Chapter Nineteen Back to Previous Chapter The postilion knew his business; he guided the horses through the busy streets of London at a smart pace, finally drawing to a smooth stop in front of Grillon's Hotel. Mr. Gardiner paid the post-boy as a servant conducted Henry to the coffee-room, where Mr. Bennet sat with a pot of tea and a newspaper. Mr. Bennet glanced up at his son with all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure. "Well, Henry, I see we have torn you from the comforts of wedded life, and travelling on a Sunday as well! You shall be thoroughly debauched before we have done with you. Fear not, your bishop shall not hear of this from me." Henry was not in a mood to be amused. "Why did you not write to me, Father? I would have come to you directly." "Aye, I should have. I would have, eventually." Despite Mr. Bennet's sardonic smile, his eyes were weary. "I am not a good letter-writer, you know." Henry smiled in spite of himself. "Yes, I know." "Well, sit down. Give you good morrow, Edward," he added as Mr. Gardiner joined them. "Will you take a cup?" "I have told the post-boy to wait, Tom," said Mr. Gardiner. "Can I persuade you to come to Gracechurch-street? You will undoubtedly be more comfortable there." "I dare say I should. I would be even more comfortable in my own library, but I have given up all the well-earned comforts of old age to chase after my prodigal offspring." "Allow me to relieve you, sir," said Henry, taking his father's hand affectionately. "Return to Longbourn, where you may be as comfortable as you like, and allow me to perform my filial duty." Mr. Bennet smiled and patted Henry's hand comfortably. "You are a good boy, Henry. It is well that I did not have the raising of you. Your understanding of duty may not then have been so nice." "Do not speak so, Father." "No, no. We both know the truth, son. This sad business has been my own doing." "I will not allow you to blame yourself entirely, sir. I am quite certain that Lydia knew better than to run away from Brighton." "On the contrary; Lydia was always quite capable of performing whatever ill-advised action took her fancy at a particular moment. I should never have let her go to Brighton. Lizzy told me months ago that there would be a sad end to it. She is a better parent than I. No, Henry, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough." Henry bowed his head, unable to say any more. "Well, if you are determined to stay in town, then at least come to Gracechurch-street," urged Mr. Gardiner. "That way, we will all be under the same roof, and can more easily coordinate our plan to find Lydia." "You see?" Mr. Bennet asked Henry, nodding to his brother. "Edward, here, was not allowed to idle away his time in learning dead languages and history like you and I. He is a man of business who has made his way in the world; nothing has been handed to him. He understands how to set himself a task and accomplish it in an organized fashion. You are by far better off with him than with me as a field general. However, sit down, both of you, and we will determine precisely where we stand." "Not here, Tom," said Mr. Gardiner. "The chaise is waiting. Have your man get your things together and bring them round later." Mr. Bennet knew that he was defeated; he said only, "Very well," and followed the other men out to the chaise. The Gardiners' housekeeper was one of those rare and valuable creatures who, even upon very short notice, can contrive an excellent meal for three gentlemen who are weary in both body and spirit. There was no more conversation than necessary throughout the meal; but at last the table was cleared, the servants withdrew, and the gentlemen were left alone in the dining-room with a bottle of very good port. Henry poured a generous glassful and pushed the bottle across the table to his father. "Have you been able to discover anything about Lydia's whereabouts, sir?" "I have not." Mr. Bennet tasted the port. "This is very good, Edward, very good indeed. Will you put me in the way of a few dozen bottles?" "Alas, Tom, I have only a dozen or so left; however, I will give you the name of the merchant who provided it. Even if he has none of this particular label, I dare say he can accommodate you with something of equal quality." Mr. Gardiner smiled wryly. "He has connections along the coast whose talents bring much attention from the excisemen." "Very good, very good." Mr. Bennet sipped the port again. Henry, impatient with his father's dance around the subject of Lydia's elopement, said, "I beg your indulgence, sir. Do have the goodness to tell me if you have learned anything of my sister's situation." "I am astonished that they did not teach you the virtue