Trouble With Wickham (17 page)

“Just as well,” Georgiana smiled at her cousin. She slunk back against the upholstery and closed her eyes. Her stomach was full and her mind drifted back over the pleasanter memories of that morning, memories that involved her and the young heir. After her brother’s sudden departure, Hugh had positioned himself in her circle for the remainder of the picnic. He was all politeness, yet at the same time, she could sense his favor. She was falling for him, of that she was sure. She felt it most when she was away from him, finding herself drifting off into daydreams. The dreams were always the same: suddenly, she would find herself alone with him, under a tree, and always ended with her in his arms. She sighed; the feelings were intoxicating.

George Wickham saw the carriage coming toward him and stopped the horse. He realized that he did not have to move an inch. His heart pounded as he waited with anticipation for this long imagined rendezvous. He marveled at the effortless chain of events that had led him to this moment—an hour ago he was asleep on the chaise lounge in Lord Radcliffe’s library, only dreaming of such an encounter. Now, unexpectedly, he was about to live it.

He motioned for the carriage to slow down and the driver heeded. The carriage rolled to a stop. Wickham approached the side window, bending down to peer inside. He saw her face before she saw his; he saw her expression change in quick succession from confusion to surprise to delight, as a saucy smile spread over her face. He grabbed his hat at the brim and removed it, making a quick little bow of the head.

His weary heart, which had been asleep for a long time, began to stir.

Georgiana rolled down the carriage window. As she did so, she heard Fitzwilliam’s warning voice echoing in her mind. She promptly ignored it.

“George Wickham!” she exclaimed. The sound of her soft, sweet voice saying his name transfixed him. A thousand long buried feelings moved within him and he tenderly replied, “Georgiana, my dear.”

“Do you know Miss de Bourgh?” Georgiana nodded toward her carriage mate.

Wickham leaned forward to peer deeper into the carriage and his head spun from the sudden movement and the awkward angle. There seemed to be two Anne de Bourghs in the carriage, and two Georgianas. The double vision was an annoying side effect from the fall but it wouldn’t last, he consoled himself.

He kept his composure, so he believed, until the double vision subsided, but his high spirits plummeted just as quickly as they had soared.

Blast and damnation!

He did not plan on having this conversation in front of Miss de Bourgh. He did not want a witness; he wanted Georgiana and he wanted her alone.

Suddenly, he did not feel so lucky.

“Congratulations on your marriage,” Georgiana smirked. “And your son.”

Wickham blinked. There were two Georgianas again. He blinked repeatedly until the two merged back into one.

“Thank you,” he said, sensing a lack of authenticity in her sentiment.

“It proved me right,” she smiled back at him, and he tilted his head, not understanding her meaning.

“How so?”

“Fitzy always said you were a mercenary, but I told him he was wrong. Your marriage to Miss Lydia proved me right, as there is obviously no great fortune to be made in that match. So true love must have prevailed. Congratulations.”

He felt the intended edge of sarcasm in her comments. Inside the carriage the two Anne de Bourgh’s turned their heads away from him, trying but failing to suppress a laugh. So he was an object of amusement and ridicule? Of course Georgiana would poke fun at him and Lydia; of course she would. She knew nothing of his heart or of his mind, his regrets or his recriminations. He could feel the encounter slipping out of his control, yet he did not have the self-possession to refrain from defending himself.

Georgiana was staring at him, daring him to redeem himself, knowing that he couldn’t.

“What do you know about me anymore Georgiana?” he asked, his anger forming, growing.

“I knew all I ever needed to know the day you let Fitzy chase you away.  You weren’t the man I thought you were George.”

So she had cared. He thought so. Perhaps she blamed Fitzwilliam too.

“He blocked my access to you Georgiana. And he had the law on his side. He wouldn’t even let me speak to you, and why pen a letter I knew would be burned upon receipt?”

“You didn’t fight for me George. You folded. You took the money.”

“I was going to come back for you.”

