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Posted on Tuesday, 7 August 2007

Chapter 17

They took tea with Mrs Fife while awaiting the wagon, and at dusk found themselves still at the house. It was quite late when the neighbour's son put in an appearance after a full day's work, cheerfully offering to be at their service come morning.

"I'll be glad to see the last o' that trunk," Lawrence Seymour declared. "That has got to be the heaviest such piece I've ever had to haul."

His comment rather surprised Johnson and Hadley, who were embarrassed to admit to each other later that neither had thought to check the trunk's weight, so focused had they been on its contents.

Arrangements were made to take the trunk to the barracks first thing tomorrow so that Colonel Cleland could inspect it. Assuming that he was willing to release it, the trunk would be off to Derbyshire. If it was heavy, Mr Darcy could deal with that.

Johnson considered the advantage of staying the night at Mrs Fife's; it would be saving him the trip back to this neighborhood come morning. The good lady was only too willing to replace the damaged mattress and have boarders for one more night – especially boarders who were polite, pleasant, and who paid!

It fell to Hadley to return to The Green Man, remove their belongings and settle the bill. He had to reassure the innkeeper that they were not leaving in disgust at last night's scene – although come to think of it, Mr Addyman suddenly eyed him with some suspicion – had they even been around for that incident? It might have been better had he not mentioned it – oh dear. The reputation of his establishment!

In the morning Hadley and Lawrence Seymour took the trunk – and yes, it was very heavy – to Colonel Cleland while Johnson went looking for Micky. After an extensive search, he located the boy on Fairfield Street and convinced him to come for a chat.

They took a table in a small pub nearby, where Johnson ordered coffee and Micky tucked into a hearty breakfast.

Once the boy's appetite had been sated, Johnson began.

He explained that Wickham's lodgings had now been located, and his and Hadley's work in Newcastle was at an end. They were about to ship all the man's belongings back to his relations as soon as the army released them, and with that they would be gone from here.

Micky's disappointment was obvious.

"However," Johnson continued, "we could not have done it without your help, Micky."

The boy's eyes grew wide. "My help?" he almost whispered.

"Yes," Johnson nodded. "Libby did know a man who associated with Wickham. Once we were aware of him, we were able to follow him until he led us to the house we wanted. It was that simple."

Micky, it seemed, knew not whether he should be impressed at their success or saddened at losing the men who had befriended him over the last days. It was likely, Johnson reflected with no little sadness, that no man had ever been truly kind to the boy before.

"Do you remember, Micky, when we first asked you and your friends to help us, we promised to be very generous with whoever found Wickham for us?"

The boy nodded.

"Mr Hadley and I agree that you are the one who deserves the reward, Micky, and we have just the thing for you."

"I do? You do?"

"Yes, Micky."

Johnson looked at him searchingly for a moment.

"Micky, how would you like to learn to read? And write? Learn to do sums? "

Micky, it seemed, did not know what he thought of something so far removed from his life on the street.

Carefully, Johnson explained the circumstances.

"You would live in a house with several other boys. You would attend a school with even more boys. All your needs would be met: a place to stay, food, clothing, the books and supplies needed for school. Everything like that."

Micky still said nothing.

Not certain what it was that kept the boy from enthusiastic acceptance of his very generous offer (well, alright, Johnson reminded himself, it would be Mr Darcy's very generous offer once that gentleman was made aware of it), Johnson tried again.

"Never again would you have to live cold and hungry in the streets, Micky. No one would threaten you; no one rob you of your last penny. You could live in safety, and you would learn everything you need to earn a good living once you grow up."

Johnson watched and waited.

"Micky?"

To Johnson's horror, tears began to roll down Micky's cheeks. At last, no longer able to hold back his sobs, the boy fled the pub.

"Thunder an' turf! exclaimed Johnson, fishing for some coins in his pocket to slap down on the table before chasing out after Micky.

The boy, so much more familiar with the neighbourhood, led him on a merry chase through alleys and around corners and down streets. Only Johnson's longer legs gave him any chance at all.

When he finally collared the still sobbing youngster, Johnson was at a loss as to what to do with him. Never in his life had he dealt with a crying child – a crying anybody, for that matter – and it had been years since he had allowed himself the luxury of tears.

Finally he resorted to simply wrapping his arms around the upset boy, hoping the flood of tears would dry up.

Instead Micky struggled valiantly to free himself.

Convinced that letting Micky go meant he would only run off again, Johnson simply held on more tightly. It took forever – at least it seemed forever to the worried man – before Micky's sobs abated and the tears slowed.

When he deemed it safe to do so, Johnson tried to look in Micky's tear-swollen face and ask, "Micky? I don't understand. I thought . . . hoped . . . I mean . . . . we thought . . . "

This was not working.

He allowed himself one very deep breath and tried again.

