Authors: Linda Berdoll
Quittance
George Wickham knew that was he to return to his homeland a free man, it would be a tricky business. Beforehand, he must concoct a story of sufficient cunning to hoodwink the notoriously sceptical military authorities. Moreover, it must serve to acquit him of misconduct in society's eyes as well. The latter gave him greater pause, for although those canons set down by military tribunal were unsparing, those of society were absolutely pitiless.
The convoluted fallacy Wickham meant to inflict upon his wife, kinfolk, and general acquaintances went through several alterations before he struck on one of sufficient melding of fabrication and truth as to be believable. However, as he wended his way homeward aboard a transport vessel, he had little opportunity to ponder that unhappy truth, clinging as he was to the ship's rigging whilst the shifting deck heaved and bobbed its way through the choppy waters of the Channel. It was only when they found calmer waters along the English coastline that the discomposure of his innards subsided long enough for him to ruminate over his knotty situation.
Wickham's prior crossing had been even less agreeable to his constitution than his current one, as on that occasion it had been on a British troop ship taking him directly into harm's way of Napoleon's army. That passage had been characterized by white-knuckled apprehension of the ensuing battle and an ill-timed bout of the trots. He had always been uncertain whether the roiling sea alone or the upcoming fight instigated his intestinal disturbance. Regardless, it had been a relentless seizing of his bowels which demanded he observe the whole of the crossing through a water-level port hole. Attached as he was to the slop-bucket, he had little to divert his thoughts beyond wrestling with his finely honed sense of self-preservation (which prevailed quite handily over honour and duty). Indeed, it had nagged with pertinacious determination that he fling himself overboard and swim with all due diligence for the safety of British soil.
But he had not. He had held tight to the mast and sallied forth into a battle that still haunted his sleep. That, however, was a time and place he and his little-employed conscience endeavoured mightily to avoid.
The ship upon which he returned was not of His Majesty's Navy, but similar in size, design, and purpose. However, this one did not ferry soldiers. It carried a collection of citizens both French and British, all bent (for considerations as disparate as their identities) on making their way to England. After finally releasing himself from the security of the jib, Wickham took solitary, off-kilter walks on the gunwale whilst perfecting his version of recent events. It was imperative that he account for his time abroad.
His foremost concern was that this retelling place him in both a well-disposed and heroic light. After careful deliberation and no small calculation, he thought his rendering plausible and made for the well-populated forward deck to assess its viability amongst the general public. Effecting a discernible limp (the better to draw sympathetic attention to himself) and employing a pseudonym, he engaged first one, then another passenger in conversation, honing the tale of his whereabouts after the war to a few brief assertionsâas any good liar knows, it
was
imperative to keep his lies to a minimum. The little decoration he added was professing great anticipation in rejoining the bosom of his fictitious family. After this tender proclamation, he would pause and gaze about, calculating which listeners were most amenable to further exposition. To them he would direct a most dazzling smile which, embellished by a small furrowing of his brow, would falter ever so briefly, thus exposing both the disquiet lying deep within his poor, troubled breast and his bravery in weathering it. With unfailing regularity, this ploy would rouse the more sympathetic amongst his audience to demand further elucidation of the vexatious events he struggled so courageously to conceal. Inevitably, these gentle hearts beat in the bosoms of the female species.
“Come, come, sir! Forbear not! It is best to unkennel what plagues you and allow us to lend our condoling hearts.”
“Yes. I suppose that is best,” said he, lowering his voice and his countenance, the better to bespeak the terrible ordeal he had endured.
He then told, with compleat humility and very little truth, a fairly graphic battle-wound fableâone remarkable for emphasising its severity without actually identifying its exact whereabouts upon his person. It should not have been his foremost concern, but he was predisposed to employ this obfuscation so as not to imply to any lady paying heed that his vigour was in any way compromised by bodily trauma. However, in light of no noticeable damage to his extremities, this ploy did not do justice to its intent. Indeed, it begat whispers regarding the exact nature of his limp and the speculation of those few whose interest was excited was not complimentary to the well-being of his manly organs. Had Wickham been aware of these conjectures, he would have been highly unamused. As it was, he mistook their expressions as enthralled admiration rather than appalled curiosity and, never one to relinquish so rapt an audience, he thought to further detail his recuperation from battle-wounds.
