Wickham Page 2

  Mayhap that is all it is. She is jealous, I suppose. Lizzy wanted him all for herself, and now she has to content herself with that odious Mr Darcy. She giggled. For all his ten thousand pounds a year and large estate in Derbyshire, she would have been better off marrying Mr Collins than Darcy. Lord, what a thought!

  Lydia carefully eased herself up off the window seat and paced the length of the parlour. Her joints grew stiff if she remained sitting in one position for too long. She would have liked to take a walk in the garden or into the village, but it was raining yet again. She sighed once more and rubbed her aching back.

  When will this interminable confinement end? Wickham had been hard on her ever since it was confirmed she was with child. Their first child, a girl, was unfortunately stillborn. Wickham blamed Lydia. She cried for days; strangely, not over the dead infant, but over the injustice of being held responsible for its death. How was she to know that going horse riding, when she was so far advanced with child, would be bad for the babe? With her mama far away in Hertfordshire, she had no one to advise her, and would not have trusted the advice of any of the northern women if her very life depended upon it.

  However, Wickham now ordered her to remain at home during her entire confinement. She so hated it when he spoke to her in that strict tone, as though she were a child to be admonished. Yet, at home she must stay. He even insisted that she listen to and heed the words of the local midwife. Despite her revulsion at such a suggestion, all her protestations fell on deaf ears and she was forced, nonetheless, to acquiesce.

  The midwife from Scarborough came once a day to see to Lydia’s needs. She was expensive, but Wickham felt it was necessary. It was like being a naughty child, sequestered in her home. She longed for it all to be over and for the child to be born. She calculated that if they did not buy beef for the next six months, then she would possibly be able to afford to employ a wet nurse from the village very soon after birth. This pleased Lydia no end. However, she kept this little idea to herself, as she knew the unenviable task of persuading Wickham lie ahead and, without a doubt, it would not be easy to persuade him of the necessity. Nevertheless, she was spurred on by her longing for the gaiety of entering into society once again.

  Wickham was glad to be out of the house and back on active duty at Scarborough Castle again. Lydia drove him insane with her constant whining about being confined to the house. He simply would not risk another child’s life to her stupidity and reckless behaviour. It irked him that she could not—or would not—see that her unborn child’s life was far more important than pandering to her desire for gaiety and to be out in society.

  His regiment was prepared to go to war, and that was greatly on his mind. They were ready, and had been ready, for action for months. All they waited for now was the command to march out. They were called up twice to join in the fight against Napoléon, but the orders were cancelled at the very last minute. Idleness was never good for the morale of soldiers, and the men grew agitated. Wickham was amongst them. He wanted to be active and useful longing for the heat and occupation of battle to make him forget his woes and troubles at home.

  They knew the war against Napoléon and his army was intensifying, and were certain they would be a welcome reinforcement of the troops already engaging the enemy on the continent. Nevertheless, all they could do for now was sit and wait whilst practicing manoeuvres and guarding the French prisoners of war held captive in Scarborough Castle.

  He heard, through the rumours and gossip that spread through the army, that Mr Darcy’s cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam’s regiment had seen action and taken quite a few casualties. He also heard rumours that the colonel himself was injured whilst rescuing a civilian, and had been rewarded handsomely for his bravery. Wickham wanted a slice of that particular kind of pecuniary action, too; he said as much to his comrades-in-arms.

  “Wickham, from what I hear, Colonel Fitzwilliam risked life and limb to save the Doña de somewhere-or-other in Spain. They were going to hang her for working against ole Boney, apparently. Is it worth risking your life for a woman on the off chance that she might reward you with gold?” Poynter laughed as he dipped his boot brush into the blacking polish and began to apply it thickly to his boots.

  Wickham shook his head and laughed with his friend, but yes, to him, money was always worth taking some risk over.

  His other friend, Turpin, sitting beside him, slapped him on the back. “Of course, if the woman in question was comely, it’d be worth the risk, eh, Wickham?”

