Page 22 of The Talented Daughters of Longbourn

Pig in the Poke

That Evening

The Pig in the Poke hummed with conversation over the background of a crackling fire.

Barmaids tripped and scuffed back and forth over the uneven wooden floorboards, carrying pints and plates to beckoning patrons beneath shadows flickering merrily over the rafters.

It was mostly the locals this evening, but in one corner near the large fireplace was a knot of red-coated militiamen, slightly rowdy after a day of duties that could not be called onerous.

A draft skirled through the room from an open door, and Denny glanced over. George Wickham was entering at last, his swaggering gait confident as though he were not sporting a damaged lip and bruised cheek.

Denny quickly rose to his feet with a drink in his hand, and once his fellow officers had quieted, declared, “Gentlemen, my friend, George Wickham, who has just accepted a position as lieutenant in the regiment!”

There was a chorus of greetings, and Lieutenant Pratt gestured to the empty seat next to him and said, “Have a seat, Wickham, and enjoy a drink on me. ”

“Thank you,” Wickham replied with a slight bow, and promptly took the chair.

The ensuing conversation was genial and relaxed, and Denny was reminded, once again, why Wickham was such a popular man. His countenance, his posture, his demeanor – all spoke to his good character and charm. It was really very odd that Darcy had reacted so violently to his presence in Meryton.

“So, Wickham,” Captain Carter said, his right hand twiddling idly with his empty mug. “What happened to your face? It looks like you and a wall had a disagreement, and you came out the loser.”

Denny turned his gaze on Wickham in what he knew was rampant curiosity; would his friend satisfy his interest?

Wickham glanced at him and said, “Well, if the wall’s name is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, then yes, I lost against a wall.”

Pratt set down his full mug hard enough that the ale sloshed out. “Mr. Darcy? Mr. Bingley’s friend, who is staying at Netherfield?”

“Indeed,” Wickham replied, touching his torn lip and smiling ruefully.

“I grew up on Darcy’s estate of Pemberley as the son of the steward.

Darcy’s father was very kind to me; indeed, I was his godson.

Fitzwilliam Darcy and I were friends as children, but then .

.. oh, I am not sure how it all happened.

I was close to both the old Mr. Darcy and his elder son Harold, who died of consumption a decade ago.

Fitzwilliam Darcy and I are very different people, and sadly our friendship turned to indifference and then into enmity.

I am not quite certain how it came to pass, but it certainly grieves me. ”

“He must really hate you to actually hit you,” Carter said. “I have spent time with Darcy, and I confess to some astonishment.”

“I was surprised as well,” Wickham said, and he chuckled before his mien turned serious.

“My old friend has had a difficult time in the last years. His elder brother died, and he became heir to the estate, and then the elder Mr. Darcy died. Darcy also has responsibility for his sister, who is still little more than a child. If Darcy feels the need to hit me in order to release some of his anger and frustration, I can only be grateful for the opportunity to provide such relief although…,” and here he smiled openly, “I will make a point of avoiding him in the near future!”

The other officers laughed with him, and Carter, who was one of the wealthier men, bought another round of drinks. Denny chuckled as well, but he did wonder – there must be something very seriously wrong between Darcy and Wickham to result in violence.

/

Georgiana’s bedchamber

Netherfield

Darcy rapped softly on the door of his sister’s room and was rewarded with a quiet call to enter.

He obediently opened the door and walked in and then closed it behind him. Georgiana had changed out of her riding habit and taken a bath, and now she was dressed in a yellow morning gown with her blond curls, still damp, cascading down her shoulders.

The room around her set her off to perfection – the wallpaper was a lovely powder blue that complemented her eyes, the white ruffles on the curtains and the upholstery lending an air of delicacy.

The drapes were drawn back to show the gardens outside, gloomy and brown and wilted in the late November chill.

“Dear one, how are you?” Darcy asked worriedly.

“I am,” she began, and then her face crumpled and she started sobbing, “oh brother, it was awful! I thought … I did not realize how terrible it would be… ”

Darcy hurried over to the couch and sank down next to it, then took her quivering form into his arms. His poor sister! He had been stunned and angry at the sight of Wickham in Meryton, but it must have been so much worse for Georgiana!

Several minutes passed by, and then Georgiana sat up and accepted his larger handkerchief. She wiped down her cheeks and leaned back against the couch, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace.

“I thought … I thought I was entirely recovered,” the girl whispered.

“I thought that when I saw him again, it would be nothing, but oh, seeing him so unexpectedly … it brought it all back, Fitzwilliam! He used to look at me with love in his eyes – well, I believed it was love – when really he was just trying to trick me so that he could gain my fortune! It is sickening what he did. It was so wrong!”

“It is sickening,” her brother agreed, forcing his voice to remain calm. “He is a wicked man.”

“Why is he in Meryton?” his sister asked, her blue eyes turning to gaze at him apprehensively. “Did he follow us here? Did he follow me here?”

“He told me that he has accepted a commission in the militia regiment,” Darcy said, “but of course with Wickham, one can never be confident that he is speaking the truth. I do beg you not to be afraid, dear one. Richard and I will keep you safe; indeed, I made it clear to Wickham that he is to never address you again, or even be in the same room that you are.”

