The Three Colonels (8 page)

Marianne Brandon, hosting Mr. and Mrs. Tucker for tea the day after the wedding, sat in the parlor of Brandon House, enchanted by the sight of her husband lying face up on the floor playing with their daughter.

“Who is my love? Who is my love? Why, it is Joy! Ha, ha, ha!” Colonel Brandon cried repeatedly to the child sitting on his stomach. Joy Brandon squealed in delight.

Their guests looked on in amusement. The Tuckers had heard that the Brandons cared little about what other people thought of their attentions to their daughter. Many thought them odd, but Mary and Thomas could see no harm in it.

Finally, the babe began to yawn. “Time for a nap, my love,” said Marianne, retrieving Joy from her protesting father's arms. With a sweet kiss, she gave the child to the nurse to put to bed and then returned to the guests. Already talk had turned to politics.

Mr. Tucker leaned towards the colonel in an earnest manner. “Every day, more common land falls to enclosure. It has yet to happen in Meryton, but can it be far behind? What is your opinion, Colonel?”

Brandon shifted uncomfortably. “Ah, had you asked me that question two years ago, you could be sure of my answer, but now, I see both sides. So much land has been wasted, used up. The latest arts in agriculture have not been used to their fullest extent. Those lands that have been enclosed have been the beneficiaries of suitable management. Yields are up due to proper rotation of crops. And yet—”

The young lawyer interrupted. “People are without access to land that was available for centuries. They are fleeing the villages for the cities to find employment, but on the other hand, everything you say is true as well. The population is increasing, and we need more food.” Mr. Tucker shook his head. “Our world is changing, Colonel, but can you honestly say it is for the better?” They both pondered the matter for a while.

Mary broke the silence. “We must pray for the Lord's guidance to help us through these times and trust in His wisdom.” She lightly touched Mr. Tucker's hand. “And we cannot forget the poor.”

“Amen,” said her husband, and the others nodded in agreement.

“Colonel,” Mary asked, “have you given any more thought to standing for Parliament?”

Brandon glanced at Marianne. “Yes. The seat for Delaford will be vacant in a year or so. Mr. White, good man that he is, wishes to retire.”

Mr. Tucker, a staunch Tory, was not as sure about Mr. White's goodness, as the man was a wicked Whig, but knowing Colonel Brandon's Tory leanings, he kept his opinion to himself. “You will be a great addition to the Commons. You have it arranged with our Friends?” Tucker referred to the only party apparatus that existed in the early nineteenth century; party politics was still in its infancy.

“Yes. They have pledged their support. I have no idea who else will stand—”

“Why should anyone?” cried Marianne. “All Delaford knows Colonel Brandon for the fair magistrate he has been. There is no more worthy man in all England!”

The fire in her voice moved Tucker. “No doubt, no doubt. The other side will not surrender the seat without a fight, Mrs. Brandon; depend upon it. But I am certain that the fair people of Delaford will come out for your husband.”

Marianne began to regain control of her emotions as Christopher looked upon her with humble affection. “I would certainly expect so, Mr. Tucker.” Marianne's attention was drawn to the maid entering the room.

“Ah, the tea is here. May I pour you a cup, Mary?”

***

Richard Fitzwilliam was no stranger to the Darcy townhouse in London. He had been in residence there so often in the past that one of the bedrooms was reserved for his use alone. Being on the best of terms with his cousins, Richard took as much advantage of the open invitation as he could. Visits were at least weekly when the Darcy family was in Town.

Now, after an excellent dinner hosted with aplomb by Mrs. Darcy, the two cousins took their ease in Darcy's magnificent study and retreat. It was a room of dark wood paneling, comfortable furniture, a fine exotic carpet before a roaring fire in the fireplace, and an excellent Chippendale desk. One wall was adorned with a small portrait of Elizabeth Darcy, another with a bookcase filled with a selection from the grand library at Pemberley. It was dignified, unpretentious, rich, and masculine, in a word—Darcy.

“Damn me! That is fine brandy,” Richard exclaimed after sipping the glass Darcy poured for him. “Where on earth did you get it?”

