Page 16 of Elizabeth is not a Bennet

Wickham’s Bedchamber

Pig in the Poke

Earlier in the Evening

Wickham stared pensively into the fire, the quilt from his bed wrapped around his shoulders, his fingers curled about a plain earthenware mug of heavily honeyed tea that steamed pleasantly.

There was a knock at Wickham’s door, and he called, “Come in!”

The door opened to reveal a knot of officers, led by Captain Denny, who stepped a few feet into the room and rolled his eyes. “Wickham! What are you doing? Come! We must be off to the Golden Daffodil for drinking and cards!”

Wickham turned an irritable look on his friend and shook his head. “I have a splitting headache. Go away!”

“Now, now, old chap,” Lieutenant Pratt said jovially, wandering in to take his place next to Denny. “You truly cannot stand us up like that! Our party will be far less congenial without you there! ”

“Then let us have our fun in the Pig in the Poke,” Wickham muttered. “I see no reason to gallivant off to the other side of Meryton when we have a fine pub directly below us.”

Denny waved an extravagant arm and said, “Wickham, old chap, Pratt tells me the ale at the Golden Daffodil is quite the best he has ever had! I am determined to try it!”

“I can come with you tomorrow.” Wickham suggested.

“We must go tonight!” Smythe declared, drifting into the room and grabbing Denny’s arm. “We will go tonight! You can never tell about the weather, you know. It is fine now, and tomorrow night it may be raining, and the next, and the next. Come on, Wickham! A few good drinks, and your headache will be gone.”

“No!” Wickham snapped, huddling into his blanket and glowering at his friends. “Go away! I declare, my headache is even worse with all your noise!”

The three officers, after a little more joshing and ribbing, obediently retreated out the door and shut it with a bang, which made Wickham wince.

Ten minutes later, the upper level of the inn was quiet, and Wickham straightened his body, rose from his chair, put the blanket on his bed, and prepared to do a bit of investigation .

He had initially dismissed Darcy’s concerns when handing over the demanded list of militia officers, solidly of the opinion that Miss Stowe’s mysterious attacker was most likely some hired ruffian or footpad, who had slid into Meryton’s environs unseen, executed his dastardly plan, and slipped away without a trace. But Wickham was an intelligent man, and he could not dismiss Darcy’s suspicions out of hand; a few days of cogitation had led him reluctantly to the conclusion that his old enemy might have a point. It would be difficult indeed for a stranger to sneak into Meryton unnoticed – the small town matrons knew every face in their domain, and were curious about everyone new. If any stranger had arrived by post chaise or horse on the days before the attack, Miss Stowe’s relations would have learned of it.

The logical conclusion, then, was that the unknown assassin was indeed a member of the militia. With that, so far, Wickham agreed with Darcy. It was on the next point that he differed – Darcy was inclined to believe that the gunman was a private. But then, Darcy, being of the upper classes himself, would naturally think better of the officers than of the simple enlisted men. Wickham, himself a mere steward’s son, wore no such blinders of loyalty.

If Miss Stowe truly had inherited an estate, it stood to reason that her family was also gentry. Ergo, it followed that the Stowes were quite possibly acquainted with at least some of the officers. Perhaps a member of the Stowe family had solicited the help of a sympathetic second son to remove the estranged heiress from the equation, freeing up the estate to go to someone he or she felt more deserved it.

Having concluded that, Wickham had decided that he would sleuth around for clues to the identity of Miss Stowe’s attacker. If the shot was orchestrated by one of his fellow officers, even if he had hired a private to actually do the fatal deed, there would almost certainly be some evidence of such a thing. If Wickham found proof of the architect of the murder attempt and presented it – either to Darcy or to Mr. Bennet – he could well be rewarded monetarily. And, even assuming he was not – which was a depressing thought, but a likely one, considering Darcy’s stingy close-fistedness – it would probably soften Darcy towards himself enough that he might keep his good reputation in Meryton, along with his teeth.

Wickham laid his hand lightly upon his door handle and stood listening for any sound from the passage outside. All was silent and deserted, the maids gone downstairs or home from their daily work, the officers departed for their drinking and gaming. Wickham smiled in satisfaction and slipped into the hall, surveying the row of doors.

