Trouble With Wickham (11 page)

She noted that his manners were impeccable, his intake of wine modest and his appetite healthy, but not gluttonous. Much to her delight, she saw that he too had left his mashed peas on his plate untouched.  She did not care much for mashed peas, either.

Had she discovered a kindred spirit?

As for Hugh, his attention was torn. Seated next to him was Miss Anne de Bourgh, a set-up by their overeager parents obviously meant to advance their acquaintance. However, the placement was causing Hugh some frustration, as the young woman spoke so softly that he found it necessary to lean toward her to catch her words. As her host he was desirous of giving her his full attention and of responding correctly to her statements, yet her pip-squeak of a voice was barely audible.

He was constantly apologizing, and asking her to repeat herself, hence Miss de Bourgh was forced to proclaim, “The partridge is exceedingly moist,” twice before he could understand and then agree. The young Anne’s quiet demeanor was a marked contrast from that of her mother, whose conversations could be heard quite clearly above the din of the dinner service from any seat at the table. When not leaning toward the young Miss de Bourgh in a vain attempt to capture her whispered observations, Hugh’s eyes found themselves drifting frequently across the table and coming to rest repeatedly on the lovely face of Georgiana Darcy, whose placement directly across from him provided a lovely respite from the toil of conversing with Miss de Bourgh.

He quickly shook off Georgiana’s momentary change of mood from earlier in the evening, for the woman across the table from him seemed eager to meet his eye and was free with her smiles. Alas, the table was too wide across to allow easy conversation between the two of them, nevertheless, he felt their inability to converse led them to a playful exchange of glances. Indeed, her flirtatiousness made his heart beat slightly faster than usual, causing him to lose interest in his meal. His loss of appetite surprised him, for he had thought himself ravenous before sitting down to dinner.

He made a decision right then that he would devote the next few days to learning as much as possible about Georgiana Darcy. Or as much as she herself, or her companions, would easily divulge.  He was much looking forward to the entire process. Although, on second thought, he wondered, what could there be to learn? Georgiana Darcy looked about the same age as his sister Charlotte, and was obviously as well bred. She was strictly supervised; she herself admitted her brother would not leave her unattended at Pemberley.

Although she alluded to childish errors of judgment, he imagined that her life paralleled Charlotte’s, the right governess, a good education, accomplished in the arts or music or needlework. Perhaps if he was lucky she was a practiced horsewoman. There was a certain guarantee of innocence in a woman as rich and beautiful as she was. No, a young woman of her pedigree at her age had little chance for scandal attached to her, especially with a watchdog like Fitzwilliam Darcy at her side.  He would most certainly show his fangs to any unwanted suitors, Hugh was sure of that.

But he was getting ahead of himself. He could not yet be sure that he had the personal qualities that would capture her heart. Likewise she could be fickle, or cloying, or untrue. He should not jump ahead to the future, and not imagine their children running on the grounds or her portrait installed in the gallery next to his mother’s.

What a beautiful subject for a portrait she would make, he sighed, noting she was as sleek and polished as the most expensive of racehorses.

From her hawk-eyed view across the table, Lady Catherine observed with pleasure the young Mr. Radcliffe leaning toward her daughter Anne most attentively every time she spoke. She also caught the young man glancing her way several times, as if seeking maternal approval, like the well-bred young man she expected him to be.

What an encouraging sign
!

She wondered whether she should go into London for Anne’s wedding clothes or stick with their local dressmaker. Perhaps her hostess, Lady Radcliffe, would have an opinion on the matter, having recently married off her only daughter. Their Charlotte, whose married name Lady Catherine took no notice of, was certainly a handsome young woman, beautifully yet modestly dressed. Although she preferred Anne’s pale coloring to that of the brunette Radcliffe girl, she thought it wise that Anne work to further her happiness with the Hugh Radcliffe by ingratiating herself with his sister.

