Trouble With Wickham (15 page)

Suddenly the sound of barking dogs and horses’ hooves filled the morning air. Oliver Cumberland had arrived. Lord Radcliffe dropped his fork and napkin and hastened outdoors to greet him, then shepherded Mr. Cumberland and his small party of itinerant hunters into the dining room as the staff hurriedly replaced the depleted eggs and sausages.

From the corner of his eye, Hugh saw Anne de Bourgh pinch her cheeks and discretely adjust her dress at her bosom.

Cumberland and his party settled in and the decibel level of the room rose sharply. Minutes later, George Wickham sauntered in. He stopped just beyond the threshold, looking superficially pulled together in a natty well-fitting red coat but his matted hair and yellowing head bruise were at odds with his sartorial efforts. Scanning those gathered for that one head of golden curls that he hungered to see, he saw only a sea of men’s heads bobbing before him and the waxen high forehead of Anne de Bourgh. Darcy’s venomous gaze was present and accounted for, to which he naturally averted his eyes.

Set out on the table before him was a breakfast display the likes of which he had not had the pleasure of partaking in a long time. As he stepped forward he felt suddenly lightheaded and grabbed the back of the nearest chair to steady himself, slowly sinking down onto the upholstery until the episode passed.

All conversation stopped.

Lord Radcliffe approached him.

“Are you all right young man?” he bent over the white-faced Wickham and spoke directly to him.

Wickham took a long, deep breath and exhaled but he could not steady his trembling nerves. Nevertheless he looked his host in the eye and assured him that he was in perfect health. Wickham then motioned to Hastings.

“Brandy, please.”

Hastings bowed and exited the room, returning shortly and placing a small cut crystal glass of brandy at his place. Wickham reached for it, but instead knocked it over.

“Bloody hell!” Wickham swore, clumsily righting the empty glass as the amber colored liquid sank into the linen table covering.

Fitzwilliam glared at Wickham and spoke sharply to him.

“Please watch your language. This is a gentleman’s home and ladies are present.”

Wickham shot Darcy a look of hatred but quieted down under his reprimand. Wickham could not deny the fact that the dizziness and double vision, annoying side effects from his fall outside the tavern, were increasing. He would never have misjudged the distance to the glass otherwise, but he was not alarmed. His accident outside the Meryton Arms was not the first time he had fallen down in a drunken stupor; he’d be fine in a day or so.

Wickham motioned to Hastings.

“Yes, sir?” Hastings responded.

Wickham pointed to the breakfast spread.

“Fill me a plate, will you? That’s a good boy.”

“Certainly, sir.” Hastings made a deep bow. He was obliged to obey, despite the incivility of the guest. He carefully put the plate and utensils down before Wickham, expressionless.

Wickham dove into his meal and ate with gusto. His spilled brandy glass was replaced with another full one, and he greedily filled his maw. He glared at Mr. Darcy when not looking down at his plate.

Soon he was not content to only glare at Darcy.

“Miss Georgiana?” he uttered her name out of the blue, looking around. Mr. Darcy bristled visibly.

“What do you want with her?” Mr. Darcy seethed.

Wickham chewed noisily as he spoke. “Wanted to wish her a good morning.”

He turned to Hugh. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” and winked.

Hugh’s eyes darted from Wickham to Darcy, noting the vein that seemed to have suddenly popped out of the side of Darcy’s forehead.

“We are blessed with many beautiful ladies here in Hertfordshire,” Hugh stated simply, and then added, “Miss de Bourgh, your tea is untouched and must be cooled considerably. Hastings! A new cup for our guest here, if you would be so kind.”

Abandoning his customary veneer of charm, Wickham snickered, then emitted a strange, guttural laugh. He then threw himself back into the work of devouring his eggs and sausages, concentrating intensely on his plate, alone in his own little world, ignoring the company. He scraped his plate with his finger when he was done.

Hugh watched the man with increasing trepidation. Wickham was clearly not in his right mind; he hoped he had no intention of riding in the hunt. Clearly the man was weak on his feet as well as in his head—a danger to himself as well as to any animal in his possession. He made a mental note to inform Quigley in the stables not to issue Wickham a horse, under any circumstance. Quigley would do well to inform all the grooms about George Wickham; after all, uncoordinated communication was as ineffective as no communication.