Darcy smiled indulgently. “Such are the rewards of having an uncle in trade. I am sure Mr. Gardiner would be most disposed to setting you up.”

“At the family price, I hope?”

“Uncle Gardiner is kind, but not
that
kind. Cigar?”

“Thank you,” he said as he selected one.

Lighting their cigars, both men relaxed in their armchairs in Darcy's study. They silently enjoyed the evening in each other's company for a while.

“Richard,” said Darcy finally, “as much as I enjoy keeping you in cigars and brandy, I had the impression yesterday you wished to discuss something with me.”

Richard sighed. “I have recently received a letter from the steward of Rosings.”

“Everything is well, I expect?”

“No, Darcy, everything is not at all well. In fact, it is worse than last year.”

Darcy's face lost all expression. “How bad is it?”

Richard was not alarmed at his cousin's demeanor. He knew Darcy could be coldly rational when it came to business, even within the family. “The yields were off another ten percent at least.”

The gears in Darcy's mind worked over the estimates. “In two years, a loss of fifteen hundred in income to Aunt Catherine. Lord knows what it was to the tenants! And yet, Mr. Bennet reported good crops last year.”

“As did Sir William Lucas. 'Tis not the weather.” Meryton was but fifty miles from Rosings.

Darcy leapt to his feet and began to pace. “This will not do! If the situation persists, staff will lose their positions, and tenants will have to choose between food and income.” Both knew the nightmare of the English agricultural economic system was the loss of stability. “People will starve!” he predicted as he retook his seat.

The men sat silently, considering what a bread riot would do to Lady Catherine's fine garden. Richard finished his drink. “What do we do, Darcy?”

Darcy's expression was grim. “
I
can do nothing—I am still
persona
non
grata
for choosing Elizabeth over my cousin, Anne. This is
your
task, Richard.”

***

Newcastle

The innkeeper of the Pig's Snout Pub carelessly poured a measure of whisky into a glass of dubious cleanliness. “'Ere you go, Gov'nor. Cash, sir, if'n you please.”

The newly minted army captain tossed the money onto the bar. “Keep it filled until that runs out, my good man.”

George Wickham, Captain of Infantry in the —— Regiment of Foot, took a very small sip of the drink set before him. He had to make it last. He had only a few pounds with him, and the innkeeper was under the strictest instructions not to extend him credit. In fact, the entire town of Newcastle had been told about the Wickhams—cash money and no credit.

Damn
that
Darcy!
thought Wickham for the thousandth time.

For three years, Wickham and his loving wife, the former Lydia Bennet, had rotted in cold and cheerless Northumberland. Of course, “loving” could mean many things. In Wickham's case, it meant that, while Lydia was certainly jolly enough for a tumble more often than not, the price was high—two children already and another on the way. Wickham sighed. Within six months, there would be a third screaming child in his house—three, that is, if you did not count Mrs. Wickham.

Wickham found that as far as all other joys that supposedly came with holy wedlock, he would enjoy very few. Lydia had inherited most of Mrs. Bennet's characteristics, save that lady's famous nerves. Mrs. Wickham was vain, silly, weak-minded, selfish, quarrelsome, and foolhardy with the family money. She was also an affectionate mother, but to Wickham, that did not signify. How the family kept a roof over their heads the Good Lord only knew!

The Good Lord
and
Mr. Bartholomew, erstwhile manager of Smyth & Smyth, Wickham's bank—
damn
that
Darcy
! Wickham had always depended that Darcy would somehow provide his income, and when he was forced to marry Lydia, Wickham still had hopes. Those hopes increased when, for reasons undecipherable to Wickham, Darcy married Lydia's sister, Lizzy. Wickham could never fathom why Darcy did not marry Anne de Bourgh for her money and take Lizzy for his mistress. As part of the bargain they had struck, Darcy purchased Lt. Wickham's commission and the cottage in which his family now lived.