"Micky, I thought you would like having a place to live, and going to school. I thought that you would welcome a chance to learn to read and write. But . . . you don't seem to be happy about it, and, Micky, I really don't understand."

The boy's attempt at an answer was long in coming, and when he at last made the attempt, he fared no better than Johnson had. Punctuated by hiccups, Micky began to ask, and finally to explain.

Eventually Johnson gained some understanding into the situation. Micky was torn between not believing that Johnson's offer was real, and not wanting to believe that this man would lie to him like so many others had done.

They finally settled that Micky would accompany Johnson to the school, where he would make up his mind.

Johnson found a hack to hire for their trip, explaining to Micky that first they had to stop at the barracks to see how Hadley was faring. As they bounced over the cobbled streets, the boy's wide eyes told the story of his thrill: Micky had never enjoyed the luxury of riding in a carriage before. Not only that, he soon saw vistas beyond the familiar neighborhood and could hardly take it all in.

The Newcastle barracks were another source of excitement; Micky even got a very brief glimpse of redcoats drilling on a square near Colonel Cleland's quarters.

Could a boy's eyes get any bigger? wondered Johnson, barely able to suppress his own grin at what he observed in the youngster.

Hadley, it turned out, was still waiting patiently for the colonel who was in a conference and might still take some time before he could look at Wickham's trunk.

Considering the time, they sent a message to Mrs Fife, requesting the room for one more night.

Johnson and Micky then continued to the school, Micky still wide-eyed at the sights being revealed to him.

The carriage passed The Green Man, and Johnson pointed it out as the place he and Hadley had been staying at.

"It's not a bad place, as inns go," he told the eager youngster," but the innkeeper does have some funny ideas. I recommend you stay away from there as long as you attend Mr Clitherow's school."

Perhaps it hadn't been the best thing to tell his young charge, he realized uneasily. Micky was looking worried again.

The carriage turned into Pilgrim Street, where Johnson guided Micky into the courtyard and knocked on the school room door.

Mr Clitherow welcomed them into the classroom where some 20 boys were quietly at work. In a low voice he explained some details, then had his sister take over the class while he took Johnson and Micky out, showed them the chapel – Johnson noticed that by the door Clitherow dipped a couple of fingers into a small container of what looked like water and then crossed himself. A few steps into the chapel he faced the altar and bent his right knee to the floor for a moment, before rising and beginning their tour of St Peter's Chapel and School.

Everything was shown the visitors; everything was carefully explained. When Micky was shown the rather spartan quarters in which the resident boys slept, his eyes once again opened wide in disbelief. Could it be possible that he could live in such splendor? Sleep in a real bed? In a bunk to boot – who knew there were such wonders in Newcastle?

They found Mr Clitherow's other sister kneading dough in the kitchen. She cheerfully explained that they were having stew and dumplings for supper; this dough would make the dumplings.

Noticing Micky's puzzled look, she inquired if he had ever seen bread or dumplings being made before. He could only shake his head, not taking his eyes off her busy hands. "Then you shall, once you come to live with us," she told him with a gentle smile. "My boys really like dumplings. We have them nearly every week."

Micky could only watch and wonder at this amazing new world unfolding before his eyes.

At last Mr Clitherow began to ask some questions of his young visitor.

What was his surname? His age? Had he always lived in Newcastle? Had he any relations at all? Had he ever attended any school? Did he want to come to St Peter's School now that he had seen it?

The answers were all negative until the last: Micky's eyes travelled from Johnson to Mr Clitherow and back. Dare he hope? Dare he trust? Could all this be for him?

Slowly he nodded.

A moment later the boys spilled out of the classroom and into the courtyard. Mr Clitherow called two of them over and introduced Micky. John and Kenny were to take charge of the new boy, make sure that Micky was not left out of games and activities as well as getting him to the right place at the right time for the remainder of the day.

With the boys Micky was slightly more comfortable than with men that were unknown to him, but only slightly. Gradually, though, he relaxed. Mr Clitherow had chosen well, Kenny in particular was soon closer to Micky than anyone had ever been. Micky had found a home.

The men sorted out the financial arrangements, Mr Clitherow expressing some concern that the unknown Mr Darcy might not appreciate paying Micky's way at this particular school. Johnson had to admit that he had no idea what Darcy's view of the old religion was, but that the dealings he and Hadley had with the man so far showed him to be fair and very generous.

Johnson explained the entire Wickham situation to Mr Clitherow, revealing also the matter of the two missing Wickham boys. The priest took another look at the miniature and promised to keep his eyes open in case he had reason to believe he had learned something of interest to the boys' relations. So far, however, he had no help to offer.

At last Micky was called back to them, and Johnson took an awkwardly emotional farewell of the boy whom he had quite taken to his heart. While he could not promise to be back in Newcastle anytime soon, he assured Micky that the schoolmaster had his direction in London, and as soon as Micky could write a letter, Johnson committed himself to answering it.

