The messenger turned back to her, eagerly. Evelina held the coin out on her open palm. As the man approached her, eyes on the coin, she closed her fist.
“First, where is he?”
“Sponging House in Whitechapel, Adams Street.”
She opened her palm; he snatched the coin and ran off. Evelina ripped open the message.
?Dearest Evelina,
I am in a sponging house run by a Mrs. Harvester. I do not know what part of London this is, but I beg you to discover what you can. Bring money.
?George
Evelina ran up the stairs to her bedroom and rummaged swiftly through her wardrobe until she uncovered her savings. She had been careful to keep this money out of sight, as she knew George would appropriate it and gamble it away without a second thought. She would not support his gambling habit, but she was willing to part with every penny of her twenty-five pounds in order to buy her husband’s freedom.
She put on her warmest coat and boots, and stepped into the street. Whitechapel was a good distance away, but she would not waste money on a hackney. She would walk there.
***
When Evelina finally arrived on Adams Street, she realised that there was not likely to be a sign announcing Mrs. Harvester’s sponging house. She stopped several pedestrians to ask for directions, but everyone she tried to speak with simply cursed at her and kept walking. Finally, she saw a constable. Normally, Evelina would avoid such a person as she would the plague, but these were not normal times.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she began.
The constable turned and looked at her. “Yes?”
“My husband is in a sponging house on this street; might you know which house it is?”
The constable pointed. “Other side of the street, look for the green door.”
“I thank you, sir,” she said prettily, and curtsied.
“Come, I will walk you there. This is not a safe neighbourhood.”
At the doorstep of the house with the green door, he doffed his hat to her and went on his way. Evelina watched him go, and then turned to knock on the door. There was no response. She tried again, this time banging on the door with her fist.
The door swung open, revealing a woman wearing a soiled apron. “Whaddya want?”
“To see my husband. George Wickham.”
Evelina followed the woman up to the second floor and watched as a large iron key was produced and the door was unlocked. “Gotta lock it once you are inside,” the woman explained to Evelina. “I will give you ten minutes and then I will let you out.”
Evelina nodded her understanding. The moment the door was opened, she pushed past the woman and threw herself into George’s arms.
Chapter Sixty
As Mr. and Mrs. Bingley journeyed to Netherfield, Mr. Bingley described the house to his bride in some detail. It was rather a waste of breath, as she would see it soon enough, but it occupied the time.
“If you do not like it, then we can always return to London,” he assured her.
“After the babe is born,” she reminded him.
“Yes, of course.”
“Had you considered purchasing Netherfield?” the new Mrs. Bingley enquired.
Mr. Bingley shrugged. “The idea behind leasing the estate was to see if I liked being a landowner. Darcy was to help me understand what my responsibilities would be.”
Mrs. Bingley was silent for a moment. Then she said, with some mortification, “And then he had to leave because of me.”
