, and saying a great many pretty things.
***
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Durham, 1797
The journey from Longbourn to Durham, where my Regiment was headquartered, was quite uneventful, and the location itself seemed unlikely to present many surprises. I’d studied up a bit on it, see, once my negotiations with Darcy had proceeded past the point where it was damned certain that I’d be billeted there, and not somewhere a bit closer to London.
Durham was the seat of the county of the same name, presided over by Willam Vane, Earl of Darlington. This fine fellow held another title; Colonel Darlington, and commanded my future Regiment when he wasn’t otherwise engaged. Durham was famed for its castle and cathedral, the former which held the reputation as the only English castle to never have been breached, and the latter of which held the bones of good Saint Cuthbert and the Venerable Bede. These bits of trivia I recalled from my school days at Cambridge – perhaps my time there had not been completely wasted after all.
Otherwise, it was rather larger than Meryton, but still a quiet country town, for all of that, but was no further from Newcastle than Longbourn was from London, and this gave some cheer to both my lovely bride and myself that we should not be completely cut off from the sort of carefree society that we mutually fancied.
Newcastle-on-Tyne, as it was properly styled, was one of those old, fortified cities that one sees in the North; built where the river Tyne could be most easily forded, it had once been protected by high walls reinforced with 19 towers and accessible through seven massive gates. All these medieval defenses were now being torn down to make way for the expansion of the city, which was a hotbed of business in the north, its traditional industries of coal and shipbuilding being now supplemented by pottery making. All this had been relayed to me by my new uncle-in-law Mr. Gardiner, who being in business himself had quite the knowledge of such things, and warming to me in the course of making the arrangements for my marriage to his youngest niece had intimated that should I ever desire to quite the Army, there were fortunes to be made in coal, wool, wood and linen. Of course I desired a fortune, but I had no particular desire to work for one, though of course I didn’t say as much to the estimable Mr. Gardiner.
Lydia, of course, had as little interest as I did in the economies of that city, except as they applied to the quantities of silk, linen, and ribbon available for her consideration; she was quite enthusiastic to hear that Newcastle boasted of an assembly room where balls were held and card games were played, and a “Theater Royal” where the latest plays could be observed. She was also all a-twitter at the prospect that I should be commanded by a Peer of the Realm, and that her society with the Colonel’s wife, the former Lady Catherine Powlett, should give her an air of distinction far superior to that she had enjoyed as the favorite of Colonel Forster’s empty-headed wife Harriet.
Our plan was to take lodgings in the city straight away, and then to inquire through Lady Darlington and the other officer’s wives as to where the most suitable sort of house to be let might be found. When our carriage deposited us at our lodgings, I made short order of straightening my uniform and left Lydia to direct the servants in the unpacking of our belongings whilst I set off to muster with my new Regiment. I was a day or two early for it, but I’ve always found that making a punctual first impression would excuse a fellow from any number of subsequent late arrivals or complete absences.
Thus, I found my way down to the encampment of the Fencibles, and to the desk of a bored-looking orderly, who took the proffered packet containing my commission and orders and various etcetera’s, opened it, and then took to shuffling through the various papers with a quizzical expression.
Finally he looked up at me. “Err, begging your pardon, Sir, but I’m afraid there’s been some confusion. These orders are for the Fifth Dragoons, Sir, and we are all the Princess of Wales.”
“The Fifth Dragoons?” A slow, bitter realization was dawning in my breast.
“Yes, yes, the Fifth Dragoons, the Royal Irish, don’t you know. You’re far from home, Sir.”
Darcy! He had cheated me again, and in such a way as to leave me no possible recourse. The King’s Commission he’d purchased had not been for the Princess of Wales's Fencible Cavalry as we’d agreed, but for the Fifth Dragoons! The Royal Irish? Why, I’d never heard of them. I swore inwardly that I’d never take another piece of paper from Darcy so long as I lived, that hadn’t been checked forwards and back by a scrivener and a lawyer or three.
I soon found out that the Fifth was stationed in Ireland, which given their styling, hardly came as a surprise. Nor, in retrospect, was it hard to see why that villain had chosen this regiment, since it was located as far from both London and Derbyshire as might be imagined, and separated from England by the Irish Channel.
And now, without some heroic efforts, I should be late, rather than early, to muster with my new commander. It would hardly be an auspicious start, and nothing remained but to leave Lydia to follow on with our household goods while I rode hell bent to the Eastern coast to catch the first ship to Ireland.