After one more night at Mrs Fife's, the wagon headed to Derbyshire. They had persuaded Lawrence Seymour that they'd be quite comfortable enough riding in the open air with the trunk as he did himself, and with May being just upon them surely the weather would not be too nasty.

So it turned out. They made good time to Pemberley and delivered the trunk and all their information to Mr Darcy. Seymour returned the next day; Johnson and Hadley spent another two days at the estate, answering Mr Darcy's questions and writing the last of their reports. He seemed a little surprised that he had now taken on responsibility for the education of young Micky, but raised no objections – Johnson was relieved. It had been a concern, since he could not really claim authority for having made this arrangement in Mr Darcy's name.

The only aspect of the Wickham matter not settled was the disappearance of the two older boys.

But no clues had turned up regarding the boys at all, and there seemed no point still keeping two investigators on that hunt full time. The arrangement with Mr Darcy was simply that they should continue to keep eyes and ears open; as possibilities arose to visit likely schools they could do so; other than that the search was abandoned.

Chapter 18

Mr Darcy was ready to send the men back to London, but Hadley hesitated. Finally he hemmed and hawed his way through an explanation as to why he refused the offer: Hadley had business at Swithers Grange. This confession led to two pairs of puzzled eyes being focused on him, and Hadley finally had to admit that he had promised to see Lucy Bowes before returning south.

The puzzled looks remained puzzled. Mr Darcy needed a reminder who Lucy Bowes was; Johnson took a moment to sort out why Hadley wanted to see the maid from Leeds.

When all was made clear, the other two grinned; Hadley blushed furiously.

Arrangements were made for them to spend a day at the Bingleys' and Mr Darcy returned to his own concerns.

The next day Mr Bingley received a note asking him to come for a brief visit to Pemberley, and perhaps he could bring the two investigators with him – or one of them at least. The other might be occupied . . . There was no explanation.

Half an hour later the three men were off to see what Darcy's note was about. At Pemberley a servant showed them into a room in which pieces of Wickham's heavy trunk were spread over several tables.

There was the obvious – the trunk's wooden frame, the leather that had covered the outside, the shiny metal braces that had strengthened each corner. But then there were other items that seemed to have nothing to do with a trunk at all.

Mr Darcy joined the visitors at that point, accompanied by another man who was unknown to them all.

Mr Bellew was introduced all around, and Mr Darcy began an explanation.

It seemed that Hadley and Johnson had not been the only detectives on Wickham's trail. They were just the most successful, having found his most recent lodgings well before Mr Bellew found that the trail led to Newcastle.

That gentleman was in the employ of the Bank of England, hired to find a number of engraved copper plates that had been recently stolen from the Bank's offices in London's Threadneedle Street. The heist had been given no publicity in order to prevent a run on the bank, and the return of the plates was considered to be of the utmost importance.

Bellew's search had to overcome obstacles that had not plagued Hadley and Johnson. He had no idea where the culprit lived, did not know what his prey looked like, and, it turned out, did not even have the man's name right. His efforts to locate a thief by the name of George Darcy were hampered by the fact that the only man by that name he could find information about was decidedly dead and had been so for some years.

Initially there was some hesitation about contacting the Darcy family at Pemberley, since their sterling reputation ruled them out as prime suspects, but when Bellew found himself completely out of leads, he had finally made the attempt.

With no little surprise he learned from Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy about the son of his father's former steward – by name of George Wickham – who was a likely candidate for the bank heist. After giving Bellew a full explanation of Wickham's legacy, and allowing him to peruse the reports that Hadley and Johnson had submitted over the past months, the master of Pemberley mentioned that George Wickham's trunk had recently arrived at Pemberley and was noted to be particularly heavy.

Under the supervision of Mr Darcy and Mr Bellew, the trunk was methodically taken apart, and the results were here, spread out before them.

Mr Bellew was convinced that the metal edgings on the trunk's corners were genuine silver, if possibly an alloy. The trunk's sides as well as the floor turned out to be double-walled, and inside the bottom and sides were found the missing copper plates as well as several gold bars, trimmed down to the thickness of the copper plates to allow their being hidden in such a trunk.

George Wickham had been industrious indeed.

"Now I understand why he chose Canada instead of the United States," Johnson offered. "I had wondered about that – a place like New York or New Orleans seemed more suited to a character like Wickham. But if he planned to live on British currency, colonies like the Canadas would definitely be an attractive option."

There was a generous reward from the bank, which was carefully divided between the successful investigators, Micky, and, they decided, Libby as well.

Micky's money was placed in trust for him. Libby would be searched out, and the best way to help her out of her present situation to be decided. No one was interested in allowing any of her new wealth to fall into the clutches of Wilson or his ilk.