To the increasingly aghast listeners, he told how he had lain in excruciating pain and squalid conditions for months in the
Hôtel des Invalides
on the west side of Parisâhis purported recuperation coinciding precisely with his leisurely abode in Césarine's bedchamber. Initially, he had thought actually naming a hospital in Paris a particularly rich touch and congratulated himself for recollecting that edifice for his story in the event he had been espied in the area by someone who might subsequently cross his path. Regrettably, a gentleman who stood at his elbow for the entirety of his monologue revealed himself a Parisian
intime
. He was a bit of a dandy and on the short side, hence, when Wickham looked down upon him he obtained a clear view of the gentleman's vain attempt at obscuring his bald crown with a generous forward feathering of what was left of his hair. Wickham took immediate measure of the man in a single glance before his attention was stolen from appraising his station to what he had to say.
Apparently familiar with the hospital Wickham had referenced, an expression of puzzlement overspread his countenance. He had a French accent, but his English was superb.
“
Hôtel des Invalides,
you say? Are you not mistaken? I was of the understanding that hospital lodges war veterans of the Frenchâand is one of France's finest infirmaries. I cannot imagine the conditions you describe. And why,” he added, “pray, would you, an English officer, be sent to recuperate amongst his enemy?”
“Ah, yes. Er, no. Of course. Of course. My French is abominable, my recall even more dreadful. And I
was
quite ill when taken thitherâout of my mind with fever. It may have been the infirmary of
Salpêtrière
. I was
quite
ill, you see⦔
Wickham hemmed admirably. He knew well that the height of cleverness is to be able to conceal it. He had learnt well and he had learnt early that one confesses to little faults to prove that one has no large ones. Although Wickham continued to engage in self-censure, the inquiring man continued to look oddly at him. Even Wickham knew it was quite peculiar to have been so long in a facility that he could not correctly name. But the man soon toddled off, seemingly heedless of Wickham's blunder. Not allowing his gaze to follow the man's leave, Wickham turned to the others and was happy to see that the Frenchman's questions did not divert anyone else. It was a reminder to him that elaboration could be dangerous. His smile, however, remained genial and his new friends were disinclined to be suspicious. He continued his story, but with caution.
Those who were not instantly sympathetic to his heroic sacrifice for England (his limp had become increasingly conspicuous) could not admire enough his modest admission of having rescued a baby girl he claimed to have found in the arms of her dying father.
“I cannot imagine what such a small child was doing there at all, let alone survive in such carnage!” he exclaimed. “Yet I should not be entirely surprised. More than one wife followed her husband through Belgium taking in washing and riding after his regiment in a baggage waggon.”
“Pray, was her father a French soldier, or British?”
Wickham had spent less time than he ought to polishing the reason for having a child in his possession. He preferred not to have to improvise, but knew that he could feint or parry with equal ease when called upon. Hence, a quick contemplation suggested to him that sentimentality would be better served were she of English blood.
“Her father wore a red coat,” said Wickham.
In response to his words, there was much clucking and even one half-sob. He had chosen well.
Indeed, his tale was told with pathos of unconscionable amplitude, and by bringing to mind poor Césarine's protracted demise, he even managed to elicit a well-timed tear on behalf of that poor nonexistent son of the British Empire. His disclosures, to be sure, succeeded most uncommonly well with the feminine gender. Indeed, had he not actually had an infant in his possession, seeing how very ably this artifice went over, he might well have been compelled to go out and procure one.
