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Chapter 22

Belowstairs at Pemberley the tidings of Andrew Darcy's birth were received with great rejoicing. "I knew she would give the Master a fine, strapping son!" the cook was heard to declare, when the news first reached the kitchens early in the morning, the day after the birth, and she uttered the sentiments of all her companions. They continued to prepare copious amounts of food to send upstairs; no-one from the Family seemed to want to come down to the dining rooms or to eat formal meals. It was late in the afternoon that the Master called the servants together, announced officially the birth of his heir, thanked them all for their faithful service and directed that a cask of the best ale be broached, inviting all to partake of a drink in celebration of the Mistress' safety and the birth of the first of the new generation of Darcys.

The news defused, to some extent, what would otherwise have been intense speculation regarding the goings-on upstairs. It rendered somewhat more understandable the odd schedule regarding meals on this first day after the birth. It was rumoured that the Mistress' sister, Mrs. Wickham, ate in her rooms, separate from the others, and it was clear that there was a child, or perhaps children, in the family apartments, besides the young Master who had been born yesterday. It was known that Ellen Ingram had not slept in her bed, but that was understandable, as she was doubtless waiting upon the Mistress. All these topics were canvassed more than once, but the discussions were conducted quietly if not surreptitiously. One of the housemaids was caught trying to extract information from Marjory the nursemaid. (Her efforts were to no avail: Marjory, as she herself was heard to say, knew what she knew and was not about to open her budget to satisfy vulgar curiosity.) The inquisitive girl was severely reprimanded by Mrs. Reynolds, and given to understand that for another such offence she would have her ears boxed, if she wouldn't be turned off. The report of this rebuke further dampened the overt expression of the servants' curiosity but had quite the opposite effect upon the curiosity itself.

While Marjory was downstairs getting a bite to eat (and, truth to tell, enjoying the position of one known to be in the know who was nonetheless so virtuous as to let none of the others into her secrets), Annie had been left in her nursery alone. It was only for a short time and should have caused no problems. She had been very happily playing with a couple of dolls and a small table and chairs. They were not dolls she knew from before, but her Mamma had said they had been her dolls when she was a little girl, and she hoped that Annie would love them too. Annie was indeed beginning to do so.

"Baby!" said Annie to one of the dolls. Annie had babies on her mind. Mamma had brought her to one of the bedrooms, a room Annie was not used to seeing opened, not far from Aunt Dizzy and Unca Dahcy's places, and had held her up so she could see the red squalling bundle that she understood was Aunt Dizzy's baby. Aunt Dizzy had been leaning over his crib, and Annie realized that the baby had come out of her aunt's tummy, where she had been used to patting it. Mamma had held her where she could pat the baby's body, but had held her away when she tried to stroke its face with her fingers crooked. "Andoo … Andoo," she repeated to herself, fixing the child's name in her mind. She remembered the peacefulness of his face, and the suddenness with which that peacefulness was transformed into an expression apparently of pain, and the mewling whimpers, followed by indignant protests, that came from his opened mouth. She had been quite impressed.

Now, faintly, she heard a similar, but different, sound coming through the door. Somebody cryin'! she thought. Baby? But it did not sound like Andoo.

Marjory would not so blithely have left Annie alone had she been been aware, as Grace was, in the other Pemberley, of Annie's physical prowess. It had been several weeks now that Annie had mastered the art of opening the nursery door, but in her ignorance Marjory had left that door only latched and not locked. It was the work of but a few seconds for Annie to drag a small chair next to the door, to climb upon it, and to turn the handle; she even kept the dolls tucked under her other arm the while. Scarcely a moment later she was out in the hall, standing before the door of the chamber whence came the crying she had heard. She knocked against the door with her free hand, and although it was by no means a solid peremptory rap, the blow was audible within.

The door opened, and a lady whom Annie did not know put her head out and looked up and down the hall. The crying sound was louder with the door open, and Annie moved as if to look into the room, drawing the lady's attention. "Baby cryin'," said Annie.

"Who are you, little girl?" asked the lady.

"I Annie. Baby … baby hurt? … baby cryin'," Annie repeated. "Andoo cryin'?"

"No, it is not Andrew," answered the lady. "It's only Mattie. There's naught really wrong with her; she's crabbed, is all."

"Don' cry, baby," said Annie, making her way into the room. There, upon a truckle bed, sat a girl somewhat larger than herself, with a sallow complexion and a peevish expression on her face. Her sobs diminished to an occasional sniffle as she contemplated this interesting intruder.

"Want baby?" Annie held out one of the dolls, and Mattie reached out her arms to receive it. "Shhh, Baby, Shhh!" said Annie, rocking her remaining doll in her arms, and Mattie followed suit, still sniffing.

"Baby sleep," suggested Annie, laying her doll down on the truckle bed. "Two baby sleep?" She held her arms out to Mattie for the other doll, but Mattie clutched it tighter and turned away. Annie, nothing disconcerted, returned to her own doll, leaned over it, smoothed its hair and crooned to it. Mattie, once she was not being asked to lay her child down, naturally decided that she wanted to do so, and thus, within a very short time, both dolls had been put to sleep by their newly adopted mothers, awakened, and treated to a very delicious (and equally imaginary) meal. Mattie's mother sat and watched them, without a word, but with a wry and pensive smile on her face.

When the girls had been playing together for several minutes, a voice was heard in the hallway, calling, "Annie … Annie? Annie, where are you?"

Mattie's mother walked, almost on tiptoes, to the door, and opening it, said quietly, "In here! She's in here!"

Almost immediately Annie's Aunt Dizzy was at the door, saying, "Oh, thank you, Lydia! How ever did she get in here?"

"I'm sure I do not know," replied Mattie's mother. "She was in the hallway, and heard my Mattie crying. How she got into the hall I have no idea at all. Do you suppose whoever was supposed to be watching her went off and left the door open?"

"Perhaps. In any case, there doesn't seem to be any harm done. It looks as if they are playing well together."

"Yes. I was just remembering … I had forgotten how we sisters used to play with our dolls, years ago. Jane was such a good mother, bathing and feeding them, and you always had such an imagination, inventing stories and adventures for them to play out. All we lack is Mary to preach to them, and Kitty to twist their hair into new styles."

"Yes, those were wonderful times, Lyddie!" By now Aunt Dizzy had come over beside Annie, and kneeling down, put an arm around her. "Are you and your friend playing with the dolls, Annie?" She held out an arm to Mattie as well, but Mattie ducked back, her hand held to her mouth, and her eyes looking everywhere but at this lady whom she did not know well enough to trust. But as soon as the lady was not looking at her, Mattie looked again at the lady. She liked the lady's voice, and the way she smiled. She sidled a little bit closer.

"Lizzy, are you well enough to be … to be up like this and…"

"Oh, yes, I am quite well enough. Fitzwilliam and Jane and Mrs. Reynolds, not to mention Mrs. Nadderby, would have me stay in bed much longer, but I am quite able to move about."

"Well, I know I didn't want to get out of bed for weeks after Mattie was born."

"I had just checked on little Andrew --he's fast asleep--such a darling baby--, and thought to look in on Annie, and found her gone from the nursery. I shall not walk far yet, although truly I feel very well."

"You look well, Lizzy. Of course, you have not entirely recovered your figure. Almost, one might think you had another baby in there!"

"So very complimentary you are, Lydia!" Aunt Dizzy had a bright smile on her face, and she hugged Annie again.

Annie laid a gentle hand on her aunt's midriff, which was indeed quite round and hard, and explained to Mattie, "Baby, Aunt Dizzy baby."

"Yes, Annie … erm … that's right, that is where the baby has been. But little Andrew came out. He was born, last night. You remember? You saw him this morning."

"Andwoo," Annie agreed, her eyes lightening as she achieved what she recognized as a slightly better pronunciation. Andwoo, Andwoo; she repeated it to herself, then said it again aloud, "Andwoo cryin', Aunt Dizzy."

Mattie, fascinated, had been drawing closer throughout this conversation, and now her hand joined Annie's on Aunt Dizzy's bulge. "Baby?" she finally said. It was the first word that Annie (or indeed her aunt) had heard the child say.

"Yes, baby!" Elizabeth's eyes were on the little girl. "But Andrew was born. Later perhaps you can see your new cousin Andrew."

"Lizzy," Mattie's mother asked, "why is this little girl calling you her aunt?"

"It is a bit of a complicated matter. … She has … she has identified Fitzwilliam's sister Georgiana with her mother, and essentially … well, it is as if she had adopted all of us."

"But who is she?"

"It is not easy to answer, Lydia. Let us say that …"

An expression almost as if it were of relief passed over her face as an almost frantic though quiet voice was heard in the hall, calling "Annie! Oh, Annie! Oh, where have you gotten to?"

Mattie's mother once again went to the door and called "Here she is, in here!" Annie recognized the voice as that of the lady who had been taking care of her. It wasn't Grace, but the other one.

"Oh, thank God!" the lady said.

"What happened, did you leave the door open?" Mattie's mother sounded cross to Annie.

"I suppose I must have," the caretaker lady said. "Oh, ma'am, please don't tell …" here she seemed to see Annie's Aunt, and closed her mouth firmly for a second or two before saying, "Oh, Mrs. Darcy, ma'am, are you here with her? Did you bring her?"

"No," Aunt Dizzy responded. "I too looked for Annie in the nursery, but found her already here. It is apparent that she escaped while you were away."

"Oh, ma'am, I am so very sorry. I only went downstairs for a bite to eat. I didn't ought to have left the door open; I should've been sure to close it up good."

"Yes, you must be careful to do so in the future. Annie could endanger herself were she to wander near the stairs or manage to become lost. We may be thankful that my sister was here to look after her in this instance." She turned to Annie. "Come, Annie. We should go back to the nursery. Will you go with Marjory?"

"Mattie!" said Annie, stretching out an arm towards her friend.

"Could the two of them stay together?" asked Lydia. "This is the happiest Mattie has been since we arrived."

"I suppose they may do so. Very well, Marjory, please take both girls to the nursery and watch them. Do not leave the door unlatched again." She ducked down and kissed both girls before they left.

So it was that Annie found a friend, and the two girls played together for the rest of the afternoon.

Chapter 23

17-18 May 1814

Some two miles east of the great house at Pemberley lies a small meadow, in truth little more than a clearing in the woods. It lies off the main road from the house and the stables of Pemberley to Lambton and is not near to any other surrounding towns or villages, yet for one who knows (and Wickham knew it well) it offers quick, nearly direct access to Lambton by a little-used trail. A one-roomed hunter's shelter lies nearly out of sight under the trees at one edge of the meadow, furnished only in the most rustic fashion, with a small table and a wide bench that could double as a narrow bed.

In the late afternoon light, Wickham reined in his mount next to the shelter. It was his friend Giles who had, after some persuasion, borrowed the nag from a friend, for Wickham's use. It was no impressive piece of horseflesh but good enough for the purpose. The shelter, similarly, was not a particularly admirable structure, though it had proved its usefulness upon various occasions in the past, including more than one amorous assignation. Wickham licked his lips at a couple of the memories that were awakened. But today this was to be only a fall-back position. Here he would spend the night, leaving the horse where it should not be discovered but should be readily available to him in the likely event of a sudden departure's proving to be necessary. He dismounted somewhat painfully, favouring his left leg, watered the animal and tethered it where it could feed on the grass in the meadow, and spread out his blankets within the shelter to try to get some sleep.

In the morning, still in the dark of the new moon, he broke his fast, quickly consuming some bread and bacon which he had brought from Parker's house. He saddled the horse, in preparation against a precipitate departure, but left it tethered near the shelter, and set out, briskly but carefully, towards Pemberley.

As the sun rose above the horizon an hour later, he was ensconced in the woods not far from Pemberley. The woods lay in a semicircle from the north-east to the north-west of the great house: the southern semicircle was cleared out, affording views of the stream and the lake it formed, of the gardens and of the hills on to the south of the lake. Wickham was hidden on the southern edge of the northern woods, to the east of Pemberley house, from which covert he could readily observe both the house and the stables. Among Wickham's more admirable characteristics was a surprising patience, an ability to lie in wait, motionless and silent or gregariously chatting as the occasion might demand, yet attentive so as not to miss the opportunity to strike. For the moment his chief aim was simply to gather information, to find out who was at Pemberley, what activities were ongoing, where the various workers were deployed around the house, so that he could plan his moves for the future. It was the early morning doings at the stables that were currently drawing his attention.

He had seen a horse and its rider come cantering westward along the road from Lambton towards Pemberley. As they drew near he recognized the rider as Darcy, who rode up to the stable and, without dismounting, spoke to two grooms who had been near the door. What is he doing up, and riding at this hour? Although, to be sure, he always was an early riser. The distance was too great for him to hear what was being said, but Darcy looked and pointed back down the road and then towards the woods, and the grooms followed his eyes, nodding as they did so. It looks as if he is asking them to seek something, Wickham thought. A moment later the thought occurred to him, Might he be thinking I am likely to visit, and warning them to be on the lookout? Damn Darcy! Always thinking too far ahead. Well, it was good I came with the dark last night; they should not have seen me. Then, as he watched, Darcy turned and called in the direction of where Wickham stood. To his surprise and fear a young man stood up from a crouched position beside the bushes, not at all distant from the place where he himself was hidden, and headed towards the stable. He had not seen him waiting there and could easily have given himself away had he moved the least bit incautiously. Damn, but he has them all on high alert! he thought, and then: That's Joe Padgett, is it not? He was but a boy when last I remember him. But that has been nearly eight years. It has indeed been too long since I have been at Pemberley.

Wickham took advantage of Padgett's departure to withdraw further into the woods. With his last glimpse of the stable yard he saw Darcy turn and ride back in the direction whence he had come, while Padgett also headed back to his former position. It is well that I escaped while I could, thought Wickham. As swiftly and silently as possible, given his game leg, he made his circuit, well back into the trees and crouched over so as to hide behind the lesser growth, around the north end of the great house. He cautiously approached the lawns on the west side, looking to ensure that no one was in sight or looking from a window. He was just beginning to step out from his cover, intending to move to a hiding place nearer the house, when he was brought up short by a motion to his left, at the opening to the great maze. It was Elizabeth Bennet, or rather Elizabeth Darcy as she now was. He was shocked to see her, not just because he had been sure there was no one near, but also because he knew her son had been born hardly more than a full day earlier. Who would have thought that a well-bred woman could, or would want to, be out walking so soon after giving birth? But if anyone could or would, he supposed Elizabeth Bennet Darcy would be the one. She had not yet entirely recovered her figure, he noticed.

All this flashed through his mind in an instant, and within that instant he had already scuttled back into the woods, but it was too late. She had seen him. She immediately turned back to the entrance to the maze, saying, with urgency in her voice, "Fitzwilliam!"

Wickham withdrew further into the woods as silently as possible, but he caught a glimpse of Darcy emerging from the maze's entrance, and heard them speaking to each other.

"What is it, my dear?"

"There is a man in the woods. I saw him just now, very clearly, exactly there," and she indicated with a finger the spot where Wickham had been crouching when she saw him.