Hadley had definite plans for his share, to the surprise of neither Mr Darcy nor Johnson. As for the latter: his plan was to prepare for a retirement that might now come somewhat earlier than he had ever dared hope.

Because the young Wickham children were so attached to Lucy Bowes, no effort was made to separate them from her when she and Hadley were wed. They lived in a lovely cottage on a small plot of land near London, the children's expenses covered by their Darcy and Bingley uncles.

Posted on Saturday, 11 August 2007

Chapter 19

August, 1825

Thick cotton dust swirled throughout the room, and the only reason that the frequent crying or chronic coughing could not be heard was that the deafening noise made by the machinery drowned out all competing sounds.

The air in Mr Busby's cotton mill had to be kept hot and humid. The children who worked there had been told that this was necessary to prevent the thread breaking.

An overseer prowled along the rows, in his hand the strap ready to be applied to any slackers he spotted.

At the top of each spindle a fly board went across, and the child was to take hold of it with his left hand and, throwing the left shoulder up and the right knee inward, he had to get the thread in with his right hand before he stooped down to see what he was doing. The noise and motion were unceasing, the children weary from endless labour and lack of sleep.

There was no respite; should a child doze off, the strap soon found him.

All doors were locked, making any attempt at running away nearly futile, but not unheard of. Inevitably the escapees were pursued and brought back again, to be sent to see the master who would severely whip them for it.

At seven in the evening the machines stopped, the doors were unlocked and the children marched across a patch of bare dirt to a bunk house where they ate a skimpy supper before falling into their filthy beds. This building, too, was locked, though most were too fatigued by far to even think of escape, and where was there to escape to? The nearest village was a brisk five mile walk away – a considerable challenge to an over worked, sleep-deprived child.

Early in the morning, the ill-dressed, sleepy children were aroused, each fed a bowl of gruel, and marched back to the mill house in time for the six o'clock start to another day.

Two dark-haired boys made a point of always sharing a mattress and taking their meals together. George and Tom had been at the mill for three years now, their father having dropped them off one spring day with the explanation that he was bringing them to school. Instead, George was quick enough to notice that the mill owner paid their father 15s. for each boy's "schooling." In fact, they had been bound to Mr Busby for six years.

On this afternoon the air was stifling in the mill, much worse than usual due to its being an exceptionally hot, muggy summer day. The children, some as young as six years old, were hard at work, all having been there from six o'clock that morning with only a half hour lunch break that had them eat a sandwich and swallow a tin cup of water before returning to their labours. Both the food and water were covered with cotton dust, but they ate and drank it because nothing else was offered.

They returned to work when the overseer blew his whistle, Tom taking up a station near his brother. The boys were working by the most dangerous portion of the machinery: the strapping which conveyed power from the main shaft to the various machines.

Less than half way through the afternoon, it happened: Tom was seized by the strap and carried up with lightning speed, first thrown like a rag doll against the ceiling, and then flung down on the floor below with such force that hardly a bone was left intact in his body.

His death was instant.

George saw it all, and immediately rushed to his brother's side. There was nothing he could do; the boy had seen such accidents before and no child had ever survived.

He knelt by Tom's poor broken body and wailed his grief, punctuated by the chronic cough that plagued so many of the children. The overseer quickly ordered another boy to help remove Tom's body from the building so that the work would not be interrupted.

As they carried Tom outside, George was kept from seeing by his tears as much as the sudden bright sunlight. Thus it was that he bumped into one of two men who were approaching the mill with Mr Busby.

Confused, he mumbled what may or may not have been an apology and braced himself for the inevitable lash of the whip. Instead the man reached out to steady him, then looked in shock and horror at the bloodied body being carried out, and said,

"Say there, son, I am sorry – I had not seen you."

"I am not your son," bristled George, so used to the harsh treatment handed out at the mill that he no longer recognized kindness when he heard it – especially not when he was still reeling from the sudden loss of his brother.

"Oh, yes, of course you are not. Pardon me, young man, what is your name then," the kind man asked.

"George Wickham is my name . . ." George suddenly remembered his manners from years ago and added a quick, "Sir."

There was a sharp intake of breath.

"George Wickham, do you say?"

"Yes, that is my name. "

Mr Busby thought this had gone on quite long enough, and the mangled body of young Tom did not make a good impression on the visitors that he had hoped would invest in his business and allow him to expand.

"Here, boy," he barked, "take him over to the shed and get yourself back to work."

Mr Busby did not know it, but he had just pushed one boy beyond his limits. As long as he had a younger brother to protect, George had taken all the abuse heaped on him quietly, although he seethed more often than not.

But there was no little brother to protect any more; his father had taken them away from his mother and the younger siblings, now Mr Busby's machinery had taken away the only family member left to him. George was no longer willing to tolerate abuse.

