Page 26 of Elizabeth is not a Bennet
Lion and the Lamb Inn
Claybourne
Harold Stowe was, in Wickham’s private opinion, rather dull company – young, scarcely more than a pup, still tied to his mother’s apron strings, and not easily amused. Nonetheless, it was his job to charm and befriend the young man, and so they met at the Lion and the Lamb multiple times over the course of a week. Stowe rarely paid for drinks, instead spending his time nursing a single flagon and bitterly denouncing the woes of being poor.
It was not greatly diverting, but it did allow Wickham to play the role of worldly savior, taking an encouraging interest in the boy and paying off Stowe’s bar tab with a wink. His aim succeeded; young Harold Stowe thought of George Wickham as a fast friend, ‘one of the good ones.’
Now at last, Stowe had invited Wickham to Greymere, and Wickham lingered impatiently in the courtyard of the inn, waiting for the promised carriage to arrive. He was eager to meet Harold on his own turf, so to speak, and even more eager to meet Mrs. Stowe.
While Greymere would be young Mr. Stowe’s estate when he turned one and twenty, but it had not been difficult to discern that it was his mother who was truly in charge. Harold’s complaints often revolved around the meager allowance his mother permitted him, though Wickham’s experienced eye recognized good attire when he saw it – Stowe’s coats always sat well on his shoulders, flattering his slender frame, and the colors went well with his hair, which was as flaming red as his half-sister’s.
For all that Stowe complained of his poverty, he never directly criticized his mother, though it was not obvious whether fear or genuine affection stayed his tongue. Of more interest was the fact that Harold never once mentioned his half-sister, Elizabeth Stowe. Wickham, frustrated, dug deep in his purse one night to get the lad into his cups, but even sagging and giggling in his chair, Harold had not spoken of his sister, in spite of a few casual remarks on Wickham’s part about his own entirely mythical sisters.
Wickham was distracted by his thoughts as the Greymere carriage rolled into the inn’s yard, pulled by a nicely matched pair. Wickham recognized it as an older carriage, as a stable boy leapt forward to put down the steps, but still sturdy, and he let out a breath of relief as the boy closed the door and the air rapidly warmed from the heated brick placed on the floor. It was good to be out of the wind, at least, and he blew on his hands before leaning over to hover them above the hot brick. The seats were plush velvet, and a lantern hung from one hook to illuminate the clean interior. Far better a carriage than to ride to Greymere on a rented horse. Nor was he unpleasantly jolted and bounced as they started on the three-mile trip to Greymere. Outside the carriage, snow was falling soft and persistent, muffling the sounds of the wheels and the horses’ hooves. He was happy to be inside a steady, well-insulated carriage, warm brick and warm light around him. Wickham settled back to enjoy the ride, reviewing his plans in his mind.
The feel of the ride changed when they turned off of the road onto the carriage drive up to the mansion. Wickham leaned forward to open the curtain and survey the estate as they approached. The fences along the road stood in need of repair, the wood old and rotting, while the pillars at the gate were merely crumbling stone. Greymere House was a sturdy edifice of red brick with clean windows and no great points of interest. A searching glance around the yard as he alighted showed untrimmed trees, empty flower beds, and a stone wall tumbling down.
He gathered himself and his cane and mounted the steps to the door, but he had scarcely lifted his hand to knock when the aged oak swung open. A white-haired, bent-back butler welcomed him in, a neat maid standing nearby to take both hat and cane and vanish with them. Wickham glanced around the dim hall but did not have time for more than a cursory look before his name was announced in wheezy rheumatic accents. He pasted on his usual charming smile and stepped into the drawing room, where Mrs. and Mr. Stowe were waiting for him.
The first thing he noticed was that it was blessedly warm. Whatever penury had led to the dilapidated grounds he had seen on the way over, there was no stinting on firewood or on creature comforts. The furniture was of the latest fashion, rich mahogany gleaming in the light, with plush upholstery, and several polished brass candlesticks held numerous wax candles.
Nor did Mrs. Stowe deprive herself of expensive garb; a handsome redheaded woman, she was dressed in a green silk gown that looked peculiarly striking on her, a silken shawl of red and green paisley draped artfully over her shoulders. All in all, it was a welcoming scene, and one Wickham appreciated.
“Wickham!” Harold Stowe exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “It is so good to see you this evening! Mamma, may I please introduce you to my friend, Mr. Wickham. Wickham, my mother, Mrs. Stowe.”
The lady stood and swept into a graceful curtsey, which Wickham returned with his most dramatic bow. He took a moment upon straightening to examine Mrs. Stowe, and was struck by how very handsome she was. Given her son’s age, she could not be any younger than five and thirty, and yet she was quite one of the prettiest women Wickham had ever seen. She resembled her son’s half-sister a great deal, with the same impressive red hair and lovely brown eyes – more piercing than Miss Stowe’s – and slender figure and even the shape of her face. She had left behind the first bloom of youth but had grown beautifully into maturity.
“Mr. Wickham,” Mrs. Stowe said with a charming smile, “it is good to meet you.”
“It is my pleasure to meet you as well,” Wickham replied, recovering himself. “I am grateful and honored to be here. It was most kind of Mr. Stowe to invite me to dine with you both today.”