As for the level of hostility evident between Wickham and Mr. Darcy, Hugh feigned oblivion but was secretly fascinated. Clearly there was animosity between the two men that had deep roots, judging by the repeated death glares between them.  Consequently the mood in the room slipped below light-heartedness, and in this instance Hugh estimated he did not possess the delicate touch necessary to deftly elevate it.

Lord Radcliffe again approached Wickham.

“Can I call for the doctor?”

Wickham demurred. He owed the doctor money since the baby’s birth; he knew the doctor would not come out for him.

“No, thank you. I mean to ride into town today and have him look at it,“ he lied, pointing to his head wound.

Lord Radcliffe did not want to impose on his guest and began to retreat.

“Thank you,” Wickham blurted out. He mumbled something about needing transport, which drew Lord Radcliffe back to offer, “Our footman would be happy to take you.”

Wickham thanked Lord Radcliffe profusely.

“I will let you know when I am ready to make the toast,” Wickham replied, mixing up his words, and motioned to Hastings.

“A horse please.”

Hastings bent his ear closer to Wickham. “Pardon me sir?”

Wickham pointed to the toast triangles, sitting in their stand.

“Horse toast.”

“Ah, yes sir,” Hastings arranged four triangles of crisp buttered toast on the plate, and placed it before Wickham, who picked up and examined each toast point in an odd manner.

Lord Radcliffe walked away. He did not know this Wickham fellow, but to his mind the man seemed confused rather than merely daft or eccentric. The hunt morning was a particularly busy one, but Wickham’s oddness concerned him. However, he could not force medical assistance where it was not wanted.

Mr. Cumberland motioned Lord Radcliffe over. “The young man will not be riding with our party. I assume there will be no trouble in that regard?” he asked soberly.

“None at all, Mr. Cumberland,” Lord Radcliffe assured him. Cumberland was strict with his riders; they had to be in good form, as he had a reputation to uphold for managing hunts where the only injury was to the fox.

Anne overheard the conversation. She much admired the strict way Oliver Cumberland managed his hunts. She imagined he would run his household just as carefully; she thought that she would find succinct pleasure in obeying him. She met his eyes across the table and smiled, noting with delight that his glance lingered on hers a moment or two too long. They continued to exchange admiring looks until the demands of the day pulled him away.

Wickham, having finished his breakfast, had no desire to sit and make polite conversation. The effort of sitting upright had suddenly exhausted him. He pushed his chair out quickly and rose, slowly brushing the toast crumbs from his jacket, and exited the room without making further comment. Mr. Darcy’s gaze followed him until Wickham disappeared around the corner, then Darcy stood up suddenly and left the room, standing sentry in the entry hall until he saw Wickham turn into the library and disappear. Mr. Darcy maintained his position without apology, watching all the comings and goings as stiffly as a sentry of the queen’s guard.

Soon the entry hall was a jumble of riders and well-wishers entering and exiting the front doors in excited anticipation. Shortly before mid-morning the stirrup cups were offered in the forecourt of Bennington Park to those about to head out. Charlotte stayed inside, admiring the jaunty black hats of the party from the safety of the drawing room window, while unsuccessfully attempting to coax her Pomeranians out from under the settee, where they had sought refuge from the strange pack of dogs that had suddenly appeared on their front lawn.

Mr. Darcy had confirmed what Charlotte already suspected; Elizabeth was ill and would not be leaving her private quarters. In deference to her friend, Charlotte felt she could not join the others in the carriage following the pack. “Someone should be here to oversee Elizabeth’s care,” she told Georgiana. “You go along without me.”

Georgiana and Anne—cousins with nothing in common—situated themselves somewhat uncomfortably next to each other in the tight coach consigned to them. Both were determined to follow their man throughout the chase, although each claimed a different reason for doing so.

“I do so love to watch the horses,” Anne lied.

“For me it is the lure of the Hertfordshire countryside,” Georgiana lied.

Eventually the horn sounded, a hunter’s cry echoed across the land and the pack set off across the fields. Those in the party not riding out wandered back into the house and scattered about.  Guy made a discreet beeline for the library where he discovered George Wickham already sound asleep on Lord Radcliffe’s favorite chaise. Guy took a seat with his back to the unsightly scene and began to read, the rise and fall of Wickham’s deep breathing providing a rhythmic background noise.