Before he could unleash the tirade that was about to descend upon Mr Busby, a hand was firmly clapped on his shoulder, and the same kind voice spoke once more.

"If your name is indeed George Wickham, then I am your uncle. Can you give me the names of any uncles of yours?"

"I will not ". . . George suddenly caught on to the kind man's words and stared at him in disbelief.

"Uncles," he repeated stupidly before a coughing fit seized him.

"Yes, George," the man said gently while Mr Busby became increasingly irritated at this scene, "Do you have any uncles? Can you remember?"

"Uncles . . . yes, I have uncles. Mother used to speak of them . . . "

"What was your mother's name, George? Do you remember?"

George finally had his brain in gear and replied, "Lydia."

The man nodded.

"And did your mother have sisters? Were they married?"

"My uncles . . . Darcy," he said slowly. "Bingley . . . "Another cough racked his small body.

"My Aunt Lizzy was married to Mr Darcy." George spoke more swiftly now, and more coherently. "And Mr Bingley – that's the one was married to my Aunt Jane.

"That's right, George. I am Charles Bingley, your uncle. We have been searching for you . . . "

Bingley hesitated. What he was about to say would not have been what the boy needed to hear.

" . . . for these three years," he finished lamely.

George gaped at him in disbelief.

Turning to the mill owner, Mr Bingley explained, "Pardon me, sir, but my wife's family have been searching for these boys since they disappeared three years ago."

He looked down at poor Tom's remains, blanched visibly, and continued, "It seems I am come too late for Tom, but I would like to release George here from the indenture in which you hold him. I will, of course reimburse you."

"I think not," declared Mr Busby angrily. "I took him in bond, proper and legal; there is nothing you can do about it until his time's up." He glared down at Tom and ordered once again, "Take him to the shed."

George did not move except to cough, and the other boy looked nervously around. He could hardly drag the body away by himself.

"Do I need the whip?" Busby barked.

George glared at him. "I doubt that you will whip me in front of my uncle, sir."

Mr Busby's eyes narrowed as they focused on the obstinate boy. He was not used to open revolt; the whip usually prevented the worst of that.

"I will deal with you later," he snapped, and called for an overseer to help take away the offending body that was already crawling with flies.

Bingley quickly conferred with his companion. They had come here at the other man's suggestion to invest in Mr Busby's successful business, but after what he had just seen, Bingley had completely lost interest.

Bingley then turned to his nephew. "George, I will do everything possible to get you out of here. Stay by my side, whatever happens."

The boy nodded. Seeing Mr Busby glare at him was incentive enough to stick very close to his newly-found uncle.

They entered the owner's quarters and negotiations began, punctuated by the boy's coughing.

Busby showed no particular interest in accommodating Bingley's wishes. As an investor the man was already lost to him; why bother treating him with kid gloves? This man was obviously a fool.

When Bingley would not relent, Busby demanded compensation for both boys.

While Bingley was not a man known for his temper, Busby's intransigence began to rile him.

"It was your machinery that killed my nephew," Bingley stated as calmly as he could manage. "You cannot blame that on me. If there's any blame, it would be the poor conditions in your factory."

"You have yet to set foot in the mill," Busby snarled. "How can you comment on the conditions in it?"

George's relentless cough provided sufficient commentary on the state of Busby's mill.

Bingley raised his brows. "I saw what is left of my other nephew," he said icily.

So it continued for four hours. George was so overcome with fatigue that he quietly slumped against the wall, slid down to the floor and fell asleep. Fortunately for him, Mr Busby was too irate to notice.

At seven the whistle blew, waking George and alerting the men to events beyond the room.

Without comment, Bingley got up, pulled George to his feet and they went out to see the children exit the mill and head towards the bunk house. Bingley saw the dirty rags they were wearing, and noticed how unhealthy they all looked. He took a closer look at his nephew; he didn't look particularly well, either.

"A pound per boy, Busby," he declared firmly. It's that, or I simply leave with George.

After heaping as much abuse on Bingley as he could get away with, Mr Busby reluctantly agreed, produced the indenture document and accepted his compensation. Bingley left with his nephew in the carriage that had long since returned for them and debated whether he should try to return home at this time of the evening or spend the night at a local inn.

Common sense won out, along with George's persistent cough, and the inn it was. Considering the shape George's clothes were in, they opted for supper in their room. Come morning George enjoyed a warm bath and the best breakfast in years, for not only was the food better than he'd had to get used to, he was fully awake after a good night's sleep. His uncle declared himself amazed that the boy was able to sleep at all, for the frequent coughing certainly prevented Bingley from enjoying a good rest.

Bingley found a mercantile and purchased a set of clothing to make George more presentable before bringing him to Swithers Grange. Jane would be upset if she saw the boy in the condition Bingley had found him. She would be upset as it was when she heard that nasty cough. While Bingley could not provide a quick solution for the boy's health, George at least would be decently if plainly dressed.

