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The tavern was cold in late November, and George Wickham kept his coat pulled around him tight to fight the chill.

The small windows allowed the weak sunlight in, and the fire on the hearth provided some light.

Wickham’s face was passive, but his thoughts were alive and active, ‘The trap must be baited carefully and enticements added to draw the partridges inside the net.’

On the familiar ground of the tavern where stagecoaches loaded and unloaded in London, George smiled as he imaged leaving the city with a large portion of some young woman’s dowry or a gentleman’s estate next year. ‘Perhaps I shall make my way to the Americas to live comfortably.’

The previous week, he had received a letter from Mr William Collins, the pastor at Hunsford outside Rosings Park.

It took an hour to decipher the letter with the pastor’s impossible suggestion, ‘Collins is a fool to think he could achieve a mortgage on his future estate. The man does not understand the law. But a mortgage by Mr Bennet on Longbourn or his future father-in-law on his estate would be real.’

The same day he received the letter, George wrote his reply and suggested they meet when the pastor passed through London during his return to Meryton for a ball at Netherfield.

Wickham was familiar with the schedules at this stagecoach station and knew that Collins would wait at least one hour before the next coach left for Meryton.

This cold morning, Wickham would advance his efforts to collect gold in Meryton.

There was a ruckus in the courtyard as the stagecoach arrived; the passengers descended and waited for their trunks to be handed down while the horses were checked and watered. At the door, George searched for the figure of Mr Collins among the passengers and walked out when he spotted the parson.

“Mr Collins! It is good to see you,” George called. “How was your journey from Kent this morning?”

“Mr Wickham! It is good that you are here! As I told Lady Catherine, I knew you would appear,” Collins said as his trunk was handed down.

The parson struggled with the heavy trunk, so Wickham took one handle and guided the parson inside the building and to the table he occupied.

He called for another tankard and filled it with ale from the pitcher on the table.

With the parson seated across from him, George admitted, “I was surprised to receive your letter, Mr Collins.”

“Sir, I wish to secure the future for myself and my children with good investments such as your tea company,” Collins said as he began a prepared speech. After three minutes, the parson asked, “What did you think of my idea about a mortgage on Longleaf?”

Ignoring the misnaming of the estate by Mr Collins, George grimaced and said, “You cannot take such a mortgage, sir. And as Mr Bennet’s heir, you cannot force him to provide funds before he dies.”

Collins grimaced, “Lady Catherine feared it would be so. Her nephew is Mr Darcy, and she reports that he denies her ladyship the funds she desires several times during the year. But I shall speak to Mr Bennet during my visit and convince him to invest in your company.”

“A marvellous plan, Mr Collins. And the ball at Mr Bingley’s manor will provide an excellent setting for you to speak to Mr Bennet and your future father-in-law about an investment.

I believe that gentleman was interested in the gold to be made with the New World Tea Company,” said Wickham as he pulled out a sheaf of papers with much detail and calligraphy.

On each page, Mr Collins could read ‘New World Tea Co.’ across the top and underneath, an engraving of a wilderness scene filled with palm trees and the native people who inhabited the land before the Europeans arrived.

Mr Collins stared and imagined each sheet of paper representing pounds in his pockets.

Wickham spoke with Collins about the afternoon stagecoach reaching the livery in Meryton. George advised, “If you rent a cart to carry you to Lucas Lodge, remember to give the boy a penny for his time and efforts when you reach your destination.”

“Truly, sir? A gratuity for a stable boy?” asked Collins.

“Are not such people unworthy of our notice? My patroness, the magnificent Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has informed me that we must maintain the distinctions between the deserving poor and the undeserving. I keep a list in my desk drawer at the parsonage of the persons to be fed and clothed and the ones to turn away.”

Even the cold-hearted George Wickham was momentarily speechless, allowing Mr Collins to continue the list of items that Mr Darcy’s imperious aunt ordered in her fiefdom of Rosings Park.

Collins said, “Lady Catherine shall advise my wife as to the appropriate day to launder our clothes and to bake our bread.”

“Yes, I remember hearing how Lady Catherine took a great interest in the lives of her family and tenants,” George said when he could finally rejoin the conversation.

“Her ladyship will continue my education as I prepare to become master of Longboard someday in the future,” Collins concluded.

