Pride, Prejudice & Secrets (34 page)

With my best regards and all hopes for your continued safety and health, I remain,

Miss Caroline Bingley

Remarkable,
he thought, in distracted bewilderment.
Most utterly and completely remarkable. Can a person change so distinctly? I would have replied in the negative before this moment, and my confidence would have been complete. But now I begin to wonder whether cynicism has become too much a part of my character, especially considering what Mrs. Darcy said. Perhaps I am in need of some introspection of my own…

On that thought, he put Caroline’s letter on his small, folding desk but left it lying where he could see it as he pulled out a sheet of paper and ink from the drawer. His own hand was not nearly as elegant as hers, but it was bold and masculine as he began:

Saturday, February 6, 1813

Dear Miss Bingley,
It is with a humbled heart that I respond to your most astonishing but, I assure you, most welcome missive, which was not, as you can see, consigned to the flames…

Friday, July 23, 1813: Plymouth

Captain George Wickham returned briefly to Plymouth with his battalion after Wellington was ordered by the Duke of York, commander-in-chief of the army, to give up his weakest battalions. The Second of the Thirtieth had both been so weakened by a combination of illness and action that it could only function as a provisional battalion, even after the three newly recruited companies were added. So, after Wellington reluctantly issued orders in May, the Battalion landed at Plymouth to pick up many new recruits before continuing on to the island of Jersey for recuperation and training.

During his entire period of duty in the Peninsular army, Wickham had kept a watchful eye for any observers, for an ever-present suspicion lurked in the back of his mind that he might still be watched. But if any such were present, they were far more discreet than those who watched him in Plymouth more than a year previously. In any case, such suspicions on his part were no longer needed, for Wickham had found something he had never before known, even at Pemberley in the days of his youth. He had found a place where he belonged with comrades whom he valued and who responded similarly.

Every engagement following the Battle of Salamanca was just as terrifying as the first, just as his friends had intimated that first night of his new life. Wickham soon came to see the many subterfuges others used to hide the stink of fear that came upon them at such times, but he learned to cope as they had learned — to do his duty despite the terror that wanted to freeze his limbs.

He was promoted to captain just before the battalion was withdrawn when Captain Wilson, veteran of a hundred engagements large and small, ran out of luck and took a musket ball in the chest during a minor skirmish with a French probing force. He saw Wilson fall and knew from the loose-limbed way he dropped that his friend was dead before he hit the ground. He was enough of a veteran to instantly take command of the company, being the senior lieutenant, saving his grief for a more propitious time. That was what a soldier had to do, and Wilson himself had rammed that lesson home. But it had hurt — oh, dear Lord, how it had hurt.

He received occasional letters from Mary, though references in those letters made it plain she had written others that never reached him, and he responded when he could. He must. Noskov might still be watching over her shoulder, looking for a reason to cause his niece’s husband to suffer a fatal “accident.” So he learned, in January of 1813, that he was a father, Mary having delivered a son just before Christmas.

But, as he sat in the longboat that rowed toward shore, he looked at the crowds awaiting the returning soldiers, anxious for a glimpse of his wife and his young son. He did not see her when he stepped out into the surf, while Private Smith shouldered his trunk and followed him. But when he finally found her, she was looking in the wrong direction, searching anxiously among other returning soldiers, while a young woman behind her held a baby and watched her mistress.

God, she is beautiful
, Wickham thought in mingled affection and astonishment, for he had thought her pleasant enough to look on but not outstandingly lovely. It was different now, seeing her with different eyes and with the baby he knew to be his son.
I never looked on her in this way before, but perhaps it is because I am not the useless wastrel I once was. At least, I hope not. But, whatever the reason, I never comprehended how lovely she is as a woman. As my wife.

Mary jumped when he touched her arm, and she looked at him blankly for a moment before her face lit up in recognition. She squealed with delight and instantly threw herself into his arms, calling his name and reaching up to touch his unshaven face. She pulled his head down to hers, and, as was happening all along the waterfront, they kissed each other with an enthusiasm that cared nothing for the usual proprieties.

When they finally broke apart, Mary smiled up at him and said softly, “Come, sir, and meet your son.”

Wickham’s greeting of his son was more constrained, for he had little experience with infants. But when he put his hand out, and his son curled his little fingers around his thumb, Wickham felt his throat tighten. It was only later in the evening that he realized the feeling was love, the love of a father for his child. Later, he felt a deep wonder at the emotions rampaging through his mind as he lay on a blanket on the floor with his son, watching him make his first crawling attempts and playing with a wooden rattle.

Mary watched father and son with a contentment that filled her heart, but she also had his nursemaid put him to bed as early as she could manage so that she could take George by the hand and lead him to the bedchamber.

“I must bathe and shave first, Mary,” he protested after she closed the door and attacked the buttons of his uniform. “I reek to high heaven from the voyage from Portugal and — ”

“Shut up, George,” she said, pulling his coat off his shoulders. “Unless you have vermin, I care nothing of that. I am just so very proud of you! Already a captain! Even Uncle Nicolai was impressed.”