"Was it he?"

"I do not know. It may have been. I have never seen him, you know."

"That is true. We must immediately call for help, then, and search the woods. But first, let me escort you back to the house."

Wickham, still moving deeper into the woods, heard no more of their conversation. His mind was spinning. His luck had held, at least in that Mrs. Darcy had not seen him clearly enough to recognize him. Whom had they been expecting to see, whom she disclaimed having ever seen before? His mind abandoned the question as imponderable, given the urgency of his current situation. But Darcy! He had just seen the man! How could he manage to be at one minute riding eastward down the road past the stables, and then, not five minutes later, to be with his wife, exploring the maze to the north-west of the house? Wickham's disconcertion and trepidation increased, and only with difficulty could he make himself continue to move stealthily. It was a bad situation--within minutes men, doubtless men with dogs, would be searching the woods for him. He must retreat, circling back through the woods to the shelter and eventually to Giles' house. He turned eastward and picked up the pace, moving as quickly as his game leg and his need for quietness allowed, skirting the clearing that surrounded the great house. His body was beginning to feel the strain of exertion coupled with the need to restrain his breathing so as to make no noise.

His surprise at his sudden fall was absolute. A strong wire, it would seem, had wrapped itself around his right foot. What the devil was that doing out here? Was it a poacher's snare? It was unlike Darcy to be so careless as to leave something so dangerous just lying around. As he reached down to untangle it so that he could stand up once again, he noted with a peculiar clarity that it had leaves growing from it. It was not a wire but some kind of vine. He suddenly realized that he had brushed against the border of the great maze of Pemberley --he'd forgotten that it went so far back into the woods-- and it was from the hedge of which it was formed that these pestiferous vines were growing. For they were plural: another strand had made its way around his other foot, and yet another higher on his right leg. He jerked and yanked his legs, trying to free himself, and actually managed to get the left leg free, pulling it out of its boot and leaving the boot behind. But by then a new tendril, delicate-looking but strong as steel wire, had reached around his wrist, where he was leaning down to try to peel, and then to yank, the vine-like growths away. Another was reaching around his waist, and the foot he had got free was once more captured.

Wickham panicked. "Ho!! Help!! Help me!!" he shouted, and despite remembering that Darcy and his wife were the only ones close enough to help him, and that falling into their hands was not anything that he wished, he shouted it again. "Ho!! Help!! Oh God, help me!"

The vines were growing thicker, and three or four new ones had grown around him, almost immobilising him, but not halting his screams, when Darcy came crashing through the undergrowth, slowing though not quite recoiling at the sight. "Again! Oh, Lord!" he cried, but then he was already attacking the vines, trying to unwind them from Wickham's body. Within a surprisingly short time Mrs. Darcy was also there, huffing and puffing, almost sobbing, but also trying to free him. "Yes, it is Wickham," Darcy told her, without slacking his efforts to break the hold of the strands.

It was to no avail; they could not pull the vines away nearly as fast as they grew. Wickham's own futile efforts had almost ceased; his arms, legs, neck and waist were all bound, another leafy strand was looping over his face and about to stop his mouth completely, and his most strenuous attempt to struggle produced no more than a quivering of the foliage. It was almost comforting, the hedge's embrace; yet the bile rose in his stomach at the thought of trusting it. A frightful maw, like that of a bloodthirsty beast, was opening behind him, he could sense it, and he saw horror reflected on the faces of his would-be saviours. He roused himself for one last scream of terror, but all that came out was a pitiful cry, hardly more than a mewling whimper. An enormous lethargy overwhelmed him as the hedge drew him into its black gut to digest him.

Thus, for the second time, Fitzwilliam Darcy, Elizabeth in his arms, watched in helpless horror as George Wickham was absorbed into a dark, tunnel-like hole within the hedge. Incongruously, they noted, a boot, obviously his own boot, since he was only wearing one, was being sucked in along with, yet separate from him. But Wickham's body did not immediately or fully disappear. Rather, covered as it was with the vines and half-hidden by their foliage, it seemed to lose definition, as if it were a poorly focused image in a lens, becoming slightly smaller, and fuzzy, almost transparent, around the edges. Its features even towards the centre seemed insubstantial and variable. Another semi-transparent image seemed to well up from the blackness, and merge with the first. The two struggled against each other, or perhaps it was against the vines that were forcing them together. But by then the hedge had covered over the opening, and they could see no more.

Darcy and Elizabeth held each other, their bodies shaking, and tears streaming down Elizabeth's face. "So that is what it was like," she was finally able to say. "How horrible!" It was some time before they made their way back to the house.

They arrived at the family apartments without any servants' being aware of it, as far as they knew; and Darcy asked Georgiana to please send a message to the stables, asking for a rider to be sent to bring her brother back to the house as soon as possible. They told her, and Clorinda and the Bingleys, that they had seen Wickham, but waited until George appeared some ten minutes later, panting from a quick gallop back to the stables and a rapid walk to the house, before telling their tale.

"We had been investigating the maze," Andrew began, and Corinna interpolated, "It remains —or at least at that time it remained— as it was yesterday; three passages have opened to admit us, but four are yet overgrown." She looked at her husband, and he looked back at her, indicating with a bent eyebrow that she should continue. "We were just emerging from the gate, when I saw a man about to step onto the lawn, heading towards the house. He immediately withdrew into the shelter of the woods, and Fitzw… Andrew did not see him."

"I supposed it was Wickham, or perhaps a confederate of his," Andrew took over the telling. "But I judged it best to return immediately within doors. However, we had not yet gained the house when we heard such a compelling call for help, that we could tell the man felt himself to be in very great danger, and could do naught but attempt to succour him. We made our way as quickly as possible to the northern edge of the maze, where it is well back into the woods. It was indeed Wickham, and he was already held fast by many strands of hedge growing from the maze. We did all we could to extricate him, but as was the case previously, at the other Pemberley, we were powerless to free him. And so, as before, he was swallowed up before our eyes, absorbed into the maze."

"How … how appalling!" It was Jane who put the reaction into words. Clorinda, remembering how she had felt upon seeing it the first time it had happened, moved to Corinna's side and embraced her, and was embraced gratefully in return.

"It was indeed frightful, to see him struggle so," said Corinna. "He is but a stranger to me, by sight, and what I know of his history and of his character does not incline me to sympathy, but none could fail to be affected by a fellow-creature in such a pitiful state. It was in every way horrible."

"What does it mean?" asked Georgiana. "Are we now free of him on this side of the maze as well as on the other?"

"We may hope so, I believe," said Andrew, and George nodded, "but I counsel that we maintain the alert. It cannot hurt us to do so; and we do not, or at least I feel I do not, truly understand what the maze is about."

"What do we tell Lydia? And when?" Jane asked. There was silence for a few seconds as they all pondered the question.

"We should do well to wait before telling her anything," George suggested. "As Andrew has intimated, correctly, I believe, we do not yet fully understand the situation, and there may be more that we can discover. The condition of the maze indicates that there are more events in the offing, and they may change Mrs. Wickham's situation, or at least enlighten us as to what is toward. We should try to trace Wickham's movements before he came here today, that such information may inform us in our interview with Mrs. Wickham."

Chapter 24

18-19 May 1814

Why was he so cold? Wickham wondered. Where was he, anyway? His head swam woozily. He must have been very deeply asleep, probably had got jug-bitten on Blue Ruin, or shot in the neck with that poppy powder of Hackerton's again, sending himself off on one of those incredible inner voyages to another reality. That must be it. But where was he? Why was he not in bed, with a warm woman-body, were it only Lydia's, to lessen the chill, perhaps even to awaken some vestige of desire in his jaded flesh?

The stars in the moonless sky filtered down through tree-leaves onto his dew-drenched body. His joints creaked and his stiff muscles unclenched as he rose to his feet and looked around. His left leg ached with a particularly ominous intensity. A dark wall of --of something he did not recognize but instinctively hated-- rose to his left. He did not know whether to attack it or to flee it, but decided the second tactic, though he performed it at a cautiously sauntering pace, was the more reasonable reaction. He blundered into a couple of tree trunks, but soon moved out from under the trees' shelter to find himself crossing a lawn. He descried a large house in the middle distance, but then he fell, cursing quietly. He had tripped over a small, well-trimmed bush, in the process ripping the flesh of his right hand with a thorn and driving another through his trousers and into his leg above the boot. Damned rosebush! Why did it have to get in his way? Why did everything always get in his way?

He extricated himself from the bush, at the cost of a few additional small rents in his clothing and scratches on his hands. The house he had seen was familiar to him, he was sure. He retreated to stand under the outspreading branches of the last of the trees whence he had emerged. There, he hoped, he would be remain completely concealed and yet be able to see as well as from his current position. He hated the tree --all the plants, he felt, were out to get him. But that was silly, a part of his brain informed him. It must be the dregs of the hashish dream in his mind. He peered again towards the house and all its identifying details effectively disappeared from his sight --the blasted light was so dim!-- but as he looked away and his peripheral vision took it in, the picture suddenly resolved itself in his mind. He was looking southwards upon the north end of the great house at Pemberley, with the big oak just on the west. No wonder it had looked familiar. His fogged brain worked around to the conclusion that he must have awakened beside the old maze, and reminded him of the two windows on the old wing which, years ago, could be accessed from the oak tree and could be jimmied to let you in. If Darcy hadn't had them fixed over the years since he had last dared to make his way in.

But what the Devil was he doing here, of all places? Darcy would start the hue and cry after him at the least indication that he was near. A disjointed set of images flashed through his mind. His brain conjured up with an extraordinary immediacy, as if it had happened just yesterday, the improbable picture of Darcy dallying in mid-winter by the fountain in the maze with some dame --a sweet armful, really, she looked, till you noticed that she was, disgustingly, heavy with child --and then he did a double-take. Of course, he knew who it was: it was Miss Elizabeth, Lydia's older sister. Mrs. Darcy now, or so he thought he remembered, yet somehow he was sure she wasn't when he'd seen her in the maze.

A sweet armful, indeed: that she'd always been --a damned tantalizing woman, in fact. He'd much rather have had her than her younger sister. At first Lydia had been a willing, in fact a daring and provocative chit, and to say truth quite a fine-looking one, good for quite a few tumbles, though that of course was all he had ever planned to waste on her. But to be leg-shackled to her, worn and slatternly as she'd become after nearly two years, as stupid as ever, and now turned naggish, ever ready to flap her jaw at him until he'd threaten to shut it permanently for her, --it was hell. He should have got her with that knife. … Elizabeth, on the other hand … there was fire in that one! A little bit of luck, and he might have had her before Darcy did, and got her with child. A welcome jolt of lust hit him as he coddled the thought of what that would have been like: his tongue emerged and licked his lips, and his heart lurched and then pounded apace. And what a slap in Darcy's face it would have been! Almost as good -- no, every bit as good-- as it had been to run off with Georgiana, and have his way with her repeatedly even before they made it to Gretna. Not that Georgiana had been much good for very long, either. But at least her fortune had made life entertaining for a while, though Darcy again, damn him, had cut off access to it far too easily. And now she'd run off, with their daughter, to Pemberley. With Darcy's influence and power, they would probably work out a way to annul the marriage. Either way, unless he could work on Darcy, he could be sure he'd never see them, or another groat of Georgiana's money, again.

His muddled thoughts caught up with the contradiction. Which one had he married? Georgiana? Lydia? He did not think it possible that he had somehow married both of them--what would be the point of it, anyway? Lydia was penniless. It was only Darcy's money and the threat of other, more direct persuasions, that had convinced him to marry her. If he had married her. Or was that the hashish taking control of his mind? But if so how did he know her so clearly and so well? If the other dream were real, and he had married Georgiana, when would he have been in Hertfordshire (and in the militia, of all degrading occupations for such a gentleman as himself), to meet Elizabeth and Lydia Bennet? It was the automatic, unemphatic appearance in his mind of the surname, with no doubts or hesitations, that convinced him. He knew the ridiculous Bennets, the fatuous Lucases, Forster the Fool with his silly widgeon of a wife --far more hair than wit, that one, and hardly enough flesh on her bones to be worth the bedding--, that idiot Denny and the rest of the imbeciles and gudgeons of the regiment at Meryton. The whole notion of having been married to Georgiana Darcy must be the opium dream, born of his frustration at not quite pulling off the elopement from Ramsgate.

And what was he to do now? Something in the air, or in the texture of the foliage, told him it was near summertime if not full summer, but it was still cold enough to make him shiver. It must be near mid night; no hint of twilight showed either to the north west or the north east, and if it was indeed full summer, such total darkness would not last long. He would use such time as he had.

He awoke in darkness, his body cold despite being warmly clothed, his neck stiff, his head aching, and his mind confused. He had no idea where he was, or what had happened in the last few days, much less the last few hours. Had he gone on the cut, drinking the Old Tom, or indulged yet again in that hashish mixture of Hackerton's? He felt a measure of disgust with himself --how many times had he not promised himself (not to mention others) that this time he would truly reform and lay off the stuff permanently? He knew it did him no good, any more than the alcohol did, really. Still, what wouldn't he give for a good glass of Old Tom right now!

He rolled over onto his side, his shoulder brushing against cold and somewhat prickly vegetation. Some sort of hedge, apparently, and wet with dew. He rolled away from it; he felt very uncomfortable letting it touch him. He rolled over something soft and somewhat bulky: a leathern object, a boot from the feel of it. He realized that his left leg was unshod, and without thinking much about it pulled the boot on--it fit perfectly well. He tried to take stock of his situation. Obviously, he was outside. Why was that? He should be at home in bed, with his wife warming his cold body. But no, he remembered, she had run away. Run away to her brother Darcy, at Pemberley, had she not? Lyddi … ana … His foggy mind tried to sort out the memories. Two women, their most notable similarity being that they were taller than many: one slim, cool, dignified and far too often disdainful, though he had broken through that façade and made her cower often enough; the other better-upholstered, petulant more often than warm nowadays, though at first she had been cheerful and enthusiastic enough for three women. Until he had quenched her enthusiasm by his indifference and contempt.

He groaned and rose onto his hands and knees. A dim light shone in the distance, and he cautiously began to head towards it. Almost immediately it disappeared, eclipsed, like as not, by a tree trunk like the one he blundered into after only about three steps. He moved a few cautious steps to his left and carefully crept past the tree, heading towards the light. He moved out of the shadow and found himself crossing a lawn; he picked up his pace a little but maintained a cautious gait. When his foot came in contact with a small bush, he nearly stumbled, but he managed to stop and make his way around it with only a couple of slight pricks from its thorns. A rose-bush, perhaps? It smelled as if it might be. It had been long since he had noticed the smell of roses. A large house loomed in the middle distance: as he approached it looked more and like Pemberley, of all places. Could it be? What was he doing here? The dim light he had seen seemed to come from the first-storey window where the nursery used to be. He knew the place, it was just opposite the tree that provided access to the first- and second-storey windows--might some of them still be open, or openable? At least he might learn about who was home, and decide where to go from there. The nursery, he thought. If Lydia --or was it Georgiana?-- was here, no doubt so was her brat --to be sure, his own brat, he acknowledged-- what was her name? Mannie? Couldn't be--who ever heard of such a name? Addie? Mattie? Annie? His mind conjured up the image of a bright little energetic thing, still a baby, really, but already walking; but he also pictured a slightly older one, looking listless by comparison. Maybe she'd got sick since she was a baby? Why couldn't he remember? And why did the thought of Lydia increasing with another one fill him with such fury and yet simultaneously with such emptiness and despair?

