Darcy & Elizabeth (62 page)

Mr. Hurst had served his office by plying Beecher with liquid mettle until the appointed hour. But, when Beecher arrived at the appropriately secluded spot, his trembling knees remained unsettled. The bravado he had enjoyed the night before had fled, leaving him with bleary eyes and a fierce headache. Moreover, it was such an outrageously early hour. Indeed, he regretted that he had attempted the few hours of sleep that he had.

“Get on with it, I say!” he demanded.

Parr nodded benignly, threw his cape over his shoulder, and took his position. Impatient and irritable, Beecher shot first and missed. Protocol then gave Parr the freedom to take his own shot. To his credit, Beecher stood his ground to receive his punishment like the gentleman he believed himself to be—temporarily. By the time Parr had taken aim, Beecher peeked through squinted eyes and was most affrighted by looking down the barrel of Parr's pistol. In the following moment, Parr drew a bead upon the largest target exposed to him which, unfortunately, was the broad expanse of Beecher's buttocks as he was making his away. In fortune, that area of the human form is the one most cushioned for such an assault, hence Beecher was taken down, but not killed.

The return trip to Rosings Park was, however, a bit uncomfortable. This, not only for Beecher who had to endure the trip to Kent lying on his stomach and swilling laudanum, but for Caroline's lap, upon which he reposed. As he was merely incapacitated, not dead, Miss Bingley did not desert him. (Indeed, she was so dedicated, one would have thought she had burnt her bridges everywhere else.) As his closest relative, her son-in-law's care was remanded ultimately unto Lady Catherine. In that Caroline advised her ladyship of the deep and abiding friendship she shared with Georgiana, she was asked to stay on for as long as she liked. Georgiana, of course, was quite astonished to see Caroline once again—almost as astonished as she was to learn that Miss Bingley still regarded their friendship as a dear one. Although Lady Catherine and Miss Bingley were of similar minds upon many things (not least amongst them as admiration of rank), Caroline's design upon Beecher became apparent.

Lady Catherine was very attentive to those tenets governing societal behaviour. Unlike her peers in London, she did not turn a blind eye to a widower transgressing the conventions of mourning. Even in Beecher's compromised health, she saw a romance in progress.

She was most displeased.

The Convalescence

Lady Catherine had all but washed her hands of Beecher, giving Georgiana the opportunity to undertake the somewhat thankless office of overseer of his repair. Caroline Bingley was keenly interested in Beecher's recuperation, but was queasy of illness of any kind and thereby delighted to have her friend's intervention on his behalf. Fitzwilliam, however, protested, insisting such activity was far too taxing for so new a mother. It was a bit cumbersome to direct Beecher's care from her own bed, but Georgiana was delighted for the opportunity to employ her store of remedies. Hence, she sweetly but firmly overruled her husband's objection.

At one time, Miss Bingley had pursued a close friendship with Georgiana (but her devotion to Darcy's sister had waned once he had married Elizabeth). Of late, they had little in common—for Caroline could no more satisfy Georgiana's thirst for thoughtful discourse than Georgiana could hers for what colours would be fashionable next season. Having stumbled upon her long-lost friend at Rosings Park, Caroline was quite happy to renew their acquaintance—a connection that she hoped would influence Lady Catherine in her favour.

Recalling the difficult young girl she once knew, Caroline was rightly impressed with both Georgiana's expertise and her self-possession. Indeed, she listened closely to Georgiana's instructions and followed the servants as they shuttled back and forth fulfilling them. As her ladyship had made it clear that she was still quite irked over the blossoming of her son-in-law's unseemly romance, Caroline's scampering between Georgiana's bed and Beecher's accomplished dual purposes. It gave the appearance of dutifulness to her lover and kept her from under Lady Catherine's disapproving glare.

Although not happy to have his husbandly concern rebuffed, Fitzwilliam's recollections of Georgiana were similar to Caroline's. Hence, he smiled indulgently upon her as she issued orders. Despite her niece's choice of patients, even Lady Catherine (whose parsimony with compliments was of legend) could not be at variance with the conclusion of her niece's cleverness. Indeed, she insisted that the Fitzwilliams sojourn at Rosings for as long as they liked.

The death of a mother in childbirth was a commonplace event even in Kent. Whilst Georgiana believed that beneath her aunt's seeming indifference to Anne's death lurked a wounded heart, she doubted that the usual remedies for such a tragedy would benefit one of Lady Catherine's disposition. Although that lady had come to admire the Fitzwilliams' newborn each day, she had not paid the same attention to her own granddaughter. Granted, she issued a number of edicts upon that baby's care, but she had not once visited her since her ill-advised cribside confrontation with Elizabeth. It was clear that an attachment between grandmother and granddaughter had not been formed. The recognition of that lack of affection gave Georgiana the impetus to pursue her aunt's approval for bringing Anne's baby home with their own.

