Page 60 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
D arcy reviewed the morning’s correspondence in his study at Netherfield. Three letters lay before him—one from his London banker, one from the Horse Guards, and one from Sir Bronwyn Charles, each confirming various aspects of their campaign against Wickham.
Bingley entered with his own bundle of papers, looking pleased.
“Mr. Thompson at the draper’s reports that Wickham attempted to purchase a new uniform on credit yesterday and was refused.
Apparently he became quite agitated when informed that his account had been suspended pending payment of existing debts.
He was indignant that further credit was refused. ”
“How much does he owe Thompson?” Darcy asked.
“Thirty shillings, according to these records. That is merely for the drapers.” Bingley settled into a chair with satisfaction. “The man’s extravagance is remarkable even by the standards of a spendthrift officer.”
“It seems his means to extravagance is on the verge of becoming most elusive,” Darcy replied, holding up his banker’s letter.
“Every establishment in London that I could identify as having extended credit to a ‘George Wickham’ or ‘George Wilkins’ has been quietly informed of concerns about his creditworthiness. I am holding his debts in excess of four hundred pounds, which does not begin to comprise his debts of honour.”
The door opened to admit Colonel Fitzwilliam, his military bearing seemed somewhat strained.
“Gentlemen, I bring mixed news. It is to our favour that our friend Wickham is finding his circumstances increasingly constrained. The office of enlistment has uncovered documents establishing that Wickham enlisted under false pretences.”
“The less favourable news?” Darcy inquired.
“Someone has taken exception to questions being raised about one of their commissioned officers,” the Colonel said dryly. “The Horse Guards has begun making what they term ‘normal inquiries’ about my recent activities,”
Bingley frowned. “Surely they cannot object to legitimate concerns about false enlistment?”
“Not the concerns themselves,” Colonel Fitzwilliam clarified. “However, there appears to be some displeasure regarding the way those concerns were conveyed. I have now received three distinct inquiries regarding my ‘unofficial inquiry’ into the conduct of military gentlemen.”
“Forster,” Darcy said immediately.
“Undoubtedly. He is lazy and incompetent, but he possesses sufficient cunning to shift blame for his negligence onto others.” The Colonel moved to pour himself coffee from the sideboard. “My ‘interference in matters beyond my jurisdiction’ has been noted with disapproval.”
“Have they the means to proceed against you?”
“I think not. They can, however, make my life decidedly unpleasant,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied grimly. “I am fairly well insulated. The Duke of York is Commander-in-Chief of the Horse Guards. His reach far exceeds that of whomever Forster has in his pocket.”
“The duke who worked with your father to establish Sandhurst, the military college founded a few years past?” Darcy asked.
“The very one. I suspect Forster’s connexions will wither now that the duke has been reinstated as Commander-in-Chief.”
“Speaking of Forster,” Bingley said, “A Captain Raleigh reported that Wickham has not appeared for duty in several days. His commanding officer—such as he is—apparently has accepted the excuse that he is merely indisposed.”
“Indisposed by what?” Darcy asked.
“I reckon by an unfortunate shortage of funds and an even more unfortunate abundance of creditors,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said with grim satisfaction.
“Since Bingley has been spreading talk about town, Wickham has been refused service at both the Crown and the King’s Arms. Mr. Clarke informed him that his custom would no longer be welcome at the Swan in Meryton without immediate payment of his existing accounts. ”
“Have we paid his accounts with the Swan?” Darcy asked.
“We have, or more accurately, you have, including charges for private dining rooms, wine, and what Mr. Clarke carefully phrased as ‘entertainment for guests.’” The Colonel’s tone made clear the nature of such entertainment.
Darcy nodded approvingly. “What of his social situation?”
“His reception among the gentry deteriorated rapidly,” Bingley reported. “Lady Lucas mentioned to Lydia Bennet—who naturally repeated it to everyone within hearing—that several ladies have spoken against receiving him in their drawing-rooms.”
“On what basis?” Darcy asked.
“When a gentleman’s financial difficulties become public knowledge,” Colonel Fitzwilliam explained. “No hostess wishes to be associated with someone who may prove embarrassing to her other guests.”
“More practically,” Bingley added, “word has spread that he has been borrowing money from fellow officers. Captain Mason refused him a loan, and the story was all over the officers’ quarters within hours.
