Darcy & Elizabeth (59 page)

Bonjour, Juliette

Darcy had heard that Howgrave had engaged an exceptionally beautiful mistress of French descent. He had not allowed himself to conjecture just whom she might be. He believed he cared little for such information. Indeed, even then he would have done nothing but tip his hat to her had she not stopt before him and spoken his name.

“Mr. Darcy,” said Juliette.

“Mademoiselle Clisson,” he touched the brim of his hat.

“You have had business within?”

“Yes. Mr. Bingley and I have compleated our business with Sir Howgrave,” he nodded in Bingley's direction.

“This meeting is nothing but chance, I know, but it must also be fate,” she told him.

He noticed that there was only a trace remaining of her accent. He was disinclined to see their meeting as fateful and was disposed to go upon his way. Seeing her then bade him recall the last time they had spoken. It was upon a London wharf under circumstances he would have liked to forget. However, she stopt him by quickly saying a name that she knew would do just that.

“I intended to send you a note. A lady within has word of George Wickham, a man whose whereabouts I understand interest you.”

The name did its office. He stopt and turned directly to her, waiting intently for what further she had to say. After listening a moment, he motioned to Bingley, then sitting in the coach, that he would return directly. He then took Juliette's elbow, steered her up the steps, and re-entered Howgrave's house.

***

Inside, she took his hat, gloves, and stick and handed them with her gloves and reticule to a servant. There was no sound from the room he had just left with Bingley and she led him to a large sitting room upon the opposite side of the house. Sitting upon a settee in the centre of the room was a lovely girl. Her gown and accoutrements (to say nothing of the knowing look upon her face) supposed to Darcy that she was not a young lady of the gentry. He could not be certain, but she looked vaguely familiar. By then, he had begun to question whether his decision to return with Juliette had been altogether good judgement.

As if she detected his instinct for flight, Juliette took his elbow and introduced the girl.

“May I present Mademoiselle Marie-Therese Lambert.” Thereupon she gave a nervous titter (one quite unusual for her), saying, “But I have forgotten. You have met my dear Marie-Therese above a year ago.”

The titter as much as the date reclaimed his memory. “Yes. At my cousin's home near Lille.”

He could feel himself flushing and was immediately piqued at his own disorder. To find himself standing in Howgrave's house in the company of two ladies of exceedingly expansive sensibilities was most disconcerting. He was beginning to question Juliette's motives. She put that apprehension to rest directly.

To Marie-Therese she said, “I met Mr. Darcy upon the steps just now. He has very little time, but I assured him that he would want to hear your intelligence of his friend, Mr. Wickham.”

“He is not my friend,” Darcy corrected, his voice tight.

“That does you credit, Mr. Darcy,” said Marie-Therese.

She had lost the hardness he had found so offensive when last they met. Then, she had been not only forward, but almost lewd. Her demeanour had not improved beyond criticism though, for he noticed that she had not lost her coquetry. Perhaps, Darcy mused, that became ingrained in one who depended upon such mannerisms for her livelihood.

Juliette regained his attention when she asked him to sit down. He refused with a quick shake of his head so cursory as to be nearly impolite.

Despite this, Juliette proceeded, mildly inquiring, “I believe that you wish to know of this Wickham's situation?”

“Official word to his wife said he was a casualty of the Waterloo action.”

“I believe you suspect otherwise,” Marie-Therese said. “As of three days ago, he had rooms with a Mrs. Younge near Gowell St. For the price of his arrears she was happy to tell me all she knew.”

Darcy's expression barely flickered upon receiving this shocking intelligence. If Marie-Therese had expected the reticent Mr. Darcy to expose his private thoughts to her, she was mistaken. It was a moment before he spoke—a moment during which he turned his back and walked to the fireplace. He placed one hand against the mantle and the barest closure of his eyes betrayed the significance of his feelings. This small concession to his disconcertion was exposed to his company through the mirror hanging above the mantle, and they exchanged glances. Directly, he returned. His hands behind his back, he stood remarkably straight, resting his weight majestically upon one foot.

“May I inquire as to your connection with Major Wickham?”

Marie-Therese had not deviated from her placidly coy demeanour, but she did then. Momentarily, her eyes flashed. She knew that he supposed her connection with Wickham was through the nature of her avocation.

