Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (66 page)

By mid-June, Wickham’s company had an influx of raw recruits come in a day behind Napoleon’s advance. Happy to get through his first battle alive and with the seat of his breeches unsoiled, Wickham, nevertheless, had not been pleased to see reinforcements. His company had lost thirty men upon the first flurry of artillery fire. They had been stacked up like so much cord-wood and carted away upon a groaning tumbrel only that dawn. Under such circumstances, most officers would have fallen upon their knees in gratitude for more soldiers. Wickham only saw them as more work, more responsibility and, most importantly, more reason to have to hold their position instead of retreating.

The newcomers all stood about looking apprehensive and green. He absently glanced at their anxious faces and waved to his sergeant-major to tell the sergeant (Wickham did not choose to speak to mere sergeants) to drill them. That done, he stayed in sullen petulance in his tent most of that day pondering his pitiable fate and the dispatch that announced it. For with his company numbers cut in half, his -superiors had ordered Wickham’s company to man a stand against Napoleon’s cannons as the French’s debouchment crossed into Belgium. There was a gap in allied defences betwixt Charleroi and Mons. It was crucial that it be stanched.

Man a stand? Were they mad? That he had survived the first murderous assault should have been heartening. Rather, his brief reprieve merely fed Wickham’s festering ill-temper. Customarily, he took his meals in his tent, but in his anxious boredom, he was disposed to take some fresh (if humid) air and stretch a bit. He threw back the flap and looked warily about. Hearing no sniper fire, he gingerly stepped out and extended his arms over his head.

His men were sitting about a fire and he walked over to get his ration of saltless biscuits and dried pork. He picked a bit of bacon off a young corporal’s tin, broke it in two, tossed half in his mouth and the other back upon the soldier’s dish. It hit with a clink and then slid to the ground. The corporal cut a rather impudent sneer at Wickham’s back as he picked up the meat, flicked it several times to divest it of sand, then popped it in his mouth. Wickham was busy sizing up the lot he was sent. It was not a particularly rewarding sight.

The new men were all young, all lanky and very tall. And because of that, all displayed half a forearm out the end of their cuffs, which further insulted Wickham’s overly employed lèse-majesté. They sat in a group upon the ground, their knees sticking up like grasshopper legs. The war dogs, anxious of word from home, were grilling them as to what county they represented. Wickham heard one young man, who sat a little aloof from the others, say he hailed from Derbyshire, thus it caught Wickham’s attention.

His men had moved about uneasily as Major Wickham joined them. The major’s surliness had been much in display and no man dared hazard a misdeed to incite his wrath. The disquiet of the veterans alerted the more trenchant recruits that their major was prone to splenetics.

Either oblivious to, or ignoring, the disquiet of his men, Wickham sought a seat near the Derbyshire lad. At his appearance, conversation dwindled into only a cough or two, thereupon a gradual disbandment of the enclave of talk commenced. If Wickham noticed this either, it was unapparent. John Christie had risen to move away with the others when Wickham stopped him with a query.

“Where in Derbyshire do you call home, lad?”

Wickham’s was forced congeniality. But was John uneasy about possible incarceration (his knife threat of a gentleman for certain, possible theft of the rig, and perchance even kidnapping), the young recruit admitted only Kympton as his home.

“Kympton!” Wickham exclaimed, “Now, that is an astonishing coincidence. For I am from Derbyshire and that is the living I should have had.”

He thereupon relaunched the story of the cruel young Mr. Darcy who had denied him the living that old Mr. Darcy had promised him. In his ennui, Wickham’s spirits improved remarkably by having an audience (however low) before whom to air his grievances. For the only thing Wickham enjoyed nearly as well as bedding other men’s wives was to be the sympathetic centre of a tale of treachery. Particularly this one.