of patience at Oxford, son. However, your curiosity is natural, and I shall satisfy it." He took another sip. "I have been to Clapham and Epsom, and was unable to gain any satisfactory information. We must, however, go on with the search. I have an idea that I might inquire at the principal hotels here in town. It is possible that they might have gone to one of them before they procured lodgings." Mr. Gardiner looked doubtful that the scheme would be successful, but he said, "I will be honoured to assist you in your endeavour. I will write to Colonel Forster, as well. Perhaps he will know whether Wickham has any connections who know of a location in town where he might have concealed himself." "It is to be hoped that Colonel Forster will be able to assist us," said Mr. Bennet reflectively. "Otherwise, we have nothing to guide us." Mr. Gardiner finished his port and rose. "I promised my wife that I would write to her when we arrived." Henry and Mr. Bennet went into the drawing-room. The housekeeper was on the alert, and soon brought out coffee. When she was gone, Mr. Bennet looked at his son keenly. "Well, Henry, tell me how the rest of the family goes on. I dare say your stepmamma has taken a fit of the vapours." "I understand that Mrs. Bennet does not venture from her apartment, sir. She suffers from, I believe the actual words she used were 'tremblings and flutterings,' and told me that at all costs, I must prevent you from fighting a duel with Wickham." "Mrs. Bennet's fears, as usual, are quite groundless. Dueling is a young man's game, and I am no longer a young man." His penetrating gaze rested upon Henry. "I hope that you have not considered such misplaced gallantry, son." "Certainly I considered it," said Henry quietly. "Did not you?" "There will be no dueling," his father said sternly. "Do I make myself clear?" "Such a command is appreciated, but unnecessary," said Henry with a smile. "Catherine has already had my promise." "That is well. If you will not listen to me, then I dare say you will listen to your wife." "Then what are we to do, Father? Even if we find them, how are we to make them marry? If Wickham intended marriage, he would have taken Lydia to Scotland. He cannot be a mere fortune-hunter, for Lydia has no fortune." "Indeed," said Mr. Bennet, stirring his coffee. "Wickham had his sights on the King chit, and her ten thousand pounds, yet he eloped with Lydia. I do not think that he ever intended to marry her." "Perhaps if we were able to give him something--enough for his present relief, and a sum in trust to provide ongoing support--he can be persuaded to be honourable." "I have nothing to give him," said Mr. Bennet. "And I do not think that such a one as Wickham will be satisfied with a small annuity." Henry rose and paced the room restlessly. "I have some money," he said finally. "I received an inheritance from my foster mother. However, I settled a large sum on Catherine when we married. It is in trust, and provides an annual amount for her personal expenses, and will go to our children in time." He stood in front of the fireplace, staring morosely at the empty grate. "I should have kept some of it in reserve for just such a circumstance as this. Catherine would have been well provided for with half as much." Mr. Bennet spoke sharply. "Never censure yourself for being generous to those you love. You will have a family soon enough, and your present income should not be reduced. When the entailment was broken, we decided that some of the estate's assets would be liquidated upon my death to provide daughter's shares for your sisters. Instead, I will dispose of them now, and use the money to buy off Wickham. We can contrive something else for the other girls." "They deserve an equal share," said Henry fiercely. "And you should not be deprived of the income to which you are accustomed during your lifetime, solely to allow Wickham to continue his dissipated ways. No, there must be another way, sir." "I cannot think of one, Henry. In any event, it is all moot until we find Wickham and call him upon the carpet." "I can only hope that Lydia is still with him, and that he has not abandoned her." "In such a circumstance Lydia would have written to her family. She is young, and must have someone to depend upon." Henry said bitterly, "Lydia will never be able to depend upon her husband, sir." "No, she will not." Mr. Bennet rose and placed his cup upon the table. "She must instead depend upon her family." He placed his hand upon Henry's shoulder and squeezed gently. "And her family must depend upon one another." Henry hated London in the summer. The heat lay in a suffocating blanket over the city, and the mingled odours of man, beast, and