“May I ask you, Mr. Darcy, as to
your
connection with Major Wickham?”

He gave her a slight bow, as if to say, “Touché.”

Her request for him to divulge his business before she divulged hers was entirely correct and he recognised that.

“Major Wickham is the first husband of my wife's sister.”

Marie-Therese nodded at both the information and his acquiescence to her request. The only thing that remained to be seen was if she would be as equally
un
forthcoming as had Darcy.

“Mr. Wickham seduced a good friend when she was no more than a child. She had an infant by him that was taken from her.”

That was hardly a shock to Darcy. Wickham had made seduction and betrayal his life's work.

“I am sorry for your friend. Her injury is not the only one Mr. Wickham has inflicted.”

“In my friend's case,” Marie-Therese said, “his seduction was carried out under your name.”

“What?” Darcy said, before reclaiming himself. “I do not take your meaning.”

“I believe, Mr. Darcy, that you do. I suspect it is not the only time he acted thusly. I would hope he might be meted out the justice he so richly deserves. However, I fear only those injuries he has inflicted against the Crown are punishable.”

Darcy did not say, but his countenance agreed with the probability of that statement.

“I believe my company is witting that Mr. Wickham is presumed dead. That he is not and has spent these months other than with his regiment will demand a military tribunal.”

Marie-Therese thereupon handed Darcy a folded piece of paper bearing Mrs. Younge's address. He did not look at it, but tucked it into his waistcoat.

“I thank you for this intelligence,” he said stiffly. “I must now bid you good-day.”

With a curt bow, he turned. Juliette put an unforgivably intimate hand upon his forearm.

“Must you?” she asked.

With that question, Marie-Therese stood and betook herself from the room. A piece of handwork that she had been working on remained upon one seat of the settee—the only evidence of her having been there.

“Yes,” he replied, “I must.”

“If you
must
, then you
must
.”

The implication was unappreciated.

“I do as I
choose
.”

Juliette's eyes flicked away, then returned. She realised that she had overstepped that invisible boundary that he kept about himself. His eyes remained trained upon her to a vexatious degree.

“I intend to marry Howgrave,” she announced.

“My best wishes.”

“He has a home in the country—one not far, I understand, from Pemberley,” she smiled, “we will be neighbours.”

“Indeed?” he said mildly. “I bid you good-day.”

When he took his leave, she crossed her arms, smiled satisfactorily to herself, and, with uncommon grace, claimed the middle of the settee. As he took his leave, a smile of similar expression tempted the corner of Darcy's mouth. Juliette's, however, was abruptly lost upon sitting on Marie-Therese's abandoned knitting needles.

It was an expression of mischance that would be replicated upon learning that her new husband had given up his country home in favour of the larger but more distant residence of Kirkland Hall.

Second Verse, Not as the First

It was a desperate ride through the streets to return to Chelsea, but Elizabeth had not a moment to spare. Such was their haste, they had taken more than one corner upon two wheels (and nearly brained a poor horse which had the misfortune to get in their path). Hence, by the time she reached the Kneebones' house she was in a similar frantic state ere she had left. But she knew time was of the essence if she was to return and take her own coach and horses to the nearest public stable and see what price they might fetch.

She arrived at that establishment accompanied by her footman and driver both sporting the elegant Darcy livery and in no mood to haggle. The stable's proprietor looked at her as if she had run mad when she took several hundred sovereigns less than the coach and animals were clearly worth without complaint. Still, when she stuffed the gold into her tiny reticule, she had to jiggle it for the coins to settle enough to pull the drawstring. To a lady whose fortunate circumstances had not allowed her the privilege of bartering for livestock, a fat purse deemed it an altogether satisfactory transaction. The expression he bore, however, looked to be a cross between avarice and alarm. She took leave with the hope that greed would prevail and he would not set a constable after her—but she had little time to care. With the footmen trailing, she hired a coach to take them all back to Lydia's.

