Trouble With Wickham (16 page)

Charlotte tried hard to suppress a yawn. She looked skyward; the clouds were darkening but the sun shone resolutely. She hoped it would not rain on the hunt. Like the sky, the day had quickly lost its luster; she felt slightly trapped by the existence of her guests.

It appeared that all her hours were to be commandeered listening to inane conversations, when she would much prefer to be painting or sketching or just sitting across from her husband as he read, admiring the way his eyes flitted back and forth across the page.

It was all a little too much, she thought.

Still, her mother would bear Lydia’s conversation with grace. Charlotte was sure that it was her own weakness of character that caused her to be so irritated with her guests, forcing her to fight off a serious urge to push Lydia into the garden pond.

Instead, Charlotte smiled sweetly at her and said, “Tell me more about Netherfield Hall for I, too, have never been.”

Lydia squeezed Charlotte’s hand tightly and launched into a twenty-minute soliloquy describing the ground, first and second floors of Netherfield Hall until, with relief, the calling of the women in for a luncheon caused her to pause and exclaim, “Luncheon already? My how time flits by when one is absorbed in pleasant conversation. I promise to describe the gardens to you later today, as one cannot fully appreciate the beauty of Netherfield Hall without a thorough description of the gardens!”

She then studied Charlotte’s relieved face for a moment, declaring, “How funny!”

Charlotte cocked her head. “What is funny?”

Lydia sighed happily. “How life works out. Here I thought I would enjoy spending the hunt party with Lizzie, but I find I much prefer the company of you and Miss Darcy to that of my own sister! I did not expect to make two new friends so quickly—what a delight! Promise that you will send notice every time you return to Bennington Park and I will come immediately to visit you. We are going to be friends forever, Charlotte!”

A
t the hunt picnic, Mr. Darcy felt overcome by fatigue.

“I feel quite diminished,” he muttered aloud. Mr. Cumberland rose from his sitting position and approached him.

“May I?” he asked.

Mr. Darcy acquiesced and Mr. Cumberland laid the palm of his hand across his forehead.

“No fever, but you look tired,” he said in a gentle voice. “I believe that rest is in order.”

Mr. Darcy did not argue. He feared that his missed night of sleep had caught up to him and that he would not make it through the evening’s ball without rest. Georgiana, who watched with concern from her spot on the blanket, stood up and went to her brother.

He held her off.

“Do not worry Georgiana, I had a bad night. It’s best for me to leave,” he concluded, rising slowly to a standing position.

Hugh approached him. “I will accompany you back to the house,” he said, but Mr. Darcy refused.

“No, please don’t. I am not so exhausted that I cannot manage my horse. Instead, please stay here and keep on eye on my sister,” he requested.

“Upon my honor,” Hugh promised. He could not imagine what harm Mr. Darcy thought could come to his sister at the hunt picnic but he had never held guardianship over another person, either. He might act just as protectively toward Charlotte were the situations reversed, he reasoned to himself. Still, the palpable tension and sense of unease pouring out of Mr. Darcy was hard to ignore. Hugh struggled to determine its origins. Mr. Darcy had visibly snapped at George Wickham at breakfast—perhaps Mr. Darcy’s nerves were frayed by the embarrassing behavior of his in-law. George Wickham was embarrassing. Perhaps that was it.

Looking up at the billowing sky and the tree branches swaying back and forth, Hugh added, “Looks like the wind is picking up. I’m not sure how much longer our luck will hold out. We may be following you back very soon.”

Mr. Darcy turned to Georgiana. “Let me know when you have safely returned. Do not hesitate to wake me if necessary.” Georgiana nodded her assent.

Mr. Darcy tipped his hat to his fellow hunters, mounted his horse and rode off, anxious to take to his bed. His deep desire to keep Wickham from his sister was no match for the sudden fatigue that overcame him. In truth, he knew that Wickham had no access to a horse; he had walked with Hugh to the stables when he delivered the message. He knew he could rest easily. The Radcliffes were imminently trustworthy. Mercifully, the wind was at his back, and the breeze on the nape of his neck was a sweet comfort.

The party was just sitting down to luncheon in the dining room at Bennington Park when Fitzwilliam Darcy was seen walking through the front doors and hurrying upstairs to his room. His early return and silent retreat drew the attention of the party.