their combined offal, trapped between tightly-packed buildings, rendered the air supremely foul. He longed for the quiet of a garden thick with the perfume of summer flowers. He longed for the bubbling music of a river, swirling round his legs as he cast for trout. He longed for the simple joys of summer in the countryside. Most of all, he longed for Catherine. She wrote every day, faithfully reporting the activities of the inmates of Longbourn. Mrs. Bennet was still prostrate, waited upon by Jane and Elizabeth. Catherine was attending to the greater part of the housekeeping, since Mrs. Bennet had not the heart for it, and her daughters had not the time or inclination. Mrs. Philips visited daily, bringing bits of gossip from Meryton, where Wickham had been proclaimed the wickedest young man in the world, and where tales of his debts and intrigues were the talk of the place where only a few months before he had been considered almost an angel of light. Henry's sisters sent their best love, and begged for even the slightest scrap of intelligence about Lydia. It was a request contained in every letter, and one that Henry had thus far been unable to honour. The search for Lydia was now at an utter halt. After a few days of futile inquiries among the hotels in town, Mr. Bennet was forced to abandon his scheme. The arrival of a letter from Colonel Forster raised their hopes briefly, though its contents quickly dashed them. The Colonel had been unable to discover that Wickham had a single relation with whom he kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any of them. In the wretched state of his own finances there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him, to a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear Wickham's expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in the town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Henry could not allow himself to be surprised at the revelations contained in the letter. His upbringing had made him intimately familiar with the activities of military men, both respectable and otherwise. Henry still held out hope that Darcy's inquiries had been fruitful, but when nearly a week passed with no word, he was unable to depend upon help from that quarter. He wrote to his foster brother in Northampton, asking for letters of introduction to Captain Tilney's military acquaintance in London. It was strictly a last resort; Captain Tilney did not associate with the militia, and a common acquaintance with the likes of a George Wickham was not to be expected. Mrs. Gardiner wrote that she wished to bring the children home, and Henry was able to persuade Mr. Bennet to meet her carriage halfway and use it to return to Longbourn. When they had seen him off in a post-chaise, Mr. Gardiner went to his warehouses on business, leaving word that he would return to receive his family around dinner-time. Henry was in the drawing-room writing a letter to Catherine's when his thoughts were interrupted by the bell. A moment later, the housekeeper came into the room. "Mr. Tilney," she said, "there's a messenger here for you. He says he's to deliver a letter into your hands and wait for an answer." Henry's first thought was that the letter was from Lydia, or even from Wickham, and he eagerly followed the housekeeper to the entranceway. He instantly recognized the messenger's livery, even before he recognized the hand on the direction. "You brought this all the way from Derbyshire?" he asked the lackey, wondering why Darcy had not simply used the post. "No, sir," said the servant respectfully. "From Mayfair." Henry was all astonishment. "Mr. Darcy is in town?" "Yes, sir." Henry carried the letter back into the drawing-room, consumed by a great curiosity. He shut the door, broke the seal on the letter, and opened it. It proved to be short and to the point. Tilney, I have discovered the whereabouts of Wickham and your sister. I would speak with you before I reveal their directions. Meet me at White's at three o'clock today. F. Darcy Henry pulled out his watch; it was a little before two. Likely Mr. Gardiner would not have returned in time, but such intelligence should not be delayed. Thus, at precisely three o'clock, Henry entered the venerable old club on St. James's Street. He was not a member, but when he asked for Mr. Darcy, he was immediately conducted to a small private parlour. "Well met, Darcy," said Henry, shaking his friend's hand. "You must have caused quite a scandal, allowing yourself to be seen in town so late in the summer!" Darcy smiled. "I am glad to see that you have retained your sense of humour." "Only with great exertion, I assure you." He accepted a glass of wine from a hovering servant. Darcy