Having their coats and wigs sold from off their persons, both of her men were far too dumbstruck to inquire of their mistress just what next was required of them. Exhibiting an aplomb that she did not truly feel, she handed them a few coins and directed them to take a chaise to the Darcy town house. Truly, she simply had no idea what else to do with them. They certainly were of no good to anyone lurking about Lydia's. They walked off mumbling to each other, but Elizabeth was far too busy to worry about their opinions, either. She counted the money that she had left and shook her head. What had appeared to be a small fortune when counted out to her piecemeal fell quite short when tallied. It did not seem enough to tempt Wickham and she gave a small stamp of disappointment. There were acquaintances in town which she could importune, but she had neither the time nor the inclination to draw outsiders into such a wild scheme.

Kneebone happened upon her at the precise moment of her fit of pique. As he had found and read Wickham's note, he was ready truly to do him bodily harm. However tempting was the thought of Wickham being thrashed, Elizabeth argued against it.

“I know this man, Major. I believe he could not possibly hold to that large of a demand. If we offer him a substantial enough amount, I believe he will accept it,” she said, adding, “I have obtained five hundred pounds. Perhaps that will do.”

“Perhaps twice that will do,” he countered, putting his boot upon the arm of a chair.

From there he withdrew a wad of bank notes. Astonished, she watched as he counted.

“Five hundred thirty-five and,” he announced, and then withdrew from his jacket pocket, “four half-crowns and a tuppence.”

“Keep your thirty-five and change, Major. One thousand is a good round number!”

She had been delighted at her luck. Before Kneebone could prevent her, she put a finger to her lips bidding his silence and stole quickly away.

By the time she arrived at Wickham's her giddy sense of triumph had waned precipitously. The pace of the hired coach was not leisurely, but neither was it the hooves-flailing ride to Chelsea. Therefore, she had nothing to do but rethink what she had seen upon the steps of Howgrave's house. Indeed, the vision of her husband escorting Juliette Clisson would not leave her in peace. She had employed every device imaginable to make it not what it looked for all the world to be. She was alternately incredulous and furious. The realisation that he took his sweet leave and left her in the clutches of his scheming aunt whilst he gad about London with a former lover made her angry. Exceedingly angry. The angrier she became the more willing she was to shove the thousand pounds down George Wickham's sorry throat.

***

The entrance to Wickham's rooms above the tavern was through a separate doorway and up two sets of stairs. The stench was much as she had encountered in the ale-room, but added to that distinct odour was that which came by way of the stairwell's oft-alternate office of handy latrine. She endeavoured to take as little air as possible into her nostrils as she made her way up the steps, but had to exhale when she was accosted by an elderly man who peered at her with rheumy eyes.

“Lookin' fer Wickham?” he squawked.

Clearly she was not the first lady come in to pay that man a call. She nodded.

“If you please,” she replied daintily—and much unhappy to be noticed by anyone of any social strata entering lodgings harbouring George Wickham.

He pointed up the next flight of stairs and she did not hesitate to take them.

Upon the landing, she was taken by surprise at how much less foul it was than the establishment below. When she rapped upon his door, Wickham immediately opened it. He wore neither his coat nor a neck-cloth. Nor had he bothered to button his shirt. Believing it not an oversight, the display of his chest hair made her stomach roil more violently than had the odour in the hallway. Certainly he had not the gall to employ seduction against her. A quick image invaded her thoughts—one of Wickham making little kisses up her arm. She gave an involuntary shiver.

He bowed and bid her enter (exhibiting only the smallest limp due to the encounter with his wife). His room was much in keeping with what she suspected of the other apartments—comfortable, with odd splashes of gentility. Clearly the landlord of the rooms had once been above his present situation. She saw two sitting chairs, an escritoire, and a barren fireplace with a low bed hidden behind a half-drawn curtain. Because the stink of the entrance had not wafted this far, her nostrils had cleared enough to detect an odour of another kind—one of which she was distinctly familiar. She was certain she smelled the after-scent of a baby. That, however, she attributed to a previous tenant. Whatever would Wickham be doing with a baby? Outrageous notion.

“So,” Wickham said to her, “I suppose Darcy has enough attorneys in his pocket to obtain what he wants.”

“Darcy knows nothing of this,” she said, then was instantly sorry, for she saw Wickham's eyes flicker with triumph. The first point went to Wickham. This transaction had begun badly. Indeed, he moved boldly forward.

“I know Lydia, and she will have me back,” he threatened.

“Wounds tingle most when they are about to heal,” Elizabeth countered.

