The next few days were hectic. The Colonel had marriage articles prepared, which he sent by messenger to Longbourn so that Mr. Bennet could review them at his leisure. Mr. Bingley called every day and took Georgiana to the park in his own phaeton. Four of the Matlock maids were enlisted by Sally to sew for Georgiana, and her wardrobe would soon be complete. The Countess went to Bond Street on her own to select items that did not require careful measurements: shawls, coats, mufflers, and the like. She drew an outline of Georgiana’s foot on a piece of paper and took the paper to a cobbler to have shoes and slippers made.
***
It took some time, but the Colonel finally realised that Darcy was not speaking to Georgiana unless absolutely necessary. Of course, Darcy had relocated to Darcy House while Georgiana remained at Matlock House, so brother and sister did not live together, and they exchanged only the most necessary of words when in one another’s company. Something had to be done.
“Darcy, you will not even speak with her? Do you not think you are being a bit of an ass?”
Mr. Darcy looked away.
“You are still angry with her?”
No response.
“Will you not at least speak to her about it?”
Mr. Darcy rounded on his cousin. “I do not think she wishes to hear my sentiments on the subject.”
“You will at least attend her wedding, I hope?”
“Having missed her first wedding by a matter of a few hours, I will certainly make it a point to attend her second.” The sarcasm was unmistakable.
The Colonel winced. “If that is how you would speak to her, then I agree that you should remain silent.”
“You were not there at Gretna Green, Richard! If you could have heard how she spoke to me, how she accused me of having cheated Wickham out of his living –“ The words stuck in his throat; Mr. Darcy could not continue.
The Colonel said, softly, “I understand, Darcy. I only hope that someday we may get past this tragedy. For your own sake, if nothing else.”
Mr. Darcy shook his head. “I know not how.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
George Wickham stood in the bedroom he now shared with Evelina, holding her small mirror up to his face. Its polished surface was rather pitted, so he had to move it around a bit to see himself clearly. While the loss of two front teeth detracted from his pleasing appearance, he thought himself still a good-looking chap. He had failed utterly with Georgiana Darcy, but there was no reason he could not still come out on top. There were many wealthy families with marriageable daughters. Evelina had been successful in being hired as Georgiana’s companion; perhaps the strategy should be reenacted.
And perhaps with Evelina’s wages from such a family, he could purchase new teeth made of ivory.
A pounding on the front door interrupted his reverie. He stood still, listening. He heard Evelina say, loudly, “George is not here.”
Mr. Wickham’s heart leapt into his throat. He knew Evelina had spoken loudly so that he might hear her words, and make an escape. He looked about. He was on the fourth floor, so going out the window was impossible. Under the bed? No; too close to the floor. He would never fit.
He heard Evelina cry out, “You have no right to search my house!”
Then a response, in a deep, male voice. “If you have got nothing to hide, then you need not worry, Missus!”
Evelina’s wardrobe! He threw open the doors and crawled inside, stepping on her various petticoats and chemises. He then closed the doors. Now all he had to do was to remain quiet.
Sitting behind the closed doors of the wardrobe, he could no longer make out any words, but after about ten minutes he heard footsteps thundering into Evelina’s room. He held his breath. There was silence. He smiled in the dark; once again, he had outwitted his enemies!
But then the doors of the wardrobe were thrown open. “What have we here?” the deep voice taunted him. Then “Up here, Bob!” More footsteps. Then Mr. Wickham was grasped firmly by four meaty hands and pulled from his sanctuary. He was dragged roughly down the four flights of stairs, past Mrs. Miller, who was gaping at him, past a sobbing Evelina, and out the front door.
His hands were tied behind his back with coarse hemp rope and he was deposited none too gently onto the floor of a black coach. The two men who had dragged him from the wardrobe sat on the benches, resting their feet on Mr. Wickham’s prone form.
“Where are you taking me? I demand answers!”
“Oi! You are being arrested for debt,” one of them replied. “First step is the sponging house. If your missus can scare up the money you owe, then you can be released. If not…” And the laugh that followed was not a happy sound.
Debt? Debt! He owed monies here and there and everywhere, but it had never before been a problem. Perhaps the merchants to whom he owed money had banded together to pay for a writ, as such legal instruments were not cheap. Mr. Wickham begged to be released, promising to make it worth their while, but he was ignored. Finally, one of them kicked him, hard. “Shut it, will ya?”
Finally, the coach stopped. The two men clambered out and dragged Wickham out by his feet. Unable to use his hands to cushion his fall, Wickham felt his forehead crack on the cobblestones. “Aw, let him up,” one man said.