“Was that Mr. Darcy?” Charlotte asked her mother. With concern, Lady Radcliffe rose and excused herself to inquire after her guest.

In a few moments she returned.

“He is merely fatigued,” she declared. “Hastings, please have some hot soup sent up.”

“Very well, my lady,” he nodded and set off.

“Poor Elizabeth. Poor Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte said. How she missed Elizabeth’s company! She finally had Elizabeth there with her but what wretched luck that she should fall ill! Charlotte vowed to have Elizabeth stay at Ludlow Lodge to make up for this miss.  Then she would have Elizabeth all to herself. She smiled at the prospect and thus was able to bear the rest of the luncheon, during which Lady Catherine made her thoughts on the partridge pie and the pudding abundantly clear.

“I always make my partridge pie with a little sage, dear, and do not always find that raisins improve a pudding. I will have my cook send you my recipes, by post.”

“How kind,” Lady Radcliffe uttered through clenched teeth.

Afterwards Charlotte could not see her way through to the rest of the afternoon without some quiet time on her own. It was a sentiment shared by the rest of the party, and the women made their excuses and headed to their private chambers. Lydia led the way, declaring herself in urgent need of a nap.

Happy for the escape, Charlotte pulled on her cloak, exited the house and headed for the stables.

“Hello Quigley! Can you saddle up Indigo for me? I’d like a ride.”

“Certainly my lady,” the stable head replied.

Charlotte examined the sky as she waited, calculating her risk of getting caught in the rain. Although the clouds were threatening, she also knew that an English sky could stay grey all day and not a drop fall. To be safe, she decided she would not ride so far that she couldn’t make it back quickly if necessary.

She mounted Indigo and headed toward the trail that wound round the front of the grounds, close to the house.

“Good afternoon my lady,” a voice interrupted her thoughts. It was George Wickham, sitting on the front steps of Bennington Park, examining the sky as well.

“Good day! Where have you been all morning?” she asked, unaware of the growing instability he demonstrated at breakfast.

“I fell asleep in your father’s library. What a beautiful room,” he said, managing to rise from the steps without losing his balance.

“Yes, we are all fond of it.”

“I meant to read but the fire was blazing and before I knew it I had nodded off. I slept through lunch but Mrs. Holmes brought me a tray in the library upon my waking. Your poor husband had to witness my sleep.”

“Don’t worry about Guy. As long as you weren’t talking, he was probably happy,” she teased.

Wickham laughed along, noting with envy Charlotte’s lithe, trim figure and wondering with regret why he had not run into this particular young heiress in his previous visits to Meryton, before she was claimed. So many beautiful, rich ladies in the world, he mused. Why had he not tried harder to wriggle out of the marriage to Lydia?

Charlotte, meanwhile, looked down with concern at his head wound. The outer edges sported a ghastly yellow-green tinge, the sight of which turned Charlotte’s full stomach. Surely he did not mean to appear at the ball in such a state?

“I don’t mean to intrude, but do you need to see the doctor? You could make it to town in less than 20 minutes.”

Wickham demurred. “Your father did offer at breakfast ...”

Charlotte jumped off Indigo and offered him the reins. “Here. You can ride Indigo. She’s a good horse. I insist.” It was the proper thing for a hostess to do, she thought, to offer transport to an ailing man. Her parents would be proud.

“You say less than twenty minutes to town?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Lancaster, you are all kindness. Yes, I should probably get this taken care of before the ball tonight,” he said slyly, pointing at his head. He felt a twinge of guilt lying to the sweet well-meaning young thing, but she was as rich as the rest of them and would suffer no ill effects from his duplicity.

Charlotte smiled softly in contentment. The duties of a hostess could be all consuming, yet there were bright moments where tending to a guest’s needs proved highly satisfying.

“Indigo knows the way to Meryton by heart,” she instructed Wickham. A ride into town would be good exercise for her horse.

“She’s a smart one, albeit a bit stubborn at times, just so you are aware,” Charlotte ran her hand down Indigo’s black mane and spoke sweetly to her.

“Mr. Wickham will ride you today. Be good to him,” she whispered. “I only hope the sky does not open up on you.”