The mention of his fearsome uncle made Wickham a bit nervous, but after the horror he had seen these past years, even that fiendish relative could not affect him as he once had. And Mary’s kisses on his chest, now that she had his shirt off, were having the expected effect on him, and she was so very desirable at the moment as she turned her back to him so he could undo the laces of her dress…

Wickham had a sudden and unexpected meeting with his “Uncle Nicolai” a few evenings later. Mary had stayed in the same rooms he took when he first reported to the Second Company, and fellow officers had been calling once their own familial reunions settled into something approaching normalcy. No one knew what was going to happen after the battalion moved to Jersey and returned to fighting trim. One rumour had it that the Second Battalion’s days of active service were over, but Wickham, along with his friends, dismissed such a pleasant thought with a jeer. But when he answered a knock at their door, the visitor was not one of those friends who had become so very important to him but rather Noskov with that wicked grin on his face.

“Hello, Nephew!” he exclaimed, stepping inside without being invited. “And hello Marianskaia Mikhailovna!” He gave Wickham a thunderous clap on the shoulder that staggered him then wrapped his arms about his niece.

When he turned back to Wickham, he looked him up and down closely. “You have done well, boy. Very well indeed from what I hear.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Wickham said with a thin smile. “But excuse me for a moment; I have something to show you.” He strode swiftly to the bedchamber and returned quickly, carrying his sword. Wordlessly, he handed the sword — still in its scabbard — to his uncle.

“What is this?” Noskov said uncertainly, turning the sword about.

“Pull it a little out of the scabbard and examine the blade, Uncle.” Novkov did so, staring at it blankly then looking back up in confusion.

“It looks much different than it did when I gave it to you,” he said slowly, so intent that he made no attempt to speak in the crude fashion he assumed in front of Mary, for reasons known only to himself.

“That is because it is not the same sword. This one was given to me by…by a good friend after the sword you gave me became notched in my very first action. As my friend said, each notch was a weak point, and he proved it by breaking the sword easily over his knee.”

Wickham looked his uncle coldly in the eye and said slowly and clearly, “That sword might well have broken just as easily when I tried to parry the French bayonets the first day. The metal was polished and gleaming, but it was weak. This metal is dark and strong; even when I had to use it against a French officer with a sword, the edge hardly showed a mar. Your sword was defective. You were cheated, Uncle.”

The colour rose in Noskov’s face as he took in the lecturing tone of his nephew, and he looked again at the dark, deadly metal of the sword before slamming it home in the scabbard. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps so. I paid…a goodly sum of that sword. Someone is going to be sorry, boy.”

Wickham nodded grimly, but his face was cold as he said firmly, “That is another item to mention. I am ‘boy’ no longer, Uncle, and have not been one since the first time a ball meant to take off my head whistled past my ear and killed the private behind me. Perhaps you ought to write that down so that you remember it.”

Mary looked at her husband in sudden alarm then looked back at her uncle, who glowered at him ferociously. Then, suddenly, her often frightening uncle threw back his head and roared with laughter. When he finished laughing, he said, “Perhaps I shall, Captain. Perhaps I shall.”

He offered his hand, and after only the slightest hesitation, Wickham took it. Noskov tried for a crushing grip, but Wickham was no longer an inexperienced youth. He avoided the grip easily and squeezed back with a strength that made the other man’s eye widen. Then he gave another roar of laughter.

“Yes, indeed, young man. You are no longer a boy. Marianskaia Mikhailovna! Do you have drink fit for men? Or do you have nothing but that swill the English call port?”

“I have that bottle of vodka you left last time, as well as rum, Uncle,” Mary said timidly.

“Fetch the vodka, girl! Fetch it! You cannot expect your husband and uncle to toast your health with rum! Come, Wickham! Sit, sit! I teach you how men drink!”

Wickham could not remember ever being quite as drunk as he was that night, and his fearsome uncle was vanished in the morning.

Thursday, May 26, 1814: London docks

Almost a year and a half since their first exchange of letters, Miss Caroline Bingley tried to ignore the beating of her heart as she finally recognized Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam at the head of the gangway on the transport. Almost all the troopers from his regiment appeared to have debarked, and he waited patiently for the last of them to go ahead of him. She knew she was clutching the arms of both Lady Matlock and Elizabeth Darcy far too desperately, but she could not help it. She was terrified, excited, nauseated, and dreadfully apprehensive all at the same time, and she hoped against hope that she was not deluding herself about the improbable, faraway affection that had grown between her and the tall, tanned, and rather careworn officer who finally swung onto the gangway.

Their correspondence had continued after their first exchange of letters, and in less than six months, they had resolved their doubts and questions and had come to a most improbable understanding. Even so, she could not quell her anxiety since they had not seen each other since the day of Darcy’s wedding. She was well aware just how unlikely this day would have been two years previously, and she wanted desperately for her hopes to be based on reality rather than wishful dreams.