“But you didn’t. You didn’t. I waited for you to come for me. I told Fitzy you would, and you didn’t. And he has never let me forget it.”

“But Fitzwilliam made it impossible. You know how he is.”

“Yes, I know how he is. And he is right. In the end he is always right.” She paused and then added, “I wonder, did you ever fight for anyone, or anything, other than what would line your purse?”

George winced at the blow.

So he hadn’t fought for her—so what? How quick she was to forget what he had done for her and for Fitzwilliam, and for the Darcy family name. He, the useless George Wickham, had kept her secret over the intervening years, an intangible gift that neither cherished as they ought.

She was naïve in the ways of the world, protected by a powerful, rich man like Darcy who would always pay to make any trouble go away. He had bought George’s silence and cooperation, but George Wickham was tired of cooperating.

His heart hardened against her. The Georgiana Darcy of his memories was only a fantasy and gone forever.

As for her questioning his honor; he owed her no answer. Not here, not now, not in front of the simpering Anne de Bourgh. He may have little on this earth, but even he had his limits. The meeting was a hapless disaster that should never have happened.

He put his hat back on his head, said a brisk, “Good day” and trotted off but not before peals of feminine laughter rang out from the open window of the carriage and lingered in the wind.

“You can go now,” he heard Anne shout at the driver.

He rode away from the carriage. Anger, shame, regret, and a deep desire to retaliate battled for the primary emotion in his mind.

How he hated that family.

He would no longer cooperate with them. He had to think of himself, of his own name, his own son, instead of always protecting Georgiana’s name, as if her reputation was infinitely more important than his own. He and Lydia had no home of their own and no credit. What income he had was only enough to live prudently. Why would he sit back and let himself be sentenced to a life of prudence by Darcy, a man whose own cup runneth over?

If Georgiana had not spilled the plans for their elopement to Darcy then what a life he would be living now! He would have been good to her; the money would have made it easy to do so. She, however, had never paid any kind of price for her part in the affair. No, she could be as cruel as her brother yet she was never called on it. Word had not gotten out that she had been alone with him in Ramsgate. Her present clean reputation rested solely on his silence.

Did she merit continued good will on his end anymore?

He hardly thought so.

He searched the horizon for the pack but saw nothing. Only flat fields, copses of trees, and banks of heather. The sky darkened, groaning under the weight of the rain within. No one, not even the sky, could withstand such pressure.

Yet he, George Wickham, was determined to withstand the pressures of his world. He had no status or fortune, but he was not without ammunition. He had within him the power to ruin Georgiana’s reputation in the same the way the Darcy family had ruined his. Somewhere out in the fields was Hugh Radcliffe, a man of pedigree with parents to impress and a family reputation to uphold; how desirable would Georgiana Darcy be to him once he knew George Wickham had been there first? That he had pressed his lips against hers? He could tell Lord Radcliffe how little resistance she had put up.

He could insinuate that they hadn’t stopped at that, either. No one could prove otherwise and to sow a seed of doubt might be all that was needed to see Darcy’s plans for his sister unravel.

He had to do it now. He had to take advantage of this God-given opportunity to get his revenge. Darcy had been watching him ever since he arrived, distrusting him, expecting the worst. Well, he thought, never let it be said that George Wickham did not deliver what was expected of him, he laughed.

But first he had to find Radcliffe and that was proving to be a challenge. He was at a disadvantage at not knowing the land. As he turned each corner in the road he kept expecting to see the pack appearing on the horizon but instead only a new set of hills or ground or clump of trees rose to defy him.

He could no longer stick to the road, as he had hoped to do. He would crisscross the countryside instead. He prodded Indigo with his heel and she took off, flying evenly over the fields.

She knows this land like the back of my hand
, Wickham thought. Indigo made a fine ally, but then animals were always more inherently trustworthy than humans—more predictable, too.

He prodded her to go even faster and she responded to his command in a way that restored his injured pride. As Indigo’s long strides took Wickham deep into the countryside little did he know that the pack he sought was arriving at the forecourt of Bennington Park, dismounting from their horses and handing the reigns over to the waiting stable hands. Oliver Cumberland, with his legendary bravura, had shepherded his wards back to safety before a single drop of rain hit the ground. For now, the fox would live to see another day.