Georgiana stared at her brother and managed a watery smile. “That is sweet, Brother, but I am not certain that Mr. Wickham will obey your commands.”

“If he does not, Richard or I will knock out a few of his teeth and send him to Marshalsea for unpaid debt,” Darcy returned, his face set, his jaw grim.

His sister gawked at him in wonder and then shook her head. “You would not really hit him, would you?”

Darcy stared back in equal wonder. “I already did, today. Did you not see?”

She blinked at him.

He blinked at her.

Then she flushed pink and said, “I looked away when you leaped off your horse, and then Richard moved his own horse to block my view. Oh, Brother, did you really strike him?”

“I punched him in his lying mouth,” he responded, eying her a trifle uneasily. Was she going to be upset with him ?

She stared for another thirty seconds and then her lips curled up a little and she said, “I am glad. He was very cruel to me.”

He pulled her closer to him and kissed her still damp head. “He was. I am glad that I struck him too, but I hope I will not be required to take further steps.”

/

Bingley’s Bedchamber

Midnight

Firelight and candlelight played across the green velvet drapes surrounding a sturdy four-poster.

A painting above the hearth depicted hunting dogs gamboling across a green swathe of lawn, as behind a rider in a red coat on a bay horse emerged from the parkland forest. The old hickory clock on the fireplace chimed midnight.

“Thank you, Andrews,” Charles Bingley said. “I will blow the candles out when I retire.”

His valet nodded and retreated out of the bedchamber, leaving the master of Netherfield alone .

Bingley wandered over to pour himself a glass of Madeira, and he then took a seat in a wingbacked chair near the fire. The wind was rising, and the night was going to be a cold one. He was thankful that Netherfield was well built.

He took a sip of his wine and finally allowed himself to think about the events of the day.

The encounter with Mr. Wickham had been rather startling; Bingley had known Darcy for many years, and while they had sparred more than once in Jackson’s school on Bond Street, the younger man had never seen Darcy actually angry enough to punch someone until today.

Whatever the problem between the two men, Richard Fitzwilliam, who had a fine head on his shoulders, seemed thoroughly appreciative of Darcy’s actions.

He had mentioned, sotto voce, that Mr. Wickham had annoyed Miss Darcy in the past, and Darcy, as a protective older brother, was determined to set the man straight.

In any case, that was not his primary concern, not at all.

Bingley blew out a breath and closed his eyes, and the image of Miss Jane Bennet, with her sparkling blue eyes, her perfectly straight nose, her flushed cheeks, and her blonde hair, formed in his mind .

She was such a marvelous lady, Miss Bennet – kind, intelligent, charming, and very, very, very handsome.

He was, he thought, in love with her.

He was in love with her.

He was not certain, however, that she was in love with him. Indeed, why would she be? She was an angel, and he was a mere man. He had been content to bask in her light in the hopes of getting to know her better, but now, with the news that her father was failing…

Once Mr. Bennet died, the entire Bennet family would be in mourning and would not be much out in company. He would lose his chance to sit in the warmth of Jane Bennet’s magnificence.

So what should he do?

He was a rich man, and he knew that he was moderately handsome, and both friendly and genial. He was, his sisters claimed, considered a fine catch for those families undisturbed that his fortune was derived from trade.

But was it too soon to ask for Miss Bennet’s hand in marriage? Perhaps he should propose a courtship?

He sighed and downed the last of his drink, stood up, and wandered over to the bed. He would sleep on it.

/

Darcy’s Bedchamber

Darcy leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long limbs, the better to enjoy the heat of the roaring fire.

He was tired but not yet sleepy enough to go to bed.

The encounter with Wickham had been a shock, and he felt a mixture of anger and concern over his sister, who had been doing so well these last weeks, and now had to cope with her villainous suitor’s presence in the village adjacent to Netherfield.

Indeed, he might need to take her back to London, which was a pity, because both Darcys had been enjoying their time at Netherfield. Georgiana had always been shy, and after the catastrophe at Ramsgate, as timid as a rabbit for some months. Now she had made genuine friends with the Bennet ladies.

And that was the other thing on his mind, the Bennet ladies – or to be more exact, one Bennet lady, Miss Elizabeth.

He grieved for the entire family, of course, who would soon lose their father and their security.

The heir to the estate seemed a pleasant man with good manners, but it still had to be a most difficult reality to be supplanted by an uncle and his family.

His heart ached most of all for Miss Elizabeth. He had heard that Miss Elizabeth was her father’s favorite daughter. How she must be suffering!

She had looked so sad, so tired, so pale today, that he had felt a peculiar longing to gather her into his arms. That was absurd, of course; he was an acquaintance, not even a friend, and let alone a close relation.

It was a pity, really, given the lady’s intelligence, vibrancy, skill, and charm, that Miss Elizabeth was so poorly connected.

But she undeniably was – with an uncle in trade, another uncle who was a solicitor, and the heir to the estate a mere artist. No, she was not worthy bridal material for Darcy of Pemberley.

Indeed, his attraction to her was foolish and would doubtless fade when he, Georgiana, and Richard returned to London. They had always intended to spend Christmas in Town, and now with Wickham lurking, they might as well leave earlier.