The young lad’s face did not betray any understanding of the mendacity in Wickhams’ claims. He told Major Wickham nothing more than that he knew of Pemberley and the Darcys. Wickham was pleased. Having been exceedingly bored for weeks, thereupon stricken with anxiety, he effortlessly slipped into his amiable social patter. It was a diversion to be in the company of someone who was both familiar with Pemberley and naïve enough to believe his tales. He sat and regaled the young man with all things Darcy until the insects eventually drove him back to his tent.

Once Wickham was out of earshot, an older soldier commented snidely upon the young grenadier’s presumed alliance with their truculent commanding officer. Their umbrage was understandable. Wickham had scarcely shown his face to them but to berate. One seen as befriending their tormentor was considered a traitor to their ranks. The only reaction culled from the knave at such a blatant mockery was a shrug of his shoulders. Hence, unrequited by pique and with little else to do, the soldiers soon found another victim to needle.

Far too fleetingly; the men would soon long for the torturous tedium of waiting. For as the sun was at its apex the next day, the first report of gunfire was heard. It was but one soldier who heard that initial shot. He stopped eating, his spoon suspended halfway to his mouth. Another soldier heard the second shot and stopped chewing. By the time a volley of gunfire erupted, food went flying into the air whilst every man not squatting in the latrine made a wild dash for his weapons. (The man in the latrine was tardy only as he could not run very fast with his smallclothes hugging his ankles.)

Several soldiers squabbled over who would be first to look through the spyglass at the coming Armageddon. All were frantic to see, for they had heard the main body of Napoleon’s Army was one hundred thousand men strong. It would be an awesome sight.

Wickham heard the melee if not the gunfire, and strode over to his bickering men. Bestrewing them to damnation, he wrested his spyglass from their trembling hands. As he put it to his eye, the ground began to rumble beneath them. The soldiers watched as their major looked through the lens once, then attempted to clean it with his sleeve before looking through it again. But he could not wipe away what he saw. An endless line of French battle carre approached their placement, and they were sixteen men wide and sixteen deep.

“Men to your positions!” Wickham screamed.

At this command, a flurry of activity commenced amongst the Grenadiers, not all of it military in nature. A few relieved themselves of their rations by various orifices and the literate amongst those not stricken with intestinal distress commenced composing their wills upon whatever bits of paper they could find.

That his company stood in the path of this great army forthwith was not information Wickham held early on. For if he had, the Prussian-Anglo forces would not have been able to count Major George Wickham still amongst them. Wickham had no intention of facing fire again. Abject terror did unspeakable things to a man’s mettle, was one possessed of any in the first place. Wickham had joined the army to wear the uniform, not to earn it. One battle was one too many.

He bade his time, for the cost of desertion was death. Possible death by hanging if he were caught or certain death upon the battlefield, however, seemed to Wickham to be his choice. Betwixt the possible and the certain was a hair’s breadth chance of escape. Wickham knew when he acted, he must act decisively. He was not certain how, but opportunity had an uncanny knack of calling his name when needed.

* * *

Whether the constant drilling Wickham had demanded was out of peevishness or perfection, it nevertheless served his men well. The Grenadiers were bombarded with cannon fire, but stood firm for some time launching their lethal pomegranates. It was the first action of any type John Christie had seen. Until they had gotten to the front, he had only looked at a grenade. None of the recruits had been given leave to touch one. They had practised with stones.

He had been impressed at their instructors’ precision the first time he picked up a real one. The rocks they had launched replicated the weight of the grenades. He gave one a little toss in the air to test it again and saw the man next to him flinch. John looked at him queerly for the fuse was not yet lit. (The previous fight had left a few men jumpy.)

Before the battle, he had spent a bit of time wondering (in light of his failed attempt at murdering Mr. Darcy) had he the courage to actually kill anyone. It fell apparent that neither enemy faces, nor the mothers that love them, come to mind when one is thinking of nothing but endeavouring to survive. Philosophising about war, he deduced, is useless under fire.