By now he was quite close to the house and could see it, and the old oak tree, fairly clearly, despite the lack of a moon in the sky. The fall of the ground in this place was such that even the ground floor windows were over seven feet up and would require climbing to see into: the first storey windows were nearer twenty than fifteen feet up. He remembered climbing between the now-lighted window and the tree, when he was about twelve years old, and firmed up in his mind the decision to climb the tree again and see what he could see. He removed his coat and laid it on the ground, unaware, because of the darkness, that a letter had fallen out of its inner pocket in the process, and stretched his arms up to grasp a thick branch. His ribs were sore, he noted, but if he moved carefully they should not hinder his climbing overmuch. Within five minutes he was perched out near the end of the branch nearest that particular window. It had obviously been cut back many times so it would not brush the house, and even though he was at some distance from the trunk, the branch was quite thick enough to bear his weight. The light came from a single candle which had been left burning upon a bureau or some such item near the window; it tended to shine in his eyes, making it difficult to see anything inside of the room. He reached his good leg out across the gap, shifting his weight to where he was standing mostly on the windowsill, so bringing his eyes close to the glass.

He moved his hand to shade his eyes from the candle-light, and as his vision adjusted, he saw two little girls, neither one more than a few years old, huddled together on one of two beds. The larger of the two had one hand to her ear and seemed to be crying softly; the other was stroking her hands and her face, clearly trying to comfort her. He recognized them immediately. The larger girl was certainly his daughter Mattie, and the other seemed to be Anne, though he was less certain of her; as she was bigger than he remembered. Still, Anne would be about that age by now, and in any case this child looked much like what he remembered of her. His brain dithered, trying to make sense of their both being at Pemberley, and some part of him went out to them. He knew well enough that he had never been much of a father to them, but the sight of them suffering together, one comforting the other, somehow tugged at his heartstrings in an unexpected way.

He dropped his shading hand, and the candlelight illuminated his face again. Mattie happened to be looking at the window at that moment, and the effect on her was extraordinary. Her face distorted with terror, and she screamed. The sound was loud even through the window. This frightened Annie as well, and she also began to cry out. Wickham quickly but carefully drew back from the window onto the branch of the oak tree. It was only a very short time before Georgiana came into the room, with Lydia close behind her, both in their dressing gowns. Mattie pointed at the window, and Wickham could hear her saying, in terrified tones, "Pappa, Pappa!" Annie seemed to be explaining more calmly and volubly what had happened, but Wickham could not hear what she said. When Georgiana, with Annie in her arms, came over to the window and looked out, he shrank back next to the trunk of the old oak tree and waited, immobile, until she turned away. Then he climbed down and dropped as quietly as possible to the lawn. He landed on his discarded coat; his feet slipped out from under him, and he fell against the trunk of the tree, knocking his head against it slightly.

He donned the coat again in silence, then moved quickly and silently back across the open space towards the woods. Once more he was ambushed by his own feelings; they surprised and overcame him with their unexpected nature and their strength. They were feelings of discomposure and even shame. Had he come to this? Was he now but a boggart, a bogey-man to frighten his own daughters? Did they need their mother to protect them from him? With chagrin, he recognized that such was probably the truth of the matter. He registered the fact that Lydia had indeed looked to be in the family way, and the whole disgraceful situation with Sergeant Buncombe and his floozy of a wife flooded into his mind, prompting anger but even more strongly exacerbating the shame. His chagrin deepened into something almost like contrition; he felt like weeping, but he caught hold of himself and thought instead about what to do.

He thought it possible that he could secretly achieve entry to the house. He remembered where he had buried a key to the servants' entrance, years ago; very likely he could still find it there, and perhaps he could enter that way. Or, perhaps, he could find a window left ajar. But something in him rebelled from such a thing. Was he reduced to sneaking thievery? And even if he were, did he really want to run the risk of being caught breaking in to Pemberley? Darcy could easily have him transported, or sent to prison for life, even hanged, for that crime alone. And Georgiana might well have taken the little girls' alarm seriously enough to alert the servants. No, the game was not worth the candle. His mind went even further (when had he become prone to such deep thoughts?) and he wondered if most of the games he so habitually played were worth the candle. He risked, and indeed suffered, such profound losses for such pitiful and fleeting advantages and pleasures. He could hear the words in his head, almost as it were in Mary Bennet's voice: "For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"⁴

In the end he decided to make his way to Lambton and see if, as memory suggested, he had been lodging there with Giles Parker. Then, surprisingly to himself, yet as he thought of it his resolve grew, he decided to come openly to Pemberley on the morrow and ask to speak with Darcy. It would be better to face the situation directly rather than to try to lurk around the edges of it.

The decision felt good in his mind. With a swinging (though slightly lopsided) stride and something approaching contentment in his heart he settled down to walk away the five miles to Lambton. He arrived there as the first lightening of the sky towards the dawn appeared. Without waking anyone he found his way into Giles' house, to the room he remembered, where his own belongings and a bed awaited. He lay down and slept soundly.

Note:

⁴ Mark 8.36

Chapter 25

Damn it all! One by one, Wickham tried the latches on the windows; all were securely fastened. What was more, he knew, the fenestration of Pemberley was of the strongest, fashioned with reinforced sashes, casings and muntins, not to be broken into without a deal of noise and far too much time, especially by one lacking the proper tools. This place is built like a fortress, he grumbled to himself. And some even of the bottom storey windows were high enough above the ground to require him to climb, hanging onto the sills with his fingertips and scrambling for purchase on foundation stones or bushes, in order to try them. It was most frustrating, and with tired fingers, sore ribs and a game leg, not in the least comfortable.

He paused beneath the old oak tree whose branches, he remembered, grew close to the window to the nursery on the first floor. Perhaps it might still be possible to climb from them to that or a neighboring window: it had been so in the past. But quite certainly the windows would prove to be locked --the Pemberley staff were careful about such things, as his current investigations were confirming--, and he would have wasted valuable time and risked a nasty fall in the darkness only to confirm that discouraging fact. He would attempt it if all other options failed, but he was not yet in such straits.

It came to his mind, moreover, that he had an ace up his sleeve. Years ago, while old Mr. Darcy (the gaumless fool) was yet doddering around and he still had access to the house, Wickham had had the foresight to press in wax the key to the servants' entrance, which he then had copied by an ironmonger of his acquaintance in one of the less savoury sections of Manchester. This key he had buried in a niche in the foundation just south of the northwest corner of the house. Now he abandoned his futile search for an openable window and went to find it. It took him but little time to do so; the key was indeed still there where he had hidden it. Rejoicing inwardly but wary still, he flitted like a shadow to the entrance, only to find that his key would not fit the lock--it would not even enter it, much less turn after being introduced. Damnation!, he thought, his irritation doubled and trebled, leave it to Darcy to change the locks on me! Why does he have to be so bloody thorough and conscientious in all he does? Why does he always manage to interfere with my plans? With a muffled oath, he flung the key into the woods. There was nothing for it but to return to the windows and see if there might yet be one left ajar, and then, if necessary, try the tree as a last resort.

Still fuming in his frustration, yet moving with stealthy skill from one window to the next, he came around the southwestern corner of the mansion, and immediately saw a dim light, as from a single branch of candles, emanating from the library. Wondering who would yet be awake at such an hour, he crept closer until he could peer into the nearest of the windows. As his vision adjusted, he descried the back of a wide and high armchair facing the fireplace, in which were glowing the coals of a fire now in the final, contemplative stage of its life. On a small side table to the right of the chair a small glass gleamed with the rich colour of port, and, as he watched, a man's hand reached out from the chair to take the glass, as the top of an open book briefly appeared to the left of the chair back. He could imagine (though he could not hear) the sigh of satisfaction with which the glass, now empty, was returned to its place.

Wickham decided to wait and see who the reader might be before trying anything else, and so settled back into the shadows. Before many minutes had passed his patience was rewarded. The hand that had reached to the glass reached out to it again, and finding it empty, toyed idly with the pull on the drawer in the side table. Wickham sucked a sudden breath into his chest and held it. Perhaps the drawer still, as it had years ago, held a key to the French windows in the library. Might this person …?

Only a few moments later, the hand pulled the drawer open; a grizzled head leaned over to see what was in it, and the hand reached in to extract something small and then held it up for the head to examine. It looked as if it might be … in very deed it was! … it was the key. Oh, please! Wickham thought, with the intense concentration and desire that he usually reserved for a throw of the dice upon which high stakes were riding. God and all saints, please!! And, as occasionally happened with the dice, his intense supplication was followed by the desired result. The elderly gentleman stood up from his chair, stretched, and walked over to the fireplace, picked up the poker in his left hand and stirred the fire with it. Then, after a few minutes, key still in one hand and poker in the other, he ambled contemplatively over to the window and gazed out into the darkness. Please! Oh, please!! Wickham's mind repeated the prayer in quite a heathenish, mindless fashion, even as it registered the identity of the old man. It was Lydia's father, Thomas Bennet, which reinforced Wickham's conviction that it was Lydia who had him caught in the parson's mousetrap. His thoughts became clearer as he accepted and adjusted to this reality.

Finally, Mr. Bennet extended his hand, the key still in it, to the locking mechanism that secured the bars across the rightmost of the French windows leading to the terrace. He unlocked it, raised the bars, and, with a sigh, stepped out on to the flagstones of the terrace, gazing up at the clouds which were chasing by overhead, and shrugging his tired shoulders.

Wickham seized his chance. He sprang upon the terrace, intending to catch Mr. Bennet from behind and cover his eyes and mouth before he knew what had happened or could protest. However, he had forgotten his game leg, or perhaps yet again one of the bushes caught his foot. He fell sprawling on the flagstones a yard and a half short of his target, who with a cry swung around to deliver a back-handed blow with the poker, catching Wickham most unpleasantly on his already sore ribs. The poker was not steady in Mr. Bennet's left hand, however; it bounced back and then connected, again painfully though not as strongly as at the first blow, with Wickham's head. His ear throbbing ardently and his skull ringing, Wickham was yet quite able to grasp the poker and wrest it from old man Bennet's grip. He swung it around and pointed it at Bennet's torso. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, like a punch-drunk prizefighter, he moved closer towards the old man, foreshortening his grip on the poker so that he could instantly thrust it forward, and saying to him in a voice barely above a whisper, "Surprise, Mr. Bennet. I daresay you did not expect to see me out here when you opened that window. Do not move a muscle or raise an outcry, or I shall use this instrument as a lance, and you shall rue it." He prodded him with the poker to drive the point home, so to speak.

Mr. Bennet held very still, but after a second or two responded intrepidly enough, "Indeed I did not expect to see you, and in fact I am still unsure whether I have done so, or have now met someone else, given that I had not previously had the pleasure of your acquaintance. Who are you, then, sir? Why did you lie in wait and to what end do you even now assault me?"

Does the man truly not know me? Or is this one of his little games in which he preens himself on his intelligence whilst he makes mockery of his daughters and son-in-law? "Keep your mouth well closed, Mr. Bennet," Wickham responded. "If you do not know, I shall leave you where you shall be able to meditate upon the matter and perhaps come to enlightenment. Come now, back into the library."

Once they were within, Wickham divested both Mr. Bennet and himself of their cravats, and bound his hands and feet as efficiently and effectively as he could. But then he apparently changed his mind, and removed the cravat from Mr. Bennet's hands, substituting for it Mr. Bennet's leathern belt, tying the cravat around the lower part of Mr. Bennet's face so as to hold in place the handkerchief he had extracted from Bennet's pocket and stuffed within his mouth. He dragged him back into the space between two large sets of bookshelves, well out of sight from the library door, and left him there on the floor.

During the following hour Mr. Bennet experienced, as he later described it jestingly to his daughter, a special sort of purgatory apparently tailor-made to torment him. Here he was, surrounded by whole shelves, hundreds of shelves, full of wonderful books, virgin to his touch, and yet he was unable to lay a finger to a one of them, much less take it down and explore the delights to be found within its covers. He knew that just around the corner was a decanter of an extraordinarily fine port, awaiting a reverent pouring out, after which one might slowly and lovingly savour it, yet he could not sip a drop or even relish the smell. He was even, for various reasons, blocked from indulging, according to his wont, in the lustful contemplation of such pleasures in imagination. For one thing, he had an itch beside his nose which he was unable to scratch, and for another he was developing a cramp in his right side, which was threatening to become truly painful. Perhaps most pressing of all, he had already drunk several glasses of the port, and it was now several hours past midnight; he was urgently conscious of a need for a chamber pot, and of being totally unable to relieve that need. Beyond such tangible frustrations was the contemplation of what was happening, of the fact that a criminal lunatic, or someone of a similar bent, was loose, by his own action, within Pemberley, and he was unable to do a thing about it. Of course, this last trial was of a sort which he was well-prepared by habit to endure with equanimity and even by choice--many a crisis at Longbourn, of at least apparently similar magnitude, he had dealt with by similar inactivity, and it was by no means certain that if he had been unbound he would have known what to do about the intruder, much less been minded to do it. Still, he thought he might have tried to do something.

He did try his bonds constantly, and was able to achieve a slight freedom of movement for his hands, though it was at the price, he could tell, of further tightening the belt which bound them. He managed, with tongue and teeth, to compact the handkerchief in his mouth and to push it against the cravat which held it in place, but was unable to completely dislodge them. But he pursued these activities quietly.

His circumspection was rewarded when he was surprised by a door opening somewhere in the direction of his head and very close to him. The door by which he himself had entered the library, hours earlier, and through which Wickham had left him, was towards his feet; other than that and the French windows he had been unaware of any entrance to the room. In fact, the door in question came from the Master's study, where Wickham had been engaged in rifling the desk, looking for any and every thing that might be profitable to carry off, when he was surprised by Wilkins. That elderly servant, having heard, as he thought, a cry from outside the house near the library area, had arisen to investigate, had come upon Wickham, and had been subdued by much the same method as Wickham had used on Mr. Bennet. Now Wickham returned to the library, prodding the dishevelled, and most thoroughly incensed, old man with his poker. He shoved him into the same space between the bookshelves where Mr. Bennet lay, divesting him of cravat and belt, removing his shoes and stockings and using the stockings, along with the belt and cravat, to truss him up as he had Mr. Bennet. In the process he did not note (and Mr. Bennet certainly did not go out of his way to make it obvious) that Mr. Bennet's bonds were no longer quite so secure as they had been.