  Although he laughed at the friendly jibe, Wickham was aware of the truth of it, too. They knew what he was like only too well. They were his closest friends in the regiment, and as they said, birds of a feather flock together. They had fallen in together almost as soon as they met. Lydia, unfortunately for Wickham, did not like Poynter very much at all. He was so very much like Wickham in the way he walked, in his manner of talking, and most surprisingly, she said to him, in looks, that he was often mistaken for Wickham himself. Many people thought them to be brothers. Poynter would laugh in such a situation, put his arm about Lydia’s shoulders, and pretend she was his wife until the conversation was at an end, or until Lydia could extricate herself from the dissimulation. Lydia despised his behaviour when such a mistake was made, and she made no bones about telling Wickham how she felt. Wickham was left in no doubt as to his wife’s feelings, owing to how much she moaned after Poynter and Turpin visited their home. Poynter flirted openly with her, even in front of him, and Wickham was aware she expected to be treated like a respectable married woman and the daughter of a gentleman. However, Poynter and Turpin knew precisely all the facts of the Wickhams’ history and knew that Lydia was far from being a respectable, married gentlewoman.

  Wickham clenched his jaw as he sat at the table in the officers’ mess and blackened his boots along with Poynter and Turpin. Not for the first time that day, he wished he were unshackled from the marriage state. Lydia’s sister, Elizabeth, had taken his eye at first when he entered Hertfordshire. She had been a better prospect, but she was the marrying kind—not the sort to take to bed for a little fun and games at all, and Wickham would not ever have tried it with such a woman as her. He was certain she would have informed all of her acquaintance of his actions and ruined his reputation forever had he laid one single finger upon her person inappropriately. What made a bad situation worse in his mind was that Elizabeth was now married to Mr Darcy. He was the one person Wickham would prefer never to see again. He knew all about Wickham, and had known about him since they were young boys. There was very little of Wickham’s history that he did not know, and a lot of which he was a part. To add insult to injury, he was now his brother-in-law, too. Darcy had him watched like a hawk ever since his forced marriage to Lydia. Wickham knew that if he put one toe out of line, Darcy would come down hard on him, and he feared that. A man as rich as Mr Darcy was also immeasurably powerful and could make Wickham’s life a real misery, should he so wish it. He could not rely on sisterly love between Lydia and Elizabeth to stay Darcy’s hand if he, Wickham, behaved in a way of which Darcy did not approve. He had to learn to tread more carefully if he wanted to continue to have his sport.

  “Penny for them, Wickham.” Poynter was watching him over the toe of the boot he was polishing.

  Wickham shook his head, bringing his mind back to the present.

  “Dwelling on things, are we?” Poynter laughed again.

  Wickham made no bones over telling Poynter and Turpin how the land lay at home. They knew all about the elopement and the forced marriage, and they were the ones who actively encouraged him to find solace elsewhere, be it at the card table or in the back room of some boarding house or other.

  “Worry not.” Turpin grinned. “I hear that a new batch of recruits is being sent this way. Methinks we might have us some larks separating them from their hard-earned money over the card tables.”

  It was Wickham’s turn to laugh. “Tommy Turpin, you always know the best ways to cheer a f
ellow up.”

  “Aye, I do.”

  “When do they arrive?” Poynter asked with interest. “I could do with a few extra shillings in my purse.”

  “This weekend.”

  Wickham smiled and stretched. “Gentlemen, I think things are about to look up for us.” He looked pleased with himself. “Shall I invite them to my house? A full belly and a skin full of wine should be all the encouragement they need to join us at a friendly game of cards,” he said with a wink.

  The tedium of Lydia’s morning lazing around the house continued well into the afternoon. She ate a meagre lunch of cheese and bread that left her unsatisfied. Afterwards, she wandered around each room of their small house, looking in vain for something to occupy her. The only thing that Lydia found to do was to clear away all their scattered belongings, and she loathed doing that.