***
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Durham - Liverpool, 1797
Five hours of hard riding brought me to Ravenstonedale, where I had my horse fed, watered and rested, and fortified myself with beer and beef. An hour later I was riding again, but not reaching my objective until late in the evening, I very literally hobbled into the Golden Fleece on Dale Street, the wretched inn where I made my lodgings that night.
To put this in the proper perspective, I was so tired and sore that I couldn’t bring myself to return the attentions of the buxom serving maid whose saucy innuendo as she served up my dinner of watery soup, cold roast, and stale bread left little doubt as to how easily and often she might have been had after hours. However, instead of indulging in the requisite flirtations necessary to secure her attentions for the evening, I hobbled up the stairs to my rented room and collapsed into bed.
The next morning I was feeling somewhat recovered, and betook myself in the early hours down to the docks, where I managed to secure a cabin on a vaguely reputable merchant brig Hibernia.
It cost a pretty penny, too, but the captain, a fellow named Samuel Breeze assured me that it was one of the last spaces to be had that day, and the best of ‘em. He told me to show back up at noon, as the ship was due to cast off at half past, and promising not to delay the sailing, I set off for a stroll about the city.
When I returned to the docks a bit before noon, I beheld upon my approach a most interesting spectacle. A handsome woman dressed in dark, severe clothing cut to display her impressive figure to its best was engaged in a heated argument with the captain of the Hibernia, and conversation that did not, it seem, resolve in her favor, as I saw him laugh at her final sally, turn on his heel, and walk back down the dock toward where his men were busy taking in the lines, with the lady, for her part, collapsing in a pose of utmost despair on her rather extensive assortment of luggage, which did not comprise the usual assortment of trunks and hat-boxes, but was composed mainly of several large, long and heavy-looking wooden boxes. The lid of the top-most crate had been loosened and pulled a bit out to the side, revealing the contents to be neat stacks of small books, bound in somber black leather embossed in gold.
What gentleman could mind his own business and simply walk by a clearly distressed damsel who sat sobbing, head in hands, an occupation that caused her considerable bosom to heave in a most delectable manner? Not George Wickham, by God!
Having approached to a respectable distance, I coughed discreetly, and when the young lady raised her large, wet eyes to my own, I offered first my handkerchief and then my assistance in rectifying whatever troubles she found herself beset with.
“You are too kind, good Sir,” she said, sniffling a bit as she dabbed at her eyes with the pocket cloth I’d provided, “but unless you are the master of yon ship, I fear there is little you can do for me.”
I pursed my lips, stroked my chin, and neither admitting nor denying my ownership of said vessel, implored her to explain herself further.
Her name was Miss Dixon, and she was, it turned out, bound for Dublin same as myself, on a mission to bring the true word of God as approved by the Pope himself to the heathen hordes of benighted Irish who still labored under the delusion that the Church of England version of the Gospels reflected more correctly the true sentiments of the Lord of Hosts.
Captain Breeze was himself a Protestant it seems, with the scales still unlifted from his eyes, and for this reason my fair interlocutor was convinced he would not find space aboard his ship for her boxes of Bibles and her own lovely self.
In point of fact, it was that I’d already taken the last available cabin, but no sense making myself out the villain in the piece.
Idle hands may be the Devil’s Workshop, but a libertine’s mind must surely be at least some sort of supplementary forge or storage shed therein, for the sight of this holyier-than-thou maiden had wakened the wicked urges of my loins as the dollymop serving-wench of yester-eve had not, and already a devious scheme quickened in the fertile ground of my mind, a plan that would satisfy both her needs for transport, and my own needs of a rather baser nature.
***
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Liverpool, 1797
“Miss Dixon,” says I, looking at her bare left hand, “I was raised to take orders myself, and tho’ life has thrust me from the bosom of the Church and cast me into a more martial profession, still I trust you may count me among those Christian soldiers of which the hymnals refer. Will you allow me to render such assistance as I might in this, your moment of tribulation?”
Her upturned face with its dewy eyes brightened at my words as if touched by a ray of Holy Light, and she avowed that she would put herself into my capable hands and trust that the Lord would show us a way. I smiled to myself at her choice of words, and then asked if I might look, for a moment, at her single curious adornment, a ring that hung from a little gold chain around her neck, directing the eye inexorably down to the ripe curves of the breasts that peeked from her décolletage.
