Page 29 of Elizabeth is not a Bennet

Wickham’s Rented Room

Lion and the Lamb Inn

George Wickham leaned back in his chair and stared at the paper on the table on the small desk. He sighed deeply, picked up his quill pen, and dipped it into the ink.

Mr. Bennet,

I have quite a story to tell in this letter. This morning, I called at Greymere, anticipating a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Stowe. Instead, I discovered Mrs. Stowe home alone, as young Harold Stowe was visiting a friend for the day.

I intended to withdraw, but Mrs. Stowe invited me to sit down with her for tea.

Wickham paused, laid down the pen, and looked around the room vaguely, his mind shifting back to the astonishing events of the morning. He had accepted Mrs. Stowe’s invitation immediately, of course, intent on insinuating himself into her confidence.

They had spoken for ten minutes upon trivialities, and then Mrs. Stowe had glanced at the door, which was closed, and said, “Mr. Wickham, I wonder if perhaps you might be willing to do me a great favor?”

Wickham had smiled, as expected, and said, “By all means, Mrs. Stowe, it would be my honor to assist you in any way.”

“I am pleased and honored,” the lady had replied, batting her lashes.

Wickham shook his head and returned to his letter.

Mrs. Stowe asked if I would be willing to journey to London and attempt to discover the location of a Miss Elizabeth Stowe, whom she described as a distant cousin. She said that she had lost track of the young lady and wishes to find her and invite her to Greymere. She explained that Miss Stowe is an orphan, that her location has been lost, and that Mrs. Stowe is worried about her. She pointed me in the direction of a Mr. Appleton of the firm of Appleton, Rubric, and Tyson in London, and asked if I could arrange to meet with Mr. Appleton to see whether he might have any knowledge of Miss Stowe’s whereabouts .

Mrs. Stowe asked that I not mention the matter to her son, as she did not wish to cause him anxiety over his lost cousin. She claimed that young Mr. Stowe is more sensitive than I might think – given that the young man gives the impression of being mostly self-centered, I doubt such claims.

I was, as you can well imagine, rather taken aback at this request, but given that she was offering a reward, I thought it best to accept. Indeed, it seems an ideal situation in that I can send her false information about Miss Stowe’s whereabouts.

I will ride south in a few days after bidding farewell to the Stowes, and I have promised to send letters regularly on my search for the distant cousin, Elizabeth Stowe.

I intend to stop at Longbourn to discuss this entire matter with you face to face.

Sincerely,

George Wickham

Wickham put down his pen, stretched his hand, and eyed the letter critically. It was rather badly blotted, and he would need to copy it so that it was legible. He hoped that he was doing the right thing in traveling south, but he was no longer desirous of staying here, not after his meeting with Moira Stowe.

He grimaced and bit his lip, hard enough that it hurt. He had written that Mrs. Stowe was offering a reward for his assistance regarding Elizabeth Stowe, but he had no intention of describing exactly what that reward entailed.

Mrs. Stowe had explained, with trembling lip and heaving bosom, that money was in short supply, and thus all that she could offer Wickham was a small reward plus the pleasure of her personal company.

It had taken Wickham, usually quick-witted, a full thirty seconds to understand Mrs. Stowe’s meaning. She was, in fact, inviting Wickham into her bed if he found Elizabeth Stowe for her.

It had been quite a shock. He was no paragon of virtue like Darcy, and he had bedded many a young woman in his life, even if he had intended to give up his rakish ways to marry Georgiana Darcy the previous summer. Not that being faithful to his wife would have been easy, but Colonel Fitzwilliam would have been looking for an opportunity to break his nose or arms, or both.

This situation was very different. For the first time in his life, he was not the seducer, but the prospective victim of seduction. It made him feel peculiar inside, even unclean. Mrs. Stowe had no love for him. She merely wished to use him, both his ability to gain information, and his body, presumably, for her own pleasure.

It occurred to him for the first time, that the young women he had bedded might well have felt similarly used after he left them. He had never thought about it before – he, handsome, good looking, charming, had considered the young women fortunate to attract his notice.

But now…

He had not cared much about history, but a conversation from long ago, when he and Darcy were still on good terms, came to mind. Darcy had been waxing eloquent about Henry VIII, who had cast aside his wife, Catherine of Aragon, along with his commitment to the Catholic church, in order to marry Anne Boleyn, who refused to give herself to Henry as a mere mistress, insisting instead in becoming his wife. The result had been a contentious divorce, the outrage of Queen Catherine’s Spanish relations, and the beginning of the Church of England.

