Trouble With Wickham (20 page)

This largesse was particularly sacrificial, given the enormous loss she suffered due to the careless actions of an unidentified member of Wickham’s search party. Amidst the tumult of arriving back with poor Wickham’s body, the aggrieved individual had carelessly placed his lit lantern upon the entry commode, accidently alighting her prized falcon on fire. The bird’s wing became engulfed in flames and though the fire was quickly spotted and extinguished, the feathers were incinerated, its beak charred and the gift ruined.

Her disillusionment with Lord Radcliffe’s management of his home and family, which had been slowly germinating throughout her stay, had flowered fully in the desecration of her beloved gift. Lord Hubert Radcliffe may not have personally lit the falcon on fire, but he might as well have.

His list of crimes and neglects continued—his son had not truly attended to Anne with any kind of obvious delight, despite more than enough opportunities to do so. She was immensely disappointed to discover that Lord Radcliffe had not conveyed a love of musical performance to his daughter Charlotte, nor did he provide for the pleasure of his guests by placing the pianoforte in the drawing room when there was plenty of room to do so.

Upon further inspection Lady Catherine determined that Lady Radcliffe’s style of interior decoration was not as refined as her own, pets had obviously been allowed to run amok in the house and on the furniture. The interior décor screamed for an extensive refurbishment that would have to be completed before her conscience could allow Anne to be installed there. The building itself was showing signs of age; it was practically vintage, she thought.

As for the mess that was made by providing George Wickham with the means to his end—a wild, unpredictable horse and a dangerously soggy spot of ground—she was certain that such an accident would never have happened on the perfectly even, hazardless grounds of Rosings Park.

“What a waste of a journey,” she sniffed to herself as her coach jolted out of the forecourt and made its way to the gates of Bennington Park.

“I quite enjoyed myself,” Anne said.

Anne’s connection with Oliver Cumberland had continued to grow right under her mother’s nose. The most unexpected evidence of their relationship only came to light after their departure.

“There is a tartan silk scarf left behind by that poor Miss de Bourgh,” Mrs. Holmes relayed to Charlotte as she sat with Georgiana and Elizabeth. “Please tell your mother that we have sent it back to Rosings Park via the post as per her request.”

“But that is Oliver Cumberland’s trademark tartan scarf. I am sure of it,” Charlotte said. “I distinctly remember seeing it around his neck the night of the ball.”

“I think not, my lady, as the maids found it in Miss de Bourgh’s private quarters.” She stopped short when she realized the implications of her find.

None of the ladies could be faulted for an inability to hide their looks of shock.

“It appears that our quiet Miss de Bourgh ended up forming some kind of friendship with Mr. Cumberland,” Charlotte mused. “But pray do not spread the story beyond this room, as Mamma has cautioned me severely against trading stories about our guests.”

“Her secret is safe with me,” Georgiana smiled.

“Anne de Bourgh who?” Elizabeth teased.

C
harlotte contentedly sipped her temperate tea before the drawing room fire, enjoying one last quiet afternoon at Bennington Park before departing the next morning with Guy for Ludlow Lodge. She noted with pleasure that Hastings had gladly implemented her suggestion that the tea cool slightly before being poured, and she was enjoying the improvement in household management that her advice had brought about.

“What a whirlwind the past few weeks turned out to be,” she exclaimed. She found herself surprisingly homesick for her quiet new life with Guy in Bedfordshire.

Guy lifted his head up from his novel and smiled at his wife.

“I have enjoyed the peace and quiet and lack of company of these past few days.”

“Poor Mamma, your hopes to have an uneventful hunt did not come to fruition.”

“Poor Wickham,” Lady Radcliffe sighed, dabbing her handkerchief to her dry eyes. Try as she might, Lady Radcliffe could not squeeze out a single tear over his accidental death. She feared she was becoming heartless in her old age.

“No one could have anticipated the demise of poor Mr. Wickham,” Lord Radcliffe said. “But we are not to blame for the incident; the doctor insists that Wickham’s days were numbered when he got here. It was simply poor timing for us. Now our lovely ball will always be associated with his passing.”

“Nor should Indigo be blamed,” Charlotte insisted, coming to the quick defense of her beloved horse. “Indigo is not a risk taker and has always known to keep clear of the marsh.”