  Eventually, she sat down on the wooden window seat in the parlour again and looked out to the street beyond their small cottage garden in the hopes that someone would walk past whom she could flag down and invite inside for a chat.

  After a while, Lydia’s mind wandered and she no longer remained vigilant at her post. She kicked herself mentally, however, when she heard a loud, screeching “Halloo” and realised who it was that waved to get her attention. Lydia looked up and her stomach sank as her suspicion was confirmed. It was Mrs Maria Sullivan, the wife of Colonel Sullivan, Wickham’s commanding officer. Lydia sighed and fixed a fake smile on her face as she waved back. There was no avoiding the visit now, and Lydia had no other choice than to entertain her out of the respect due her as the wife of Wickham’s commanding officer. It would be the height of bad manners not to do so, despite how much she wished to. Mrs Sullivan rarely stayed only for a polite fifteen minutes, and Lydia resigned herself to the fact that she was in for a very long afternoon.

  “My dear Mrs Wickham!” the older woman called as she entered the parlour, swishing her silk skirts as she walked.

  Lydia watched uncomfortably as her guest ran a disapproving eye around the room. Mrs Sullivan’s eyes rested on the window seat—cluttered with books—and glanced along the mantelpiece’s layer of dust, then settled on the Queen Anne coffee table and saw the rest of the clutter Lydia had chosen not to tidy that day, or seemingly ever.

  “Mrs Sullivan, what a pleasant surprise.” Lydia was still wearing her fake smile and it was now hurting her face. “To what do I owe the honour of your visit?”

  Mrs Sullivan picked up Lydia’s embroidery from the settee and placed it on the coffee table in front of her, then sat on the settee without invitation. Lydia raised her eyebrow.

  “Well, my dear. You, sadly, cannot venture into society during your confinement, so society must come to you.” Mrs Sullivan looked at her archly and smirked in what Lydia thought was a very patronising way.

  Lydia imitated the smirk back at her. “You’re too kind, Mrs Sullivan.” She reached forward, picked out the small hand bell from amongst the detritus on the table between them, and rang it.

  Tess, their only servant, came scuttling into the room, wiping her hands on her stained apron. She was a tired-looking young girl and Lydia’s constant demands for attention certainly did not make life any easier on her. “Yes, Mrs Wickham?”

  “Tea,” Lydia snapped, without looking at her.

  The poor girl bobbed a curtsey and scuttled back out of the room. “Yes, Mrs Wickham.”

  The two ladies waited in silence and smiled at each other until Tess closed the door before continuing their conversation.

  “So, Mrs Wickham, how are you coping?” Mrs Sullivan enquired in her patronising, singsong manner.

  Lydia wanted to think Mrs Sullivan referred to her confinement, but in reality, she suspected quite strongly that she meant married life and being in charge of one’s own household. “Oh, I have good days and bad days,” Lydia answered, as neutrally as she could.

  Mrs Sullivan looked around the room again with disdain and raised her eyebrows, confirming Lydia’s suspicions. “And today is a bad day?”

  Lydia clamped her mouth shut, bit back a retort, and decided to pretend she knew not to what the older woman referred. “Not at all. Today is a good day,” she continued, ignoring Mrs Sullivan’s increasingly astonished expression. “I’m feeling very well in myself, considering,” she replied, patting her large belly.

  “Remarkable.” The older woman raised her eyebrows even higher than before and stared at her hostess.

  Lydia wondered that if Mrs Sullivan disliked her so much, then why was she there? “What news from Scarborough, or the regiment at the castle?” Lydia smiled politely and quickly redirected the conversation to Mrs Sullivan’s favourite topic: gossip. She watched as the woman’s eyes lit up and she launched into a thorough narrative of the recent events within the town and amongst the soldiers. Lydia let her prattle on and barely paid attention to a single word she said, except when the names that were important to Lydia popped out of Mrs Sullivan’s mouth. Poynter and Turpin, she knew all about. She could scarcely avoid them, and there was barely a day when they did not come home with Wickham. However, she was interested in the new captain and his wife.

