The Three Colonels

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.”