A cadence of launch was hastily (and a bit awkwardly) established. He watched the grenades dwindle, his arms aching in reverse proportion to size of their store. It took just over an hour to shoot their bolt. The firepower of veteran French troops created a bastinado unparalleled in John’s imagination. None of the Grenadiers could stand under such an assault, much less see in the acrid air. By snaking along upon his belly, he found a shallow ditch already inhabited by two fellow grenadiers. Implausible under the circumstances, none could keep themselves from curling into a foetal position and covering their heads in defence of incoming cannonballs. Yet, when the tir de barrage ceased, it was rather ominously.

The sultry air hung heavy with smoke, but John poked his head timidly from the trench. In such close fighting and resultant confusion, a general, friend or foe, would be hard-pressed to tell his own men from the enemy, therefore, the cannons were silenced (this not a decision born necessarily of humanity, but of economy). John had slaughtered pigs, decapitated chickens. He had once seen two men hanged. But he had never imagined such carnage.

Hands shaking violently, John wrestled with spiriting a bayonet upon a long gun, certain the French infantry was upon him. Miraculously, they did not come in to his depth. Their victory of this position evident, the French rolled on. A fugato of cannons rattling away and their own drums beating a retreat gradually influenced him to understand this particular battle was over. He had not been victorious, but he was alive. At that moment, survival was not the most important thing. It was the only thing that mattered.

John rolled upon his back, awash with relief whilst clutching the gun to his chest. Only a moment did he allow himself repose to savour life. He groaned to a sitting position and looked about to see what was next to be done. Every instruction they had been given was in anticipation of battle. Not a word what to do in its wake.

In the smoking stench, John espied Major Wickham’s riderless horse running about randomly. His reins dangled dangerously, nearly tripping him once. John crawled upon his knees, then staggered to his feet. The major was most likely down. Yet another victim of Mr. Darcy’s perfidy. Compatriots at the hands of such villainy had to aid each other, lest none survive. Stumbling over bodies and gear, John lurched toward the terrified horse.

“Halt,” he reminded himself. “Speak quietly. Move with care.”

He held out his hand and cooed in a low voice. The horse slowed and then stopped, his head hanging, but eyes keen. Grasping the reins, John looked about for either the major or the major’s body. He then espied Major Wickham. He was, indeed, down, just upon the other side of a rise. But he was not dead.

It was not until he and the horse were almost upon Wickham that John saw him clear. He was not wounded as first thought. He was engrossed in the most incongruous activity. A corporal, rendered faceless and a corpse by reason of a horrific head wound, lay at his feet, and he was jerking violently at the man’s jacket. John stopped some twenty feet away in disbelief. Obviously, the major had run mad. Spellbound, he watched as the major exchanged uniform coats with the dead corporal. It was not until Wickham finished his grisly task that he saw John staring at him. The gaze that passed between was so deep as to envelop the soul. And with it, all due revelation.

Wickham may have had no feel for battle, but when he saw his deceit mirrored upon the solemn face of a soldier in his command, he did not hesitate. He tugged the gun from his belt and deliberately discharged a single round into John’s stomach. The impact of the shot tossed him backward upon the ground. Only from thence did the searing pain announce itself. And it was from thence that he watched the Major approach him, for he still clutched the horse’s reins in his hand. Wickham yanked them free. Thereupon, he mounted the horse and dug his spurs deep into his flank to speed his departure.

Wickham did not look over his shoulder as he rode away.

The single blessing Elizabeth could find of her husband’s absence was that Jane would not worry relentlessly that their unborn child would see its father’s…membrum virile. Being unavailed of conjugal pleasures, however, was not foremost in Elizabeth’s mind. As she became increasingly heavy with child, their bed may have grown more incommodious, but it did not seem less empty to her.

As time wore on, Elizabeth’s funk deepened. It was only rarely that she spoke of her multitude of fears to Jane. Truly, she knew Georgiana was in the greatest danger, but she could not will herself to fear for her husband less than anyone else. Newspapers were rampant with rumours of the ever-looming war. She read them voraciously, far too often allowing the hyperbole of the press to sweep her away with fright. It was no compensation to understand that danger was relative. Fitzwilliam, Newton Hinchcliffe, and young Howgrave would actually fight the war. But she kept a special place in her prayers for poor John Christie. To have been begat by George Wickham was test enough. To be a hapless cog in the ever-turning wheels of war was ill, indeed.

