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L ydia tried to be patient, but why was it taking George so long to collect whatever monies were owed to him so that they could continue on to Scotland?

It had been a week since they had taken up residence in this dilapidated inn, and George continued to leave each morning and not return until nightfall.

Moreover, the innkeeper was making loud noises about not having been paid for the food they had eaten, and had taken to glaring at Lydia when she came down alone for breakfast.

She had not grown accustomed to the stares of the men in the common room, and had learnt to wrap a few rolls in a napkin and take them upstairs to her room, where she sat, hour after hour, waiting for George’s return.

He came back to her each night, stinking of drink, and refusing to discuss the situation at all.

Finally, she said, quite accusingly, “Why, I begin to think you do not intend to marry me at all!”

At that, he stared at her and then broke into hearty laughter.

“I just won a shilling, my sweet, thanks to you! I had a bet with the innkeeper downstairs,” he said, hiccupping.

“He said you seemed bright enough and would figure it out in two days. I said that you were not as bright as all that, and it would be at least a week.”

It took Lydia a long minute to understand what had just been revealed to her.

She was not much interested in the bet, other than to feel rather insulted that George thought her not very bright; instead, her attention was focused on the fact that she was evidently quite right.

George Wickham had no intention of marrying her.

“Did you ever intend to marry me?” she asked, slowly.

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “You have no money, no connections, nothing whatever to tempt a man to matrimony!”

“But why – oh!” She understood, at long last, that he had brought her along as a bedmate and nothing more.

With that realisation, she was filled with rage, rage at him, rage at herself, rage at her situation, and she flew at him, nails extended, and managed to draw blood before he slapped her down and pushed her onto the bed.

***

The next morning, when Lydia awoke, George was already gone. She slowly packed up her few things in her small satchel, went downstairs to put three rolls into a napkin, and walked away.

The innkeeper watched her go. It was a shame she was not as smart as she looked, as she had cost him a shilling! Though he had not paid it, as the man owed him for their food. Stupid chit; how could she have believed that rogue would marry her?! He turned away.

Lydia’s intention was to go to her relatives on Gracechurch Street.

The Gardiners would take her in and make everything right again!

But where was Gracechurch Street? Come to that, where was she now?

She hesitated, but her need for information was stronger than her embarrassment.

Returning to the inn, she asked the innkeeper for directions to Gracechurch Street.

He laughed in her face, then walked her outside, pointed a finger and said, “That way. Now go away; your friend has not paid for your food for the past three days, and I want to see the back of the both of you.”

Nodding dumbly, she walked in the direction he had pointed.

The disreputable inn that had housed Lydia and Mr. Wickham was at the corner of Whitechapel and Somerset.

If she had proceeded on Aldgate to Fenchurch, she would have soon found herself on Gracechurch Street.

Unfortunately, the unhelpful innkeeper had pointed her in the other direction, leading her ever deeper into Whitechapel.

Three hours passed, and a footsore Lydia, carrying her satchel, finally asked an old woman how much further it was to Gracechurch Street.

“Never heard of it, luv,” was the response.

“It is in Cheapside,” Lydia provided.

“Cheapside! Why, yer goin’ the wrong direction entirely! S’that way.” And the old woman pointed back the way Lydia had come.

“Are you certain?”

The old woman shrugged. “Take it or leave it, luv. But doan’ leave it too long, as this is no place to be aft’ dark.”

Lydia, thinking of how unfriendly the innkeeper had been, decided that the old woman was likely a more reliable personage. Just to be certain, she enquired from two other people and received the same response. She retraced her footsteps, fuming at the unhelpfulness of a certain innkeeper.

Just past the inn, Whitechapel immediately turned into Aldgate, and Lydia was now confronted with a choice between Leadenhall and Fenchurch. She tried asking passersby for directions, but no one would even look at her.

Leadenhall sounded familiar, she thought, so she began to walk it.

Leadenhall turned into Cornhill, and suddenly there was a confluence of four, five, six streets all together!

Deeply confused and now quite frightened, Lydia burst into tears.

She sank down on the busy sidewalk, leaning against a brick building and wept.

A man, rather shabbily dressed, poked at her with his stick.

She looked up. “What do you want?”

“Are ya lookin’ fer a place, girlie?” he whispered.

Lydia did not like the tone of his voice or the glint in his eye, so she promptly said, “Go away! Or I shall scream!”

“Just askin’, ain’t I?” And he took himself off, looking quite offended.

Such propositions occurred again and again, and as darkness began to fall, Lydia was beginning to think that she would have to go with one of those men, or be left alone on the sidewalk all night, at the mercy of anyone with a knife in his hand.

She sat, knees drawn up to her chest, her face hidden in her hands.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably merely a half of an hour, someone kicked Lydia hard. She raised her head.

Standing before her was a middle-aged woman, wearing a ragged gown and worn boots. “This ain’t yer place,” she said.

“Place?” Lydia asked.

“This is my place; ya gotta move!” Another kick, this time a harder one, hit Lydia’s shins.

“I have no place to go,” Lydia said.

“Not my trouble,” the woman declared. “Move.” She drew her foot back, about to kick Lydia again.

Lydia got up as best she could, clutching her satchel, and she walked away. She lost all sense of direction, searching only for a safe place for the night. She found a dark recess in a wall, someone’s doorway, and curled herself up around her satchel, lost and alone, hungry and afraid.

As the night passed, she was able to catch bits of sleep here and there, but her rest was broken by shouts, screams, drunken laughter, and other noises typical of London nightlife.

***

George Wickham had returned to the inn where he had left Lydia; finding her gone, he enquired of the innkeeper if he had seen her.

“She left this mornin’, and if ya are askin’ did she pay for her food, the answer is no!”

“And she has not returned?”

“No; now either pay what ya owe me or leave!”

Mr. Wickham, having no inclination whatsoever to pay for Lydia’s food, turned and walked away. If he hurried, he could get to Mrs. Younge’s boarding house in time for supper. One thing was certain; he was never going back to the militia.