“What is Kneebone? A nothing. Was he mentioned with honours? No,” he said petulantly.

“As a noncombatant, his name was not mentioned in newspapers. He obtained his wound in the Peninsular campaign.”

“And you believed him when he happened to drop that into a conversation?”

“Some men are not disposed to lies,” she retorted. “A sort with whom you would be unfamiliar.”

“Harrumph. ‘Cowards in scarlet pass for men of war,'” he quoted.

“Yes. Spoken like one who would have firsthand knowledge.”

Wickham looked at her keenly—more keenly than she liked, but she did not shrink back.

“I do not take your meaning, Mrs. Darcy.”

Time had come for her to show her hand. They both knew it.

“I know that you are a deserter. I know that you killed one of your own soldiers to make your away. You are a coward and a murderer. That you are a liar, thief, and adulterer is beside the point. Major Kneebone accuses you of cheating at cards—I shan't be at all surprised of that either,” she said angrily.

Wickham was not altogether stunned. He had known that something was afoot. However, the extent of what she knew was remarkable. As they both listened to a clock ticking loudly upon the near-barren mantle, a few beads of perspiration broke out upon Wickham's upper lip. It was only with a concerted effort that he did not blot it with the back of his hand. As she was not as astute as her husband in the study of the nuances of prevarication, Elizabeth did not know to look for such a sign. By her own particular detection, she knew she had him all the same.

He said, “You cannot possibly prove such an outrageous accusation.”

That statement was not delivered with the same outrage he professed. Indeed, it was nothing less than a challenge. She knew she must offer some corroborating evidence.

“The boy you killed was in our employ. My husband talked to him upon his deathbed. He was explicit as to your guilt,” she said evenly.

To her utter astonishment, he guffawed, “Ha! For a moment, I thought…” thereupon he caught himself, “I did no such thing.”

Indeed, for a moment he had thought that there was evidence against him. He was shrewd enough to know that Darcy's allegation he claimed to have heard from a now-dead boy was flimsy indeed.

“There is nothing—no proof. There is nothing but unsubstantiated hearsay!”

Elizabeth was disinclined to enter into a “yes you did/no I did not” argument with him. She also did not know what the next step should be. That had been the last shot in her locker. He had murder thrown in his face and he had laughed. What next was she to do?

Wickham saw then a truth. It was best for him to make his away from England. General opinion could turn against him did Darcy go public with what he had heard. Wickham quickly assessed the possibilities. Elizabeth wanted to protect her sister from him. Because she stood before him without her husband's knowledge, he believed that there was little she would not do in her sister's protection.

“My demand is ten thousand pounds,” he said, then his voice lowered, “or something of similar value.”

Elizabeth eyes flickered but little, and holding out her reticule, she said, “I have one thousand. You will have to make do with that for there is no more now.”

“There is always more, Elizabeth,” said Wickham. “Darcy pays more for a horse.”

The mention of horses gifted Elizabeth with a twinge, knowing as she did that she had all but given away Darcy's horses. It also occurred to her that she left the document that she had written out for Wickham to sign in the hack coach. If he took the money, she had nothing in return.

“My husband has no part in this,” she told him. “This is all you will be offered.”

Impulsively, she threw out what she hoped was further incentive, “I can send you more later—when you are settled.”

“Ha!” he laughed again. “And allow you to know of my whereabouts? Do you think me a fool?”

“No, I do not,” she answered honestly, “but when I say there is no more money to be had at this hour, I speak the truth.”

He looked keenly at her. Thereupon he casually drew a small armchair between himself and the door, and dropped nonchalantly into it. Thereupon, he draped one leg over the arm, allowing it slowly to begin to swing.

“Perhaps there is another recourse.”

Had Wickham's expression not, the noise from the ale house below gifted Elizabeth an anxiousness she did not like at all. If she had to scream, it was unlikely she would be heard. Even if she was, it was even less likely any of that establishment's habitués would be moved to come to her rescue. (That she saw it necessary to contemplate screaming was no comfort either.) A bit tardily it occurred to her that a man who would do murder would be unlikely to have any qualms over committing a lesser crime. Indeed, she had just offered him enough money to escape to the ends of the earth.

Although her ruminations were silent, it was as if he heard every word.