She gave me a very strange look at this request, but consented, removing the chain with nimble fingers and allowing me to look at the plain gold band suspended thereon. “It’s silly and vain,” she said, with a hint of a blush suffusing her plump little cheeks, “but I like to think it’s a symbol of my union with the Lord.”
I smiled back at her. “It’s not at all silly, my dear, for had you not this symbol of devotion upon your lovely breast, then our goal of spreading the good word might founder on this very shore,” I said, watching her eyes grow widen as I slipped the ring off the chain, “but truly, the Lord works in mysterious ways, so put your trust in Him—” I reached for her hand “—and in me–” I slid the ring onto her finger “—and ‘twill all be for the best.”
Then, before the stunned Miss Dixon could speak, I had pulled her to her feet, tucked her arm in mine, and started marching down the dock towards where Captain Breeze was overseeing the final preparations for putting to sea. I hailed that worthy by his name, and when he turned glowering at our approach, I greeted him cheerfully and asked if he’d met my darling wife. His look of annoyance turned first to one of amazement, then of understanding mixed with avarice, an expression I knew all too well from my dealings with pimps, provocateurs, and prostitutes. “Your wife, Sir?” says he, a calculating expression crossing his craggy visage.
“The very same,” I replied. “Captain Breeze, meet Mrs. George Wickham, formerly Miss Dixon.” As if on cue, my companion extended her hand daintily, displaying to effect the golden band now encircling her finger, a reasonable enough match for my own wedding band, if one didn’t look too closely. “Ho-ho,” thinks I, “she’s quick to play the part.”
Captain Breeze sketched a bow and brushed his lips against her proffered fingertips, then straightening, declared that he feared there had been a misunderstanding, as he believed I had booked passage for myself alone. I assumed a look of contrition and replied that the mistake was mine, for I’d foolishly assumed the cabin would suit a pair of newlyweds, and hadn’t thought to mention that my wife was accompanying me to Ireland. “’Tis a cozy cabin,” he observed, “but for two so intimately acquainted, I declare it should indeed suffice, but I’m obliged to charge a trifle more for two than one, you see.”
“Perfectly reasonable,” says I, reaching for my purse, “and what’s the difference?”
“Thirty pieces of silver should be more than plenty for the pair of you,” he replied, grinning slyly at his own cleverness. A fair rate, I counted it, for he’d promised me the cabin for a guinea, so the company of the blushing bit at my side had set me back but a little more. Counting out the handful of shillings, I handed them over to Captain Breeze, then smiled winningly at my blushing ‘bride’ and said, “See, dearest? An innocent misunderstanding...”
She opened her lips to speak, but I planted a kiss on her pretty red mouth that effectually stopped whatever she’d been about to blurt out, leaving her crimson-faced and speechless, and adding, I thought, the perfect touch to my little charade.
“Now, then, Captain,” I said peremptorily, “if you’d be so good as to have Mrs. Wickham’s accoutrement carried onboard, and then show us to our cabin, I should be much obliged.”
Thus it was that we watched as pair of sweating navvies tacked down the cover of the open crate and then man-handled first that one and then the rest aboard ship; her smaller cases and hatboxes followed the two of us into our snug little cabin, which with the addition of her effects and my own, left not a very great deal of room for the pair of us. I took stock of the room; it encompassed a tight, small space, with the chief source of light a small porthole window; an oil lamp as yet unlit, and a bed with a rough mattress covered with a dingy spread.
We stood there a moment regarding each other, and then the ship lurched as the crew cast off the lines, and stumbling with a surprised gasp, she fairly flew straight into my arms.
***
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Dublin, 1797
And so it was that I came to arrive in Dublin, though truth be told I’d been coming more or less the entire voyage, thanks to the energetic and insatiable Miss Dixon, who when she wasn’t exhausting my patience with her lectures on the finer points of Catholicism was exhausting my stamina with her mouth and fundamental orifice in a manner which would make a whore blush.
You’ll count it strange, no doubt, but my cabin-girl might as well have been a cabin-boy, given the nature of our intercourse, for she was possessed of the strange philosophy that her femininity must remain intact – saving herself for God, I reckoned, not that He gave any sign of taking much interest in that or any other aspect of her anatomy. And tho’ it occurred to me that her Bible studies seemed to have somehow misinterpreted the moral of Lot’s experience in Sodom and Gomorrah, who was I to complain?