They were off to Swithers Grange, with young George enjoying the verdant scenery before he again dropped off to sleep. Bingley wrapped him in a blanket and eased him down on the seat for greater comfort, then observed Jane's nephew.

Young George Wickham did not look well.

His complexion was sallow, and he was small for his age, especially considering that both his parents had been rather taller than average. There wasn't an ounce of fat on the boy; Bingley would label him skinny rather than slim, and he had noticed a decided hunch in the way he carried himself. Also Bingley had noticed something odd about the way he walked – the boy seemed bow-legged and was possibly flat-footed as well.

When Bingley first spotted him coming out of the mill, George had appeared listless and dejected, which his uncle had put down to the sudden death of his brother just moments before. But apart from moments in which his face had lit up at the promise of a treat, the melancholy air had not left him.

A lone tear slipped down the man's cheek, quickly wiped away. He thought of his own beautiful little girls, happy, spirited, plump and rosy-cheeked, and had to feel gratitude for all that he was able to provide for them. Then there was regret and sorrow at the life this young boy asleep in his carriage had been forced to lead, culminating in the death of his little brother – a much-loved little brother, Bingley suspected – right before his eyes.

Again George coughed. Bingley planned to call for the doctor the moment they reached home.

As he knew would happen, Jane was distressed at what she saw and heard when they entered the house. Bingley explained as much as was needed immediately, asked that the boy be put up in a sickroom and ordered a servant to fetch the doctor.

A note was quickly dispatched to Darcy as well; at Pemberley they would also wish to know that Lydia's boys were found, although the news was bitter-sweet at best.

The boy was again given a warm, soothing bath before Jane put him to bed to await the doctor.

It was the next morning before the good doctor arrived. He had been called to a difficult delivery just before Bingley's note reached him, he explained, and could not have come any sooner.

He gave young Wickham a thorough examination, ordered a tonic, and wanted compresses placed on the boy's chest. Bed rest was ordered for a good part of each day, unless it was warm and sunny. In that case George was to be outdoors, sunbathing and resting before he returned to his sickbed.

Once he left the patient's room, Mr Bearn asked to speak to Mr and Mrs Bingley.

Ensconced in Bingley's study, Bearn began firing questions.

Where had the boy been? How did he come to be in this condition? Did they truly want him in their house? At this point the doctor could not be certain if the patient was contagious, so they might be risking their own family's health.

Bingley explained the circumstances, including a description of the other children he had observed filing out of the mill, and adding what George had told him about working and living conditions at Mr Busby's. The doctor was also informed about Tom's death, as mourning for his brother would likely have an impact on George's recovery as well.

Mr Bearn was familiar with such mills as Busby's and wished them to the . . . er, um, there was a lady present, so he never did complete that wish. He offered no argument with Bingley's description of the place; if that was where the boy had spent the last three years, his condition was no surprise.

One thing would be in the patient's favour, Bearn offered: if George had been strong and healthy when he began at the mill as an 8-year old, he had a better chance than children who were sent there already undernourished at age 6. There was hope, but they must expect a recovery to take time – a year easily and perhaps longer.

*

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Chapter 20

Darcy came the following morning, alone. He was taken to the sickroom and introduced to his nephew.
They chatted uneasily at first, neither quite knowing what to say.

"Your Aunt Elizabeth . . . and I . . . . were very sad . . . to . . . . .um . . . . hear about Tom's accident. We . . . are . . . very sorry."

George eyed him suspiciously.

"They'll never whip him again," he finally spat out.

Darcy blinked.

"Yes, of course."

There was silence in the room, except for the sounds of the song birds outside.

"Is it true that you stopped sending my mom money because you tired of Mrs Darcy?"

Shock was hardly strong enough a word to describe Darcy's reaction to this sudden attack.

"Tired of Mrs Darcy?" Unfathomable – how could he tire of Elizabeth?

"What makes you ask . . . such an odd question?"

"My father said . . . .when we had no money . . . "

Of course, thought Darcy. I should have known.

"And was your father a man whose word you trusted?"

George could not meet his gaze for any length of time before shaking his head and plucking nervously at his blanket.

"Then why believe such a charge?"

"Because we had no money – sometimes my mom could not even provide meals . . . "

Darcy nodded, calmed himself down and addressed the boy's charge.

"Your mother learned the truth of it, George, but that was after . . . after your father took you away."

The boy still looked resentful.

"I did not send money directly to your mother because I suspected that she would not always get to keep it. Between your father's commanding officer and myself was an arrangement: I sent the money to the colonel, he passed it on to your mother."

Unfortunately your father eventually found a way around that system, too. He threatened the messenger with dire consequences if the money was not turned over to him, and the boy did just that instead of following Colonel Cleland's directions."

