Page 34 of Until My Last Breath

Chapter 7

12th April 1816

It was still early, but Wickham was already cleaning his pistol, compelled by a fear that had become his closest companion. Somebody knocked on his door. Startled, he stood up slowly, approached the door and waited.

“Who is it?” he finally called out.

A bored but familiar female voice replied, “George, it is me. There is a boy downstairs. He says he has a message from a Mr Brown.”

Wickham opened the door quickly. “Ah! Clarice.” He pulled the woman inside and looked down both sides of the corridor, closing the door behind him. Brown and his messenger could go hang. He would use this opportunity to persuade Clarice to give him another chance.

“Why did you take so long to come to my bedroom? I have not seen you since I arrived yesterday.” His dark eyes perused the woman from her face all the way down to her bosom, his arms moving around her waist, bringing her closer to him.

In a blink of an eye, she stepped out of his reach and walked to the other side of the bedroom. “I told you, don’t put your paws on me ever again,” she said between gritted teeth.

“I am sorry, my love. I forgot myself,” he said in a smooth voice. “But it always happens when I am far away from you for a long time. I cannot wait for us to be together again.”

Clarice shook her head. “Forget about it. I don’t want anything to dowith you, especially now.” She looked at his face with disgust. “What happened to your face? Have you stuck your head inside a beehive? Oh, don’t bother. I don’t care. Just stay away from me.”

The look of repugnance on her face would have quenched a burning log. He went to look at the mirror for the hundredth time since he had arrived at that lodge where Clarice was now working. A purple, swollen eye, bruised cheeks and a nasty cut at one corner of his mouth disfigured his once pleasant countenance.Damn you, Brown. At least he still had all his teeth.

After the frustrating attempt to seduce Georgiana Darcy, Wickham’s life had become unbearable. His dalliance with the woman in front of him had suffered a sudden death when she realised he had not been faithful to her. Later, he had finally found someone with class, Lady Margaret. It had not mattered she was almost a decade older than him; she had indulged his every desire.

But his newfound luck was short lived. His late source of pleasure and money had recently died. Once again, he had become a victim of injustice, forced to humiliate himself and ask for Clarice’s help. In the end, she agreed to help, arranging a room for him to stay for a couple of days, but nothing else. In return, she had demanded he would never trouble her again.

“Very well. Send him up. I will see him here; it is safer,” Wickham said exasperated, still looking at his reflection.

Without another word, Clarice left the room. Some minutes later, the boy was upstairs.

“Sir, Mr Brown sent you a message. He said to wait for a reply.”

Wickham snatched the piece of paper and walked to the window to read it. The message made his blood boil. He raised his head and looked through the dirty glass panes with rage in his eyes. How low had he fallen to be associated with miscreants like Brown? He crushed the paper, and with trembling hands missed the intended pouch, letting it fall on the floor.

Miss Elizabeth was a decent lady; she did not deserve this. He would have been happy to take her as his wife, had he more time to woe her. Aftertelling her of his misfortunes, he had been forced to leave the area. Unfortunately for her, his own life was on the sharp edge of a sword. Between the two of them, he would choose himself.

Wickham tried to cheer himself with the prospect of moving to America and starting a new life, far away from everything and everyone who had treated him with so much disrespect.

He sighed, looking through the window at that miserable part of London. Even this false hope could not lighten his mood. He would never be able to leave England unless he could stay alive and remain far away from Brown’s murderous hands, and the hangman’s noose.

Wickham fetched another piece of paper and scribbled his answer, giving it to the boy and sending him away. He checked his watch and groaned. He still had sometime. Grabbing his things, he went downstairs.

“Mrs Younge, I am going out,” Wickham said walking to the door.

“May I ask where you are going?”

“I am going to sell my soul to the devil.”

~ ♥ ~

The rosy light coming through the window announced the new day. With a sigh of relief, Elizabeth rubbed her forehead, exhausted. Since Darcy called for his mother, burning in fever, she had been putting cold wet pieces of cloth on his head and chest, as the doctor had instructed her. Fortunately, his fever had broken some time earlier. Knowing he was out of danger, she had lain down on the bed beside him and slept.

She woke up again with a strange sound, a chuckle this time. Opening her eyes, she saw Darcy’s gaze on her.

“Good morning, Elizabeth,” he said gently, smiling. “I did not mean to wake you. I am sorry.”

“Good morning, William,” she greeted back, rubbing her eyes, sitting up. “May I enquire what is so funny?”

He kept his smile. “You talk in your sleep.”

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