A Continued Affection

Part 8

There was chaos all around him, but Wickham took no notice. His attention was fixed on the blank sheet of paper before him and his pen, which he had perfected the habit of lifting from its rest, holding it an inch above his paper, before scowling and returning it to where it began.

"What's wrong, Wickham?" Denny asked, cheerfully navigating the rowdy interior of the inn with two drinks. He set one down before his friend and, not waiting for an invitation, sat alongside him. "Tell me you are not working! We have been given respite this afternoon. Be a sensible fellow and attend to what matters at present: drinking!"

He punctuated his words with a hearty swig from his glass, but his eyes narrowed when Wickham did not do likewise. He regarded his friend with curiosity before his expression relaxed into the smile he so often favoured.

"I see how it is."

"How what is?" Wickham did not look up from his page. He had the words so nearly right in his head that he feared any distraction would chase them away again, making a waste of the hour he had already devoted to this fruitless task.

"You attempt to write a letter."

"Your powers of deduction are startling, Denny. You ought to consider a career in the regiment."

Denny laughed, taking a noisy sip of his drink.

"Well, who do you write to?" He leaned closer, batting his eyelashes at Wickham in feigned femininity that would have been amusing, were Wickham's attentions not focused elsewhere at present. "A young lady?"

Wickham grimaced, not intending to dignify his friend's teasing with an answer, but finding his reaction enough of one that it merely encouraged him further.

"Not a young lady." Denny set down his drink, turning in his seat so that he might all the better observe his friend. "An older lady? Yes, indeed! You write to your Mama, telling her all of your daring deeds."

Wickham drew in a long, weary sigh, and set down his pen for the final time. He would have even less success with an audience than he had had alone. He shuffled the papers, folding them and stowing them out of sight in the breast-pocket of his coat.

"My mother is dead," he reminded Denny, reaching for the drink his friend had brought him and deciding, if he must be kept from his tasks, he may as well profit from the distraction. "My father too, before you shift your supposition there."

"Oh." Denny looked crestfallen, before turning back to the suggestion he had abandoned at first. "Perhaps it is a young lady, then. Tell me, what is her name?"

Wickham said nothing, which seemed to infuriate poor Denny more. He began to redden with frustration at his usually talkative friend's reticence.

"It is Miss Kitty, isn't it? Or Miss Lydia? I call it unfair, Wickham, for you know I had my sights set on either of them and now you swoop in and steal them...."

"I have stolen no-one," Wickham said, his voice smooth. "Calm yourself, Denny. I certainly do not wish to come to blows over a young lady I care nothing for. I am quite sure Miss Kitty is true to you." He paused, unable to resist the slight upturn of a smirk on his thin lips. "Miss Lydia, I confess, you may have lost before you ever had her. She is too inclined to find friends wherever she goes..."

"And she has gone to London!" Denny murmured, the futility of the situation striking him afresh. "They are all gone to London!"

"All?" Wickham paused, his glass halfway to his lips. This was not news. Is all of Hertfordshire left for London? He mused, recalling Trenholme's desertion and Netherfield's emptiness. Georgiana, too, would be in London by now, reunited with her brother and doubtless talking at length over his misdeeds. He set down his glass without drinking from it and turned to face Denny with more clarity. His friend's despair was evident in the destruction he had wrought on his fair hair, rumpling it quite dramatically with his free hand.

"Miss Lydia told me herself, the last time we met. Quite delighted she was, too, about all the people she would meet and the assemblies she would attend." He moaned. "I ought to have spoken, you think? Secured her promise - something! - before she left?"

"Lydia's?" Wickham could not help but smirk at the notion that any young man - particularly one as noble and simple and good-hearted as Denny could ever extract any promise worth having from cunning, clever Lydia Bennet. Now was not the time to mock his friend, however, for Denny's despair seemed genuine. He clapped a hand on his shoulder, prompting him to look up. Wickham did all he could to moderate his tone, to speak gently, if truthfully, and spare his friend any more self-deceit.

"I think it likely, Denny, that Lydia Bennet would not have given any such assurances, even had you sought them. She has raised the hopes of many of our friends and dashed them just as surely." His smile grew as Denny's fell and he urged him on. "But her sister? Kitty, I am sure, is much more within your reach. I suggest, upon their return from London, you seek to do all you can to ally with her, and be happy."

Denny frowned, considering this piece of advice, and the gentleman who offered it. Wickham rather liked the role of sage advisor he often fell into amongst his younger, more impressionable comrades. It pleased him to be thought wise, and in the matter of young ladies, he certainly considered that he was. His expression faltered and he fell to wondering how it was that a gentleman of such wisdom as he could thus perpetually find himself in so many unfortunate scrapes. Georgiana Darcy's face - the look of absolute disgust she had fixed upon him when they met at Netherfield - swam before him once more and he blinked to clear the image, so distracted that he did not realise Denny had begun to speak again.

"What was that?" he asked, reaching for his glass and downing half of its contents at once as he listened.

"I wonder if it is not worth taking a visit to London myself, Wickham. I have leave coming up and it would not be a long errand. I suppose I could spend a day or two there, and if Lydia saw how I cared to see her again..."

"You plan to go to London?" Wickham's voice grew sharp, his heart rapping a tattoo in his chest. I do not care to see all of my enemies gathered in one place, he thought, anxiety spiking in his blood. On the other hand, if I am truly determined to make amends, perhaps all at once is the best way to do it...

Another thought occurred to him and his hand stole to his breast. He was no great writer. That was what had kept him bent fruitlessly over pen and paper all afternoon. But if he could deliver his speech in person - yes, that would surely have more effect. He wished to have his plea heard, after all, and the answer to rule in his favour. Was he not far better at persuading people in person than by letter?

Even if the person despises me quite as openly as his cousin does?

Colonel Fitzwilliam had less cause to keep Wickham onside, as Darcy did, but he possessed a power Darcy did not. He could help Wickham's career advance. His smile lifted into what, on a less handsome face, would be a grimace. And he might rather approve of sending me into harm's way. He swallowed, devoting half a moment to how he might pitch the idea to Denny, but found he scarcely needed to.

"I think a visit to London might be just what is needed, Denny, for us both. What say you to us travelling there together tomorrow?