Wickham abandoned the two almost immediately to return to his nefarious pursuits. Mr. Bennet immediately began to wriggle his way to where his hands could touch the knot at the back of Wilkins' head, which did not look to be tied terribly tightly. After a few anxious minutes of effort he was able to pull it up over the man's head, freeing him from its confinement, and Wilkins was able to spit his gag from his mouth and say "Thank you, sir!" in a voice made scratchy by a dry mouth.

Mr. Bennet was able to convey to him, despite the gag in his own mouth, that they should remain as quiet as possible. He then scooted down to where he was able to get his fingers on the buckle of the belt immobilising Wilkins' hands. This took a bit longer, as the range of motion he could achieve seemed to be (it was difficult to tell, working by touch alone behind one's back) just less than what was necessary to get the buckle tongue clear of the belt-hole, and it kept returning to its tightened position. Eventually Wilkins realized that he had been worsening the situation by flexing his elbows and wrists apart. He apologized and encouraged Mr. Bennet to try again, and this time he endeavoured to press his arms together at the critical moment. This action loosened the binding sufficiently that Mr. Bennet was able to undo the buckle, and once that was achieved, Wilkins was able to free his hands in short order. Although they shook badly and felt even more feeble than what his age had already accustomed him to feeling, he was able to use them to free his feet, whereupon he creakily stood to his feet and very cautiously walked to the small writing desk which Mr. Darcy maintained in the library, whence he retrieved a pen-knife. With its help he made short work of Mr. Bennet's bonds, and within a few minutes they stood together, still between the book shelves, two elderly men rubbing sore places on their anatomies, thanking each other in whispers, and beginning to think of what should be their next move.

Mr. Bennet chose to deal with the most urgent matter first. "Pardon me, but could you direct me to the necessary?" he asked.

The nearest such installation, as it turned out, was adjunct to and could be entered only from the billiard room, and they were able to make their way there without encountering Wickham, or indeed anyone else, though the latter fact was no great surprise: it was still very early in the morning. When he had dealt with his necessity, Mr. Bennet returned to the billiard room to find the shaken butler standing in helpless indecision, and instinctively looking to him for direction. During much of the following adventure, and certainly in his recollections of the same, he was carried along, and at times almost overcome, by an undercurrent of mirth, a constant bubbling of laughter, an unbelief in the preposterous circumstance that he, Thomas Bennet, Eremite of the Longbourn Library, not only was being looked to for leadership, but actually found himself providing it quite effectively, albeit in the most absurd of manners and of circumstances.

"Who was he?" he asked.

Surprised, Wilkins nevertheless said succinctly, "That was Mr. Wickham. He is married to Miss Georgiana, but I fear he hates the Master."

"I may safely conclude, then, that he is up to no good here? Well, then, I believe we should seek some way to arm ourselves," Mr. Bennet stated. "Have you any suggestions?" He himself looked around the room, and his eye was drawn to a decoration mounted above the mantelpiece, which consisted of (among other things) a small shield covering the intersection of two crossed swords. He began to pull a chair over to the fireplace, immediately assisted by Wilkins, and climbed upon it, only to discover that the swords in question were most solidly riveted, if not welded, to each other and to the shield. Abandoning the attempt, he cast his eye over the room and settled on the fireplace poker, which was somewhat lighter than the one from the library, which Wickham doubtless still retained. Then, with a chuckle, he caught up a cue and tossed it to Wilkins, before taking one up himself. He wielded it as a fencing foil, thrusting with the tip of it towards the billiards table, then reversed it, swinging the heavier end in such a way as to mimic a club light enough for such valetudinarians as themselves; Wilkins copied his movements, accustoming himself to this weapon. Mr. Bennet transferred both cue and poker to his left hand, and with his right put two billiard balls in each of the large pockets of his coat, encouraging Wilkins to do the same. Thus fearfully armed, the two musketeers sallied forth with commendable intrepidity to their encounter with destiny.

"Take me to the upstairs apartments by the most unobtrusive way," Mr. Bennet requested sotto voce, and Wilkins led him to one of the servants' staircases, which brought them into the hall of the Family wing, not far from the Master's suite of rooms. As they walked past the Master's dressing-room they heard a thumping sound, and cautiously opened the door. There on the floor, tied up much as they themselves had been, they found Enderby. Wilkins still had with him the pen-knife, and between that and Mr. Bennet's clever fingers, Enderby was soon freed, standing, and rubbing his wrists.

"Where is he?" asked Mr. Bennet, almost in a whisper.

"I do not know, but not far, I surmise. He had left me but a few minutes before you found me," was the reply. "He had Grace, the nursery maid, with him."

"Here." Mr. Bennet thrust into Enderby's hands the poker from the billiard room; he himself was feeling a quite irrational pleasure in wielding only a cue-stick against this redoubtable villain. The three men emerged, somewhat shakily, into the hall.

As they looked both ways they heard, muffled by its passage through a closed door but still unmistakable, a woman's scream, suddenly cut off but then renewed. It came from their left, and so naturally they headed in that direction. They heard further sounds of feminine distress and fierce contention, and a man's shout as well. While they were yet some ten yards from the entrance to Mrs. Wickham's rooms, the door burst open, and George Wickham emerged, in a dampened, malodourous and thoroughly dishevelled condition, looking wildly about him, and pulling behind him a vehemently protesting Ellen Ingram, clad in nightgown and robe.

Chapter 26

When Wickham had entered the family wing, he had first headed for the nursery, thinking to verify that Mattie was there, and thinking also of the new-born baby boy. Whether or not he was Pemberley's heir, Darcy and Elizabeth seemed to value him, if he remembered rightly. Vague notions of kidnapping the child and extracting vast sums of money from the Darcy coffers danced in his head. But all he found there was a snivelling little maid, who said that her name was Grace, that there hadn't never been no Mattie there, and that the Mistress wouldn't be confined for months yet; the child certainly was not born. When Wickham asked her who was currently at Pemberley she refused to answer, but when he subjected her to a very little rough treatment (not enough to even begin to be pleasurable) she burst into tears and agreed to take him where they were. They then went to the Master's apartments, where they encountered Enderby, and the girl cowered obediently in a corner while Wickham subdued him and tied him up, and then meekly allowed him to lead her away. After a cursory, and vain, search of the Master's and Mistress's rooms, he extracted from Grace the information that Miss Georgiana was at home and in which suite of rooms she was to be found. Towards the end of the interrogation process he permitted himself the liberty of running his hands over her form, provoking violent shudderings and weepings from the silly chit, but he knew he had too little time to stoke his desires, let alone follow through on them at that moment, so instead he simply hissed at her that this was nothing to what he would do if she made so much as a peep. This threat reduced her to a state of near-perfect incoherence.

Still holding her hostage, Wickham entered Georgiana's apartments, and shoved the terrified girl into what he supposed was a closet, with another hiss to remind her of his previous threats. Then he boldly entered the bedchamber and loomed over Georgiana in her bed, threatening her with his trusty poker. She had gaped in terror, letting out something between a whimper and a squeak of pure fright, but he clamped a hand over her mouth. "Shut it up!" he commanded peremptorily. "Speak quietly, or I shall make you very sorry that you did not do so. Where is your brother?"

Too terrified to think very clearly, overcome with the sickening realization that, despite her former blissful certainty that she was free of Wickham it was he who was now in front of her, Georgiana yet realized there was no profit in letting Wickham know that Darcy was from home. "I d…do not know," she stammered. "Is he not in his bed?"

"No, he is not. Which are his wife's rooms?" Wickham knew, but wanted to know if she would answer him truthfully.

"They are next to his," she answered. He would not find either of them in their suites, so trying to send him to some other set of rooms would serve no useful purpose, and perhaps if she could induce him to waste time looking there salvation might come in some other form.

His next question was a total surprise: "Where is my wife hiding?"

"Your wife?" Georgiana was nonplussed. Did Wickham have another wife besides herself?

"Yes, Lydia. Surely she and Mattie will have made it here before now. Where are they hiding?"

"Lydia! Lydia Bennet!"

"Yes, of course! Do not play the fool with me, Georgiana Darcy!" His tone was, once again, fierce.

Georgiana's brain was in a whirl, and her spirits sank under her overwhelming fears. She was well-nigh paralysed by her memories of certain earlier encounters with Wickham in a bedroom. Yet she remembered hearing that in the other Pemberley Wickham was married to the youngest Bennet daughter. This must be the Wickham from that world, then. He must have come through the maze. This lessened her fears very slightly, but they were restored and then exacerbated as she saw his eyes narrow and his glance travel down from her face to her nightgown.

To distract him she asked, "George?" and then cringed inwardly at the smile on his face (a calculating smile, she knew it well) as he realized she had called him by his Christian name. "How …?" Then indignation overtook her and she asked the real question that she had in mind. Elizabeth's influence upon her had indeed been great. "How can you do this? How can you break into my brother's house, after all he has done for you, and … and accost people in their beds?"

He looked almost surprised. "Why should I not? When I think of all that your brother has taken from me! I am only attempting to recover some small portion of what is mine, or at least should have been mine!"

The anger in his voice was palpable, but it changed to a tone of entreaty. "You know how he gave away the living at Kympton, Georgiana, which was to be mine, and I know you have heard his slanders towards me on many occasions, spreading rumours about me to all and sundry. Pemberley itself, had your father been free to follow his wishes, should have been mine, I cannot but feel; yet your brother has prohibited me from even coming here. But the worst injury was when he stole you from me. We were so much in love, Georgiana. Do you not remember?"

"You should not speak so to me, Mr. Wickham," Georgiana said, but her voice trembled. "Are you not married to another? It this how you treat your wife, Mr. Wickham."

"I treat her very well, and better than she deserves!" he said, a degree of offence manifesting itself in his tone, though he quickly controlled it. "I treat her well, Georgiana, and I am willing to treat you just as well, if you will only cooperate with me. See, I do not threaten you."

He let the poker drop on the carpet beside him as he reached out a hand, gently as it seemed, as if to touch her neck; she drew back with sharply indrawn breath.

"Don't be afraid, Georgiana," he said. "Remember how much you cared for me, loved me, even, at Ramsgate, before we ran away together. I would never hurt you, you know that." She marvelled --and shuddered, remembering-- at how he could switch, at will, from expressions of the most cruel anger to tones that sounded tender and loving.

He could not, or at any rate did not, resist the temptation to let his hand come to rest on the bit of her shoulder which her nightgown, shifted as it was by her sudden movements a few moments earlier, had left uncovered. "I would love to make you feel wonderful, as I did then. Just let me …"

She squirmed violently, trying in vain to avoid his touch, and twice screamed out the word "Ellen!" before he was able to clamp his hand over her mouth again. "Now you've torn it," he snarled. He raised his other hand to strike her, but it was caught at the top of its rise in a woman's grip. He was stronger than she, and was able to haul her completely off her feet, but was unable to strike Georgiana while she held on to his arm, which she did with the grimness of death.

It was, of course, Ellen. In fact it was Ellen-from-there. Ellen-from-here had slept in her bed in the servants' quarters, but of course they could not both be there, and so Mrs. Wickham had decided to have them arrange a place for one of them to sleep in her own dressing room. So Ellen had come awake to the sound of the dressing-room door opening, and immediately saw, by the dim light coming from the pre-dawn sky, Grace practically falling into the room. She had heard the door opening, almost simultaneously, into Mrs. Wickham's room, and had heard her whimper of fear and then the alarming sound of a man's voice in dialogue with her. She had the presence of mind to pull urgently and repeatedly at the bell to summon the other Ellen from her chamber to Mrs. Wickham's suite of rooms. She immediately got out of bed, pulling on a robe, and headed first to Grace's aid, but then, hearing further distressing noises from her mistress' room, turned back in that direction. She had paused before the door, wondering whether she should intrude or await her counterpart's arrival, when Georgiana's screams summoned her. Naturally she then ran to her aid, still garbed in her nightgown and barely in time to keep Wickham from striking her.

Repeatedly Wickham tried to shake the blasted woman off his arm but was unable to do so. Within a couple of seconds Georgiana had entered the fray. At first she vigorously but ineffectually beat upon Wickham's other arm and shoulder with her fists. Then, realizing how little this attack was accomplishing, she thought to poke him in the eyes with her fingers. Fortunately for Wickham, it is no easy thing, even when one's life or virtue is in obvious and dire jeopardy, to drive one's fingers into another's eyes. Georgiana's attack did not gouge Wickham's eye out, or even puncture it. But she did manage to scratch his eyeball, and the effect was, at least for a few moments, exquisitely and frighteningly painful, and made it hard for him to even open his other eye to see what was occurring around him. The woman that was latched onto his right arm had taken the opportunity to draw his hand to her mouth and, just as Georgiana's finger met Wickham's eye, to bite it solidly, on the fleshy part below the thumb. Wickham shouted (in fact he shrieked, but it was a very masculine shriek), and in a paroxysm of effort threw both women together onto Georgiana's bed, while he bent over and scrabbled blindly on the floor for his discarded poker.

He had just retrieved it and was moving to wield it (with his awkward, but unbitten, left hand) against the women, when he was interrupted by a cry from behind him, "Leave them be, you no-good scum!"

This was Ellen-from-here, and Wickham, turning to see her, was not just non-plussed, but positively boggled, by the sight of the nightgowned woman in front of him, whom he was attacking, suddenly appearing fully clothed and attacking him from behind as well.

The circumstances of her arrival must be recounted. She had awoken early and had nearly finished dressing when frantic bell-pulls alerted her to the fact that all was not well in her mistress's suite. She immediately left her room, and was hastening along the servants' passage towards the family apartments, when she noted that a window had been left unlatched. It would not have been accessible from the outside without a ladder, but in the absence of the Master and given all the untoward things that had been happening recently, it disturbed her. She glanced out and noticed that Joseph Padgett was standing below, holding a pitchfork, looking in what seemed to be alarm towards a window in the Family section where she was heading. He in fact had just discerned some violent motion through the window, though it was not clear what, and heard unusual sounds from the same direction. At that moment Georgiana's screams burst forth. They both heard them, and Ellen said, before the screams died down, "Padgett, we need you, come inside and help, immediately!"

With quick intelligence he replied, "Throw me th' keys so's I c'n get in!", and after a split moment's consideration she unclipped her keys from her belt and tossed them down to him before abandoning the window to run to Mrs. Wickham's rooms.

Entering the dressing-room she heard the sounds of struggle in the adjoining chamber, noted Grace snivelling next to the fireplace, and quickly cast about for anything they could use as a weapons, while simultaneously telling Grace to shut up and come help instead. She saw nothing handy other than some bottles of perfume and a heavy (though delicate) silver brush. Catching up one bottle and the brush she ran to the open door and burst through to confront Wickham, who was confronting the other Ellen, who had interposed herself between him and Georgiana.