Gentleman that I am, upon arrival in Dublin, I offered to see her and her Bibles into a carriage and safely on their way to lead some lost lambs down the path of righteousness, but she demurred quite primly, saying that some of her fellow Catholics were waiting on the docks to get her established properly – and the emphasis she put on that word while pointedly removing the ring from her finger and replacing it on the gold chain where it had formerly hung left no doubt in my mind that I’d served my purpose and would not be at liberty to appear in her parlor (nor slip in the back door) once we were well ashore and she was back with her fellow Bible-thumpers. Suited me fine, as I’d been wondering what I was to do with her when Lydia showed up.
And sure enough, awaiting her at the end of the docks was a rough wagon driven by a stern looking fellow in severe black garments and floppy-brimmed hat that was several years out of fashion in all respectable circles. I shouted at a couple of passing navvies to step lively and get the young Miss’s damned Bibles onto the cart, and was rewarded for my trouble with a good bit of surly mumbling that resolved itself only when I promised ‘em a shilling each if they shifted ‘em quick, and my boot in their arses if they didn’t.
That got the lads moving, and they had three of the four boxes down right lively, off the ship and onto the cart quicker than you could say “Bob’s your Uncle,” but with the fourth box one of the louts stumbled at the end of the pier, lost his grip on the heavy container, and it fell with a loud crash to the cobbled street, striking on one corner, shattering the thin pine boards and sending Bibles spilling into the street.
There was a moment of silence as the Good Books hit the pavement, but it was immediately followed by an excited murmur from everyone who’d stopped to stare at the source of the noise, for it wasn’t just Bibles that spilled forth from the shattered crate, but packing straw and a half-dozen muskets, barrels gleaming and stocks darkly oiled.
You could have knocked me over with a feather, so the leather cosh that caught me upside the head and laid me out on the dock was certainly over-doing things a bit.
I woke up in a dank cell, to the sound of a wooden club being rattled against iron bars. I looked blearily about for the sound of the noise, which grated on my aching head something fierce.
Beyond the bars stood a portly fellow togged out as a Charlie, all cheap blue wool and gold buttons, bad attitude and worse breath, judging by his teeth.
“Wakey, wakey, eggs’n’bakey,” says he, with that sort of evil cheeriness that bullies of his sort tend to evince when they’re at their most annoying. “Up you gets, now, ya damn’d Orangeman, fer tha’ guv’nor wants ta see ya...”
I staggered to my feet, damned him for his impudence, and held forth for some minutes on his heritage, physical attributes, and probable affinity for unwholesome acts with farm animals. This he listened to with an amused expression, and then his face hardened.
“Right, ya blue-blooded sod. The guv’nor will be seein’ ya now, an’ you can come along quiet like, or I can give ya a lump on the left side’o ya noggin ta match tha’ one on tha’ right.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Dublin, 1797
My wretched gaoler led me down a dank corridor edged by barred cells, then up several flights of narrow stairs, and final to a massive wooden door, upon which he rapped out a few quick knocks before put his shoulder into in at heaving it open.
He stepped inside, took off his cap, tugged the forelock, and said in a toad-eating voice, “The prisoner, yer Grace, if it please ya, Sir.”
“Yes, yes,” replied a stentorian voice from the depths of the room, and the miserable Charlie gives me a hard look and a twitch of the chin indicating that I was meant to enter.
I did so, apprising myself quickly of the local environs; a richly appointed room, a fire burning against the chill of the Irish winter, and standing with his back to us, a tall, ginger-haired fellow.
My jailer twisted his cap nervously and stammered out “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer Grace… shall I stay then, Sir?”
The tall man turned, smiling broadly. “No, my good man. That will not be necessary. But do wait outside, for I may have need to remand our guest to you hospitality once more.”
Charlie tugs the forelock again and backs his way out, pulling shut the heavy door and leaving me alone with the strange fellow near the fire, who regarded me curiously for a moment, and then, gesturing with the sweep of an outstretched arm, enquired, “So, tell me Mister Wickham, what do you think of Dublin Castle?”
I replied that I found his quarters to be rather superior to my own, a rejoinder that caused him to laugh aloud.
“Very true, I suppose,” says he, “very true. But where else should I have you lodged, Mister Wickham? Or is it Lieutenant Wickham? I must confess, I find you something of a conundrum. Your clothing tells me you are a gentleman; your papers tell me you hold a commission in my dear step-brother’s Regiment, but you arrive in my city, my country, in the company of a notorious arms smuggler.”
I stood a bit stunned by this assessment, but he continued musing aloud.