Darcy debated how much detail to reveal to his nephew, and finally decided there was nothing to be gained by withholding the truth.

"Only after your father went missing from his regiment did the colonel begin to look into things more closely, and came to realize that your mother was, indeed, living in straightened circumstances – something that was completely uncalled for, considering the amount of money that should have been hers.

"Your father managed also to take possession of letters that were intended for your mother – letters from Mrs Bingley, for example, and from Mr Bennet."

"What did he do with all that money?"

Darcy hesitated again.

"Has Mr Bingley not told you any of this? Has he not mentioned your father's trunk?"

"No. I know nothing about a trunk."

It was going to be a long visit.

Darcy settled in to provide all the details he had been acquainted with after the boy's father was killed; from the time they realized that the entire Wickham family was missing until Mr Johnson and Mr Hadley concluded their investigation in Newcastle – he revealed it all, punctuated again by George's coughing.

"He was going to leave us all and go to a colony?"

"He was – and that was just the start of it."

Then he told his nephew what was found in the sides and bottom of the trunk once it was at Pemberley, and related all the information they had gleaned from Mr Bellew.

George did not understand it all, Darcy could tell, and a lengthy explanation followed as to how the Bank of England printed its bank notes. Gradually George began to understand the extent of his father's villainy: robbing his wife and children, robbing the bank, robbing travellers on the road – and everything to enable himself and himself only to live the life of a wealthy man in a far-away colony.

Again there was silence in the room, with only distant sounds of the household and the song birds outside coming to their ears.

"Do you . . . do you have any questions? Darcy asked, hoping desperately that the boy did. What else could they talk about after all this? And where was Elizabeth when he needed her?

"Questions? What else is there?"

This was not going well, Darcy grumbled to himself. At last, inspiration struck, and he began, "Would you like to know about your cousins – those at Pemberley?"

George hesitated, then nodded. Why not, he thought.

Darcy came to life as he spoke of his children.

"There is Bennet, our oldest. He is 10, Jonathan is 8, and Edward, 5. Three months ago we had a little girl: Emma. The boys are very pleased to have a little sister at last, and I am afraid they shall spoil her dreadfully."

George said nothing, just looked at him.

"Bennet is doing very well with his studies, as is Jonathan. Edward, though, shows little interest in books and much prefers the outdoors. Whenever I have to tour the estate or visit tenants, Edward begs to join me. "

The boy in the bed continued to just look at him, and Darcy was tempted to squirm in his chair. Only the strict regulation under which he habitually kept himself prevented it.

A thought came to him.

"George, have you ever been taught to read?"

"Read? No, never."

Darcy sighed and shook his head. Trust the boy's father to neglect even that, he thought.

"Should you like to?"

"Why?"

Good grief," thought his uncle. Why? What a question.

Carefully he began an explanation of the pleasures of reading, of the way literature opened new horizons and allowed armchair travelling for the homebound, whether it was health, age, war or lack of money that prevented travel.

There was no reason to believe that he had made an impression on his nephew.

"Once you are grown," he tried again, "being able to read and write opens possibilities that the illiterate could not even dream of. There are many professions open to an educated man."

"Like robbing people?"

Darcy was becoming increasingly frustrated. What was he to do with this youngster?

"It will be some months before you are recovered," he pointed out. "What will you do in this room all that time? Shall you not be bored?"

At last there was a flicker of interest. George looked around the pleasant room, certainly a step up from any he had ever slept in before.

"What do you suggest I do?"

"Learn to read," was the prompt answer. "There is no reason why a teacher cannot come to you for two or three hours a day and start you off with learning your alphabet and basic reading skills. Reading will help you pass the time while you are laid up, give you interesting thoughts to focus on. Then, when you are older, you could attempt a real education, perhaps learn other languages . . . or other useful skills."

"Where will I find this teacher?"

"Shall we ask Mr Bingley?"

So began the education of young George Wickham. As the weeks passed and the boy slowly gained a bit of strength, he had to admit that it would be awfully boring to just lie abed with not a thing to do. Certainly his aunt and uncle visited him daily, but they had other responsibilities and could only stay a few minutes at a time.

A young man was found who had left Cambridge without completing his studies because of financial troubles in the family. He came by daily, alternating the lesson plan between writing the letters of the alphabet on a slate, learning to sound out words, and reading a variety of stories and travel accounts to George in an attempt to stimulate his interest in books.

Improvement was slow, but there was improvement.

Mr Bearn stopped in weekly to see how his patient was progressing. Initially he had been pleased, as George perked up and showed a little more enthusiasm for life. He even put on a little weight – a very little.

But the cough was relentless, and that worried the doctor. After the first few weeks, there was no more improvement in the boy's health.