“It is the disappearance of the silver I find confusing,” Lady Radcliffe scowled. “The inventory report shows a silver knife and teaspoon, as well as a silver nut cup missing.” She shook her head, disbelieving that one of her guests could have appropriated them. “Did they simply walk off on their own?”

“I am sure they will turn up eventually. Perhaps one of the maids miscounted,” Lord Radcliffe soothed her.

Charlotte thought of the hidden tray under Lydia’s bed, but decided against mentioning it. Despite her dislike for Lydia, even she did not want to unjustly pile the accusation of thief onto a grieving widow.

Lady Radcliffe went back to sorting through the invitations on her lap. 

“Mrs. Milton invites me to a small luncheon at her home day after tomorrow,” she observed.

“And you thought you didn’t have a friend left in the entire county,” Lord Radcliffe teased.

“Funny how eager everyone is to find out why Wickham came to be out on the marsh in the windstorm,” Hugh raised an eyebrow.

“Or why Mrs. Wickham blamed Mr. Darcy for his death” Guy added.

“On my honor as a hostess I will not give a hint that Wickham was obsessed with Miss Darcy,” Lady Radcliffe promised. “Miss Darcy’s secret is safe with me.”

“Your resolution not to gossip about your guests will be sorely tested Mamma with so many engagements,” Charlotte warned her.

“Not a peep will come out of my mouth. My goodness, if I had only known! Charlotte you must inform me much sooner of such important details in the future.”

“And me as well,” Hugh said. “Poor Miss Darcy. I had no idea that we were forcing her to keep company with her own private version of the Earl of Buckland! What hell we put them through!” Since her departure and the news of her past connection with Wickham, he longed to let Miss Darcy know that her reputation was not marred in his sight. Nay, he knew that within his sex swarmed liars and cheats, and even his own family had felt the sting of a desperate suitor’s duplicity. He wondered if Miss Darcy would soon cross his path again, or if he would be reduced to conjuring up artificial excuses to see her again.

He had to see her again.

“I would have asked Wickham and Lydia to leave upon their arrival had I known, for never would I have willingly caused discomfort to an invited guest,” Lord Radcliffe insisted. “I am quite embarrassed and feel terrible.”

“We look like fools!” Lady Radcliffe worried.

“Do not blame yourselves, for even I counseled Charlotte against telling anyone,” Guy admitted.

“So you knew too!” Lady Radcliffe exclaimed, distressed to find that she was the last to know.

“Did you not instruct me that a hostess should never ...” Charlotte tried to say but her mother cut her off.

“Never mind that. Talk amongst one’s own family does not count as gossip.”

“I will remember that for the future,” Charlotte smiled, but internally she thought,
I am never playing hostess again
!

“Never mind Charlotte, you did what you thought best, and that is a sentiment that every hostess should abide by. Now, if I may add one more observation, by my word I have never seen a more radiant widow than Mrs. Wickham climbing into the Darcy’s carriage departing for Pemberley.”

“She was absolutely euphoric,” Lady Radcliffe noticed.

Guy once again briefly tore himself away from his novel. “At the risk of sounding terribly unkind may I say good riddance?” He added drolly. “And I only saw her in passing.”

Hugh chuckled. “I never thought I would ever say this, but I feel unabashedly sorry for poor Darcy. He had quite the look of a hangdog on him as they pulled away.”

A knock at the door interrupted their chatter. Hastings stood at the door, a letter in his hand.

“The post, my lady,” he said, walking into the room. Lady Radcliffe took hold of the letters and examined the top one.

“It’s from Pemberley,” she announced.

“How marvelous!” Charlotte exclaimed.

She opened the letter and read it quickly.

“We are invited to Pemberley on Monday! Elizabeth writes she is much recovered and wishes to make up for the lost opportunity to visit with her good friend Charlotte and to repay the hospitality she felt we gave her.”

“How lovely Mamma!”

“She writes that everyone at Pemberley hopes everyone at Bennington Park is able to travel. It’s assumed the weather will hold for the next few weeks.”

“Should be delightful!” Lord Radcliffe beamed.

“I have no previous engagements,” Hugh responded, hoping he struck the right tone of nonchalance in his response. His mother looked at him and beamed.

“Oh, and there is a postscript! From Georgiana,” Lady Radcliffe added. She looked directly at her son again, unable to stop grinning.