“I do believe my arm has gone to sleep, Caroline,” Lady Matlock said pleasantly.

“My apologies.” Caroline blushed, the words rushing from her mouth. “It is just…just…”

“It is just that you and Colonel Fitzwilliam have been executing the most irregular courtship of my experience,” Elizabeth said cheerfully. “But William had a letter from Richard last week, and he said he was looking forward to meeting you with great anticipation. But he also said he was somewhat worried that you might find him a disappointment.”

“I think not, Eliza,” Caroline said with a wry smile. “The Colonel remains exactly what he always was. It is I who have to worry.”

“Now, hush, child,” Lady Matlock said firmly. “You must not show any failure of confidence if you are going to manage my son adequately. He was well on his way to a life of independent bachelorhood until Darcy took a hand in his affairs.”

“Fitzwilliam Darcy, matchmaker! Indeed!” Lord Matlock exclaimed, with considerable volume then winced as his wife squeezed his arm sharply.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologized, though he and Darcy exchanged slight smiles. “An excess of fatherly enthusiasm, I suppose.”

Suddenly, it seemed as if the tall man in his worn and mended red coat appeared from nowhere directly in front of her, and Caroline’s breath caught in her throat as he swept his hat off and bowed, smiling directly at her, seeming to ignore everyone else in the party.

“Well, well, well, if Miss Caroline Bingley has not come to greet me upon my arrival back in jolly old England. A most pleasant good day to you, Miss Bingley!”

Somehow, without her realizing it, Colonel Fitzwilliam had taken possession of her gloved hand and bowed over it gallantly. Then he stood back up, looked her directly in the eye, said softly, “Thank you for coming to meet me, Caroline. How are you today?”

Caroline felt a wave of relief as she realized that everything was going to be all right, and she returned his broad, honest smile with one of her own.

“I am very well…Richard. Now I am very well indeed.”

“Good,” he said, smiling broadly. “Very good indeed.” Only then did he turn to greet his family, and once that was complete, he turned back to Caroline.

“Now, shall we be off? I am anxious to return to the house and get a hot bath and a clean uniform.” Somehow, Caroline found her arm detached from Mrs. Darcy and ensconced in his, with his hand over hers as Lord Matlock led them toward the waiting coaches. Elizabeth and Lady Matlock exchanged conspiratorial smiles as they turned to follow the rest of the party.

Events moved rapidly from that point on, and Miss Caroline Bingley became Mrs. Richard Fitzwilliam within the month. The newlyweds stayed with his family in London for the next few months, and Richard discovered, to his pleasant surprise, that none of his expertise in taming horses was needed with his new wife. She had performed most of the necessary modifications to her manner through diligent effort and a conscious attempt to utterly abandon what she had learned at Mrs. Hanover’s Academy for Young Ladies. Eventually, they moved to a modest but well-appointed townhouse not too far from the Darcys’, and Richard quickly found that his young wife, surprisingly docile in many ways, was anything but in the bedroom, with the result that she was soon pregnant with the first of their five children.

At her firm insistence, this first daughter was named Elizabeth.

Friday, August 19, 1814: Pemberley, Derbyshire

The windows at Pemberley blazed with light, for Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy were hosting a ball, and invitations had been tendered to all their neighbours. Such was the social status of the Darcy family and the real popularity of Mrs. Darcy among the local wives that everyone invited was in attendance. The Great Room, with the furniture cleared and the walls lined with chairs, was packed with guests dressed in a variety of fanciful modes of dress, for the invitations had specified that this was to be a Fancy Dress Ball, much in keeping with Mrs. Darcy’s easy and cheerful manner.

Among the guests was a pair of visitors from London, Mr. and Mrs. Richard Fitzwilliam, just returned from a lengthy tour of Scotland following their marriage, and Elizabeth thought she could detect a certain glow about Caroline. It reminded her of her aunt’s suspicions when she was carrying her first child, and she made a mental note to mention to William that his cousin’s wife would likely be delivered of her first child in late winter.

And Georgiana was also in attendance and was the centre of a small crowd of young gentlemen and ladies, many of whom she had previously known, for Pemberley had been her primary residence. Elizabeth was pleased that Georgiana’s dance card was full, but she was not quite as happy that her sister had a different partner each time. That rather paralleled Georgiana’s fortune during the Season just concluded. During that frenetic social whirl so beloved of the upper reaches of London society, more than a few of the eligible young gentlemen had shown an interest in her for reasons ranging from her person to her fortune. In any case, none of those young men bestirred any corresponding interest on her part, and lacking any encouragement from her, they gradually dispersed. Elizabeth had wondered whether she ought to feel any disappointment in Georgiana’s lack of results, but since her sister did not seem distressed by her lack of “success,” she was not going to worry about it.