North by Northanger

Twenty-Five

Darcy waited impatiently in the corner of the Boar’s Head common room. He had been informed that the inn was a popular gathering place for officers stationed in Newcastle, and that it enjoyed the patronage of one soldier of particular interest to him. Mr. Wickham had not yet entered the public house, but Darcy had been assured that his eventual arrival could be relied upon with a measure of certainty normally reserved for death and the likelihood of fog in London.

He might have saved himself wasted time by contacting Wickham to arrange a meeting, but Darcy wanted the advantage of surprise. Anticipation would allow the scoundrel to prepare his natural defenses — a scheming mind and forked tongue — before the interview. Better to catch him unawares if Darcy hoped to extract anything resembling truth.

And so he sat, slowly consuming a half-pint and watching the door. The room had been three-quarters empty upon his arrival, but had gradually crowded with redcoats who kept the young barmaid steadily occupied with ensuring their tankards never ran dry. She had a familiarness about her that Darcy attributed to her occupation — it often seemed that the same server waited upon the same patrons at every inn and tavern in England. If he had not seen her before, he had seen another girl like her, just as he had seen the officer whose mug she now filled.

At last, Mr. Wickham sauntered in, to a chorus of salutations. He approached a group of officers standing near the bar and immediately joined their jocular conversation. The barmaid also greeted him, offering a pint. Before she could deliver his beverage, Darcy approached from behind.

“Mr. Wickham.”

Wickham turned around. His face registered astonishment upon finding Darcy behind him.

“Mr. Darcy!” He recovered himself and continued smoothly, “What business brings you to Newcastle?”

The barmaid gave Wickham his tankard, placing a hand on his arm as she did so. Darcy’s gaze followed her as she walked away. He was reminded of the incident with the housemaid when Wickham had last intruded at Pemberley. He looked at Wickham pointedly. “I came to see how Lydia’s husband conducts himself.”

Wickham chuckled. “Most faithfully, I assure you. Can I help it if the ladies wish otherwise?”

Yes, he could help it. The worthless scapegrace could help a great many things. “I would have a word with you.”

Wickham took Darcy’s measure, his gaze sweeping Darcy from the brim of his hat to the tip of his walking stick, upon which it seemed to linger an overlong time until he finally met Darcy’s eyes once more.

“And which word would that be?”

“One I prefer to speak in private, if your comrades would excuse us.” He acknowledged Wickham’s companions with a slight bow.

“Why, Fitz, you intrigue me.” He studied Darcy’s face, but Darcy maintained his impassive expression despite the scrutiny and the baiting address. “Very well,” he said finally. “Meg? Might I use the back room to confer with my brother?”

Darcy inwardly flinched at the word “brother,” but betrayed no outward sign of the very response he knew Wickham had intended to provoke. The barmaid called back her consent and they stepped into a small area between the common room and the kitchen. It was empty of people, although through the doorway Darcy could see another girl, younger than Meg, stirring a pot. The din of the common room was slightly muted here, but still burbled steadily.

Wickham tossed back a swallow of ale and grinned. “Well?”

Darcy, abhorring the necessity of holding this interview with Wickham at all, did not prolong it with preliminaries. “Do you recall the day my sister was born?”

He smirked. “Which one?”

Darcy could not believe even Wickham had the effrontery to allude to his siblings who had not survived their own birth. He did not dignify the question with a response. “That day, you and I discovered a strongbox in the summerhouse of my mother’s garden.”

“Ah, yes — I recall that despite my reluctance to disturb the box, you were quite interested in proving your cleverness with locks.”

“We have no audience, Wickham. And therefore no need to recast events in light more favorable to you. We both know what transpired.”

He shrugged. “Apparently, our memories differ.”

“After we restored the box to the summerhouse, did you ever return for it?”

“Now, why would I do such a thing? It was not mine, after all.”

Darcy stopped speaking. Silence had the power to create discomfort, and could often provoke a response more effectively than words. Instead, he stared unwaveringly into Wickham’s eyes.

Wickham tried to match his gaze. But the obvious effort required revealed to Darcy the answer he sought.

“You did return,” Darcy said.

Wickham shifted his eyes, looking off toward the common room.

“What did you do with the box? Where is it now?”

“Damned if I know!” He finally returned his gaze to Darcy. “Yes, I went back. I planned to try my luck with the lock once more, and break it if I could not determine the combination. But as I was leaving the summerhouse, that old crosspatch Flynn came upon me. He gave me a wigging and took the box.” He shrugged. “I do not know what happened to it after that. I sneaked back into the summerhouse a few times, but never found it in its place again. The old man probably stole it for himself.”

He took another swig from his tankard and studied Darcy’s countenance. “Why these questions now, Darcy? That box, whatever happened to it, is long gone.”

“Yes, it is.” If Mr. Flynn confiscated the strongbox, Darcy trusted that the gardener had disposed of it responsibly. When he returned to Pemberley, he had only to ask the longtime servant its whereabouts. Wickham, however, did not need to know anything further about the matter.

Wickham drained his mug. “My tankard is dry. Have we finished reminiscing?”

“Indeed. We have quite done.”

Darcy’s gaze followed Wickham as he strolled through the doorway to the common room, threaded his way though the crowd to rejoin his comrades, and accepted another pint from the accommodating Meg. He did not wish to witness more. What he did not know about Lydia’s husband, he would not have to withhold from Elizabeth.

The kitchen girl passed through, balancing three steaming bowls of a mixture his nose guessed to be mutton stew. Darcy started to make his exit behind her. As she reached the doorway to the common room, he looked past her to see the inn’s outside door admit yet another person into the close quarters. A woman whose appearance so startled him that he gasped.

Dorothy.

No sooner did he identify Northanger Abbey’s false housekeeper than she, happening to glance his way, caught sight of him. Her eyes widened in recognition.

He hastened to get around the kitchen girl, but she, oblivious to his urgency, blocked his path. Dorothy turned and fled out the door.

Just as the serving girl cleared the doorway, one of the patrons roguishly slapped her backside. The unanticipated prank caused her to drop the pewter bowls. Hot gravy and chunks of overcooked vegetables splattered across the floor.

By the time he got around the mess and stepped outside, he found exactly what he expected.

Dorothy was gone.