He cocked his head and said, “Yes, Mamma? Why do you only look at me? Please read it aloud to all of us.”

His mother continued. “She writes, ‘
May I add a note of gratitude for your warm hospitality and add my hopes for your acceptance of the invitation Monday next.
’”

“How lovely,” Lord Radcliffe replied. “We shall not disappoint her!” he chuckled.

Hugh found Georgiana’s postscript purposely vague, yet admittedly he could not expect any more than unspecific encouragement from a young woman of propriety to whom he was not engaged. He looked up to see his sister’s gaze fixed upon him. “Dear sister you can stop smiling at me too.”

“Can a sister not smile at her brother?”

“No.”

“Wait. And there is a second postscript, addressed to Hugh, specifically.”

“Oh?” Charlotte said, instantly amused. “Read that one aloud too!”

Her mother obliged.

“
The Hon. Hugh Radcliffe,

Greetings and salutations! I hope this letter finds you well.  I do say that little Georgie and I have adjusted quite well to life at Pemberley, although our grief knows no bounds.

In grateful thanks for your kind ministrations during my hour of need I am so hoping that you will be able to come to Pemberley as requested.  I would love to see your whole family, but if they cannot attend do not hesitate to visit me alone at my little cottage. Memories of your many kindnesses assuage my grief more than you could ever know.

Your obedient servant,

Mrs. Lydia Wickham.

Lord Radcliffe exclaimed. “My goodness! She writes with a familiarity that does not bode well for you, my dear son!”

Hugh’s horror at being singled out by Lydia caused him to stammer in response. “But ... why ... I have given her no reason to write specifically to me,” he insisted.

“I believe she grew fond of your condolence visits. She quite lit up when you walked in and always seemed fairly cross to everyone when you were gone,” Charlotte said. “Those were only my observations—I could be mistaken.”

“Kindness delivered to an unattached woman will always be perceived disproportionately,” his father advised him. “And a new widow, well my dear son.” He shook his head. “I find widows are highly sensitive, as a lot. More sensitive than widowers, don’t you agree my dear wife?”

“Don’t we know that!” Lady Radcliffe replied.

Guy, meanwhile, raised his eyebrow at his friend.

“An unattached Lydia Wickham! Did we not describe that earlier as the stuff of nightmares?”

Hugh shuddered at the development.

Lord Radcliffe continued on. “We have no other choice but to accept the invitation as a whole family!”

“Dear Guy, Ludlow Lodge can wait another week for our return, can it not? I cannot leave my dear brother defenseless against Mrs. Wickham, can I?” Charlotte entreated her husband.

“Nor can I leave my dear friend to battle her off alone either,” Guy added. “Rest assured Ludlow Lodge will soldier on without us. I must write to Belmont, however, and inform him of our change in plans.”

“And I will write immediately to accept Elizabeth’s kind invitation,” Lady Radcliffe said. “Now, what’s this bulky letter from Rosings Park?” she wondered aloud, breaking the seal.

Out fell the tartan cravat worn by Oliver Cumberland.

“Oh dear,” Lady Radcliffe, exclaimed, her face falling as her eyes scanned the paper. “I fear we have insulted Lady Catherine,” she said. “I have failed as a hostess.”

“What do you mean Mamma?” Charlotte said, coming to sit next to her and looking at the paper, which held no greeting or pleasant salutation but merely the words “
Please instruct your staff to be more careful in their assumptions. I recognize this scarf as belonging to Mr. Cumberland, and your insult has been taken as intended by my daughter.”

“Oh dear,” Charlotte exclaimed.

“What is Oliver Cumberland’s scarf doing here?” Lord Radcliffe asked.

“Our maids found it in Miss de Bourgh’s room, and thought it was hers, and mistakenly sent it back to Rosings Park. I fear we have greatly insulted Lady Catherine.”

Lord Radcliffe laughed so heartily that he choked on his tea. He waved off the worried looks of his family as he cleared his throat repeatedly.

“No, I am fine! I am fine! What a cropper! I am just so relieved to be rid of that old cow. I welcome any excuse to be cut by Lady Catherine in the future.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Lady Radcliffe agreed. “Oh dear.”

“What now Mamma?” Hugh asked.

“Lady Catherine has included her cook’s recipe for partridge pie with sage.”