“Yes, Mr Collins. Lady Catherine is the most suitable instructor,” George said. “As you advance in the ranks of noted gentlemen and prominent landowners, remember that persons such as stable boys will repeat to everyone that you are a good man when you reward them with a penny for their services.”

Mr Collins seemed to be thinking about Wickham’s directive when a woman dressed in black with a veil hiding the details of her face appeared at the table. The woman was accompanied by a teenage boy who appeared to have been crying.

“Mrs Edwards! Dear lady, what are you doing hereabouts?” asked George as he rose and leaned toward the woman, his face filled with concern for the distressed woman.

“Mr Wickham,” the woman greeted the man as she pulled the boy close with one arm as if to protect the child from the world outside. “Davey and I returned from the grave of my dear husband this morning. I had to thank you!”

“Your thanks are not necessary, Mrs Edwards,” George said. “Excuse me…Mr Collins, this is Mrs Jonathan Edwards, the widow of one of my investors and her son, David Edwards.”

“Madam, I am grievously sorry for your loss.” Those were the only words Collins spoke before the widow cried into a handkerchief.

Mrs Edwards turned Wickham and continued, “The three hundred pounds in profits from your company will secure my home and children for the next twelve months. Thank you, Mr Wickham.”

Sighing, Wickham said, “It was the least I could do, Mrs Edwards.”

“But there is more,” the lady said. “It is unfortunate, but we must sell our shares in your tea company before Christmas to pay my husband’s last debts so that Davey can enter his apprenticeship.”

“The whole thousand pounds?”

“I fear it must be so,” the grieving widow admitted.

“Do not fear, Mrs Edwards, I shall find buyers.”

“Thank you, Mr Wickham. Thank you!”

The lady dressed in black held the young man close to her side as she hurried from the tavern, leaving Mr Wickham with a sad expression.

Mr Collins blinked and considered how to find a thousand pounds.

His annual income was only four hundred pounds, sufficient for a parson and his family because he paid no taxes or upkeep on the parsonage and kept no horses or other large animals.

“Must the lady sell her stock in your company?” asked Collins to gain clarification.

“Yes, her husband acquired just over two hundred shares.”

“Two hundred shares? I thought the widow said a thousand pounds.”

“Yes, each share is worth five pounds,” George explained. “If I had Mr Darcy’s attention, he would purchase them. But if I cannot find a buyer, I shall buy the stocks myself.”

Collins asked, “How soon do you need someone to make this purchase?”

“I believe Mrs Edwards said Christmas,” answered Wickham, thinking the net was spread appropriately. “Her son will begin an apprenticeship in the new year.”

“Mr Wickham, allow me to see what interest I can find among the gentlemen in Meryton while I am there for the ball. With my future position as master of Longbourn, the gentlemen will listen to my advice. I am certain that even Mr Bennet will want to participate in this great opportunity.”

Pausing for a moment, George said, “I tell you what, Mr Collins. Send me a letter when you return to Hunsford concerning the Meryton gentlemen's interest in purchasing these two hundred shares, and I shall attend your wedding to sell them the stocks that same day.”

“Mr Wickham! Sir, I should be honoured to have you attend my wedding!”

~~~

Once Mr Collins was on the afternoon stagecoach headed toward Meryton, George Wickham made his way to another tavern named the Sleeping Dog where he met with Edith Young, still dressed in widow’s weeds and talking with the boy who pretended to be her son.

“Davey, you did well,” George complimented the teenager before handing him a few coins.

“Anytime, Mr Wickham. I got clothes to play all the parts you need,” Davey replied. “My mum said to tell you to visit any night.”

The boy left the tavern, and George turned to Edith. He smiled and said, “Even dressed in black, you are a beautiful woman.”

“And you are a beautiful man, George,” she replied. Glancing around to discern if anyone was close enough to overhear their conversation, she continued, “How much do you expect to receive in this scheme?”

“Before Christmas, I shall have a thousand pounds as seed money to further the trap.”

“A thousand pounds! How can farmers have that much gold sitting in their strong boxes?”

“Christmas is a quarter day, and they will collect from their tenants. If Collins whips them into a fever with talk about profits and gold, they will hand over the thousand to get my pretty pieces of paper.”

“But then, where do we get the next thousand?” Edith asked.

“I shall see if mortgages are taken for any farms. The bankers are always anxious to get mortgages on farms,” he said.

Grinning, she asked, “Shall we sail to Bermuda or the Caribbean when we lay our hands on a few thousand pounds?”

~~~