B006O3T9DG EBOK (41 page)

Rather, she reminded her, “Did we not agree to not speak of that to
Mama
?”

“But how can I not? Everyone knew it. And what does it matter now? He is good as dead. He will stay away if he knows what is good for him. My Hughie will run him through it he tries to regain me!”

In fortune, Kitty arrived in the foyer just then to greet Lydia. (Kitty was exhilarated by the opportunity of visiting with Lydia and besting her in situations.) Kisses and laughter improved the noise until such time as Elizabeth’s head began to throb. It occurred to her that if not for the lack of Jane, their family would be reunited for the first time since Mr. Bennet’s death. However, Jane’s agreeableness was what made the tentacles of her family circle escapable—or at the very least, bearable. Every family has its knaves and fools. All one can do is not to contribute to the inanity. With that thought, she slipped away. If Lydia’s boys were on the loose, their stones might make targets of her own children.

Her motherly instincts were correct.

Just beyond the paling, Lydia’s oldest son, a tall gangly sly-boots with a quick tongue, had Janie by her sashes. He was threatening to tie her up and throw her down the well. Janie flailed at the boy, but without success. From Geoff’s expression, he looked as if he wanted to intercede, but did not know how to go about it.

“Stop it!” he demanded, but the bigger boy laughed.

When Geoff did react, it was not indecisively. He ran full force towards the bigger boy, swinging his fists wildly. Wickham’s son stuck out a foot and tripped him. Geoff struggled to his feet and looked to make another run. However, Elizabeth caught him by the back of the collar and swung him around behind her. Still flailing, he did his best to wriggle free. Elizabeth hollered at the boy to let go of Janie.

Georgie Wickham dropped Janie abruptly and sauntered away. He did not go quietly. Indeed, the curses to which he gave low utterances astounded her. For one who was not yet ten years old, he had a surprising vocabulary.

“You are in compleat want of manners! I shall not have it! Do you hear?” she called after him.

Janie ran to her mother. She looked back at Georgie’s retreating figure and stuck out her tongue. Then, she took refuge in the folds of her mother’s skirts. Only when Janie had been rescued did Geoff quit squirming. He did not speak, but Elizabeth could see the tips of his ears were as red as his face. The lady in her knew that she should discourage such behaviour, but a tingle of motherly pride stopped her. It was good to know that when the time came, they would stand up for themselves—and each other.

Kneeling, she encircled both children in her arms.

“You should come to your Mama if other children misbehave,” she cooed.

Geoff shook his head solemnly, saying, “Papa says it is my duty.”

His voice was that of a child, but his manner was that of a gentleman. In the distance, the bell announced dinner. Elizabeth was not yet ready to subject her children to her family’s questionable embrace.

Taking each by the hand, she said, “Let us strike out on another path, shall we?”

As they walked, neither child spoke. She did not want to end their visit to Longbourne unhappily, but Wickham’s son reminded her far too much of his father. That similarity recalled other, more disquieting events. She could barely look upon the boy without repugnance. Still, Georgie Wickham was but a boy. There was time for his manners to improve. Not wanting to fall prey to the same sort of biases as her mother, Elizabeth decided it might be best to take their leave.

In fortune, Mrs. Bennet was too much engaged with her other daughters to care if they did.

Needing no more provocation, Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy’s children, nurses, and Hannah were on the road with great haste. Elizabeth, however, had to overcome a bout of melancholy. As her coach passed by, her gaze was arrested by the sight of a familiar oak. Under its spreading limbs, she and Darcy enjoyed their first kiss (and where their passion near ran amuck, leaving her far better informed of the anatomical disparity of the sexes). It was also against that ancestral tree she wept for her husband’s safe return after burying her father. As they left Longbourne behind, she had to bite the inside of her lip to keep it from quivering with an overflow of her emotions.

Before they had departed, Elizabeth had sent a rider to inform Darcy of their altered plans. He would be displeased that they traveled without him or, to his mind, enough footmen. (To her mind, he had the greater need of footmen in London.) She held no doubt, however, the circumstances would beg his understanding. Had she dared, she did not care to journey all the way to Derbyshire without her husband. They would stop at Chiltern.

The inn was quite tolerable—even for the family of Mr. Darcy. There they would forgather for a short stay. It was likely that he would make his away from London more hastily knowing that they were from under her mother’s roof.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Janie, who laid her head against her and asked, “Mama, are you sad? Is it for Willy?”

Elizabeth was suddenly aware that a tear was making its way down her cheek. Hastily, she wiped it away with the back of her glove and consoled her daughter.

“Just now I miss your Papa. I shall be quite happy to see him.”

As a cloud burst opened up in the sky, she felt a renewal of spirits, happy in the knowledge that Longbourne was no longer her home.

It was where she became a woman, not lived as one.

Chapter 56

Vouloir, c’est pouvoir

It might be presumed that whilst struggling to convalesce from a near-mortal wound that a looking-glass would not be the item most wanted within reach of the patient’s sickbed. This particular bed, however, was inhabited by a man of peculiar merit. George Wickham had several good traits, modesty was not amongst them. He admired all of his God-given endowments—his pleasing expression, handsome countenance, and winning ways. Like most men, he was particularly fond of his masculine basket of fancies. Consequently, he was most impatient to learn whether his recent misfortune would disfigure them or create any hindrance in their workings.