Other officers began demanding he make good on debts of honour, and he absconded from the barracks. He has not been seen for a few days.”
A slow satisfaction rose in Darcy. “Then he is cut off—financially, socially. Whether he lingers in hiding or has taken to flight, he is cornered.”
“He is,” Colonel Fitzwilliam allowed. “If he has run, it will be in desperation; if he remains, that same desperation may yet drive him to rashness. Either way, we must consider what he will do when caution fails him.”
The room fell silent as all three men contemplated the sobering possibilities.
“Might he have found a young lady willing to give him shelter?” Darcy asked carefully.
“None have been mentioned recently,” Bingley said. “Whether that reflects improved judgement or simply lack of opportunity is unclear.”
“He may be lurking about the village,” Colonel Fitzwilliam added. “Mrs. Long reported a suspicious figure near her hen house two nights ago, though she could not identify him with certainty.”
“Was anything stolen?”
“Possibly a few eggs. This seems like the actions of a man attempting to avoid discovery by moving about under cover of darkness.”
Darcy stood and moved to the window, gazing out at the peaceful countryside that concealed such unpleasant realities. “How long do you suppose before his circumstances lead him to more dramatic action?”
“Not long, I suspect,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied. “A man accustomed to living by his wits and his charm finds himself in an impossible position when both fail him simultaneously.”
“What would such a man choose,” Bingley asked, “flight or fight?”
“Flight would be the sensible course,” Darcy said. “But Wickham has never been accused of excessive prudence.”
“Indeed. Flight requires resources he no longer possesses,” the Colonel pointed out. “His pay has been spent several times over, his credit is ruined, and his personal effects are likely insufficient to fund a strategic retreat. Even a ticket on the post to Town exceeds his purse.”
“We must prepare for the possibility that he will attempt something desperate,” Darcy concluded.
Colonel Fitzwilliam moved to join him at the window. “We have achieved our primary objective—his ability to operate freely in this community has been destroyed. But cornered animals are often the most dangerous.”
“Particularly,” Bingley added quietly, “when they have nothing left to lose.”
As if summoned by their conversation, a messenger appeared at the gate, riding hard from the direction of Meryton. The three men stiffened with foreboding as the rider dismounted and approached the house with rapid urgency.
“I fear,” Darcy said softly, “that we are about to discover what direction Mr. Wickham’s desperation has taken.”
The messenger proved to be the vicar’s man, cap in hand and breathing hard.
“Beg pardon, gentlemen,” he said, glancing between them.
“The vicar bade me say that the sewing circle is to meet at the vicarage this afternoon. He thought you should know, sirs,”—he looked from man to man— “half the parish ladies will be gathered there. With all the talk of Mr. Wickham being abroad, he fears the fellow might take it into his head to show himself. The vicar would be sorry indeed if there were any disturbance. He hopes it will come to nothing but thought it prudent you should be aware.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam tapped the map of the village spread across the table. “If he tries to head that way, he must take one of these lanes or footpaths. We can place ourselves—where each meets the high road.”
Bingley nodded. “I will take the road by Lucas Lodge.”
“Then I,” said the Colonel, “shall watch the lane behind the mill.”
Darcy indicated the narrow path leading past the vicarage garden. “The lane behind the vicarage is the most sheltered way from the open fields. We need to secure the area where the ladies are gathered. A man could pass without being seen from the road..”
As the gentlemen prepared to leave, a dishevelled woman approached the vicar’s man, wringing her hands.
“He took me pasties! I was to sell them at market and get enough for the stage to Yorkshire for my poor Katy. I packed the cart ready this morning, and when I come out to leave, there were barely crumbs remaining! Pray, is Mr. Whitmore about? I must beg his help.”
The colonel quirked a brow, then walked toward the pair.
“Madam, do you know who took your pasties?” he asked gently.
She whirled on him and glared.
“Well, you ought to know—he was one of your sort, all gentleman-like and dressed in a red coat.”
“Indeed, madam, I certainly hope he was not a member of the regulars, as I am. But if he was wearing a red coat, perhaps we could identify him as a member of the militia.”
“La, no need of that. I know George Wilkins well enough.” Her voice turned bitter. “He was sniffing around my lass Katy some time back, and I reckon now he’s been sleeping in my woodhouse these last nights. The poultry’s been that upset, not laying at all.”
At the mention of the name, both Darcy and Bingley joined the Colonel.