Sitting and brooding alone, Elizabeth could not reconcile her conscience against the notion that the entire tumult of their family had been instigated, however unintentionally, by her own mismanagement. She had handled Fitzwilliam’s declaration of love badly. When she learnt he intended to rejoin Wellington she should have intervened. Had Fitzwilliam not departed, John Christie would not have taken his lead and gone as well. It was an horrendous train of events, for had he not gone, Georgiana might not have left on her own. That was the most perplexing thing. Why did Georgiana go?

Having not the remotest notion of that circumstance was exceedingly troubling. Though she had no clue as to Georgiana’s motive, Elizabeth only knew that, had she been a better sister to her, she might have anticipated it. A full circle of self-recrimination.

* * *

It was when she was packing up some baby items that Elizabeth came across the quilt Alexander’s mother had sewn for him. She wrapped it in a scarf and tied it with a ribbon. In time, she would send it to Kirkland, for the baby must know his mother loved him. It had only been the day before that they had received word of Mary’s quietus. Elizabeth fancied she could hear the tolling of the passing bell in the morning’s stillness.

That quiet was resoundingly broken by a tremendous yawp downstairs. It sounded as if an army had just been encamped in their lobby and Elizabeth, in the direst dregs of pessimism, hurried to see what had next claimed misery. And as she should have known, if one expects the worst, one is rarely disappointed. From the top of the stairs, Elizabeth saw misery itself standing in their vestibule. Wearing a bonnet with an obscenely large ostrich plume and a nose for the affliction of others, Lady Catherine de Bourgh had come to call once more.

At the sight of the Detestable Doyenne of Distress, Elizabeth could feel herself droop. For Lady Catherine to arrive upon her threshold this early in the day, she must have left Rosings well before sunrise. It did not betoken a pleasant encounter. But Elizabeth wrapped her shawl resolutely about her and came down the stairs with as much dignity as she could invoke. This time, she attempted little civility, but she would not deny Darcy’s aunt entrance into his house (no matter how vehemently she had threatened to do just that).

Lady Catherine’s admittance, however, was not couched with anything more than rudimentary courtesy. Elizabeth did not speak in greeting, merely nodded blandly in Lady Catherine’s direction. She intended to lead her into the grand salon, but in the considerable disdain that lady could muster, she pushed past her and into Darcy’s library. Elizabeth did not particularly mind the affront, for that room afforded more privacy and she was certain words would be spoken that she did not want overheard. Indeed, Lady Catherine did not take a seat when Elizabeth motioned politely in the direction of a chair, but claimed her ground in the midmost of the carpet. Defensively, Elizabeth crossed the study to Darcy’s desk, turned and stood as well, folding her arms in front of her. Lady Catherine at first did not speak, possibly awaiting Elizabeth. Unaware of Lady Catherine’s drama, Elizabeth merely raised her eyebrow at the woman, silent. Lady Catherine came to her, it was she who must ask.

But Lady de Bourgh did not come in query, for she had her own resources and she had heard. And that was what she announced.

“Young woman, I have had word.”

Thereupon she added the odd demand, “You will take leave of this house.”

Elizabeth knew it was inevitable she exposed an expression of dumbfounded incredulity and hastily reclaimed it. Seeing she had caught her off guard, Lady Catherine moved in post-haste to mark a coup.

“Yes, I know it all,” she said. “My nephew is dead, my niece lost. What you have wrought upon this house!”

The declaration of her husband’s death hit her like a slap in the face. She refused, however, to allow Lady Catherine to have the whip-hand over any part of her. Elizabeth might worry about it prodigiously, but no one would declare her husband dead until she stood over his cold, dead body. It was a point from which she would not waver.