He had initially been dismayed when he realized that his bedchamber door came with no lock and had questioned Bertha when she visited his room to clean. No, none of the doors had locks, the girl had said. Mr. Brinn had enough to think about, running his inn and pub, without having to worry about a great many keys going missing, and patrons locking themselves out of their rooms – or into them. No, he had never been worried about thefts, he knew all his staff well, and they were good, honest creatures.

Now Wickham was glad for the lack of security as he let himself unobtrusively into Smythe’s room, his candle flickering. Even if he did not find the evidence he sought, the deeper knowledge of his fellow officers would be useful. For instance, it was intriguing to know that Smythe left his spare coins lying haphazardly across his dresser-top. Wickham gave them a long wistful look – it would be easy would be to sweep up just a couple. But he turned resolutely away; Smythe might wear a careless demeanor, but it was possible that he was sharply observant beneath it and well aware of his surroundings.

A pile of letters, discovered in a drawer, was tucked under his arm to peruse in his own room. On to search Pratt’s room, and here temptation loomed large again. A fine gold watch had been left carelessly lying, a tempting target for any man familiar with the inside of a pawn shop. Appalling carelessness, Wickham thought censoriously, by all three of his friends – Smythe and his coins, Pratt and his watch, Denny and his pretty little trinkets. Tempting targets, all, and plainly his companions were accustomed to acquaintances of the strictly honest variety. Wickham shook his head as he went back to his own room to read the letters from all three rooms.

Most of the missives were innocuous and frankly boring – letters from sisters and mothers and friends, debt receipts, letters from haberdasheries. The piles grew to be returned to their rooms before their owners did. Wickham yawned over yet another letter and laid it aside, and lifted one from the ever-dwindling stack before him.

The address caught his dulling eye, and he perused the first line with a vague consideration that deepened into a sharp alertness. Here was something that would interest both Darcy and Bennet a great deal.

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Mr. Bennet’s Bedchamber

Longbourn

The Next Mornin g

Mr. Stanley stepped into his master’s room and took a few steps toward Mr. Bennet, who was seated on a chair near the fire reading a copy of Macbeth . It was but nine o’clock in the morning, and as usual, Bennet was enjoying the hour before breakfast with a book and a blaze.

“Stanley, what is it?” Bennet asked, looking up with a wrinkled brow. He knew that his butler would not interrupt at this hour save for important reasons.

“A Lieutenant Wickham has called, and he claims to have information about the identity of the man who shot Miss Stowe.”

Bennet’s languor gave way to a sudden spurt of energy.

“Indeed? Help me dress!”

Thus it was that George Wickham was left to kick his heels for only twenty minutes in Mr. Bennet’s library. The lieutenant found himself mildly tempted once again; he had no interest in reading books, but some of the titles he could see were obviously valuable. But of course he could not exactly sneak books out of the house.

The door opened, and the butler entered with a middle-aged man at his heels. dressed in country attire. Wickham stood up and the butler said, “Lieutenant Wickham, sir,” and retreated out the door .

Bennet waited until the door was shut and then said, “Lieutenant Wickham, I am Mr. Bennet. You know something about the man who attacked my niece?”

Wickham hesitated. His inclination was to bargain for money, but there was a dangerous expression on his host’s face which suggested that such a course of action would be unwise.

“If you will read this letter, sir.” he suggested, pulling the vital document out of his coat and handing it over.

Bennet walked over to a chair near the fire and sank into it, even as he spread out the document. “Do sit down, Mr. Wickham.”

Wickham did so and waited patiently as his host read the letter. He had perused it several times himself, and thus he could well understand the look of horror and fury which filled Mr. Bennet’s face.

Greymere

14 th October, 1811

Captain Denny ,

I find your behavior to be more that of a shopkeeper than the second son of a reputable family. As you well know, money is not readily available at the moment; all I can promise is one hundred pounds. However, once Ravenswood is securely in my hands, I can pay you an additional four hundred pounds. In addition, you will have my ardent gratitude, and I hope that is enough for any man! Indeed, I relish meeting you again and expressing my appreciation in person.

I am trusting you to be careful in your preparations; it would be most unfortunate if someone were to connect Miss Stowe’s accident with you, and through you, me.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Moira Stowe

Wickham waited patiently until Mr. Bennet lifted a pale face to him and demanded, “How did you come by this letter?”