  Charles and Eleanor Brook recently moved into the newly built officers’ quarters between where Lydia lived, in the old quarters, and Scarborough Castle itself. She heard tell that Mrs Brook was an elegant, fashionable lady who loved to dance as much as Lydia did, and she yearned to be introduced once her confounded confinement was over. Lydia was certain, from all that she heard, that in Eleanor Brook, she would find a firm friend.

  Lydia longed for a friend—someone she could confide in, tell all her troubles to, and someone who liked her the way she was without feeling the need to change her. She missed her sister, Kitty, greatly, and her once good friend who invited her to go to Brighton with her, Harriet Forster—Colonel Forster’s wife—no longer replied to her letters. That saddened her. She wished she knew why, but since she left Brighton to marry Wickham, she had not had a single missive from her friend. She missed her greatly and sulked and pouted for days when Harriet first snubbed her correspondence, until Wickham snapped at her and shouted what he believed to be the reason behind it all. Lydia was chastened. Not once, through it all, had it occurred to her that their intended elopement was to blame. Jane, her eldest sister, said that she was not at all surprised that Mrs Forster would snub her acquaintance, and could not fathom why Lydia did not understand her silence. Lydia could only surmise, after much reflection, her friend indeed felt hurt by their secret elopement. She guessed Harriet would have liked very much to plot and plan with the wedding with her, but, alas, it was not to be. Wickham insisted on complete secrecy at the time. It was such fun for Lydia that she simply could not comprehend other people’s negative reactions to their elopement at all.

  Lydia snapped out of her reverie and realised Mrs Sullivan was still talking.

  “…and so, you see, the butcher refused to give him an ounce of sausage meat at all.” She giggled.

  Lydia chuckled to hide her embarrassment. She had not listened, in truth, to a single syllable the woman uttered in the past five minutes. She dearly hoped she would not ask her opinion on what she just said, or her inattentiveness would be discovered. Lydia blinked as she looked down at the table. Tess had brought in the tea without her even noticing, too; she was so lost in her own thoughts. She rose and poured the tea out into two plain white china teacups, hoping it was not stewed.

  Mrs Sullivan continued uninterrupted. “Of course, you know all about poor Mrs Morris being so lately delivered of twins.” She gasped in shock and placed her hand on her chest. “Can you imagine?”

  Lydia looked up—her face mirrored her guest’s horrified expression. She could not imagine the inconvenience and pain of birthing twins, let alone caring for them and bringing them up. She shuddered as she returned to her seat and began to listen intently to the chaos described at the Morris’ home, and earnestly prayed that she would bear only one child at a time.

>   The only thing that Wickham truly enjoyed about being stationed in the north of England was Scarborough Castle itself, and his activities and duties therein. The castle housed French prisoners of war, and it was thought best to garrison a permanent regiment there, too. This protected the populous and ensured that the men were kept busy instead of sitting idly by in some town or other, drinking away the hours until they marched to war. Situated on the east coast of England, Scarborough Castle made Wickham feel free and he enjoyed nothing more, whilst on duty, than walking the walls and passageways alone.

  The constant whining from the prisoners was tiresome, and he hated that part of his day greatly, but it was necessary and as a lieutenant, he dared not shirk such a responsibility. There was also the pleasure of dining with the French officers on an almost-daily basis. Despite the fact that he found them arrogant and brash, he often passed a pleasurable few hours in their company. When night fell, he was free from his duties—for a while, at least, before he knew he ought to head back home to Lydia. Wickham always cunningly arranged it so he was never on duty at night. Scarborough was a big place, with plenty of taverns and inns to occupy a man like him, and he would much rather spend his evenings in one of them than on duty in the cold and drafty castle. Together with Poynter and Turpin, he most often frequented the Red Lion, which was a short five-minute walk along the coast from the castle. The ale was cheap there, as were the women, and no one asked questions of anyone or anything.