Tomorrow, when the men were riding to the hounds, would be the perfect opportunity for the future sisters-in-law to become better acquainted. Lady Catherine would most definitely see to that. After all, the entire point of subjecting themselves to the inconveniences of travel was to procure Anne a superior husband and not merely to participate in idle chitchat with the Hertfordshire locals. Goodness knows if she wanted parochial conversation she had the Reverend Collins and his awkward wife at her fingertips daily. No, from the amount of attention her daughter was receiving from Hugh Radcliffe, Lady Catherine could correctly conclude that her troubles had been worth the effort. She congratulated herself on a job well done, priding herself for her uncanny instincts. 

Fitzwilliam Darcy was similarly pleased with the seating arrangements, as George Wickham, by virtue of being seated at the same side of the table as Georgiana, but at opposite ends, had no view of her. Hugh Radcliffe, however, had scored the ultimate prize by being seated directly across from Georgiana. Fitzwilliam could not help but notice how many times his gaze rested on her face during the course of the dinner. Amidst the glowing candlelight, his sister would appear to her best advantage.

She possessed the loveliest of faces,
Fitzwilliam thought to himself. He did not deem himself prejudiced for thinking so. Hugh’s placement next to the very dull and inarticulate Miss de Bourgh, would provide a high contrast, he chuckled. He swore he could not remember a single witty or memorable statement ever issued by his young cousin. Surely the young Mr. Radcliffe’s experience would be similarly uninspiring. Where unattached, eligible women of good quality were concerned, Georgiana Darcy had no competition.

If only he could remove the blot that was George Wickham from his sister’s past. He had paid dearly for them to have no past. But why tonight, of all nights, should this miserable man darken their doorway? Had he not just told his sister that timing was everything in life? Yes, he had, but here was the universe reminding him that timing was both good and bad. That night he was a victim of very bad timing, indeed.

He must keep Wickham away from Georgiana, and at the same time afford her access to Hugh. Or maybe such an intricate dance between the parties would be impossible to achieve when they were all sleeping under the same roof.

Georgiana and Wickham sleeping under the same roof?

His mind roiled at the thought. How he wished with all his heart that he had left Georgiana safe at Pemberley, watched over by his faithful retainers, a little bored, surely, but with no risk attached.

Damn that Wickham!

He seethed with anger. Perhaps he should feign an emergency and depart with his whole party in the morning. His conscience, however, would not allow him to let his hosts down so rudely and besides, it was beyond his code of behavior to act under a falsehood. It appeared that money, once again, would have to exchange hands for him to be rid of Wickham.

While Wickham’s proximity to Georgiana was a wretched accident he could levy blame on no one, but only hope to stay ahead of the situation. Darcy noticed with dread that Wickham was always lost in thought, a dangerous sign that foretold some type of plotting on his end. For the life of him he could not imagine what machinations went on in his ex-friend’s mind. Fitzwilliam was sure that George Wickham would not quit Bennington Park without intercepting Georgiana in some manner. It all merited careful monitoring. Darcy glared down the table at Wickham for the duration of the meal.

Elizabeth noted the tense look on her husband’s face from afar and knew that the presence of Wickham was the cause. There were no words that could calm him, she knew. She closed her eyes; her head spun dizzily and the room seemed uncommonly warm. It was nice that Charlotte lived in a home where she did not have to worry about constant drafts. Bennington Park must be exceptionally well sealed, she noted. She sneezed, then reached for her handkerchief and sneezed again. She gazed at the mantel clock, ticking slowly. Surely it was much later than the hands showed? She could not account for the degree of fatigue she felt and she desperately wished the night to be finished and to sink into the closest bed she could find.

From his end of the table, Wickham noted with disgust the glow on Hugh Radcliffe’s face as the young heir’s eyes continually gazed upon Georgiana, seated strategically across the table from him. What were the odds of that, he sniffed? He knew that predatory look in Hugh’s eyes; he could tell that, if Hugh were to get his way, Georgiana would become the future mistress of Bennington Park.