She hurled her missile, the perfume bottle, at him. He sidestepped and in fact caught it on the poker, almost as if it were a cricket-bat and ball. The crystal exploded, drenching Wickham and the floor around him (and to a lesser extent, Ellen-from-there) in the pungent floral-scented liquid it had contained. Ellen then attacked him with the brush, but he again was quicker than she counted on, and painfully (because of the bite) but tenaciously caught her arm with his right hand before she could strike him, drawing back his left arm with the poker in it. Ellen-from-there, however, had by now recovered from the unexpected shower of perfume, and ducking down had reached under the bed, extracting a half-full chamber pot, the contents of which she now flung into Wickham's face. Whilst he was blinded and well-nigh suffocated from this assault she swung the porcelain pot itself, striking him on the head nearly as forcefully as she might have wished, certainly enough so as to disorient him still further. Her next blow struck his left arm and made him drop his poker, upon which Grace, with admirable and perhaps somewhat surprising presence of mind, promptly stepped, and which she then rolled with her foot beyond his reach and picked up herself. Meanwhile the woman behind him had transferred her brush to the other hand and was beating him about the head with it.

With what little sense he had left, Wickham realized that retreat was, in this instance, the better part of valour. Reaching out blindly he grasped the arm of the nightgowned wench, who was once more swinging on him with the pot, managing to knock it out of her hand, then sprang for the door, hauling the nasty chit out into the hallway before she could catch her balance. Impressively varied vituperations flowed from her mouth the while, and her double was shrieking "Stop him! Stop him! Joseph! JOSEPH!"

Once Wickham had made it through the door, his hostage simply sat on the ground, forcing him to haul her bodily if he were to budge her from her current position. Although he did not quite realize it, she was holding on to his arm fiercely even as he was holding to hers, in fact digging the nails of both hands into it, as unwilling to let go of him as he was of her. With relief the Ellens heard footsteps from below, pounding up the main staircase, taking the stairs two and three at a time. They were less aware of the three elderly men coming down the hallway from their left, but Wickham was aware of them and not of Joseph Padgett at all.

Mr. Bennett, a strange and unholy glee in his heart, had extracted a billiard ball from his pocket, and with a shout of "En garde, knave and poltroon!" now flung it at the intruder. It is not unreasonable to suppose that both the strength and the accuracy of Mrs. Darcy's throwing arm (or Miss Bennet's, if one prefers) were inherited from her male progenitor. However that may be, in the present instance, the ball flew straight into Wickham's face, where it crunched with a sickening (though, under the circumstances, also a satisfying) sound against his cheekbone, the same cheekbone that Mr. Bennet had previously belaboured with the poker, opposite the one Ellen had punished with the chamber-pot. The second ball struck Wickham in the ribs. By then Wilkins had tottered up and was prodding him, quite painfully in fact, with a billiard cue. Enderby hung behind the other two men, feebly waving his poker, fortunately not bringing it into contact with either of his companions, but of course not hitting Wickham either. Still, he looked fierce enough that Wickham preferred not to charge all three of them at once.

He sought once more to haul the pestiferous woman to her feet, but Mr. Bennet, wielding his cue club-style, brought the butt end of it whistling down on his forearm, tensed as it was from trying to pull her to a standing position. Wickham thought he might have broken it. Then the cue came up from below, with somewhat less force but to even greater effect, for it delivered a sharp rap on the (shockingly misnamed) humerus bone of his elbow, in fact striking directly over the ulnar nerve, where it achieved its customary effect: stabbing shocks of outrageous and thoroughly debilitating pain shot through Wickham's forearm. He released his hold on the chit, but it gained him nothing, for she held grimly to him. Meanwhile, Mr. Bennet was lifting his cue for another blow, and Wickham had had enough. He shoved the woman back towards the door where her doppelgänger, chamber-pot at the ready, stood with Georgiana, now armed with the poker, and the other, snivelling wench, the three of them observing the mêlée in a mixture of outrage, determination, confusion and alarm. Violently he wrenched his arm free of the chit's clutches, but held himself back long enough to catch her a buffet on the cheek. This, unfortunately for him, gave Mr. Bennet time to bring his cue down like a whip on his back, and Wilkins the opportunity to poke him fiercely in the region of the kidneys. Performing (for the pleasure of Mr. Bennet's later recollections) quite recognizable impressions of Laocoön and of Samson Agonistes,⁵ he freed himself from all restraints and launched himself down the stairs, only to meet Joseph Padgett's fist coming solidly up the stairs. The fist landed in Wickham's gut, and nearly felled him.

One Ellen cried stoutly "Padgett! You came!" and the other, in failing tones, "Joseph!" This distracted him enough that Wickham was able to shove an ineffectual fist into his face, and then the sight of one Ellen holding the other one, fetching in her nightclothes but nearly swooning from Wickham's final blow to her, distracted him still more. This enabled Wickham, straining every muscle, to vault past him and continue down the stairs and out the back entrance to Pemberley. Padgett had run towards the fallen Ellen, but the other had quickly straightened him out, crying "He'll get away! Go stop him!" It took him two long steps to come to a halt, but he realized that she was right, so he turned right around and charged back down the stairs, with Ellen-from-here following hard behind, still carrying the chamber-pot.

Wickham had a head start, but was hampered by his multiple injuries; nevertheless fear lent him a strength beyond his own, and he was still some ten yards ahead of Padgett when the latter emerged into the open air. Remembering his pitchfork, which he had laid against the bushes hard by the entrance, Padgett pounced upon it, then grasping it like a javelin, hurled it after Wickham. One of the tines pierced and tore the muscles on the outside of Wickham's right thigh, producing a shriek of mingled anguish and rage, but also provoking what may well have been the swiftest demonstration of fleetness afoot in the history of Pemberley. Despite all his injuries, not to mention the difficulties of running in boots, and mismatched boots at that, Wickham sprinted for the stables, hoping to gain the woods behind them, and leaving Joseph Padgett panting behind him.

Wickham's luck held yet again. Mr. Darcy's express rider had arrived from London only minutes before Wickham fled the house. (He bore a message which later proved to be good news, news that was thought urgent for Mr. Darcy to know but fortunately was not necessary for him to respond to.) The messenger had dismounted but a few moments before Wickham emerged from the gloom, and was standing several paces away, talking with the only groom who was up and about. Caught flatfooted, he was too late to interfere as Wickham flung himself upon the waiting horse and took off at a gallop back down the road towards Lambton.

Removing his belt and plying it as a whip, he had the presence of mind to ride only as far as the point where the road passed at its nearest to the clearing in the woods. There he halted the horse long enough to slide off its back, before giving it a vicious cut across the flanks, which sent it racing on down the road, where it did not stop for over a mile. It was well for him that he did so; the manœuvre would confuse his pursuit and send them off in the wrong direction for some time, greatly facilitating his escape.

Meanwhile, ignoring the outcry of his body, he traversed the relatively short distance to the clearing, expecting to find there Harry Merton's horse, which he had left the day before. To his great surprise and chagrin, no horse awaited him; in fact there was nothing beyond some months-old droppings under the eaves to indicate there ever had been one.

His body was now cooling down, reverting to its more normal level of activity. The fear that had lent him wings had worn off, and he suddenly was aware of how battered and weary he was. His face hurt fiercely where the billiard ball had hit it and his skull still rang with the blows from the chamber pot and the silver hairbrush; his left eye was oozing secretions which hardened into gritty bits which were very painful; his right thigh was pierced and torn and his right arm was still numb from the blows it had received; his hand was bitten; there were deep and disturbing aches in his abdomen where Wilkins' billiard cue and Joe Padgett's fist had hit it: he had injuries and painful spots all over his body. He tried to wash his face in the nearby stream, hoping to lessen the disgusting smell that hovered around him, but it did not help very much. It did lessen somewhat, but only for a brief time, the suffering from his damaged eye. From a rag he found in the shelter he managed to fashion a very crude bandage for his torn leg, but it did not stop the bleeding, much less remove the pain. He knew not how much strength he had left, though he felt it diminishing. Nevertheless it was clear that he could not stay, so there was only one thing he could do. He settled down to limp, as quickly as he could, through the woods, retracing the path to Giles Parker's house on the outskirts of Lambton.

Note:

⁵ This juxtaposition of images is due to Booth Tarkington.

Chapter 27

Wickham awoke refreshed well into the morning. His body still ached, but he felt better, from the inside out, than he had in … in years! he thought with surprise. He stretched, arose, and dressed himself. He noted with some puzzlement that his boots were mismatched; one was highly fashionable, quite new and highly polished (though it seemed to have been recently used in wet conditions), almost certainly one of Hoby's, while the other he recognized as a less distinguished (though still originally natty) military boot, whose polish was haphazard at best and several days old. Yet both fit him quite comfortably. It disturbed him to be so dressed, but oh, well, what option did he have, and did it really matter? He whistled as he shaved himself and, arranging his clothing as neatly as he could, went into the main room of the cottage, where he found his friend Giles talking with his sister Nan.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully.

Giles eyed him somewhat askance. "Mornin'," he replied. "Awake, be we? Did tha get what tha wanted, out all day yesterday?"

"I don't know," said Wickham. "I don't seem to remember what it was that I wanted. But right now what I think I want is a bite to eat. Is there anything left of breakfast?"

"Aye," said Nan. "T'ain't much for the likes of you, I make no doubt, but porridge there be, and bread."

"Porridge and bread shall do very well," he replied. As Nan headed towards the kitchen he added, "Do you think you could get me a horse, Giles? I'm for Pemberley today. I've decided to beard the lion in his den, and go talk to Darcy directly. I believe we can reconcile our differences."

Giles looked at him as if at a monster at the fair. "Talk? To Darcy?" he asked. "Yestere'en tha were fierce that none know tha were here, especially none what had owt to do with Pemberley. Wherefore things be so different today?"

"I don't know, entirely," said Wickham, "but I am done with skulking around here. I am going to talk to him directly, and see if we cannot resolve our differences. I know that I have resented him, and in fact have done him ill, but I know him well enough to know that facing our differences is the best way to deal with them."

"Pemberley folk come by here yestere'en, axing after tha. Di'n't say owt to 'em, but they done heard things. Like as not they knows tha were here. As to a horse," said Giles, "What about t' horse tha took two days agone? Where did tha leave un? Harry Merton'll be wanting un back soon."

"Oh," said Wickham, scratching around in his brain for the memory, "Oh, that's right. I think I left it at that clearing --you know the one-- in the Pemberley woods. That's where I spent the night after I left here. Was that yesterday, then? I think I tied it where it could eat, but it's bound to be pretty thirsty by now. Well, then, I will have to go get it first, won't I?"

He accepted, with a smile and a word of thanks, a bowl of lukewarm porridge, some bread and a cup of rather frigid tea from Nan's hand, and applied himself to his breakfast with a will. He became conscious, almost as an afterthought or a nearly-forgotten habit, of Nan's attractive figure and willing disposition, but as his mind and will started down the well-trodden road of planning how best to play on the latter in order to provide access to the former, something held him back. He was a married man, and had a wife to meet his needs. Though --what had that to do with anything? His engrained habits of thought bid him ignore the fact. Nevertheless, he had to recognize that it was not as if Nan were just any randomly encountered chit; the fact that she was Giles' sister made a difference. It would be badly done of him so to treat Giles, not to mention Nan herself: to pay them back by abusing their kindness in such a way. He need not, and, he decided, would not do so. To his surprise, the choice to respect the girl and forego any plan to exploit her freed him to appreciate her freshness all the more: in the past he would never have thought of her as a woman one might love, but now he could see that she was indeed that, and felt a surge of good-will towards her and the man who would one day win, not just her favours, but herself.

About a half-hour later he was on his way, walking comfortably if somewhat unevenly, on the path through the woods to the clearing where he had left the horse. It was astonishing what pleasure there was to be had in walking through the woods on a May morning. Upon arrival he found that the horse was, indeed, very thirsty, and more than ready to have its saddle removed, but when he had watered it and rubbed it down a bit, it accepted the saddle again, and allowed him to mount it. He rode out to the main road and turned west, towards Pemberley.

Wickham staggered into the clearing that lay between the woods and Giles Parker's house. It was nearing midday; it had taken him hours to come this far. He had lost a great deal of blood, and the ache in his head was a constant pounding. His senses swam; he did not know what he would do if Giles were from home. But there was nothing to do but try the door.

He made it to the door, and reaching up, laid upon it a blow much less imperious than was his wont. Weaving and swaying, he stood there for several seconds; then, just as he reached up to rap again, the door opened, and his friend faced him.

"Damnation! Be tha Wickham?" was all he heard. He was not aware that Parker's sister Nancy stood appalled behind him (nor if he had seen her would he have remembered her); he simply knew that it would no longer be necessary to keep shuffling one foot before the other. The relief was too much, and there on the doorstep he swooned. He was insensible of the Parkers' efforts to get him onto Giles' bed and to put a slightly more effective bandage on the worst-looking of his wounds, the gash in his leg. Nor was he aware of the quick conference between them, culminating in the decision for Giles to go seek Mr. Richard Turpin, the apothecary, and bring him back to attend his erstwhile friend. He hadn't seen Wickham for nearly five months, of course, and was still angry about his abandoning him then with no notice whatsoever, never mind that he'd left Harry Merton's horse that Giles had borrowed for him at that hunting-shelter on Pemberley land. The poor animal had been nearly dead when Giles found it, three days later, and Harry Merton had sworn he'd never let Giles borrow a horse from him, ever again. But if a body, any body, showed up in as bad shape as Wickham just now -- well, one could do no other than to help him. Giles would postpone the reckoning until Wickham was better.

"Take care of 'un, sister," he said, as he headed out the door. "I shan’t be long."

He became conscious of the soothing touch of a cool, damp cloth laid gently against his damaged eye and face. His moan drew the response of a woman's soft voice, saying "'Twill be all right, sir, just lay quiet-like and see if it don't."

Have I died and is this heaven? was Wickham's first thought. But his eye, and face, and head and ribs and leg hurt far too much for that to be the case, and he didn't think God's angels would be quite so … corporeal … as his growing awareness indicated that the woman at his side was, nor did he expect they would speak with the accents of Derbyshire. Had he been a little more self-aware (as those in his condition rarely if ever are) he would have realized how unlikely it was, on the merits of the case, that such a desirable destination should ever be his. But such a consideration did not cross his mind.

His consciousness was engulfed by the misery of nausea. As he started to gag, the woman scurried over to pick up a basin, whose contents she turned out hurriedly onto the sideboard, and rushed back to hold the basin under Wickham's mouth. After a rather thorough, and thoroughly disagreeable, casting up of accounts, Wickham sagged back onto the bed, and she dumped the results outdoors. There was blood in the vomit; she did not know what that portended, but it seemed it could hardly be a good sign, and her concern for the poor gentleman increased.

Her brother had brought out, from his toolshed, a bottle of cheap whisky, with the suggestion that a bit of it might help Mr. Wickham, were he to wake before Giles returned with Mr. Turpin. Accordingly, Nan poured a small glass full, and held it to his lips. He swallowed it all, with surprising speed, but then fell back upon the bed, apparently in a swoon once more.