Queen Anne had lost favor, as well as her head, only a few years later, but it showed how powerful a man’s lust could be and how much it could affect his thinking and decisions .

Wickham wrinkled his nose and clenched his hands. He was attracted to Moira Stowe, who was a lovely woman, but he thoroughly disliked the fact that she was trying to use him for her own purposes.

And yet, he was very similar to her in many ways. It was an unpleasant, even disgusting, realization.

/

The Church

Meryton

16 th December, 1811

Only a mere few ribbons decorated the sanctuary of the church, with no flowers fastened on the pews or altar or nave. But what the church lacked in decoration, it made up for in joy. Mrs. Bennet was weeping quietly into a handkerchief, beaming through her tears. Lydia was wriggling in the pew beside her, utterly delighted, eyes bright and smile wide. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, on the opposite side of the church, were a little pinched around the mouth and eyes, but no one took any notice of them. Lady Lucas leaned forward to offer her own handkerchief to her friend, a glad smile on her face. Charlotte sat beside her, content in the knowledge of her own betrothal to Mr. Collins, currently away in Kent arranging for their upcoming nuptials. Beyond her sat her Lucas siblings, all on their best behavior and happy for the Bennets.

The doors opened, and everyone turned to look. Jane was radiant in a light blue woolen gown, her eyes bright as stars and pearls in her hair, with only a thin silver bracelet on her wrist nearly covered by her sleeve. Mr. Bennet, wearing his Sunday best beside her, was almost entirely overshadowed by her loveliness, and Kitty, pink-clad and joyful and light-footed in Jane’s wake, was scarcely noticed.

Bingley, at the front of the church with Hurst standing up next to him, had eyes only for his bride as she advanced down the aisle towards him. He took her hand with only a glance at Mr. Bennet, and he stole one more adoring look at his Jane before they turned to face Mr. Allen, the old rector’s face warm and fond.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company of witnesses to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony…”

/

Chapel

Pemberley

16th December, 1811

Elizabeth shivered once in the chilly stone vestibule of the small Pemberley chapel, and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, and Mary smiled at her.

“Cold, nervous, or excited?” she asked sympathetically.

“All of them, I think!” Elizabeth laughed. “How do I look?”

“You are wonderful,” her cousin said loyally. Elizabeth smiled gratefully; she had only brought a few evening gowns with her from Longbourn, and none of them were exceptionally fancy. For her wedding, she had chosen a green gown which flattered her hair and a brown shawl picked through with green and gold-dyed embroidery. A maid had spent over an hour on her hair that morning, putting it up in the pearl combs that Fitzwilliam had given her as an engagement present, and anyway, Fitzwilliam had assured her that he thought she was always beautiful.

“Thank you, Mary, you look pretty too,” Elizabeth complimented, brushing a hand over her dress in a nervous gesture. She had no father figure to take her arm and give her away. Even had there been time for Mr. Bennet to travel north, he was this very morning occupied with giving his eldest daughter away to Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth had laughed upon receiving Jane’s most recent letter, writing in glowing terms of her upcoming wedding to be held on the same date Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam had chosen!

Mary moved forward to take her place behind Elizabeth as a footman swung open the door to the sanctuary. The two girls stepped inside and started down the aisle. Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley sat at the very front, of course, along with Colonel Fitzwilliam. A few of the upper servants were in attendance, among them Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, along with the butler. A handful of old retainers whom Darcy had known his whole life sat scattered behind them.

The white-haired rector stood alongside Darcy at the altar, smiling upon the proceedings. Darcy’s eyes had found his bride’s the moment she stepped into the sanctuary and had not moved from them, his face aglow with joyous affection. He held out his arm as Elizabeth approached the altar, and together they turned to face the reverend.

“Dearly beloved,” Mr. Hanson began, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company of witnesses to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony…”

/

21 st December, 1811

Wickham regarded the fields of Longbourn, the dead brown of the crops and grass not yet buried beneath a white blanket, as he strode up the carriage drive towards the house. His mind churned with the last several weeks. He had hoped to depart Claybourne right after his letter to Bennet, but a blizzard had blown through, leaving the roads south impassable. He had spent the majority of his time waiting for them to clear, huddled close to the fire in his room in the inn and dreading further invitations to Greymere. He had no desire to meet Mrs. Stowe alone again. Even now, her proposition bothered him.

