Page 61 of Grief and Grievances
“Enough!” Colonel Forster cut him off sharply. “This has nothing to do with your personal affairs, Mr. Wickham. This matter concerns the financial integrity of the entire regiment. I have received numerous complaints from the tradesmen of Meryton. They are refusing credit to all our officers until your bills are settled.”
The relief Wickham felt in that moment nearly overpowered the fresh wave of anger that accompanied the revelation of his unpaid debts. His jaw clenched, and he forced himself to remain silent, lest his own fury betray him further.
“Your reckless spending,” continued the Colonel, “has created strife between our regiment and the people of Meryton. This cannot be permitted to continue. Until your debts are paid, I am assigning you punishment duty.”
Wickham’s eyes narrowed at the Colonel’s declaration. He had not anticipated this turn of events, but he knew better than to argue with his superior officer.
“Very well, sir,” Wickham conceded through gritted teeth, his mind already plotting a way out of this predicament. “I will endeavour to rectify the situation as swiftly as possible.”
“See that you do, Mr. Wickham,” warned the Colonel, his gaze unwavering. “Dismissed.”
With a respectful nod, Wickham rose from his seat and retreated from the office. The door closed behind him with a resounding thud, sealing his fate and igniting a new determination within him. If he was to rise above this latest setback, he would need to act quickly and decisively. Fortune, it seemed, still had a role to play in his life—whether as friend or foe remained to be seen.
Stepping out of Colonel Forster’s office, Wickham found himself confronted with a frigid silence. His fellow officers, whom he had once considered comrades in arms, now regarded him with cold, reproachful eyes. Even Captain Carter, one of his closest confidants among the ranks, turned away from him, offering no words of comfort or solace.
“Will you not even speak to me, Carter?” Wickham inquired, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice as he sought to salvage what little remained of their friendship.
“Your actions have brought disgrace upon us all, Wickham,” Carter replied stiffly, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond his former friend. “I cannot condone such behaviour.”
With a wounded expression, Wickham watched Carter walk away, leaving him more isolated than ever before. Despair gnawed at his heart; should he run from the regiment and leave this life behind? The thought was tempting, but fear held him back—desertion could lead to the gallows, and he was not quite so desperate as to embrace that fate.
Retreating to the solitude of his quarters, Wickham shut the door behind him and sank onto his bed, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He took in the spartan furnishings, the narrow window that let in only a sliver of light, and the threadbare rug beneath his feet. From beneath his pillow, he retrieved the bottle of whisky he had purchased with Caroline’s funds, uncorked it, and took a swig, letting the liquid fire burn its way down his throat.
“Damn them all,” he muttered bitterly, staring at the bottle in his hand. “Why must fortune eternally turn against me?”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across his room, Wickham drank deeply from the bottle, each mouthful numbing the pain of his defeat. He had been so close to avenging himself upon Darcy through Elizabeth, and now that chance was gone, leaving him with nothing but the prospect of punishment duty and mounting debts.
“Would that I could take back this day,” he whispered into the encroaching darkness, his words slurred by alcohol and regret. “Why must I always fall victim to my own ambition?”
His thoughts swirled like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust, clouded by drink and despair. He thought of Darcy and Elizabeth, their happiness mocking him from a distance, while he languished in ignominy and disgrace. He thought of Caroline, her schemes thwarted alongside his own, and wondered bitterly if she too rued the day they had joined forces.
“Perhaps there is still hope,” he mused aloud, gripping the whisky bottle tightly as though it held the key to his redemption. “If I cannot have revenge, then perhaps fortune can be persuaded to smile upon me once more.”
The whisky’s warmth had begun to dull the sharp edges of Wickham’s anger and disappointment, but it also gave rise to a dangerous clarity. As he paced the confines of his cramped quarters, he could not banish the image of Elizabeth Bennet from his thoughts—her proud defiance, her refusal to be cowed by his machinations.
“Curse that woman,” he muttered beneath his breath, clenching his fists in impotent rage. “But no, I cannot allow myself to be bested by the likes of her. There must be a way to turn this situation to my advantage.”
He paused in his pacing, an idea taking root in the fertile soil of his cunning mind. Caroline Bingley, desperate to secure Darcy’s affections, had allied herself with Wickham in his campaign against Elizabeth, but now that chance had failed them both, she was left adrift in a sea of thwarted ambition. Her dowry, however, remained as tantalising as ever.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” Wickham mused, feeling the weight of the sum in his mind’s grasp. “It would be a most welcome consolation prize.”
With renewed purpose, he began to devise a plan to ensnare the unsuspecting Miss Bingley. He knew that Charles Bingley, her doting brother, would be loath to abandon his sister to scandal, and with his gentle disposition, might be manipulated into ensuring the union between Wickham and Caroline.
“Ah, Mr. Bingley,” Wickham murmured to himself as he poured another glass of whisky, savouring the burn as it slid down his throat. “You may prove to be my salvation yet.”
With each step of his plan falling into place, Wickham felt a thrill of anticipation coursing through his veins. He knew that he would have to tread carefully, for one misstep could lead to utter ruin. But the prospect of triumphing over the Darcys and the Bennets, combined with the sweet allure of Caroline Bingley’s fortune, was irresistible.
“Very well,” he declared, his voice firm with resolve. “Let the game commence.” Tonight, he’d finally get what he was due. And he knew just how to go about it. He wasn’t the only person who couldn’t stand Caroline Bingley… her maid had been flirting with one of his men, whining about how terrible her mistress was. The dissatisfied servant provided exactly the opening he needed, but he had no time to lose. If, or rather when, Elizabeth revealed to Darcy what Wickham had tried to do, Darcy would be out for blood.
Draining the last of the whisky, Wickham clambered rather unsteadily to his feet. It wasn’t a long walk to Netherfield, but he needed to get there while the Bingleys were at the dinner table, in order to be able to find Caroline’s maid and set his plan into action. He fingered the coins in his pocket, all that was left of what Caroline had given him. Well, he’d sacrifice them in a worthy cause, and hopefully by morning, he’d never have to worry about money ever again. Caroline Bingley’s twenty thousand would last him a good while, and her brother was such a sap, Wickham would be able to leech off Charles Bingley’s good nature for the rest of his life.
Getting into Netherfield wasn’t particularly difficult; and finding Caroline’s maid as she prepared her mistress’s room for the night not much more so. The maid was a silly creature, with an eye for a red coat. She gazed at Wickham with near worship as he cornered her. “I understand that you may harbour certain... grievances against your mistress.”
“Whatever do you mean, sir?” she replied, feigning innocence. But there was a flicker of interest in her eyes, and Wickham knew he had her attention.
“Come now,” he said smoothly, pressing a coin into her palm. “We both know that Miss Bingley can be rather... trying. And I believe we might help one another.”
Her gaze shifted from his face to the coin, and then back again. “What is it you want me to do?”