It was not entirely feigned; Wickham was exhausted from his bout of sickness, and was of course still subject to multiple aches and pains from all of the exertions and injuries he had undergone. The liquor had taken almost immediate effect as well, to such an extent that he was experiencing strong sensations of light-headedness and vertigo. Yet he was not unconscious, and the drink had also dulled the sensations of pain. Looking through nearly-closed lashes, he contemplated his nurse. He noted the softness of her skin and the comeliness of her figure, and he began to drift into lascivious, even aggressively lascivious, thoughts. Not that there was anything unusual in that circumstance: he had been constantly, and willingly, subject to such thoughts since he was little more than a boy, and had often used them to distract himself in moments of discomfort or pain. Or, of course, moments of boredom, or of temptation to really think about anything, especially anything that might awaken his conscience and so prove uncomfortable. But in the past there had been at least a modicum of commonsensical self-interest which usually helped him impose some degree of restraint upon his proclivities. Now, however, that restraint was gone, and of course he himself did not miss it.

He was under no illusions as to what he had wanted to do, and, damn him, would have done, had he had but time enough, to Georgiana and the other wenches, the twin ones, and even the sniveller, once he had them tied up and helpless. To take them one by one, with the others watching, would have been balm to his ego as well as release to his lust. But the opportunity now before him was not to be despised. His desire came upon him like a lion, as powerful an anodyne as his fear had been earlier, enabling him to ignore, even to forget, the terrible aches and pains of his body. Yet still he feigned unconsciousness, the better to achieve his ends.

Briefly the woman left his side, only to return a few minutes later with a cup of warm gruel. He of course did not remember, for he had truly been unconscious at the time, that she had put it on to heat while Giles finished addressing his wounds and prepared to go and fetch the apothecary. Now she set the cup, as Wickham saw from beneath his almost-closed lashes, on the bedside table, with a spoon in it, next to the whisky glass, some wet cloths, a pair of large scissors, and some bandaging, which must have been used, he realized, to make the dressing which covered his leg wound. But as Nan sat back beside him upon the bed and touched his arm, asking gently "Be you wishful for some of this good gruel, sir?", his mind turned from such irrelevant details to the opportunity at hand.

He made as if to sit up, but allowed himself to fall as if again fainting, in such a way that his head and shoulders fell across her lap, and she once more stroked and gently soothed his face and neck. She reached across him to take up one of the wet cloths to again wash and cool his brow, in the process inevitably bringing her upper body into close proximity to his face.

He turned towards his nurse, and reaching behind her, drew his face up against her, no more aware than concerned that he was smearing the front of her dress with caked blood. His lips sought the peaks of her bosom, and she, at first laughingly although already nervously, thinking his actions undertaken by a man not in full possession of his faculties, sought to withdraw herself from his embrace. "Have done, now, sir, have done!" she pled. But as she struggled, his grip only tightened, and he brought his other hand up and began to touch her in a most improper fashion.

As she continued to struggle and tried to stand, he turned so that with his body he pinned her to the bed, and dropping his free hand from her bosom, insinuated it beneath her skirts, further frightening her. "Come, sweetheart," his voice confirmed that he was indeed awake and acting consciously, "kiss me and let me have my way. You know that you want it as much as I do."

"That I do not, sir," she protested. "I be a good girl, yes I be, and don't hold with nobody touching me like you be a-trying to do."

"Now, now, sweetheart." His voice was soothing, although his actions were anything but. "Just let me …" He had pulled his other hand from behind her now that his weight was holding her relatively immobile and both hands were busy trying to make their way beneath her clothing.

She struggled beneath him, and nearly wriggled free of him before he clutched her again. "Leave me be, I say, or I'll hurt you, by God I will!" she cried.

Such open resistance to his lustful advances filled Wickham with an indignant, unreasoning rage. "No you don't, you stupid wench!" he snarled, snatching up the scissors from the bedside table and holding them to her body. "Now, will you do what I say?"

As she continued to struggle against him he pressed the tips into her flesh, causing blood to flow from her side. She shrieked, ducked her head and tried to bite him on the arm, and scratched him in the face, reawakening sandy agony in his eye and making the broken bits grind together where the billiard ball had hurt his cheekbone. Thereby she gained some freedom of motion. First with her hand, and then with her foot she struck unerringly and forcefully at the spot -well she knew it, for she had helped bandage it not an hour before-- where his leg was wounded. The bandage cushioned the blows hardly at all, and pain exploded in the pitchfork-torn flesh, exacerbating his acute frustration and the accumulated pain from all his other wounds. He gasped and then bellowed in anguish and anger as she spun from his grasp. Grasping wildly and staggering to his feet, he again managed to fasten on to her arm, and immediately swung on her with the scissors in his hand, but as he did so she, with a shout, caught up the whisky bottle and fetched him a solid clout with it, and then another. At the second blow, the bottle broke, and the dregs of the whisky spilled on him and on the floor. This was finally enough to make him desist: in fact it sent him tumbling to the floor in a second swoon. Sobbing, she backed away. She was standing at several yards' distance, still maintaining a wary stance, breathing heavily and with tears of anger and fear coursing down her cheeks, when her brother, followed by the elderly apothecary, Mr. Turpin, came rapidly through the door. She rushed into her brother's arms.

As Wickham drew near the Pemberley stables, a voice called out to him "Halt!", and a determined Joseph Padgett stepped out from the bushes to confront him with the business end of a pitchfork. Another man, unknown to Wickham but from his dress a gardener like Joseph, had stepped out some ten yards to the rear and was rapidly coming up behind him, bearing a stout cudgel which he twirled with threatening ease. Wickham's first impulse was to wheel his horse around and make a run for it, and he thought he would probably be successful, but he did not suppose they would hurt him if he cooperated with them, and would only take him to Darcy, which was where he wanted to go in any case. Or at least he thought he did. It went against almost all his instincts, but he reined in and even dismounted.

"Hello, Joe Padgett," he said. "You know me, and don't need to prod at me with that pitchfork. I'd like to go and talk with Mr. Darcy."

"Damn' straight tha be going to talk with Mr. Darcy," Padgett responded. "He told us, did we find thee, to bring thee in."

"It is well, then, for that is what I also wish to do. I will come with you."

Giles Parker, holding his sobbing sister in his arms, looked with loathing upon Wickham, unconscious upon the floor. It had not been difficult to piece together what had happened, given Nancy's tearful and blood-smudged condition, as added to the general state of disarray, the blood spattered on the bedding and the floor, the broken pieces of the whisky bottle on the ground near Wickham's person and the liquor itself splashed over him. "'E done attack thee, be 't not so?" he asked gently.

"Aye," she responded. "Mun hit 'un to make 'un stop."

"Turpin," he said to the apothecary, who had approached the fallen man and, kneeling beside him, was beginning to examine him, "tie 'un up first, hands and feet. He be dangerous when he comes to." His friend nodded and bent to the task, and he turned his face back to his sister.

"Be tha hurt?"

"Aye," she answered, her hand moving to her side. "Here, he done cut me wit' them scissors. But 'twere only that, and it ain't deep, it don't seem. I … I hit 'un wit t'bottle. He come after me with them selfsame scissors again."

"He didn't …?"

"Nay, he did not."

"God be thanked for that, anygates."

Mr. Turpin, puffing from the effort, had finished rendering Wickham immobile when he should regain consciousness. Now he hauled himself to his feet, and begged Miss Nan's pardon but asked to see the wound. Under the circumstances he did not feel much obligation to tend first to the more severely wounded of the two adversaries. Nan diffidently allowed him to cut between the punctures her dress had already suffered, and to see what he, with relief, pronounced to be little more than a pair of surface wounds. By good fortune, a rib had caught the scissor-points and prevented them from deeply penetrating her chest, and there was reason to hope that, if the wounds were kept clean and well bandaged, they would heal quickly.

The bound man on the floor had begun snuffling and then breathing stertorously at some point in the process of the apothecary's examination of Miss Nan, but none of the others noticed it particularly. All three noticed when the noise suddenly was silenced, however. There was a quiver in the supine body, and then movement ceased. It was, naturally enough, Mr. Turpin who first guessed what had happened. Again he dropped to his knees beside the ailing man, and with a practised hand felt his neck for a pulse. He perceived, for an instant, a weak flutter, but it was not repeated, and Wickham did not breathe again.

'Twere but a waste of effort, to tie the scum up, was Dick Turpin's first wry thought, but his second was much more sobering. There was a corpse to be dealt with, and if it was not done carefully, the effects on young Giles and his wee bit of a sister could be bad indeed. No one should know, not if he could help it.

But he could not help it. For even as he straightened up to inform Giles and Nan of what he had found, there came a sharp rap on the door, and a voice demanded, "Open up! We be after George Wickham, and we know he been here. Open up or we'll kick the door a-down!"

Chapter 28

The better part of an hour elapsed after Padgett had stopped him in the road, before Wickham was shown in to the library at Pemberley. In the meantime his person had been searched thoroughly: no weapons were discovered, but all the contents of his pockets were set aside. From then on he was constantly accompanied by two burly footmen who had clearly been detailed to watch his every move and to intervene the moment he did anything which could be interpreted as the least bit threatening.

It surprised him that Darcy had chosen not to receive him in his office. But besides Darcy and Mr. Bingley, Mrs. Darcy was there, quietly seated beside her husband behind a great table and with a serious, almost a forbidding expression upon her face, and he supposed that her presence was the reason for Darcy's choice of venue. He was not to know of the turbulence of emotions and thoughts, and the ensuing flurry of activity, that his unexpected appearance on the scene had set off, as the Darcy couples consulted with each other and their brother and sisters, trying to understand what was happening and how they should respond. He could have no idea, as he took his seat across the table from the Darcys, and Mr. Bingley went to lock the library door, that Andrew, Corinna, Georgiana and Jane were also present, seated between two of the many bookcases in the library, behind a curtain which had been hung from one set of shelves to another. Thence they could leave the library silently, or re-enter, through the door which connected to the Master's study and which was currently left ajar. Although Georgiana herself had insisted upon attending the conversation, the mere sound of Wickham's voice was injurious to her equilibrium, and during much of the time that followed she was held in Jane's gentle embrace, with Corinna often leaning over to pat or briefly to hold her hand.

Darcy was the only one who actually spoke to Wickham, though he often glanced at his wife while Wickham was speaking, and more communication was going on in those brief moments than Wickham was aware of. Bingley also was silent throughout: he understood and gladly accepted that his rôle was that of a witness rather than a full participant.

"It is well, Wickham," said Darcy, "that you have come here to us. There is much of which we should speak. Perhaps you might begin by telling us what you have been doing during the past days. Where have you stayed and with whom? What have been your intentions in coming here? Why did you not come immediately to speak to us when you came into the area?"

"I'm actually rather confused about it all, to tell the truth," said Wickham. "I am fairly clear as to what happened since last night when I awoke, in the woods here near the house, but before that much that I think I remember seems as if it were a dream."

"You woke in the woods last night," said Darcy. "Where exactly in the woods? How had you come there? What had happened before you went to sleep?"

"It was in the woods to the north of the house."

"Near the old maze, then?"

"Yes, that must be right. I do not have any memory of how I came to be asleep there. I have some very vivid, nightmarish, images in my mind that feel like memories but can only be some kind of delirium or dream."

"What sorts of things happened in your dreams?" asked Darcy, with a glance at his wife.

"Why does it matter?" asked Wickham.

"I am interested to know," Darcy responded. "It cannot hurt you to indulge me."

"Very well. They are such things as could not have happened. Nightmarish things, such as being almost strangled and swallowed alive, as if an octopus or other such monster had hold of me. That memory in particular seems as real and immediate as others that may in fact truly have happened. You, Darcy, and you, madam," he nodded at Elizabeth "had come to my aid, in my dream, and were fighting the monster, but unable to help me. The snow was thick, and yet it was green springtime, even as now. You know how dreams can be mixed up."

Behind the curtain, Andrew and Corinna looked at each other in frank surprise. Clorinda and George were of course equally surprised, but kept themselves from showing it, other than by another brief glance at each other, lest they give information away unnecessarily. Bingley looked simply puzzled.

Wickham, oblivious to them all, continued to speak. "It seems that I had been blustering, trying to threaten you or something of the sort. You, Darcy, had stricken me most painfully, in my face and on my body. My hand also was in pain from having been hit with a jagged piece of ice. As you can see, it is perfectly whole." He held out his shapely hand, but started as he looked at it. "As a matter of fact, where I remember it hurting was right there, where this scar is; but I do not remember this scar, or when I might have acquired it. Surely one does not, as a rule, see on one's body the scars one has incurred in a dream!"

He sat, thoroughly taken aback, and there was silence for a couple of seconds before Darcy spoke again. "So, you awoke in the woods without knowing how you got there. But you had been in this area during the days just prior to that, had you not?"

"Yes?" said Wickham. His inflection was not quite that of a question but certainly indicated that he was in some doubt as to what he was affirming.

"How and why had you come to Derbyshire, Wickham?" asked Darcy.

"Why, I came from London, because your sister had informed me that she would come here." The expression on Wickham's face then drew in upon itself in puzzlement. "Or rather, I came from Newcastle, did I not?" He sat as if pondering for several seconds.

"And your purpose in coming?"

"I came for my wife. She had left me and come here. She is here now, is she not? With her daughter -- our daughter?"

"We do not intend to give you that information at this point. They are safe. Where in the area had you been staying?"

"With my friend Giles Parker, in Lambton." There was no hesitation about this response.

"Why did you come here today, Wickham?"

"As I was telling you, I woke up in the woods, late last night. I truly have no idea in the world of how I got there. I also had no idea where I was, but I soon came to realize that I was on the grounds of Pemberley. The house was locked up, as I might have expected, but I could see a light in the old nursery room, and remembered that I used to be able to reach that window from the oak tree. I climbed the tree, and, looking in, saw two little girls. Mattie I knew, and she seemed to be crying in pain, perhaps from an earache? The other girl --is she Annie? She looked as if she might be-- she was comforting her. But then," Wickham stopped, looked downwards and shook his head slightly, then continued, "Mattie saw me and she … was frightened. She began to scream, so I retreated to the tree. I saw Georgiana and Lydia come to their aid, and in fact Georgiana came over to the window and looked out, but she could not see me."

"She is Miss Darcy to you, Wickham." Darcy's voice was very firm.

"I apologize," said Wickham. "I do still remember her with fondness from when we were children." He also thought of her with puzzlement, and his face showed it, but he did not quite know how to express that puzzlement, and soon his thoughts turned to the rest of his narrative.

"I climbed down from the tree, but slipped and fell after I was already safely on the ground. I have since wondered if I struck my head hard enough to explain some of the confusion in my memories, but at the time it did not seem so grave, and I remember being puzzled already, before I fell. I did not want to rouse you all in the house," --he refrained from saying that he actually had seriously contemplated breaking in to the house-- "but I determined to come here and talk to you today. I returned to Parker's house, in Lambton, to catch a few hours' sleep. And so, this morning I came here to see you."

"What was the horse you were riding when you arrived?"