At least his wait had been peaceful – there had been few people in the streets of Claybourne during and after the snows, and those unfortunate souls had bent their heads against the bluster and forged on to urgent business. The group that gathered in the Lion and the Lamb had been much dwindled as well, though Harold Stowe had fought his way through the drifts around Greymere to come and find what entertainment was to be had. Wickham had not been quite so free with paying for drinks in those last few days, watching with misgiving as his money continued to dwindle. Stowe had not seemed to mind, nursing his beers and ales and speaking at length to the indulgent older man, with Wickham artfully concealing his boredom. Though Harold had indeed whispered of his Scottish estate once or twice more, the name Elizabeth never passed his lips, nor mention of a sister, and he regarded Ravenswood with such a thoroughly proprietary eye that Wickham had finally come to the conclusion that young Stowe had no idea of the existence of his half-sister. Surely, given the young man’s propensity to talk, he would have mentioned her by now.

This lack of knowledge, along with Moira Stowe’s overtures, had left Wickham quite unsettled. It was an unease that had occupied his mind enough that on a Sunday, when the church opened its doors, he had watched the steady stream of people moving towards the old gray stone building and followed them in search of a distraction. He had attended church only a handful of times since departing Pemberley, but the sanctimonious preaching had never held his attention; he had always far preferred to watch the comeliest women visible from his vantage point. But this Advent season, he had listened rapt as the old preacher spoke of a Gift, a Child, and of justice and the mercy that had laid that justice across the shoulders of another. Only at the end had Wickham become distracted by a round-faced infant contented and curious in his mother’s arm, wide eyes taking in the colorful windows and the faces all around. Wickham had never had any interest in babies, but the preacher’s impassioned descriptions of the Child had caught at his mind. When he departed the church, the first layer of unease had been joined by yet more.

He had spent the last of his money to purchase a ticket for the stagecoach, grateful that he would at least not be forced to ride on the roof in the bitter cold. It was not precisely warm inside the carriage, but the wind was cut by the walls, and the heat of his fellow-passengers was welcome. He had felt little desire to initiate conversation, preoccupied the entire way to London with uncomfortable thoughts. The baby from the church mingled in his mind with the faces of the girls he had brought to bed, both at Cambridge and at Pemberley, on his school breaks. His fellows at college, heirs and spares of the nobility and sons of gentlemen, had had no qualms in taking the servant girls and maids and merchants’ daughters into their beds. Lower-class women existed to serve upper-class men, Wickham’s classmates assured him, in whatever way they were best suited. Wickham, with his pleasing form and charming manners, had been as successful as his wealthier and higher-born fellows, and thought as little of his activities as did they .

And yet…

He thought unhappily on Susan, the winsome blonde daughter of a Pemberley tenant, who had warmed his bed for some nights before he returned to school. Upon the following summer, when he had come back to Pemberley, he had discovered that the girl had borne a child, almost certainly his, and retired into a secluded cottage, living upon Darcy’s largesse. He had had no interest in seeing her or her child at the time, intent on focusing solely on his own pleasures and pursuits.

Her child. His child. For the first time, Wickham wondered if he had a son or a daughter. He had never cared to find out about, much less to support, his offspring. He had not even cared that Darcy had done so in his stead. What should it matter to him as long as he could use his own considerable charms to lure the next pleasing young woman into his bed?

He had always been the one charming and luring and seducing. Never had a woman attempted to use her own charms to convince him to come into her bed. Not until Moira Stowe had shot him alluring looks from coldly calculating eyes over full lips and a pleasing figure. Wickham did not think he cared for being seduced, nor for being seen as someone easily manipulated. Moira Stowe was a clever and cold-hearted woman, planning to use a stranger for her own pleasure and to murder her stepdaughter for financial gain. That Elizabeth Stowe’s death was her stepmother’s aim, Wickham had not the slightest doubt; Denny’s attempt on her life was proof enough of that.

Wickham mounted the steps and knocked on the front door of Longbourn, resolving to do whatever he could to thwart Moira Stowe’s plans.