“We always enjoy new acquaintances,” Mrs. Stowe replied, and waved a delicate hand toward the chair next to young Mr. Stowe. “Please do sit down, Mr. Wickham.”
Wickham did so and, after holding his hands near the fire, remarked, “It is wonderfully warm in here. I have never been to Northumberland before and am most impressed with the strength of all those who reside here. London is far milder.”
“Do you hail from London then, Mr. Wickham?” Mrs. Stowe asked, tilting her head beguilingly .
“No, but I have lived there for some years,” Wickham replied. “I grew up in Derbyshire, and the winters are cold there, but I suppose in the last years my blood has thinned, and I am not nearly as hardy as I used to be!”
This had the desirable effect of producing a proud smile on the face of Mr. Stowe, who obviously liked the idea of being considered robust.
“I prefer Town myself,” Mrs. Stowe said, just as the door opened and a neatly dressed maid appeared with tea and scones. Mrs. Stowe poured out tea with grace and aplomb, and Wickham found himself enjoying his time considerably, to the point that he had to remember what he was doing here; namely, gathering information.
“Do you also enjoy Town, Stowe?” he asked the younger man, and Harold shook his head and said, “I far prefer the Country to London; one cannot hunt in Town, and all those tiresome parties and the like sound dreadful to me!”
“My dear son,” Mrs. Stowe said condescendingly, “you have far too much of your father in you. He too disliked Town, preferring to bury himself in the Country all year round. I should have birthed a daughter!”
Harold Stowe flushed at these words, not surprisingly, and Wickham said cheerfully, “As for me, I find benefits to both. I quite agree that the society in London is marvelous, especially during the Season, but the air here in Northumberland in clean and crisp, do you not think? I always dreaded London at this time of year, with all the smoke and smell of coal!”
Mrs. Stowe lifted one delicate red eyebrow and said, “I have never been in London during the late autumn and winter, so I must cede to your authority on the matter. Does your family have a house in Town?”
Wickham had pondered how best to answer a question like this, and thus was ready with an answer. He spread his hands out and produced a frank smile. “Indeed, they do not, Mrs. Stowe. I am an orphan, and the son of a steward, so there is no family house, certainly.”
Harold jerked in surprise at these words. “Truly, Wickham? I thought you were a gentleman!”
Wickham was so deeply in character that he did not even feel insulted at his remarks.
“Thank you, Stowe, that is gracious of you!” he replied cheerfully. “I was most fortunate that my father’s employer took a great liking to me and made me his godson. He paid for my time at Cambridge, and thus I hope that I have the mannerisms and looks of a gentleman even if I do not, like you, have a snug estate of my own. ”
“That was indeed most kind of your godfather,” Mrs. Stowe said, eying him intently. “What was his name?”
“Mr. Chambers of Hardwick, in Derbyshire,” Wickham lied and then added, truthfully, “A fine man, dead these four years now, and his estate gone to a distant cousin.”
He thought it most unlikely that Mrs. Stowe would know much about the estates in Derbyshire, and the Chambers estate bordered Pemberley to the north, though it was far smaller than the Darcy estate.
“And what have you been doing since then?” Mrs. Stowe asked, reaching out her hand toward Wickham’s empty cup.
He handed it over, watched her pour another cup of tea, and said, “I studied law for a time, and am now employed by a man named Mr. Granger, who obtained his fortune in India and presently is seeking an estate to bequeath to his only daughter.”
“India? Is it not hot there? Why would he wish for an estate here, where the winters are so long?” Harold inquired.
Wickham grinned and said, “It is not my business to question my employer, but he mentioned, more than once, how tired he is of the heat. As for myself, I would put up with any kind of heat to obtain a fortune, but I doubt that I could succeed in India; I have not the head for it. In any case, I suspect that Mr. Grander would be happy to live in the Scottish Uplands except that he does not speak Gaelic!”
“Thankfully, my second estate is close to the Border, where they speak a Scottish dialect of the King’s English,” Mr. Stowe exclaimed, and then glanced nervously at his mother, who glared at him.
Wickham pretended not to observe the glance between mother and son.
“Stowe, my friend, you are fortunate indeed to be the master of two fine estates!” he said jovially.
Harold was still looking at his mother, and she said, “In truth, my son has not yet inherited the Scottish estate. It is held in trust until he gains his majority.”
“Oh! Well, that is not so far off,” Wickham remarked.
“Three years,” Harold murmured sullenly.
“That will pass by in no time,” Wickham said soothingly. He glanced at the clock and said, “Oh, I had no idea how late it was! I apologize for overstaying my welcome. Thank you for allowing me to visit.”
Mrs. Stowe reached out a staying hand and said, “Mr. Wickham, your visit has given us both great pleasure. Indeed, we would be pleased if you would care to join us for dinner.”
Wickham produced a startled look and protested, “Oh, but I would not wish to inconvenience you in such a way.”
“Nonsense,” the lady replied. “We live quite retired in the winter, and I must insist that you stay.”
He hesitated for a few dramatic seconds and then said, “Thank you. I would greatly enjoy that.”