"That's another rum thing," Wickham responded. "It's Harry Merton's horse, I understand. Apparently Giles borrowed it for me yesterday, or rather the day before, and I had left it yesterday at the hunting shelter in the woods east of here --you know where I mean, Darcy, do you not? I had no recollection of leaving it there, until Giles asked me what I had done with it, and then I remembered. So when I set out to come here this morning, I went there first, and sure enough the horse was there. I then rode it here."

Darcy nodded slowly. This explained why no word had come, from the watchers he still had in place in Lambton, of anyone setting out on horseback from there. A man on foot could relatively easily have slipped unseen from the Parkers' house into the nearby woods.

"How long had you been in Lambton?"

"I do not know. It is a part of the confusion I have been experiencing, no doubt. I do not believe it has been more than a day or two. Giles would remember."

"Wickham, why did your wife feel she had to come here?"

Wickham again looked conscious and disturbed, and swallowed hard two or three times before responding. "I had … I had not been treating her well. I … it was my fault."

Despite the strong control he habitually imposed upon his expressions, Darcy's jaw dropped perceptibly. Never, in all the years he had known him, had he heard any such admission of responsibility from Wickham, and most assuredly not when none had caught him red-handed in his truancy or miscreancy. It was understandable that he would not accuse Lydia of provoking the situation by her adultery, as to do so would humiliate himself, but surely his fertile mind could have come up with some other reason to blame her, or someone else. Darcy continued to stare at Wickham's face, and when he lifted his eyes, said quietly, "In what ways had you been mistreating her?", nodding at him to continue.

"I … it is here that I am feeling confused, again. I remember losing great amounts of her money, at the gaming tables in London, but how could I have done that if we were in Newcastle? And in any case Lydia did not have any great sums of money. But I did spend what we had. And I … she … we fought, over … she is with child, is she not? That much I remember." His great and bitter grief threatened to overcome him. He could not bring himself to speak of it any more directly than he already had. His anger tried to rise again, but the grief overwhelmed it.

"What then was your purpose in following her? You had driven her from your home with threats of bodily harm; did you come after her intending to follow through on those threats?" Darcy's voice rose in his anger to the point of itself sounding threatening. But Elizabeth laid a soothing hand on his arm, and directed a meaningful look at him, upon which he reasserted control over himself and awaited Wickham's response.

"No, nothing of that sort!" was Wickham's initial protest. But then he felt, like the creaking of long disused machinery within him, an internal protest against such duplicity. The rational part of him immediately joined in the protest, emphasizing how implausible the duplicity was. It was not difficult for him to convince himself that, at least in this case, honesty was indeed the better policy, as being more likely to convince, even leaving in abeyance the question of whether or not he would continue to pursue such a course in the future. Inevitably, from habit of such long standing as to be almost inseparable from his innermost self, he pitched his response so as to mitigate the negative aspects of what he revealed and to make himself look as good as possible, but it had at its root an important intention of honesty. Much as had the last night's decision to come and speak with Darcy, this decision to tell the truth produced within him a surprisingly strong and pleasant feeling of liberation. "That is not entirely correct," he said. "I did have such feelings when I first set out, and I am not sure how long they endured thereafter. Yet I can say that at this point I do not come in pursuit of recriminations or revenge. In truth I do not entirely know what I want."

Even as the words came out of his mouth, this sentiment was as much a surprise to Wickham himself as to his hearers. When had he not known exactly what he wanted, especially when, as in this case, his own obvious self-interest was clearly on one side and not the other? Or was it that his mind, as well as his conscience, had been awakened? For he was reminded that it was by no means clear that the course he now found himself following was to his detriment; quite the contrary.

The words continued to come out of his mouth; whether he would have chosen to say them he was not sure, but somehow, without realizing it, he had chosen them, that in very deed he meant what they said. "I know that I brought it all onto myself. If there were some way to start over, and make something different of … of everything … I think that may be what I want. In any case, Darcy … I have lied about you, and done ill to you, at every opportunity, for many years. And to you as well, Miss Ben … Mrs. Darcy … and to your family. There is no way to apologize for my perfidy. But I would like to change. I will try to make restitution where I can. Is there any way I could begin again?"

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at her husband and gave the slightest sideways nod to her head, and he barely tucked his chin in agreement. "These are not the sort of things we have been used to hearing from your mouth, Wickham, nor can we respond to them without careful consideration. I believe we would do well to consult together in private before responding. I would like you to withdraw for a time: we shall summon you when we are prepared to continue."

It was not intended nor was it couched as a request, but it was a measure of the sincerity of Wickham's new found humility that he took no offence at it. "Very well, Darcy," he said. Darcy summoned Wilkins, who appeared with the same two footmen who had watched over Wickham before, and in their company Wickham left the room. Darcy relocked the door.

Giles Parker tried to steady his voice as he spoke. "Who be ye, a-banging on my door?"

"We are come from Pemberley," came an older man's voice, with what Giles recognized as a cultured southern accent. "We should like to speak with you regarding the whereabouts of Mr. George Wickham."

Giles shrugged. Turpin had dragged the bloodied counterpane from the bed and covered Wickham's body with it, and Nan had made some reparations to her dishevelled appearance, but there was really no possibility of hiding what had happened if he allowed these men to come in as they seemed determined to do. He would try to buy a little time, if he could. He opened the door and stepped outside, closing it behind him. He was confronted by an elderly man whom he did not recognize, along with Joe Padgett, and Peter Sellon and another of the Pemberley gamekeepers, and a pair of footmen whose name he did not know. Peter held a couple of hounds on a leash, and they seemed minded to leap upon him. All the younger men had stout sticks in their hands.

But he was most taken aback by the sight of Ellen Ingram looking on him with a baleful expression on her face, of mingled anger and distaste. She stood well behind the men, near a modest coach which, with its driver at the ready, waited upon the road. Parker remembered how disturbed she had been when she had found out about his past friendship with Wickham, and his heart sank.

He turned back to the group of men, "How can I help ye?" he asked, though he knew the answer clearly enough.

"We have come in pursuit of Mr. Wickham and urgently desire to find him. He has committed repeated personal assault and robbery at Pemberley." The old gentleman's voice hid a measure of anger and outrage beneath its quiet but biting tones. "Can you tell us where he is?"

"We done tracked 'un right here to t'door, so tell us what tha knows," explained Sellon.

"Aye, we ken he been stayin' here with thee afore now," added Joe Padgett.

"Be you them that ha' coshed and stabbed 'un afore he got here?" asked Giles.

"We and others at Pemberley," said the gentleman, and "I got 'un wi' a pitchfork," said Joe Padgett. "'Tis pity 'twere but 'is leg and not 'is black heart."

Weighing their anger and the certainty that they would force their way in in any case, Giles decided it was in his, and more importantly, Nan's best interest to cooperate with these men rather than resist them. He wished Ellen were not there to witness it, but there was no help for it. "Come on in," he invited them, adding almost under his breath, "and see 'un."

Chapter 29

Thomas Bennet was not entirely sure when the fun had stopped. But to be faced with, and in some sense responsible for, a corpse, was decidedly not fun.

He eyed the other players in the scene. Besides the corpse itself, redolent of whisky and other less attractive fragrances, there was the man in whose house the drama was being played out, Giles Parker, his name was. There was his sister, dishevelled in appearance and obviously in distress. There was the elderly apothecary, who had, together with the young woman, been, it would seem, just finished rolling the corpse under the bed as Mr. Bennet had entered the house. Joseph Padgett was the only one in the room whom Mr. Bennet knew to any appreciable degree, and Peter Sellon, also from Pemberley, stood beside him. The other gamekeeper had remained without, holding the dogs' leashes; also outside were the footmen and grooms, and Ellen Ingram. He could not immediately see how all of them could be kept from knowing at least the basics of the situation. And all those in the room were looking to him to tell them what should be done next.

There had been quite a lot said (and some of it said several times over, by different people) when they had first come into the room. He had very quickly realized, and confirmed, that Wickham was in fact dead, and had gotten the basic facts of the story. The one thought most clear in his mind was that the fewer additional people knew what was happening, the better. There was one exception, however.

He glanced again at the distressed young woman, then spoke to Padgett quietly. "Please, ask Miss Ingram to join us," he said. "Ask the others to await further word, and tell them it may yet be some time. They had best wait under the trees across the clearing." Ellen should, he expected, be of assistance to Miss Parker, but his main reason for requesting her presence was that she knew more than anyone else there: she alone was in his daughter's, and in Mrs. Wickham's, confidence, and so could help him avoid missteps in this exceedingly strange situation.

Back at Pemberley, immediately after George Wickham had made good his escape, Mr. Bennet had entrusted to Padgett the organization of a pursuit of the house-breaker, and Padgett had set the two gamekeepers with their dogs on the villain's trail, along with the two grooms. Mr. Bennet had then spoken briefly with Mrs. Wickham in her sitting room, with both Ellen Ingrams present. The full tale of Wickham's perfidious doings was not pieced together until later, but enough came out in this discussion to leave no doubt on the question of his criminality. Nevertheless, all were agreed that if there were any way to accomplish it, it would certainly be in the Family's best interests for this matter to be dealt with without recourse to the authorities, either in Lambton or whither else ever Wickham might have fled. To have Mrs. Wickham's husband taken up and charged as a common felon, and particularly charged with assault against his own brother's household! Such an event would, Mr. Bennet could well see, be a scandal that would bring lasting disrepute and shame on the family —his daughter's family. "Oh, where is Fitzwilliam when we need him?!" Mrs. Wickham had exclaimed, and Mr. Bennet could only echo the sentiment in his heart.

However, Mr. Darcy was not there, and Mr. Bennet was the only one connected to the Family who could leave Pemberley to attempt to deal with Wickham. He would try to find him, subdue him and bring him back, captive, to Pemberley, where they would await Darcy's return. The fun had already drained out of the situation by that point, Mr. Bennet reflected.

They had discussed whither Wickham would most likely have fled. Miss Ellen (the one that had pursued Wickham out of the house, not the one he had battered, now newly recovered from her swoon) had ventured the opinion that, since he had ridden off down the Lambton road, the search should start from there; either people would have seen him riding through the town, or perhaps he would seek shelter and assistance there, or some other news might present itself to them. Mrs. Wickham had asked her to accompany Mr. Bennet, as she knew the town and its inhabitants and could guide him better than anyone else could in his investigations.  Thus Miss Ellen had accompanied him, and Joseph Padgett as well, besides the coachman and a pair of armed footmen mounted up behind.

During the journey to Lambton Miss Ellen and Padgett had decided that Giles Parker would be as likely to know Wickham's whereabouts as anyone else they could think of, and more likely than most to be sought by Wickham for aid. So it was that they arrived at Parker's house just in time to see the two gamekeepers, hounds straining at their leashes, emerging from the woods. They described how, following their initial confusion when they found the express-rider's horse riderless along the road near Lambton, they had backtracked until one of the dogs had picked up Wickham's scent leaving the road. They had then found clear indications of his presence at the shelter by the clearing, and the trail had been easy to follow from there to Parker's.

Now, as Padgett returned to the room, bringing Ellen with him, Mr. Bennet felt the beginnings of a plan come together in his mind. But first, it would be necessary to establish the facts and be certain that his understanding of the situation was in accordance with them.

"Miss Ingram," he said, "You need to know that the man we have been seeking is no longer among the living. After he left Pemberley this morning he made his way here, and, it would seem, fell in a swoon upon arrival. Later, however, he revived sufficiently to attack Miss Parker."

"Nan!" said Ellen, and went to her side.

Mr. Bennet continued: "Miss Parker, I am told, defended herself vigourously, and in the process her attacker again fell unconscious to the floor. Her brother had already gone to bring Mr. Turpin," here he nodded towards the apothecary, "to attend the gentlem … no, pardon me, the man's wounds, but Mr. Turpin, understandably, I think, chose to attend to Miss Parker first, and as he was doing so, the wounded man suddenly expired, without ever regaining consciousness. This occurred but scant minutes before we arrived … Does that accurately summarise the situation, Mr. and Miss Parker? Mr. Turpin?"

"Aye, sir," said Parker, and "Yes, sir, that is right," said Turpin.

"If that is so, sir," said Ellen, "where … where is …?"

"Do not be distressed, Miss Ingram. The body is even now in the room with us, beneath the bed, in point of fact."

Ellen shuddered visibly, but then asked, "And there is no question about … I mean, he really is dead?

"Right enough," said Parker, and Dick Turpin confirmed it. "Yes, lass, he's dead."

"Thank God!" she said, almost under her breath, and she and Nan held each other. She added in a stronger voice, "I beg everyone's pardon, I'm sure, but if ever there was a man the world was better off without, George Wickham was that man."

Neither Padgett nor Sellon had said anything during this conversation, but Sellon's eyes remained on the counterpane under the bed, half as if he expected Wickham to emerge from underneath it. Padgett's eyes, however rested on Ellen Ingram, though they occasionally flicked over to Giles Parker as well.

"Mr. Turpin," Mr. Bennet began.

"Yes, sir?"

"You are an apothecary, and have at least briefly examined the body of the dead man."

"No, sir, I would not say so, sir. Just enough to be sure that he is no longer breathing and has no heartbeat."

"What would your suspicion be as to the cause of his death?"

"It could be any of a number of things, sir. Contusions of the skull, with internal bleeding in the head putting pressure upon the brain, internal bleeding in the chest or abdomen, loss of blood, from that leg wound especially -- in truth, even with an extensive examination I do not suppose it would be easy to tell for certain which of several things did him in."

"So, in a sense, all of us who struck him may be seen as having contributed to his demise. We should all be liable to arraignment as accessories to, if not perpetrators of, a violent death."

"I suppose so, sir."

"There is no possibility that an investigation by the law would fail to raise a scandal and gossip which would be injurious to all."

"Yes, sir. You don't want to get no crowner on the case, if you can help it." Turpin had certainly caught where Mr. Bennet's thoughts were tending, and the others in the room were not far behind him.

"Very well, then. May I assume that we can count on silence from all in this room? None of you will speak to anyone about what has happened here, or betray any knowledge of Mr. Wickham's death?"

"Mum as the tomb, sir," said Sellon, and "Not a word to nobody," said Giles Parker; the others also expressed their agreement.

"Does anyone know how long Mr. Wickham has been in the area, or where he has been hiding himself? You, in particular, Mr. Parker, what do you know of this?"

"He were here five months agone, for a few days, but then he disappeared. Left Harry Merton's horse tied up at t'hunting shelter at the clearing off t'road here from Pemberley. Poor thing nearly died, and Harry ain't forgave me yet. Ain't seen Wickham from that day to this, when e' done swoonded on my doorstep."

Five months ago. That would be December, Mr. Bennet realized. He felt the urgency of pursuing his previous line of thought, however. "And you have heard no word of him in the town, Mr. Turpin, or you, Miss Parker," he asked.

Both denied having heard of Wickham's presence in the neighborhood.

"Mr. Parker and Mr. Turpin, may I hope that you have spoken to no one outside this house of Mr. Wickham since his arrival here late this morning? Particularly I hope you have not had any reason to have mentioned his name aloud?"