George Wickham however, had no such guide at his service.

The sky turned black, the wind reached gale-like intensity and even the air seemed angry with George Wickham. The first hard drops of rain hit him smack in the face and he shook his fist at the sky and rode defiantly onward. Hugh Radcliffe was out there somewhere and he would find him.

Presently the open fields ended and he came to the edge of a large marsh, filled with several inches of murky, standing water. He could not tell how wide it was, nor whether he could ford it safely, and to him it represented yet another obstacle the callous universe had laughingly thrown in his way. He growled with frustration but then came to his senses, gradually realizing the massive error in his logic. He paused and swayed lightly back and forth in the wind as Indigo paced in a circle beneath him.

What was he thinking in approaching Radcliffe? What gain would come of it?

There was no profit in that.

No, he had been mistaken in targeting the young heir. Instead, he would go to Darcy first. In excruciating detail he could describe to Fitzwilliam the exact story he planned to tell Radcliffe. Then he would stand back and wait for Darcy to ask him his price. Darcy’s nerves were visibly on edge; Wickham guessed he’d capitulate easily. He had a figure in mind, the price of Georgiana’s reputation. And it had many zeros after it.

A slow, wicked smile crept across his face. Fitzwilliam Darcy would provide for his Lydia and Georgie, and provide nicely. How proud Lydia would be of him. How happy she would be.

Wickham considered the marsh before him and the possibility that Darcy was somewhere beyond it. What was this random obstacle that would keep him from his fate—nothing but a little water, a spot of soggy ground. He would not let the ground or the water or the elements stop him. He prodded Indigo to advance. She refused. He persisted, but she refused to budge.

They circled the ground, the rain pelting them endlessly, noisily. In frustration he scanned the horizon it; it was barren and desolate and even if he were to encounter Darcy no conversation of any worth could take place now. There was no shame in retreating, he argued with himself.

He pointed Indigo in the direction they had come and urged her forward. Perhaps another opportunity, an easier one, would present itself tonight at the ball. Yes, he could pull Darcy away then and taunt him with details and threats. Darcy would be forced to maintain his composure in public while fears for his sister’s reputation ate away inside of him. He savored the feeling of sweet intimidation as the image played out in his mind.

Yet as soon as he thought it, Georgiana’s words taunted him.

Did he ever fight for anything?

Of course he had, he told himself, considering his actions of the past year or two. And yet, he could come up with no examples of such perseverance.

He could not lay claim to one returned letter, nor had a single door slammed in his face to support his claims of perseverance.  He had not braved bone-chilling cold and snow while walking miles to see her, nor tossed and turned through sleepless nights filled with endless despair.

Instead, he had folded and taken the money.

He seethed with shame and anger and regret at his inaction. Action. He needed to take action; nay he
wanted
to take action, now. Would he let the rain, a marsh, a horse, stop him in his pursuit of the pack?

No, he would not.

He would do this one thing, and then he would have purged any hint of cowardice from his soul. Whatever the outcome, he would look back at this one moment in time and know that, amidst the pounding rain and the wailing winds, he had taken action and made one rich man’s life miserable.

He pointed Indigo back in the direction of the marsh and prodded her to increase her pace. As they approached the marsh he felt the triumph of his command over the earth, over Darcy, over this animal.

Indigo, however, moved by instinct and not by the whims of her strange rider. She took Wickham to the edge of the water and then, having been trained by Charlotte to never go into the marsh, stopped abruptly. Wickham, however, continued moving forward, flying over the horse’s head and hitting the ground hard, his face sinking into the inch or two of standing water covering the marshy ground. His poor, battered skull could not withstand a second blow in so short a time span and, upon impact, he blacked out.

Indigo, released of her burden, turned and galloped away to the cover of the woods to wait out the storm.

The rain came down steadily; the water rose.