Charlotte, Lady Radcliffe, Lady Catherine and Lydia Bennet, along with the local women, gathered in the drawing room discussing the hint of rain in the air.

“Lord Radcliffe is confident it will hold off until the hunt is over,” Lady Radcliffe assured them. “Now who wants to sit for quadrille?”

“My first preference, in the morning, is for a musical performance by anyone so inclined,” Lady Catherine stated. “Georgiana plays beautifully,” she announced. Then, looking around the room she exclaimed, “Is she not here? Is she ill too?”

“No, Lady Catherine,” Charlotte said. “She is riding out to the hunt. With Anne.”

“I forgot. Charlotte, would you play for us this morning?”

“Yes, but it would be terrible. I am not trained, sadly.”

Lady Catherine raised her eyebrows. She most definitely thought Lord Radcliffe would have insisted that his daughter be trained on the pianoforte.  If she herself had been blessed with a robust, healthy young daughter like Charlotte then she would have insisted that the girl learn to play. She simply could not understand Lord Radcliffe’s reasoning on that end.

“My daughter is talented in watercolors,” Lady Radcliffe interjected, feeling slightly annoyed at having to defend her daughter’s natural talents before Lady Catherine.

“Oh I see,” Lady Catherine replied. “But where is your pianoforte? I do not see it here.” She looked imperiously around the drawing room for the instrument.

“It is in the music room,” Lady Radcliffe explained, tempering her rising annoyance with her training to be gracious.

“In a house this size, in a drawing room with such good proportions as these, you should most definitely have the pianoforte in here, for entertaining. The acoustics must be just right. I see a corner right there,” she said pointing a crooked finger, “where it would fit in nicely. At Rosings Park we do not travel back and forth between rooms for our amusements. Think about it,” she advised her hostess.

“Thank you Lady Catherine,” Lady Radcliffe said with a faint smile, thinking to herself that never had she derived so little pleasure from the company of a houseguest.

It took all of Charlotte’s composure to bite her tongue.

Meanwhile Lydia Wickham gamely dared to contradict the great lady and her hostess by suggesting a walk in the gardens instead.

“It will be great fun! Let us all go while the rain holds off!”

Surprisingly, Lady Catherine welcomed her suggestion.

“Next to music I do prefer the benefits of exercise. Such simple pleasures are all one needs. The gardens at Rosings are particularly designed to benefit even the lamest walker. Pray Lady Radcliffe, I would love to hear you narrate the origins of your gardens.”

Slowly the group of women queued up to form a lackluster sort of parade, passing single file out of the drawing room and through the hall, Lady Radcliffe leading the way to the back gardens. While the older women grouped together, Charlotte and Lydia, the only young married women, fell into place together naturally.

Lydia immediately began complaining about her treatment at the hands of Mr. Darcy, who would not receive her at Pemberley and would not explain why. His behavior was in sharp contrast to her other brother-in-law, the wonderful Mr. Bingley.

“Now my sister Jane, I mean, Mrs. Bingley—oh how I love calling her Mrs. Bingley—and her husband are indeed the kindest of all my relations! I have been to Netherfield Hall twice already. The first visit was only for tea, but what a fine tea it was.

“The second visit, however, was for a proper dinner party which was quite elegant. Jane and Mr. Bingley hosted, and our whole family was there, well, except for Lizzie and her husband, who are sometimes too far to travel for events. Pemberley is in Derbyshire—did you know that? It is some miles away. Anyway, for the dinner at Netherfield I had planned to wear my new lace, as I had ordered it several weeks ago when I did have the money. However, the sharing of our household purse is an art that neither George nor I are any good at. Sadly by the time the lace arrived at the milliner’s George had spent the majority of the funds and I was left with a little less than half the cost of the lace.

“Consequently I persuaded my sister Mary to let me borrow the difference, promising her to do a few small tasks in exchange. However, Mary insisted that she needed time to consider the exact tasks that would be of a corresponding value to the loan before she would make the loan. Well, by the time she made up her mind the dinner party was hours away and there was no time for me to do the tasks and get to the shop before it closed. So, instead, I said ‘Forget it I don’t want your stupid help’ and I had to wear Kitty’s lace which was lovely except for a drop of soup in the lower half that had been scrubbed away. No one could see it from a distance, but still I was aware . . .”