Both men assured him that they had spoken to no one, though Giles Parker did say, "I done told Harry Merton I mun find Turpin, but I never told 'un what for. Happen he might catch a bit t'drift of things, though."

Mr. Bennet thought on this for a few seconds, then, nodding his head, said "Mr. Sellon, I will ask you in a few minutes to instruct the trackers and footmen to begin to search for the fugitive on the Derby road. Let them know that he may have been able to find a horse, but that they should ask if people have seen him, and attempt to set the hounds on his trail, following the same scent they followed to this house. In fact, Mr. Sellon, I believe it will be best if you lead the party. Make sure to take sufficient time before you abandon the quest. You see, we have received positive information that our quarry made his escape in that direction."

He paused a few seconds while they all, and especially Peter Sellon, absorbed this new development. Then he continued, "Mr. Padgett, and Mr. Parker, I would like to confer with you as to where Mr. Wickham's body, identifiable with some difficulty as such, is going to be found, and how you shall ensure that it comes to be there. He met his end in the course of being robbed, as might happen to anyone, and I should suppose, from the smell of things, that he was inebriated at the time. Not in Derby, I suggest, since the hounds will be searching for the smell of him along that road. Sheffield or perhaps better Manchester, do you not think? In one of the poorer sections?"

Chapter 30

"Well!" said Bingley, then jumped to his feet as his wife, Georgiana and the other Darcys came from behind the curtain and joined them around the library table. Once they were all seated he continued, "What do you make of that, Darcy? Or rather, Darcys. Jane?"

"To me it would seem that the most pressing, basic question is, Who was that man?" suggested Corinna, and Clorinda nodded in agreement.

"What do you mean?" asked Jane.

"We had thought that George Wickham was gone for good, swallowed by the maze. The same thing happened to the George Wickham in our world. Now he shows up. He is certainly George Wickham, but which one is he?"

"It was most surprising," said Andrew. "In some sense he seems to be both of them. He certainly gave evidence of having memories from both of our worlds. It might be well to go over a few of them, to clarify our minds."

"He clearly remembered, albeit in a somewhat distorted manner, being drawn into the maze-hedge, both in the winter and in springtime," said George. "He remembers the effects of your ice-hurling prowess, my dear, and bears a scar to substantiate the memory."

"And he remembers your efforts to free him from the clutches of the maze, my ladies," added Andrew, nodding his head at his wife and at Clorinda.

"He was not sure whence he had come into Derbyshire, whether from London, as he in fact did in your world, or from Newcastle, as he did in this. He recognized both Mattie and Annie and was able to call them by name. That alone should make the conclusion inescapable, it seems to me." Clorinda's voice carried full conviction; Corinna nodded her head decidedly and the others also gave indications of various degrees of agreement.

"It is in some degree a subtle point," continued Corinna, "but it seemed to me from his voice, although I could not see his face, that the matters upon which he spoke with full assurance were those in which, in all likelihood if not to our sure knowledge, what he said is true in both worlds. In both he is married to your sister, Fitzwilliam," she grinned mischievously at both Andrew and George, "and came here following her. In both he had spent as much of his wife's money as he had been able to lay his hands on. … I am sorry, my dear …" she faltered, noting that Georgiana was distressed.

"I shall be well," Georgiana responded, with a bit of a sniff. "I recognize that a clear understanding is more important than my comfort at this point: do not allow my uneasiness to impede the discussion."

"Nevertheless …" Corinna began, then held her peace, looking with a fond and rueful smile towards Georgiana.

"Continuing the point, then," said Andrew, "it would seem likely that in both worlds he had been with Giles Parker before coming to Pemberley. I wonder … well, the thought will come to me. Meanwhile, it would also be profitable to consider the points regarding which he was hesitant."

"Did you notice his boots?" asked Clorinda, suddenly.

"No, I did not," said George and Bingley at the same time, and George continued, "What was it about them that drew your attention, my dear?"

"They were mismatched. I have been trying to remember what boots he was wearing when he … disappeared … at the other Pemberley. I believe they were like the higher-topped boot, the one he wore on his left limb."

"His boots when we saw him yesterday did not come entirely to the knee, was it not so, Andrew?" asked Corinna. "In fact one had come off, yet the maze dragged it in and absorbed it along with him. I noticed it the more, for that reason. I suspect that if I could see the two boots together I could confirm whether the shorter of the two matches my memory."

"Supposing that it does," said George, "it would seem that the boots may be a sign or a sort of parabolic indication of what I think we should assume to be the truth: We are dealing neither with the Wickham of your world, the father of little Annie, nor the Wickham of this world, the father of Mattie, but with a combination of the two of them."

There was silence for several seconds as all those present absorbed this and accepted it as reality.

"I know what I was trying to think of, a few minutes ago," said Andrew. "Even though he is a combination of the two, where his memories contradict each other he seems to be unsure which, if either, to believe."

"And so," George continued with no break, "we should be able to convince him that he is and has been only here. As he already seems more than half convinced."

"Yes!" and "Indeed!" said the two Elizabeths, almost simultaneously.

"I do not understand," said Bingley. "Can you explain more clearly for me what you hope to convince him of, as well as how you would convince him, and why you should wish to?"

"It seems to me … to us, I believe I can say," said George, glancing at Andrew and the two Elizabeths and receiving their confirmations, "that it would be best for all concerned, including for Wickham himself, that he believe his memories of Annie and of (pardon me, my dear sister)" with a glance at Georgiana, "of marriage to her mother, to be but dreams. And it seems to me that the great dangers would be if he should again catch sight of Annie, or if we should in any way act as if we thought such memories were anything but chimaerical."

"Yes," said Corinna, "I for one can see no profit to be gained from letting him know we attach any particular significance to it when he makes mention of such memories. Ignoring such thoughts, or downplaying them, is the path we should follow."

Then Andrew said, "All of this is, of course, relevant to the immediately pressing question: What shall we do with Wickham? And more specifically, how shall we respond to his request for a new beginning?"

"Wait," said Clorinda. "Before we leave the question of whom we are dealing with, I believe that there is another issue to bring up. It is clear to me that while this man is a combination of the two Wickhams we know, he also differs from either in some respects."

"You are entirely right," said Andrew, with a strange combination of reluctance and eagerness. "My mind had jumped right over that point, yet the indications are obvious."

"They are …?" said Bingley.

"Certainly in our world, and I presume in yours?" with a nod to Clorinda and George, "I would never have expected Wickham to voluntarily come to Pemberley under the present circumstances, knowing that he would not be welcomed, but rather would be viewed with suspicion and very likely apprehended and held against his will. He has ever been averse to facing any certain risk to himself (though quite willing to endanger others, of course), and always eager to preserve any advantage he has had. He would view coming to us as putting his neck into the noose."

"Very true," said Clorinda, "though he has been willing, as you and I know, to undertake significant risk when he felt the rewards were worth the game. It is not so much that this was risky as that it brings him no advantage, at least of the type he has always sought. More telling to me, however, is his spontaneous assumption of responsibility for negative things that he has done, when no one had yet accused him of anything. For him to confess to wrongdoing and not try to lay the blame on others; and to offer to make restitution: it is almost totally the opposite of what my understanding of his character would have led me to expect. My lo… George, Andrew, you who have known him so many more years, and who have dealt with him in so many difficult situations, is it not very different from how he has behaved in the past?"

"Certainly I would not have expected the Wickham in my world to behave so," said George. "Quite the contrary, in fact." Andrew nodded in agreement.

"Perhaps he truly desires to change," Jane contributed. "It certainly sounded as if that were the case."

"Is it not at least as likely to be a ploy?" asked Georgiana, a measure of desperation in her voice. "He is a master of deceit; we all know that. I have known him to present a very convincing face of humility when it suited him. Could he not, once he realized he had run out of credit with us, … how to say it … admit to a small amount of wrongdoing, indulge in a bit of false remorse and repentance, as a means of playing on our emotions in order to gain further advantage?"

"You may be right, my dear," said George. "Yet he has never stooped to this level of deceit, to speak so, in my knowledge of him. I should not have believed his pride would allow it of him. In the past any pretence of humility would fall apart and he would revert to proud defensiveness at the slightest indication that his shortcomings were being taken seriously. Yet today, as he spoke to us, he repeatedly humbled himself rather than pandering to pride. I have never known him to act so before."

"Oh, brother, be careful!" Georgiana's voice conveyed her distress.

"Yes, care is called for," Clorinda agreed, reaching over to embrace Georgiana. "I am sorry, Georgie, I cannot imagine what you must be feeling, coming to terms with the notion that this man at some level seems to have memories of being linked to you in such a way."

"It is not just that," said Georgiana. "Somehow just the knowledge that last night he was on the other side of that window as I looked out --it fills me with an almost unreasoning terror. It is no wonder to me that Mattie screamed as she did."

"He is, and has always been, a weasel," said Corinna. "Can the weasel change his stripes, so to speak?" Her weak sally brought a very brief smile to one or two faces, but the seriousness of the issue precluded the expression of any greater appreciation of it.

"Yes. He has never been trustworthy, and has caused enormous harm. How can we even think of trusting such a one?" Clorinda was speaking.

"And yet …" began Corinna, and Clorinda finished her thought, "we come again to the question, whom are we dealing with? Who is this George Wickham? Have we the right to assume that he is unchanged from the man we knew?"

"And even if he is …?" said Jane.

George spoke in a deliberate voice. "I promise you, Georgiana, that my first concern in dealing with the man will be protecting you, and Annie, and all my family. I do not trust him, either. At least not yet. And certainly not fully. I expect that we all are of the same opinion on the matter. I, and we all, will certainly be on the alert and try to avoid giving opportunities for him to harm anyone. But …"

His voice faded, and Andrew's took up the theme, " … but that need not preclude responding in some positive way to his plea. It will certainly require vigilance to see if there is really any kind of deep change that has occurred. But perhaps some change has happened. We even have some evidence, weak evidence though it be, that it has."

"How could a change have occurred, do you suppose?" asked Corinna. "What did the maze do to him, so to change, even should the change prove to be mostly superficial, his character?"

"Would not the shock … and the fear, of what happened to him, be enough to motivate him to reconsider his … untoward behaviour?"

"It is conceivable, Jane," Andrew agreed. "He has undergone shocks and been subjected to fears before, without their producing any such salutary effect. But this may well have been more effective. The shock and fear were undoubtedly greater."

"Yet he seems to be dismissing those experiences as mere nightmares," contributed Charles.

"True," said Corinna. "Do our dreams never change us?" Her question may have been merely rhetorical in intent, and no one answered it.

"I am wondering whether perhaps in the mixing of memories and other characteristics from the two Wickhams, a greater proportion of the good from both has been preserved and more of the evil discarded." It was Andrew that spoke again. "If it be so, or even if, as Jane suggests, this is motivated mostly or even only by fear, it may prove to be the beginning of a real change in character. I am hesitant to believe it, but I also feel as if we must not exclude the possibility."

"Why not?" asked Georgiana in a shaken voice. "Why give him another chance when he has so often proven himself, in both worlds, to be unworthy of it?" Corinna, who was nearest to her, took her in her arms and held her head to her shoulder, murmuring words of comfort.

"George …" said Andrew. "It is, in the end, your decision. Yours and my lady Clorinda's. I know not what else to say, and in your shoes, I fear my courage would fail me, or my predilection for caution overwhelm me. I would wish to get rid of the man, the more permanently the better. Yet I fear that afterwards I should not feel I had done right."

George attempted to answer, then fell silent, then tried once more. "I find that I agree with you, Andrew. I too am on the knife-edge. I do not trust him, I cannot yet trust him. Yet neither can I discount the possibility that he truly has changed, or at least truly wants to change. I find I cannot yet give up hope of him."

"Are we not to forgive, lest we be not forgiven?" It was Corinna who spoke.

"And as we have been forgiven?" added George. "Seven times in a day, and until seventy times seven? It comes near to the heart of our faith, does it not?"

"And closing our heart to one who is truly repentant can only harden us," Clorinda said, with reluctant conviction. "I fear that hardness. But it is hard to choose to avoid it." Andrew and George's lips twitched appreciatively at her paradoxical wording.

"And yet we must choose it, if it is to be. It 'is not strained. … It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven … it is twice blest: it blesseth him that gives and him that takes.'" Corinna had spoken first; then she and Andrew both spoke, alternately or overlappingly, gently completing the phrases.

"So, we should (or, according to Portia's nicely judged word, we 'must') seek a way to allow him another chance. Yet we must do so while making certain he does no further damage." Clorinda continued. "For Georgiana's fears are not groundless --far from it."⁶

Jane and Georgiana were both sobbing silently, fists held to their mouths. Georgiana managed to say, "You are right, all of you. I do not oppose what you are saying. Only I am so very afraid." Her brother extended his hand to her and held hers in his warm clasp. There was silence for the better part of a minute.

"Much depends on what Wickham has in mind by another chance," Andrew mused. "My advice would be to speak to him further, with all these considerations in mind, before accepting or rejecting his request. I would not advise making him free of Pemberley, perhaps ever, but giving him another chance to prove himself need not imply any such thing."

"In the end, even if we are disposed to give him another chance, is it not another who must have a decisive voice as to what form that chance shall take?" asked Clorinda. "I speak of my sister Lydia." Overcome as well, she closed her eyes and held her hand to her lips.

"Yes," said George. There was silence for perhaps ten seconds before he continued, "Very well, unless I hear any dissenting voices, I am ready to proceed as follows. We shall speak to Wickham again, and inquire more carefully what he has in mind in asking for a new beginning. If he requests it, and she is willing, we will allow him to speak with his wife, but not his daughter Mathilda at this time. Certainly he is not to see Annie, or little Andrew. Difficult though it will be for you, my love, I think it would be best for you to be present with me for both those interviews; if others of you wish to be present as well, we can operate under the same procedures as we have this first time. Much will depend on how Wickham continues to present himself, and on how Mrs. Wickham is disposed to receive him.

"Again, I promise you in particular, Georgiana, and all the rest of you as well, that protecting you shall remain my first priority, and any liberty that Wickham is granted shall be accompanied with careful safeguards. If nothing else, think of what greater safety we now enjoy, knowing where he is and being able to deal with him directly, than we had even a few hours ago, when he was alive and at large in the world and we were unaware of it, or before that when we expected that he would come but knew not when nor where."

With varying degrees of reluctance, they all agreed. Georgiana and Jane elected not to stay in the library, but Andrew and Corinna felt they could be of greatest assistance to their counterparts if they did remain to witness what should proceed. Jane said she would let Lydia know that her husband had come, and ask her, if she were willing, to hold herself in readiness to come to the library to speak with him in the presence of her brothers and sister. Then she and Georgiana, arms entwined, left the library.

Note:

⁶ Quotes are from, or allusions to, Matthew 6.14-15, Ephesians 4.32, Luke 17.4, Matthew 18.22, The Merchant of Venice IV.1. In context "The quality of Mercy is not strained" means something like "Mercy is a sort of thing that cannot be compelled."