Wickham glanced around the table at the fine china place settings, the silver candlesticks and pitchers that glistened in the candlelight, the crystal, the European lace, the partridge and venison richly dressed with morels and apricots, the well dressed staff rotating in and out of the room, all the trappings of wealth so cavalierly put on display. One day, he imagined, Georgiana would have Pemberley and all this too. The woman for whom he had bet everything on and lost, went about her pretty world unscathed by life. He imagined she would float effortlessly from one castle to another, oblivious to the randomness of birth that showered her with so many worldly riches, whereas he, George Wickham, would wake each morning next to a wife he did not esteem, and rise to face a life of constant struggle.

He glanced across the table at his wife Lydia. She was a burden, a confounded rash decision for which he was indebted his entire life. For a few nights she had transported him back to those lost days in Ramsgate when Georgiana’s eyes lit up to see him, when she would seek him out, when she welcomed his company, his laugh, and in one impulsive moment, his kiss. But Lydia Bennet’s charms faded upon repeated exposure; she was but a pale imitation of Georgiana Darcy. His misguided attempt to recreate those lost days with Georgiana instead ended in a forced marriage, a sad development he had not anticipated. Since then, drink had been a necessary escape.

Perhaps Georgiana still harbored a soft spot for him. They had not spoken since the day Darcy summoned him into the meeting room and handed him a bag of coins and ordered him out of their lives for good. He had never written Georgiana; that had been one of Darcy’s conditions. Perhaps it was fate throwing them under the same roof when he most desperately needed a helping hand.

His mind whirred as he wondered how to rendezvous with her alone and gain her sympathy. He wasn’t sure what he would say; he wasn’t sure she would even listen. Her heart could be stone cold. Still, finding her here, again, was a stroke of luck. There had to be a way to use this encounter to his advantage. He pondered the situation for a moment, and then his gaze fell once again upon Hugh Radcliffe.

Well, well, well
, he chuckled to himself. Maybe he did have the upper hand after all. During his brief tryst with Georgiana they had several opportunities to be alone together, unchaperoned, behind closed doors. In such unguarded moments he could have taken her completely. He should have taken the liberty, he thought, as a means of securing her hand. However, the fact that he didn’t was inconsequential; he only needed to insinuate that he had. Doubt was all that was needed to compromise a young woman’s reputation.

Would Hugh Radcliffe be interested in hearing the details?

Would he want to know what it felt like to run his hands through the golden strands of her hair? To feel her heart beat as rapidly as his? Surely, a Radcliffe heir would want a wife with a blameless reputation. So far, no one knew the intimate details of their shared pasts. Darcy had paid him well to keep silent but that payoff was long gone and he needed money now more than he ever did. The fiscal obligations of a wife and child weighed heavily on him, and Mr. Bennet’s paltry allowance did not provide for more than the starkest necessities.

He would much prefer to remain a gentleman, where Georgiana was concerned. But he would also much prefer not to be so damned poor. He stared at the silver cutlery in his hands, the price of which could pay off several overdue accounts. As a precaution against his pleas falling entirely on deaf ears, Wickham casually slipped the knife into his boot. The Bennington Park silver would buy him some solace in the pawnshops of Manchester or Liverpool.

Down the table Lady Catherine also picked up a piece of silver cutlery, examined it and, finding it to be of exceedingly high quality, tapped it lightly on the stem of her crystal wine glass. The tinkering brought the low rumble of conversation to a halt, and drew all eyes to her. She rose from her seat of honor next to Lord Radcliffe, a large, splendid figure hovering over her host. She cleared her throat, waited a few moments to build suspense, and then said: “It is not news to our gathered guests that my esteemed nephew, Fitzwilliam Darcy, has a new bride.”

All eyes shifted toward Elizabeth, who could feel her already warm face flush even further.

“Yes, the former Elizabeth Bennet,” Lady Catherine made an unpleasant sniffing sound with her nose, purposely omitting the Miss before Elizabeth’s name.

“As his oldest relative, I congratulate him on his union and wish him felicity, fertility, and compliant servants for all his days.” She raised her glass and the party followed.

“Here, here,” the guests toasted the new couple.

Lady Catherine took a tiny sip from her glass and then set it carefully down and continued.

“I also forgive him.”

She paused for effect, noting the surprised looks exchanged amongst the party, smugly enjoying their silent confusion as she refrained from elaborating further. Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn in humiliation.