“The master of the Hibernia claims that you are married to a Miss Dixon, your partner in crime, who, sadly, remains at large with her compatriots. Yet the London papers have you married quite recently to a certain Miss Bennet. It’s all very curious, my good fellow.
What was I supposed to say? Words, which had always been my easy accomplices, had suddenly failed me, but my companion had words enough for the both of us.
“Well, well, I supposed I do have you at a disadvantage, Mister Wickham, for I know a little something of you and you know nothing of me. Allow me to introduce myself; Viscount Castlereagh, Chief Secretary for Ireland, at your service. But that is not quite correct is it,” he said, with a jolly chuckle edged with steel, “for it is you who will be at my service, or swinging by the neck, in short order.”
He moved to a small table, poured a pair of drinks, and motioned me to a chair, handing me one of the glasses, and settling himself in the chair opposite my own.
“Now, tell me your story, Mister Wickham. Be honest, for your own sake, and leave nothing out.”
And so I told him an abbreviated version of the history that I’ve recounted so far in this memoir, painting myself to be neither better nor worse than I was. You may wonder why I didn’t resort to my usual methods of charm, misdirection and toadying, but perhaps I can explain.
It has been my misfortune to be in the presence of several of the great men of history; I say misfortune, because it has never been a case where they simply wanted a jolly chat and to part with a “hail fellow, well met.” No, they’ve usually had a bit of leverage upon your correspondent, and furthering their schemes has put me in the way of more danger and discomfort than I like to think of. On the other hand, I’ve profited a bit by it all, met the odd tart that I shouldn’t have otherwise, and come through alright, so perhaps it’s as the Bard says, all’s well that ends well, etcetera.
But though he wouldn’t be the last, the Viscount Castlereagh was certainly the first, and like the rest he had a distinctive force of personality that compelled a fellow to admire him even as you despised him. You could just tell that he had big plans and meant to accomplish them, and damned be the chap who stood in his way.
If Wolfe Tone was Ireland’s greatest native-born hero, than surely Castlereagh was its greatest villain. He was regarded by many as the ‘Robespierre of Ireland’, and I cannot in good conscience say that it was not an apt sobriquet.
Certainly no Irishman played a more prominent role in extinguishing the dreams of the founding fathers of Irish republicanism than he did, and perhaps no Englishman did as much to help him in that grim task than yours truly – but I get ahead of myself.
I finished my tale and my liquor at about the same time, and my host favored me with a sardonic smile and clapped three or four times in a slow, mocking fashion. “Bravo, Mister Wickham,” says he, “bravo.”
He rose, topped off our glasses, and then seated himself. “Now, let me tell you a story,” he said as he cheerfully raised his glass, “and then we shall see what we shall see.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Dublin, 1797
Castlereagh’s story was not a personal history as mine had been, but was instead a sort of mystery. As the Chief Secretary for Ireland, it was his historical duty to keep the Lord Lieutenant in line and administer the affairs of the Emerald Island, but Castlereagh had bigger plans; he meant, through patronage and bribery to obtain the passage of an Act of Union which would bind Ireland to England in an unholy matrimony that made my own marriage look like an exemplar of propriety.
He was stymied in his progress by an unlikely confederation of Catholics and Protestants who had set aside the “Scripture Politics” as Castlereagh was wont to decry them to form an outlawed political organization known as the United Irishmen, who had, the year previously, conspired with the Bonaparte to land a French army of liberation on Ireland’s green shores, and had more recently been to blame for an attempt by the Dutch to do the same.
The first plan had come to nought due to bad weather; the second due to the clever seamanship of Admiral Duncan at the Battle of Camperdown, and since then Castlereagh had been at work attempting to root out the United Irishmen’s leadership, but with limited success.
“And that, good Sir,” he concluded with a raised glass, “is where you come in.” He took a sip of brandy and continued apace.
“This insurgency is generally manned by low fellows, but you may be sure they take their orders from the gentry, and I require a man who can pass as such to help me winkle out the traitors in this city.”
A feeling of dread began to build in my stomach, but I said nothing, merely nodding and waiting for the shoe to drop.
“You, Mister Wickham, can pass as a gentleman; and as a suspected smuggler, you may have a little cachet with my opponents. I believe that you may make yourself out to be an ally, and thus reveal the leaders of this rabble to me.”
“But my Lord,” I replied, thinking quickly, “my commission with the Dragoons? For certainly any member of these United Irishmen would have no traffic with a member of the King’s Army?”