“I do not plan to be gone for hours,” Wickham laughed. “And if the rain does come, I can hide out in the tavern until it stops.”

“Dear me the ball will be a disaster if we have a downpour,” she fretted.

“Don’t worry about the ball, the women have been talking about nothing else for days. It will be a smash,” he promised.

“Perhaps you are right,” she smiled. Wickham looked Charlotte directly in the eyes and flashed her his most practiced smile.  Although she only had eyes for Guy, she felt momentarily charmed by the man, thinking briefly that it was not hard to understand how both Lydia and Georgiana could be easily swayed by his attentions. She wondered if the unassuming man with the pleasing address standing in front of her truly merited the scandalous reputation that preceded him? He seemed perfectly pleasant, she decided, surely not as bad as his detractors claimed.

“Well, I’ll be off then,” he started, as he mounted the animal cleanly. “Goodbye! See you in a little while, and thank you!”

Charlotte waved off Wickham and then turned and sat down on the wide smooth steps of Bennington Park, watching her horse clop steadily away. The sun peeked out from behind the darkening sky. It was exactly the type of atmosphere she loved, where the light changed constantly and the wind gusts sent the leaves somersaulting across the grounds. It was the type of afternoon that gave her the feeling that almost anything could happen.

George Wickham grinned contentedly to himself as Indigo plodded carefully ahead beneath a canopy of towering oak trees toward the front gates of the estate. He turned and gave another cheerful wave goodbye to Charlotte who, to his annoyance, was watching from the steps. A beam of sunshine broke through the cloud cover, illuminating the great golden façade of Bennington Park behind her. As soon as Indigo passed through the gate and was out of Charlotte’s sight, he turned the horse in the opposite direction from Meryton and headed full gallop down the lane where the carriages following the pack would be riding.

Georgiana Darcy was out there, somewhere.

G
eorge Wickham was not worried about the unsightly appearance of his bulging head wound. He would have Lydia rip up some linens or a bed sheet and wrap his head before the ball, but for now a ripe opportunity to find Georgiana was there for the taking.

All he wanted was to see her face again, he told himself.

It had been too long, far too long.

He had much to regret about those topsy-turvy days in Ramsgate—blissful moments convincing Georgiana to sneak away with him followed by the lingering shock that she had betrayed him by spilling all to her brother, the absolutely worst person to confide in and the death knell for his plot.

That day, in the flurry of accusations and heated emotions, he had let Fitzwilliam Darcy drive him away from Georgiana without even the courtesy of a proper goodbye. Yes, he had been offered money and yes, he had taken it, but he had taken the money to make Darcy go away, not Georgiana. He considered the payoff only a nominal fee and not enough to puncture their plans forever. No, he fully planned to rectify the mess he had made; he just never planned on losing full and total access to Georgiana.

But he had miscalculated his opponent—Darcy was nothing if not ruthless when it came to getting his way. Wickham had no idea what lies and untruths Darcy had fed Georgiana, all he knew was as the ensuing days turned into weeks and then turned into months he knew that time was not on his side. The longer they were kept apart the more it looked as if he had been bought off. Eventually he had moved on but he had never lost hope. He had kept up with Georgiana’s whereabouts and knew she had no serious suitors.

So he waited, flitting in and out of society, charming all as he went while his heart stayed aloof. No woman of recent acquaintance had ever offered him as promising a future as Georgiana Darcy had. If only he could regain Georgiana’s trust, and explain how everything was Darcy’s fault, then all would be well. He could make her understand. Maybe they could be friends again. He needed friends.

He needed rich friends.

He kicked Indigo sharply in her side, urging her forward.

For once in his life, Lady Luck was smiling down on George Wickham, for the carriage he was searching for was straight ahead and would soon be coming into sight.

“We’ll be turning back now missus,” the driver informed the ladies. Georgiana approved of the decision; the sky was darkening at a quick pace and she could smell the scent of rain on the air. She had already achieved her intended goal for the morning, which was to spend as much time as possible in the vicinity of Hugh Radcliffe.

“No way Mr. Cumberland will be carrying on with the hunt any longer with the foreboding skies, that’s a given,” the driver continued. “So settle back and I’ll have you home in no time.”