Tag: Austen-Inspired Romance

George Wickham slammed the glass down on the table. He had not meant to slam it down, but the table had somehow risen closer to his hand. He looked around the room, straining to find the barkeep. There appeared to be twice as many people here now as there had been mere minutes ago. Why could they not stay still instead of dancing in circles? He dropped his head into his hands.

“Come on, old boy, time to get you home.” Colonel Nathaniel Denny hoisted his friend up to a semi-standing position and placed an arm around the drunken man to steady him. This was not the first time he had come to cart Wickham home. No, at one time, this had been a regular routine. Out of how many scrapes had Denny steered this reckless rogue?

“I dunno wanna go hum,” slurred Wickham. “I wanna go to the greeve.”

“It is not your time to go to the grave, Wickham. Perhaps tomorrow, but for tonight you are going home.” Denny dragged him out the door into the night. A cold, early spring rain was beginning to fall. Denny helped Wickham mount his horse before pulling the hat from his friend’s head. Perhaps a cold shower would help sober him up. Wickham uttered a curse and grabbed at one of the hats floating in front of him. The jerking action nearly sent him sprawling on the ground.

After manoeuvring his horse close to Wickham’s, Denny helped right his friend once again. “Hold onto the saddle, old man. I will steer you home.” Wickham grabbed the saddle and slumped forward. Confident that his friend would stay seated, Denny nudged his horse to walk. With one hand on his own reins and one on Wickham’s, he began the slow journey to Wickham’s rented house.

Wickham shivered as the rain ran down his face and under the collar of his coat. The coldness of the rain and the night air brought back to him the pain he had been attempting to forget. “She’s gone.” He lifted his head long enough to spit out the words before slumping forward once again. The effort to stay upright was still too great.

“Yes, she is gone.” Denny knew what few others knew. Wickham, though once a cad and a rake, had learned to love his wife—a wife who was forced upon him due to an ill-thought-out plan for revenge. Theirs had been a hard life of scraping by, first on the meager earnings of an enlisted man and then, the poor profits from his shop.

In one respect, she had been good for him. His love for her had finally overcome his love of gambling and had helped him gain a desire to become a respectable gentleman. It was too bad that she had not returned his affection.

“You still have Thomas and Louisa. You must think of them now.”

Wickham groaned. How was he to care for his children on his own? Thomas he could mold into the man he never was, but Louisa — what did he know of helping a girl grow into womanhood? His experiences with women were the sort that he hoped his daughter would avoid. Kitty would help him. She was the only one of his wife’s sisters who still spoke to him. The few bridges that he had not burned in his misguided youth, his wife had done a masterful job of destroying.

Denny pulled Wickham from his horse and helped him into the house. He poured some cold black coffee into a mug and shoved it at his friend. Wickham grimaced at the taste of the stale coffee.

“You could go after her.” Denny took a seat across from Wickham.

“And do what? Get myself killed?” Wickham scoffed.

“That is what you are trying to do now. At least if death comes at the end of a dueling pistol instead of the bottom of a bottle, it would be an honourable death.”

“Honourable.” Wickham huffed. “When have I ever been honourable?” He took another gulp of his coffee and placed the cup on the table.

Denny pushed the mug toward him and raised a brow in challenge. Wickham sighed and took possession of the drink again.

“In the past five years,” said Denny, “you have proven yourself to be honourable on many occasions.”

“Those were not honourable actions, but restitution. There is a difference.”

“Only an honourable man would make payment for his past transgressions. You, ten years ago, would have scoffed at any man who tried to right his own or another person’s wrongs–in fact, you did. How many times did I hear you curse the name of Darcy?”

Wickham stared at the dark liquid in his cup. “I should have listened to him–to him, his father and my own. Instead, I blamed them for all my misfortunes. Stupid man.” Wickham gulped the last of his coffee. “Stupid, stupid man.”

Denny slapped the table. “You are that man no longer. Pull yourself together, and get on with life.” Denny had never had much patience for wallowing. It was what made him a good leader. He could be empathetic with his men, but he did not abide a sustained time of self-pity. He stood with his arms crossed, glowering down at Wickham. “Go to bed. We will plan your attack on life in the morning.”