Wickham spread his hands out and produced a genial grin. “I stole it last night when the other officers were away drinking. ”

Bennet tilted his head and frowned. “I am grateful to know that Denny is the perpetrator of this outrage if, in fact, the letter is genuine.”

“Of course it is genuine!”

“Lieutenant Wickham, forgive me if I am befuddled. Why were you searching your fellow officers’ bedchambers while they were out?”

Wickham smirked and admitted, “The truth is that I am a poor man, and I was hoping that I might earn some kind of reward if I discovered the identity of Miss Stowe’s attacker.”

“And you suspected your fellow officers. May I ask why?”

Wickham blew out a breath, considered Bennet’s countenance, and decided on guarded honesty. “Mr. Darcy approached me some days ago seeking information about the officers in the regiment. His arguments, that a militia officer or private, might be responsible for the attack, seemed sensible. In thinking back, it was Denny who asked the most questions about Miss Stowe’s habits, so I thought it reasonable to search his room to see if there was any evidence that he was involved.”

Bennet’s brow rose throughout this explanation. “So you are a friend of Mr. Darcy’s? ”

Again, an easy lie came to his lips, but there was no point. Darcy would doubtless clarify the situation with great enthusiasm.

“On the contrary, Darcy and I are on very poor terms,” Wickham confessed. “Indeed, my initial assistance to the master of Pemberley was based on fear as opposed to a hope of reward.”

“May I inquire as to why Darcy dislikes you so much?”

“Well,” and here Wickham winced, “the truth is that I grew up on Mr. Darcy’s estate, and was the venerable Mr. Darcy’s godson. I have overly expensive tastes, and a penchant for gambling, and Darcy is an old stick in the mud – from my perspective, anyway. I confess to having run up some debts which Darcy paid off for me. So yes, I am no saint, and Darcy is rather close to one, so you see…”

“I do see,” Bennet said drily, leaning back in his chair. “Well, I will give you credit for some degree for truthfulness, at least; Darcy already told me of your extravagant ways, and that you spent the three thousand pounds he gave you in exchange for a church living in just a few short years.”

Wickham face settled into a sullen grimace. Why must Darcy persecute him by spreading such information among the local gentry ?

“So you came here in hopes of a financial reward,” Bennet remarked.

“Yes,” Wickham said, “along, perhaps, with your support here in Meryton? I do need to settle down, and the militia is a reasonable situation for a man like me. Given that Darcy dislikes me so much, I fear being driven away before I have a chance to establish myself.”

“Is the militia really a good choice? You are not paid well as a militia lieutenant, and I assume that since your father was a steward, you do not have an estate somewhere providing you income.”

“That is true enough. I was accepted, I believe, because I was educated at Cambridge and look the part, but I have no income.”

He waited, attempting to appear as genial and frank as possible, and did not know whether to be relieved or nervous when Bennet laughed suddenly.

“Am I correct, Mr. Wickham,” he asked, “that your best hope of a comfortable life is to wed an heiress?”

It appeared that anxiety was the proper emotion, but then Bennet seemed a clever man, and this was not a difficult leap to make.

“Yes,” Wickham confessed .

“To my niece Miss Stowe, perhaps?”

This time, Wickham’s wince was not in any way practiced. “I would very much like to wed a woman like Miss Stowe, but I realize I have no chance with her, not with Darcy showing her such attention.”

Bennet narrowed his eyes and said, “I am not aware that Darcy has definite intentions toward my niece, but I will certainly not give her my blessing to wed a man who cares about her fortune more than herself.”

Wickham nodded and said, “Well, most heiresses think the same thing. Now Mr. Bennet, I need to depart as I do not want anyone to discover that I visited you. I must beg you to keep your own counsel as to how you determined that Denny is the villain.”

Bennet rose to his feet and stretched out a hand, somewhat to Wickham’s surprise. “I have not thanked you, Lieutenant, and that is poorly done of me. I am most appreciative of your efforts on Elizabeth’s behalf, even if it was done completely due to your own self-interest.”

“That is not entirely true,” Wickham protested, reaching out to shake his host’s hand. “I may be a selfish creature, but I do not want any young lady murdered for her fortune. I will claim that much credit for myself.”

“Again, I appreciate your assistance and honesty in this matter, Wickham. Truly, I am in your debt, and there will be a reward, I promise you, monetarily and societally.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bennet. Good day.”