In truth, it was not one, but several seemingly unrelated sentiments that combined propitiously in supporting Georgiana's suit. The sheer economy of raising two girls together and the possibility that Beecher might employ his parental right to the child held no small sway over Lady Catherine's opinion. But in the end, it was that the Fitzwilliams would be spending a great deal of time at Pemberley which decided the matter in their favour. Having her granddaughter situated in close proximity to the Darcy heir-apparent pleased Lady Catherine no end. (Indeed, she was quite happy to have thought of it.)

Knowing that the baby would be brought up with love gladdened Georgiana even more.

The Wicked and the Just

Wickham did not visibly start at the spectre before him, but his pupils contracted noticeably. He stood, picked up a glove and flicked it nervously against his other palm.

With a remarkably level voice, he said, “I did not expect to see you here, Darcy.”

“No,” said Darcy, “I do not expect that you would.”

Once Darcy's eyes had swept the room, he stood gravely still—eyes levelled upon Wickham.

To Wickham's mind the early chill London was experiencing was not significant enough to merit the long coat Darcy wore—that made him even more nervous than Darcy's sudden appearance. He was troubled that it obscured his figure, thus whether he was armed. He could ascertain only that he did not wear his sword. Darcy was also unaccompanied by a second—that was of comfort. But Wickham's toe throbbed and he cursed Lydia under his breath. He was happy that he had managed to pull on his boots. He would not have liked to be confronted in his stockings.

“No second?” Wickham smirked, and then quickly sobered.

Initially, Wickham had never quite believed that tale that had travelled the length and breadth of England of Darcy slaying three men. But that unhappy occurrence of being invited to take his leave from Pemberley at the point of Darcy's blade bade him rethink the matter. This night he thought it best to keep his distance from Darcy—particularly in light of his engaging in clandestine meetings with Darcy's wife.

Elizabeth, however, was gone, and he was sporting a lump the size of a potato upon the side of his head thanks to the heavy swing she took at him with her gold-filled reticule. Wickham was uncertain what prompted Darcy's visit—was he there because he knew of what had come to pass upon her visit or because he did not? Elizabeth had inadvertently admitted that Darcy knew nothing of her coming, hence it was possible that he learnt of their meeting and this confrontation was prompted by jealousy. Wickham knew not whether to admire that possibility or despise it.

All these considerations crossed, flitted about, and then abandoned Wickham's thoughts in the seconds he recognised Darcy stood before him. But then, his fast thinking was one of his keenest attributes—that and fast talking.

As Darcy still stood in silence, Wickham knew that he was being called out in some manner. If not a duel, what? He felt compelled to break the stalemate.

He laughed nervously, then spread his hands and said, “May we talk man to man, Darcy?”

“Any other manner would be curious,” replied Darcy.

It was clear no quarter was to be granted. It was also clear to Wickham that if he were to wriggle out of the tight spot into which he had situated himself, he would have to draw upon all his powers of persuasion. Failing that, he would break and run. He was, even then, calculating his exit strategy.

“It has been a long time,” he ventured, attempting to stall.

“Not long enough,” Darcy retorted. “Your commanding officers will be surprised to know you are alive.”

Darcy stood between Wickham and the door and it did not appear that he intended to move from his position—one that blocked exit from the room. Wickham was both irked and frightened. Soon, however, fright overcame his pique and his brow began to perspire. He had always despised his propensity to that weakness. As any good card player knows, one must not show one's hand too early. Impassivity was all if one was to have the upper hand. A sudden twitch began to trouble his left eyelid.

They had stood before each other for a full five minutes and why Darcy was there remained unexplained. Whatever it was, Wickham knew that it could not be good. The lack of promise of situation bade Wickham assess alternate routes of escape. A window was behind him. He believed the shutters were open, but the sash was closed. Damn.

When at last Darcy made a move, Wickham jerked like a startled cat.

“I have here,” said Darcy reaching into his coat, “a document.”

Wickham exhaled mightily and immediately set about to reclaim his composure.

“A document?”

“Yes.”

Darcy then walked purposely to a game-table that stood mid-most between them. He placed his gloves upon the edge and then placed the tri-folded piece of paper in the middle of the chessboard that decorated the lacquered top. Wickham, however, dropped his gloves to that same table, and then strode to the cellaret standing against the wall. He opened the cabinet door and withdrew a bottle of claret and two glasses. He kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot and thereupon returned to the game-table. He placed the glasses and decanter upon it next to the still-folded document.

Once he had seen that Darcy held not a weapon but a legal document, he allowed the exultation of triumph to wash over him. It was a heady feeling to have the whip-hand over the proud and arrogant Darcy. Had he been wise, he would have enjoyed his win and left it at that. But Wickham had never been particularly wise. Granted, he had an innate talent for chicanery. But he was sly, not wise. That lack of wisdom then allowed him to entertain the notion of gloating over his victory.

“A drink, my old friend?” he said amiably.

“I am not your friend,” was the reply.

Wickham shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He poured half a glass and upended it immediately. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he thought to apprise Darcy of the wine's fine quality.