Presenting a somewhat wavering facade of unflappability, Elizabeth, nevertheless, said evenly, “I am sorry you have been caused undue distress. My husband is in good health. My sister-in-law is well. You have no reason for concern.”

“Play no parlour games with me, young woman! With Darcy’s death, I am his closest blood-relative. This house will be entailed to me and whatever you may think, I can make you remove yourself. There is no heir and you shall not be welcome as his widow!”

Again, and with even more resolve, Elizabeth repeated, “My husband is in good health, madam. My sister-in-law is in good health as well.”

Lady Catherine began to wail, “They are dead! Darcy is dead! Had he married my daughter none of this would have bechanced!”

“No,” Elizabeth thought meanly, “he would have a bunch of sickly, bucktoothed children.”

Lady Catherine began to keen, “Now he is dead! What you have wrought! What you have wrought!”

The plume upon the woman’s bonnet bobbed incessantly back and forth, to and fro with each belaboured pronouncement. Finally, Elizabeth quite lost herself.

Slamming open the top drawer of Darcy’s desk, she picked up the pistol, the very pistol that Darcy had so recently reminded her how to cock. It was heavier than she remembered, and she held it with both hands, in fortune, for they were both needed to draw back the hammer and take aim just above Lady Catherine’s nose.

As Elizabeth’s bead was drawn, Lady Catherine’s eyes came into focus beyond the sight. They had widened profoundly. Furious yet, Elizabeth did not find enough satisfaction in this. Thus, she took her aim slightly higher, and squeezed both triggers at once.

In the relatively large library, the gun sounded much louder than it had those days in practise upon the lawn. Too, the smoke and powder had disappeared with more dispatch in the outdoor air. Hence, there were a few seconds when Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine and thought her to have swooned. Waving one hand in front of her to clear her eye-line, Elizabeth’s vision gradually claimed sight of Lady Catherine standing yet exactly where she had. Elizabeth was impressed with the old crone’s fortitude, for the resounding boom of the gun had frightened her from its grip, and she was not the one at whom it had been aimed.

The smoke cleared, enabling Elizabeth to have a better view of Darcy’s aunt. She had stood her ground, but her face betrayed more mortified terror than Elizabeth might have ever found for her in her sweetest of daydreams. Lady Catherine yet clung to her walking stick, but her bonnet had stopped bobbing, possibly because the plume upon her hat had been cut in two. The top half was only then wafting to the floor at her feet.

If being fired upon was not shock enough for the lady, Elizabeth had dropped her shawl to take aim. Thus, when her unsteady gaze finally rested, it was upon the decided bulge in Elizabeth’s midsection.

Lady Catherine did not take her leave with any courtesies, but she did take leave in haste and Elizabeth desired nothing else. By the time she had reached the door, it was flung open for her by two burly Pemberley footmen, and just behind them stood Mrs. Reynolds. It was at that moment Elizabeth knew Darcy had laid instructions for them upon bechancing a visit by his aunt.

One of the men said, “Mrs. Darcy, ma’am, pray, is everything well?”

Knowing it was useless to deny the gunpowder in the air, Elizabeth nonetheless did not leave her position from behind Darcy’s desk before kicking the yet smoking gun out of sight.

“Yes. Yes, it is quite all-right, just a slight accident. Everything is quite well.”

She walked from behind Darcy’s desk. The men backed out, following in the wake of Darcy’s aunt’s hastily retreating heels. (It was at this point that Elizabeth considered making a run for the window to gauge the overbites upon Lady Catherine’s coachmen, but restrained herself.) Instead, Mrs. Reynolds entered and she and Elizabeth met midmost in the room. They both looked at the floor at the same time. It was the most difficult decision Elizabeth had been called upon to make for several weeks.

Should she tell Mrs. Reynolds that the puddle at their feet where the feather rested was the result of Lady Catherine’s excited incontinence, or give blame to the dogs?