However, Darcy had something clever up his rotten Cork Street sleeve. The house was in
Darcy's
name. He arranged that
all
of Wickham's army pay, as well as Lydia's dowry and the hundred pounds a year from Mr. Bennet, went straight into a trust account at Smyth & Smyth for
Mrs.
Wickham. Accounts managed by Mr. Bartholomew were set up at the green grocer, the butcher, the bakery, and several dry goods shops in Newcastle. Food and other necessaries were provided. Whatever was left after the month's bills were paid was sent to Mrs. Wickham, minus twenty percent, which was retained for emergencies. Lydia, in turn, gave her husband an allowance of two pounds a month.

To make matters worse, Darcy had been in communication with Wickham's commanding general. All officers were warned not to gamble with Lt. Wickham or their promotions might be in jeopardy. Wickham was effectively cut out from all entertainments an officer traditionally enjoyed.

For three years, he lived thus. Then, in remembrance of the third anniversary of Lydia and Wickham's wedding, a promotion to captain was purchased by Darcy. Not only did this event bring additional income to the Wickham family, it finally gave the head of the household the chance to retaliate against his benefactor.

Wickham had befriended the paymaster. When the promotion became final, Wickham arranged for four pounds a month to be withheld from transfer to Smyth & Smyth. His friend charged one part in four for the courtesy, but Wickham gladly paid the fee, and his pockets were heavier by three pounds.

That in itself was cause to celebrate. The reason Captain Wickham was in such high spirits that night was in anticipation of his sister, Kitty's, wedding. Not that he gave two farthings for the girl, but Lydia had received passage to attend with the children. George Wickham would be a bachelor for at least a month, if not two.

Wickham moved to a table in the corner. He looked around the pub and spotted a new barmaid. He thought her a tasty morsel. She was young—and he always fancied the young ones—pert, and well padded.

Ripe
for
a
tumble, she is, or my name is not George Wickham.
The captain put down his glass and was about to call her over when he heard a voice he recognized.

“George! George Wickham, as I live and breathe!”

Wickham, startled, looked about. His eyes settled on a young major of infantry. “Denny? Is that you?”

“Ha! Yes, it is, George! Good to see you, old man,” cried Major Archibald Denny, Wickham's comrade from the ——shire militia.

“Sit down, sit down! Look at you! You have come up in the world.” Wickham, presuming the barmaid was lost for the evening, focused all his attention on his old friend.

“So have you,” said Denny. “Captain of Infantry! Are you posted to the regiment here?”

“Yes—three years. Just got promoted.”

“Then my arrival is well timed indeed. Allow me to offer you joy for your promotion, sir! Barkeep! A bottle, sir! What are you drinking?”

“Whisky. 'Tis the only tolerable drink in the house.”

“Whisky, then! And be quick about it!”

The bottle of tolerable whisky was soon procured, and the two old brothers-in-arms drank and surveyed each other.

Wickham broke the silence first. “A major, Denny! You have done well for yourself.”

“Thankee, George. I was lucky. I earned a competency promotion to captain, and a death vacancy promoted me to major.”

Wickham, refilling his glass, studied the flashings on Denny's tunic. “You are not with the militia,” he observed.

“No, staff officer with the General Staff in London.” Denny nursed his drink.

Wickham, in spite of himself, was impressed. “What brings you to Newcastle?”

“I had to consult with your general here.” He took a sip and placed his glass down as he said, “So how are you faring, George?”

Wickham looked away. “Same as always.” He took a pull at his drink and smiled. “The new recruits cannot find their arse with both hands.”

Denny laughed. For a while, they spoke of old times, and then Denny said, “You married Lydia Bennet, I remember. How is the family?”

Wickham took a long swallow of his drink. “Everyone was well, the last time I saw them.” At Denny's questioning look, Wickham added, “They are to Hertfordshire for Lydia's sister's wedding next month,” as he reached for the bottle.

“Everyone? You have children now, I take it?”

Wickham's hand could barely contain his belch. “Yes—two girls. Two whining, screaming girls. Three if you count their mother! Ha!” He took another drink. “Lydia's expanding again, so maybe this time a boy, eh? Drink up—let us drink to the Wickham heir!” The captain drained his glass. “I tell you, Denny, I just look at her and—boom!” He clapped his hands as he shook his head drunkenly.

Denny barely touched his drink. “There is no need to speak like that. She is your wife. She is a good woman—”