Chapter 21

One autumn day it was warm enough for George to spend time out of doors. He was frowning over some lines his teacher had written out for him to decipher when a shadow fell over his paper, and he looked up to see a boy near his own age standing beside him.

"Hello," the visitor said. "My name is Bennet Darcy. You must be George Wickham."

"I am," George replied cautiously. "But I thought my cousins were not allowed near me."

Bennet grinned. "Since you are out of doors, my father gave permission."

George smirked.

"You're agest to speak to me without your father's permission? You've gotta have a few apartments to let."

Bennet's smile faltered.

"My father takes very good care of us all," he declared. "I have the greatest respect for him."

"That's a bang-up Banbury tale," George sneered. "I don't believe a word of it."

Bennet raised himself to his full height and replied forcefully, "My father is an honorable man. He deserves my respect – and yours, too, for that matter."

George stared at him briefly, shrugged his shoulders in dismissal and returned to the paper in front of him.

Bennet hesitated, then offered, "I wondered if you would like a game of chess?"

George looked up, undecided whether he should be annoyed at the continuing interruption or curious as to what "chess" was.

But he had been bored of late, and the company of someone his age was a novelty at the Bingleys'. Curiosity won the day.

"What's chess?" he wanted to know.

Bennet grinned.

"My father warned me that you might not know, but he thinks you would learn the game quickly and that you would enjoy it once you did."

"And why would your father be convinced that I would not know it?" George sneered again.

"Father says that your mother never learned, and he thought that your father did not spend enough time at home to teach you."

"My father taught me nothing."

The anger in George's voice could not be missed.

After a moment he asked? "Does your mother play this?"

Bennet's face lit up. "Oh, yes. Mother is one of very few women who knows the game of chess. Usually it is considered a man's game, but since my grandfather Bennet had no sons, he taught the game to his brightest daughter – that being mother."

George found it hard to resist another smirk.

"My, my. Two perfect parents."

After a moment's silence, Bennet asked again, "Shall we try? Or do you know another game?"

George put his paper down and agreed, though with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"I'll get the board," and Bennet retreated to the house, his cousin's eyes following him until he was out of sight. Soon he was back, carrying a wooden box and accompanied by servants carrying two folding chairs and a small table.

Everything was set up in the shade near George, and Bennet asked if he minded moving from his lounge to a chair, as that made it easier to reach his pieces.

George was not about to admit that he had no idea what these "pieces" might be that he was supposed to reach, nor was he willing to admit to any enthusiasm, but he moved to a chair and watched as Bennet opened the box, removed little figures in two colours and then set the opened box on the table.

"That will be our board," he told George. "It's a travelling set, and a good thing we thought to bring it along because Uncle Charles does not remember where his set is. He doesn't use it very often."

"Why not?"

"Aunt Jane does not play, my father always beats him, my grandfather always wins as well . . . and I suppose other visitors are seldom invited to play." Cheerfully, Bennet concluded, "I imagine Uncle Charles is not especially fond of chess."

George said nothing.

Would you like to play black or white?"

"What difference does it make?"

"None at all. Each player picks a colour, and plays the pieces of that colour."

George eyed the board suspiciously.

"Black," he said.

Bennet set up the board for their game and started to instruct his cousin in the basic aspects of chess. For a couple of hours the boys were quietly occupied, then Darcy came looking for his son.

He watched for a moment, then leaned close and suggested a move to George. Immediately suspicious, George snapped, "I suppose you'll plan his moves, too?"

Darcy laughed.

"Certainly not. I taught him to play when he was all of seven. By now he's supposed to know enough to hold his own. If he loses a game, he can learn from the experience."

"Are you referring to the game I lost to mother last week?" asked Bennet without sounding the least bit upset.

"Perhaps." Only the slightest hint of a smile played around his father's lips.

"I am afraid we have to leave, son. Your mother expects us for dinner, and we do not want to keep her waiting."

"Shall we leave the set here, father?"

"There is no need, Bennet. We had only to ask Mrs Gambert – she produced your uncle's set right away. I believe that it is already in George's room."

They said their farewells, and the Darcys left Swithers Grange behind.

"How did your visit go?" Darcy asked his oldest.

"It was a little difficult at first," Bennet admitted. "Then once we started the game, George was too busy learning and asking questions to be hostile. I believe it went well."

Darcy nodded thoughtfully.

"If your cousin continues to improve, you may visit him from time to time, as your schedule allows. But, Bennet, please understand: it is not at all certain that George will improve."

Bennet looked serious. "Do you mean, father, that he will always be too weak to be active?"

Darcy sighed. "That is not precisely what I meant, Bennet. We have to be prepared for the possibility that George may not survive."

His uncle's words proved prophetic. On the 19th day of January, in the year of our Lord 1826, George Wickham jr., eldest son of George Wickham and Lydia, nee Bennet, breathed his last at Swithers Grange, age 12.

R.I.P.

The End