Castlereagh gave a sardonic laugh. “Surely you jest,” says he, “for don’t you know the word is that half the Regiment has taken the United Irish oath? Why, I’m certain they’ll be even happier to have you as a Dragoon than as a mere gentleman traveler.”
And that might really have been that; Castlereagh could have ordered me to spy for him amongst the ballrooms and taphouses of the city, and I’d no doubt have obliged, but he had to take it a step further.
“Observe,” says he, striding towards his desk and producing from the stacks of papers thereon a pair of sheets, “your motivation.”
He handed them to me with a flourish, and I glanced over the first one. It was written in a fashion not unfamiliar from my days studying the Law in London, and said, in a wordy fashion, that I was found to be not guilty of smuggling, absolved of any wrong-doing, etc., etc… Fairly standard stuff, in all, and none too interesting, to my mind. I glanced at the second sheet, blanched, and read it line by line in utter disbelief.
Whereas George Wickham, an officer in the 5th Dragoons is, and stands convicted, attainted, and condemned of treason; and sentence today is pronounced against him by this Court, to be hung by the neck until he is dead; of which sentence, execution yet remains to be done; these are therefore to will and require you to see the said sentence executed in the open street before St. Catherine’s church, upon the morrow, between the hours of ten in the morning and five in the afternoon of the same day, with full effect. And for so doing this shall be your sufficient warrant. And these are to require all officers, soldiers, and others, the good people of this nation of Ireland, to be assisting unto you in this service.
“The outcome of your adventure shall determine which of these papers I reward you with,” said Lord Castlereagh, and thus began my brief and inglorious double life as both an agent provocateur and an Ensign in the glorious 5th Dragoons.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Dublin, 1797
My first order of business after having been summarily dispatched from Dublin Castle was to muster with my new Regiment, which was rather an adventure in itself.
Unlike the militia regiment in which I’d previously served, the 5th Dragoons, or the Royal Irish as they were styled, were nowhere to be seen as a complete regiment, save once a year when they met for review.
At all other times, this among them, five of the six troops of the Regiment were dispersed far and wide throughout Ireland, billeted in various towns, and charged to carry out a range of duties that ran the gamut from the apprehension of smugglers and highwayman to controlling the Irish peasants and doing their part to reduce somewhat the excessive quantity of Irish whiskey by the simple expedient of imbibing it in mass quantities.
Each troop had a Captain, a Lieutenant, and a Cornet for its officers; a Quartermaster, a Sergeant, and two or three Corporals along with 20 or 30 private soldiers rounded out each contingent. Only the First Troop, along with the Regimental Headquarters, was billeted in Dublin itself, and it was there that I went in search of direction.
The Regiment was commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Charles Stewart Vane, the half-brother of Lord Castlereagh himself. Having grown accustomed to working for old campaigners like Colonel Forster, I found my new commander to be something of a surprise; Lieutenant Colonel Vane was a mere 19 years old, and owed his position rather less to his military acumen than his family’s political position.
For all his good breeding, he was quite the sporting chap, happily indulging in cards, drink, and the Cyprian attentions of the Irish tarts who were quite as numerous on Montgomery Street as their English counterparts were on The Strand.
With “The Colonel” generally engaged in or recovering from some sort of debauchery, it turned out that day-to-day routines of the Regimental headquarters were overseen in large part by his chief deputy, the dour Major Sirr, a thin, humorless fellow who managed affairs with the specialized assistance of the Adjutant, the Surgeon, and the Chaplain, as conditions warranted.
The good Major assigned me as the Cornet for First Troop, sending the previous occupant of that position out into the countryside to take up the Lieutenancy of Sixth Troop, his promotion meant as something of a balm for his exile from the libertine goings-on of the capital. His departure was not much mourned, I discovered, for the fellow, one Richard Forsythe, was accounted to be a vain, toadying little martinet, unbeloved of the troops for both his obsession with minutiae of drill and uniform, and with the draconian discipline with which he punished breaches of either one.
By day I was the picture of industry; betaking myself to a tailor to get new uniforms (the blue and buff coat that I’d had made up at Darcy’s expense in London being retired in favor of the bright red coat worn by the Royal Irish) finding suitable lodgings and sending word to Lydia to get her flirtatious, voluptuous little self on over to Dublin, as I was missing her something terrible. But by night I gave a different appearance indeed, and one that my profligate career in London had equipped me for rather perfectly.
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