Prologue (Mobile)

PROLOGUE

London, 1814

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.

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