“A mistake, my friend,” he said, picking up the decanter and holding it to the light, “this is a particularly nice bottle of…”

Suddenly, Darcy reached out and grasped the decanter by its neck and cast it to the floor. It broke into a thousand pieces and the wine immediately began to seep between the floorboards.

“I am not,” Darcy said evenly, “your friend.”

“Testy, testy, Darcy,” said Wickham with a smirk, then most unadvisedly added, “'Tis a pity your wife could not come with you. I have enjoyed our meetings most decidedly.”

With that, Wickham stepped back, his hand at the ready by his waistband. There lurked a small pistol. It was but a single-shot (a pea-shooter, it was called), a lady's gun—Lydia's gun, actually, but one that could fell a man, even a man of Darcy's size. Darcy, however, did not advance even at that provocation.

Wickham raised one eyebrow, as if to dare him to advance.

To his astonishment, Darcy smiled. “I believe from the size of the contusion on your head that you would do well to stay away from my wife.”

So, Wickham realised, he had talked to his wife. That irked him no end.

Darcy picked up the document, opened it, and set it before Wickham. That reminded Wickham that he was to win this confrontation. Still, he could not help but touch the goose-egg near his hairline.

“Have you no pen?” Wickham asked.

Darcy flicked his head towards the escritoire.

“Yes,” Wickham simpered, “of course.”

Employing every device of relish, he sauntered there and back, holding the pen aloft in one hand, the inkwell in the other. He set the inkwell down, dabbed the pen in it three times, and then held the pen to the light.

“Does it need mending?”

“Get on with it,” demanded Darcy.

“I suppose I should read it first.”

Wickham picked up the paper and held it close to the candle, reading it in the quasi-silence of lip accompaniment. Satisfied, he laid it down, but still did not sign.

“You understand, it is not that I do not trust you. But under these particular circumstances, might I bear witness that you have sufficient funds in exchange for this signature? Bloody war. It has made paupers of so many gentlemen.”

It was Darcy's turn to sigh, and he gave a generous one of disgust. He reached within his waistcoat, retrieved Bingley's bank notes, and tossed them to the middle of the table.

Still holding the pen aloft, Wickham picked up a bundle and appraised it. With the money before him in a tantalizing mound, he quickly scratched a signature upon the paper.

Darcy reached out and yanked it from beneath his pen before he had time to blot.

That impatience had little effect upon Wickham's mood—which was by then bordering upon the giddy. “I am most excessively grateful,” he said scooping up the notes.

He gave Darcy a swooping bow.

“I bid you good-day,” Wickham said amiably.

Darcy did not respond. He picked up the document and refolded it, stashing it again in his waistcoat. Thereupon he took up his gloves and strode towards the door. At the door, however, he paused.

Looking directly at Wickham, he said with no small gravity, “I
do
have a second, Wickham.”

Wickham smiled and then lost it, uncertain of Darcy's meaning.

Darcy was disinclined to explain. With one parting look, he took his leave.

“What sort of enigmatic rubbish is that?” Wickham said aloud, mimicking Darcy. “
I do have a second
.”

He picked up his gloves and stopt, brow furrowing. He bethought the matter further. It was troubling. Then he shook that thought from his mind, certain that Darcy was only playing with him. But then, Darcy was not much of a gamester. What could be his design? Shrugging his shoulders, he pondered more important matters. It was imperative that he make his money safe. But first, he must count. Carefully, he arranged each stack, counting the notes in each. It was indeed ten thousand. He put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes—thinking he might just weep with joy.

Mrs. Younge, of course, had no safe. But there was a strongbox in a room behind the tavern. He would borrow it until he could find permanent means of stowing his booty. A canvas bag lay upon the escritoire. He took it and began to stuff the notes into it. It had been the one that had held the ruby necklace for his brief ownership. To refill it with such a fortune gifted him no small delight.

“What is it they say about luck?” he asked himself. “Oh, yes. ‘It favours the bold.'” The thought of himself thusly made him preen just a bit, for it was a most pleasing notion.

Wickham slipped on his frock-coat and made for the door, donning his gloves as he went. He stopt once again, perplexed. There was something wrong with the fit of his gloves. The appearance of his costume was one of his many conceits. He refused to leave his room unless dressed as a gentleman. He pushed between each of the fingers endeavouring to press them into place, but to no avail. He looked at his hand. The fingers of the gloves were a knuckle-length too long on each finger. Furiously, he withdrew them both and cast them to the ground. Realising that Darcy had mistakenly taken his gloves and left his own, Wickham settled himself.

“Let Darcy have my gloves,” he thought. “I now have the funds to buy all the kid gloves I should want.”

The thought of gloves he could buy was rewarding. Still, he could not help himself from looking once again at Darcy's gloves lying in a heap upon the floor. It was not the fineness of those gloves that so bothered him. The many gloves that he would buy would be just as fine.

What truly vexed him was the thought that even then Darcy would be endeavouring to don the gloves he took by mistake. It was not that Darcy's gloves were too long for him that riled Wickham so, but that Darcy would realise that his were far too small.

But then, size really did not matter. Did it?