It was months before Wickham could manage to stand alone, even with the help of a crutch. Had it not been for Mrs. Younge, there was little doubt he would have bled out. He owed that good woman his life several times over. He did not tell her this. Once assured that he would survive, he could afford to be less generous. (A clearer head reminded him that one must never allow another to believe a debt was owed.) His next undertaking was to determine whether his proud, purple-helmeted warrior of love could still “rise to the occasion.” Second to that, he needed to learn if his remaining whirligig would function as nature intended.

This was vital information.

George Wickham agreed with general thought—that the primary purpose of these organs were not evacuation or procreation. It was recreation. His body served only one god and that was Eros. Strictly speaking, he was uninterested in fertility. He had offspring scattered across several countries. (They had a perverse penchant for lurching into his life at the oddest moments.) His masculinity had been assured through spawning several sons.

Still, he liked to leave his lovers well-lathered. It was a matter of aesthetics. When it came to the art of love, the lack of manly cream might compromise a lady’s opinion of his performance. A dry bob was to be avoided—it could be confused with a lack of vigour. Therefore, he needed to determine if his one remaining doodad had been decommissioned or not.

In the quest of learning the answer to both those looming matters, Wickham once again inveigled the faithful Mrs. Younge. Cooperative upon all other occasions, she was not an altogether willing partner in this specific investigation. She was well-aware that due to his wound, the avenue to discovery was limited. He could not mount her nor could she ride him. There was little recourse save hand or oral gratification. She harboured a reluctance to engage in oral stimulation. It was time-consuming, awkward, and unpalatable. She knew full well if one acquiesced to such a procedure once, it would become a constant demand.

“Can you not just... you know... see to yourself?” she asked.

It was a reasonable question, one for which he had a ready answer.

“I look upon committing self-pollution much the same way as two women kissing—it is a misapplication of God’s greatest gifts.”

Cornered, she was forced to agree. However, since she was to be the ungratified party in this act, she preferred employing her hand. She could twizzle his cock until the cows came home and still stir the dinner pot—so to speak. He insisted upon fellatio. Of the two, it was far more pleasurable.

To Wickham’s mind, hers was hardly the greater sacrifice. After all, his very manhood hung on the precipice of rediscovery. Applying ample doses of kissing and tickling, he gained her consent. At least she consented in theory. She continued to protest. Her complaints were so loud that he had to grab her by her topknot and mash her face against his genitals to stop her squawking. Then as he petted her like a setter, she did as he wished.

“Oh, yes my love-y,” he crooned, allowing sweet ecstasy to overtake him.

As Mrs. Younge diligently worked, perspiration dripped down her forehead and onto his belly. Fear at clutched at him, clawing at his very vitals (which, it could be acknowledged, is not the most advantageous manner whereby one is brought to orgasm) as she valiantly, if methodically, brought him to arousal and then—dare he hope—ejaculation? In a near frenzy, he clasped her by the ears lest she escape before his last quiver of satisfaction.

“Bleech!” she retched, trying to elude his grasp. “The deed is done! Now I’m through with you!”

Indeed she was.

“But did I spend? Did I
spend
?”

Wiping her face with the hem of her apron, she gave him his answer (and with it came a glance of repugnance). There had not been a great deal of ejaculate, but with time and practise he would surely improve his output.

Chortling happily to himself, he pointed to the hand-glass, “Let us have a look.”

Feeling quite ill-used, Mrs. Younge employed her most abused expression (although she would obtain no sympathy from him), but did as he bid. As she extended it to him, he veritably snatched it from her grasp. Turning the hand-glass first one way and then the other, he inspected himself. She was too busy rolling her eyes to care what he saw. Appetence now was just a memory, his virile member was not admirable to anyone but him. It had functioned to its full capacity and he gazed upon it with something akin to love.

Waving her away, he lay back on the bed and sighed.

He had not truly deliberated on a design for his future. Now that he knew he could perform the act of amour, his mind was free to be transported. Overcome by anticipatory glee, he pondered what measures he might take to regain all that he lost.

There were many considerations.

Although he was a known fugitive from justice, he did not deliberate what he might have to do to save his soul or skin. His most pressing concern was that of personal beauty. Before anything else was addressed, he set about concealing that he was one testicle short of a pair by fluffing his under-hair. As he did, he concluded that future amatory congress would require certain concessions. Mutual fondling would have to be avoided at all costs. Pity that. Even worse, fellatio with anyone other than Mrs. Younge would be out of the question. Indeed, was he to keep his semi-emasculation hidden, all future coition would be highly improvisational. But then, he was nothing if not a master of invention. He would have to make do with what was left to him.

Resignation was not familiar to him and he knew not what to make of it.

Hence, he dedicated his next considerations to his identity. George Wickham was believed dead. Was he alive, he was charged with murder.