For all his exalted schemes, returning very nearly penniless whence he came was a virtual admission of a compleat drubbing. He, however, refused to acknowledge that truth. When he had fled the battlefield, he held the highest of hopes. From the back of that galloping steed speeding away from certain death, scheming notions had flitted wildly about his head; those reverberating most prominently was the succulent Shakespearean metaphor suggesting the world was his oyster. He need only find the sword with which to open it. Although at the time he thought little could be more simple, he had never actually found that sword. And while he had not come by it honestly, he was returning with a very lucrative treasure. Had he managed to have escaped with Césarine's treasured necklace, he knew of several money-lenders in London who would have been happy to do business with him. Regrettably, he had been a step slower than Marie-Therese. She had taken that jewel-encrusted ornament without a second thought, just as he would have. Seldom had he ever lowered himself to outright thievery (he vastly preferred chicanery), but this time had been of a singular nature. Alas for that loss. Why should some faceless creditor make off with a treasure that had once hung so fetchingly about the neck of his true love? (May she rest in peace.) It would have served him far greater benefit than Marie-Therese. She was still young, France in tumult. A woman such as she would thrive in such an atmosphere. He was exceedingly happy to have gotten away with what he had. As to why he had absconded with Césarine's child was a scheme he had not compleatly worked out. With her parentage, the child was a valuable commodity. Once he had her safely out of France, his bargaining position would be most advantageous.
He came home by way of Brighton, for that was the most accessible port and it would have been suspicious to take a more circuitous route. Since 1802, it was the busiest exchange of French refugees fleeing Napoleon and Englishmen flocking to Paris to be presented to him. Amongst the surging throng of the disembarking that day, Wickham bounded down the gangway onto the Brighton dock with a bit of a strut, but his swagger was compromised by the gnomish-looking woman pulling a goat who dogged his side. He had hoped to find a suitable wet-nurse, but this woman and her nanny-goat was the best he could do for the few coins he was willing to pay. She was so disreputable-looking that he had considered just taking the goat, but was loath to have to milk it. Indeed, he quickly saw his enterprise being threatened with collapse under the sheer weight of peripheral nuisances demanded by travelling with a child. Had he not been so determined not to leave France without some sort of booty for his trouble, he might have left the child upon the first church doorstep.
He looked down at the basket and the girl-child therein, observing her fast asleep. Thereby he was gifted an inward sigh of relief. He had a brief reprieve before he would need to befriend another motherly benefactor. He was low on funds and knew not what else to do until he obtained proper lodgings. He looked about the familiar landscape of Brighton without apprehension but with what might have been a bit of melancholy.
The town was much the same as he remembered it, but those recollections were not particularly sweet. He recalled it thick with militia that injudicious summer of '09. It was that most foolish summer that he plunged into an imprudent romance with Lydia Bennet. Had he given it any forethought, he would not have. He would have seduced a girl who was not so eagrely protected. Still, it had been an astonishment that everyone involved in the entire madcap affair was most uncompromising about such a portionless creature as Lydia Bennet. But as most men were aware, a stiff prick has no conscience.
From the relative wisdom of hindsight, he allowed that it was a profound ill-judgement to have stolen away with Lydia as he had. But she had been ripe for her age, a wild, flirtatious girl, her character marked much more by volatility than virtue. Had he not been so bloody bored with tiresome militia duty, he would not have been so unguarded as to abscond with an empty-minded schoolgirl and hie with her to London. He may have intimated to her that they would eventually be wed, but he would never be convinced that she had been wholly seduced. To Lydia, immediacy was paramount to convention. Had she not been so bloody miserly with the ultimate affection, the entire elopement boondoggle would have been unnecessary.
Indeed, the first bloom of infatuation had worn out almost as soon as they had found lodgings and he threw her across the bed and tossed up her skirt. When Darcy had shown up unceremoniously at their door, Wickham had been making preparations to take leave without her. However, as he was deep in Queer Street with creditors pressing him on all sides, Darcy's proposal for him to take her hand in matrimony had been far too lucrative to reject. He had hoped to make away with the money and forgo the wedding. Perhaps suspecting he might abscond, that bloody Darcy had watched his every move (and had his man mind him whilst he slept). When he stood up with Lydia, he may as well have had a pistol pressed to his spine.