Page 62 of Grief and Grievances
“Simply this,” he explained, plucking a small bottle of laudanum from his pocket. “Pour this in her wine before she retires for the evening. It will ensure that she sleeps soundly and does not wake easily. In return, I shall see that you are well compensated.”
“Very well,” she agreed after a moment’s hesitation, her fingers curling around the coin. “Tonight?”
“Tonight,” he agreed. “And leave me in the dressing room adjacent to her bedchamber. I shall handle the rest.”
“Very well,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.
As night fell and the house grew quiet, Caroline Bingley raged against the perceived injustices of the world. Secure in her bedchamber, her voice rang out into the night, each word dripping with venom. “To think that Darcy would choose that insipid little country chit over me!” she fumed.
“Dreadful, ma’am,” the maid sympathised. “Let me pour you a glass of wine.”
“Make it a large glass!” Caroline snatched the glass when the girl handed it to her, draining half of it in a single gulp, pacing back and forth across the room. “And as for that fool Wickham, he has failed me utterly!” she shouted.
“Indeed, madam,” Wickham thought from his hiding place within the dressing room, suppressing a sardonic chuckle. “But you will soon see who has truly failed whom.”
As the clock on the mantel chimed the midnight hour, Wickham deemed it safe to emerge. Silently, he padded across the carpeted floor, his pulse quickening with each step that brought him closer to his prey. As he drew back the heavy damask drapes encircling Caroline’s bed, he marvelled at how vulnerable she appeared, utterly unaware of the life-altering events that were about to unfold.
“Forgive me, Miss Bingley,” he murmured as he stripped off his coat and slipped beneath the covers, careful not to disturb her repose. “But desperate times call for desperate measures.”
The false dawn began to creep through the windows, casting a pale, grey light upon the slumbering pair. It was in this ghostly half-light that the maid entered the chamber, her eyes widening in shock as they fell upon the unmistakable form of a man nestled beside her mistress.
“Help! Intruder!” she cried, her voice shrill with panic. “There is a man in Miss Bingley’s bed!”
Caroline stirred at the commotion, her drug-addled mind struggling to process the information being presented to her. She blinked at the figure beside her, confusion and horror warring within her as she realised the intimate proximity of their bodies.
“Mr. Wickham!” she gasped, recoiling from him as though he were a venomous serpent. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
“Good morning, Miss Bingley,” Wickham replied smoothly, his tone dripping with insincere charm. “It seems we find ourselves in something of a predicament.”
Caroline’s cheeks burned with fury and mortification, her every instinct screaming for retribution. And yet, as the full weight of her situation settled upon her, she could not shake the sinking feeling that she had been bested by a man whom she had once believed to be her pawn.
“Indeed, Mr. Wickham,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “And I shall make it my life’s mission to see that you regret your actions this day!”
“Ah, but Miss Bingley,” Wickham countered, savouring the bitter taste of her defeat. “It is not I who has the most to lose in this unfortunate circumstance. You would do well to remember that.”
As the household erupted into chaos around them, Caroline Bingley seethed with impotent rage. And George Wickham, ever the master manipulator, revelled in the knowledge that he had at last succeeded in ensnaring a worthy quarry.
“Caroline!” Mr. Bingley exclaimed, striding into the room with an air of authority that he seldom displayed. “Explain yourself! What is the meaning of this?”
“Charles,” Caroline began, her voice barely audible over the commotion. “I... I am not quite certain. Last night, I—“
“Miss Bingley,” Wickham interjected smoothly, “is understandably disoriented by these most unfortunate events.”
He cast a pointed look at the nearby maid, who shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “Perhaps it would be best if we all retired to allow her the opportunity to collect herself.”
Bingley hesitated, his gaze flickering between his sister and the uninvited guest. “Very well,” he finally acquiesced, “but I expect an explanation forthwith.”
As the room emptied, leaving only Caroline and Wickham behind, she could no longer suppress the fury boiling within her. “You despicable wretch!” she spat, her eyes blazing with indignation. “You shall pay dearly for this!”
“Miss Bingley,” Wickham replied coolly, unfazed by her anger, “the situation is rather delicate, wouldn’t you agree? I believe it would be in both our interests to find a way to salvage your reputation.” He shrugged on his coat and smirked at her.
“Your scheming will not avail you this time, Wickham!” Caroline retorted. “I would sooner die than marry you!”
“Ah, but you see, my dear,” Wickham countered, “your brother seems to think otherwise. Come, let us meet him downstairs and determine our fate.”
In the parlour, Bingley paced, accompanied by Mr. Darcy and his sister, Georgiana. Wickham’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the latter, as he had not expected her presence at Netherfield. A pang of regret coursed through him, for he would have much preferred to compromise Georgiana instead, for a multitude of reasons—she was younger, more malleable and much prettier than Caroline, and it would have given Darcy significantly more pain. But what was done, was done, and he had set the wheels in motion. Caroline Bingley would have to do.
“Caroline,” Bingley began firmly, “I have given this matter some thought, and it seems there is but one solution. You must marry Mr. Wickham.”