Wickham laughed. “I am not in the militia anymore, my friend.”

“No. But you are in a battle nonetheless. Now, go to bed.”

Wickham stood shakily and gave a limp and misaimed salute. Bed sounded like a welcome prospect. With any luck, perhaps he would wake from this nightmare in the morning.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Morning came, bright and clear — far too bright for Wickham. Denny threw open the curtains in Wickham’s room and called loudly to his friend. “Get up. The day awaits.”

Wickham groaned and rolled away from the light. “Have a care, Denny. My head feels like it has been trampled by a horse. Keep your voice down and the curtains drawn.”

“I will do nothing of the sort. You shall feel the full extent of what you have done to yourself. Perhaps you will remember it the next time you wish to drown your sorrows.” He yanked the pillow from under Wickham’s head, causing his friend to curse as his head bounced off the mattress. “Dress and be down in ten. Do not test me.” Denny threw a set of clothes at him and left the room, deliberately slamming the door.

Grumbling and sputtering, Wickham rushed to dress. He knew from experience that Denny made no idle threats.

“Why must I arise so early and in such haste?” Wickham demanded when he appeared below stairs.

“Sit and eat.” Denny motioned to the plate of food on the table. “We need to travel.”

Wickham took his seat at the table. “Travel? Where? And what of my children?”

“Your children are with my wife, where they will remain until I see that you are indeed ready to be their father again.” He stared at Wickham through narrowed eyes until Wickham took up his utensils and began eating.  “We’re going to Derbyshire.”

Wickham nearly choked on the bit of egg he had just popped into his mouth. “Why would I go to Derbyshire?”

“They are expecting us.”

“How can they be expecting us?” Wickham had had no communication with Fitzwilliam Darcy in years, save to send bits of money in repayment of the money he had demanded of Darcy, money which had been an inducement to marry. He was quite certain that Pemberley was one place where he was not welcome.

“I sent an express three days ago — when your drinking began. You will not sit here and allow your wife to run off with some young buck. And I will have my officer back at least long enough to send him to a less friendly location.”

Wickham shook his head violently against the idea. “I am not welcome there.”

“Have you not been paying back the money that was put up for your wedding and commission? Kitty has told me of how her sister and brother have both been impressed, not only by your apparent change, but also by the duration. Five years is a long time.”

Wickham shook his head again. “No. I cannot.”

“You will if I have to clap you in irons and order my men to carry you the distance. It would be a most beneficial training exercise.” Denny grinned menacingly at his friend.

Wickham paled. Again, he knew this was no idle threat. He was going to Derbyshire. He might as well go under his own power. “Why must I go there?”

“Lydia is there. My officer has already been taken into custody by the local magistrate and is awaiting the escort I have sent to transport him back here. Your wife has been remanded into the custody of her sister until such time as you claim her.” Denny eyed his friend carefully, trying to judge the reception of such news.

Wickham stared at the wall beyond Denny’s head; his expression was stony, only his eyes flinched. “What if I do not wish to see her? What if I wish to wash my hands of her?”

“You do not wish that. If you did, you would not have been attempting to drink yourself into an early grave.”

“She will not listen to me. She has made her choice, and I am not it.” Wickham rose and paced the room.

“According to Kitty, she has never listened. The only time she has ever shown any amount of change is when she has experienced the results. You must make her feel the consequences of her decisions. She has left debts at an inn. Tell her that she must pay them from her own monies or suffer the consequences. Perhaps a few days of hard labour or a short stint in debtor’s prison would be effective.”

“Send my wife to prison?” Wickham dropped into a chair, his face white, his knees failing him.

“It would not be my first choice, but if necessary, yes.” Denny leaned forward and looked his friend in the eye. “George, it has to stop. This storm has been building for years. Lydia has been coddled all of her life — first by her parents and then you. When was the last time you did not give her what she begged for?” He leaned back and drummed his fingers on the table. “I would venture that you have never denied her a thing. You must completely cut her off except for a small allowance. You must teach her what others have not. If she cannot love you as you love her, at least she can respect you.”

Wickham scrubbed his face with his hands. “There is no other way?”

“You know the answer.”