dismissed the servant, and did not speak again until the door was shut and they were alone. "As I said in my note, I have discovered your sister's whereabouts. She is still with Wickham." "Are they in town?" "They are. But before I give you the direction, you will tell me how you shall act when you see Wickham." "I do not really know," Henry admitted. "We have been consumed with finding Lydia, and will act according to the circumstances when they are known." He looked up at Darcy and added with a smile, "I shall not call out Wickham, if that is your concern. Catherine exacted a promise that I would not fight him." "Women are wiser about such matters than we men." "Indeed." Henry sighed. "When I first learned of the elopement, I was nearly blind with anger. I do not know if I was angrier with my sister or with Wickham. Lydia left a note for Mrs. Forster saying that they were going to Scotland, so she thought Wickham's intentions were honourable. Still, she knows better than to conduct a marriage in such a back-door fashion!" "Does she?" asked Darcy mildly. "Romantic young ladies can be powerfully swayed by love, or what they perceive as love." Henry looked at Darcy doubtfully. "I never thought to hear you defending Lydia's waywardness." "Her behaviour was wrong; that does not admit of a doubt. But as I said to your wife, Lydia would not be the first young girl that Wickham has beguiled." There was something in his expression that gave the words new meaning. Comprehension dawned ominously. "Darcy, you do not mean--Georgiana?" Darcy did not speak for a long moment. Finally he said, "About a year ago, Georgiana was at a young ladies' seminary in town. She suffered an illness, an inflammation of the lungs, in the winter; when the spring came, I removed her from the school and formed an establishment for her in town with a Mrs. Younge to be her companion. Georgiana was still pale and thin, and it was thought that sea-bathing would be beneficial to her health, so I arranged for her to make a stay at Ramsgate, in the company of Mrs. Younge." He poured another glass of wine. "I should have gone with her myself." "What happened in Ramsgate?" Henry asked gently. "Wickham went there as well, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge. We were most unhappily deceived as to her character." Darcy took a sip of wine. The recitation was clearly painful to him, but he continued. "Wickham was able to recommend himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child. She was persuaded to believe herself in love, though Wickham was concerned only with her fortune, and perhaps with revenge upon me. Providentially, I went to Ramsgate a day or two before they meant to elope and Georgiana acknowledged the whole to me." Henry smiled. "I am pleased to hear it. Georgiana always had a high regard for you. Nonetheless, I can imagine what you felt." "Indeed. There was no lasting harm done; nevertheless, I had no intention of exposing my sister to public censure. I wrote to Wickham, and he left Ramsgate immediately. Mrs. Younge, of course, was turned off at once. No one knows of the affair, save those involved, and your sister Elizabeth." Henry raised his eyebrows. "You told Lizzy of this?" "Yes, in defense of the charges falsely levelled against me by Wickham. I have every confidence in her discretion, though I dare say she has told Jane." "Jane would never betray such a confidence." Henry sighed. "I can only wish that Lydia had as much sense as Georgiana, and realized her mistake even at the last moment." "They are both young and romantic. In such a case, good sense is not always at command." Humour quirked the corners of Darcy's mouth. Henry forced a laugh. "You are correct. So tell me: how did you discover Wickham's whereabouts?" "While Mrs. Younge was still in my employ, I took on her young cousin as a scullery maid at Pemberley. The girl was a satisfactory employee, and there was no reason to turn her off after the unfortunate incident at Ramsgate. From her, I was able to learn that Mrs. Younge had taken a large house in Edward-street and was letting lodgings. I went to that house when I arrived in town, thinking that perhaps Wickham had taken up residence there. This turned out not to be the case, though Mrs. Younge had seen Wickham since he came to town and knew of his whereabouts. By much persistence and the liberal application of guineas, I at last ascertained the necessary intelligence." He handed Henry a folded piece of paper. "According to Mrs. Younge, Lydia is living there with Wickham." Henry took the paper, but did not move. "I will go to them," he said, "though I know not what I shall do. Lydia's honour is beyond redemption. She must marry Wickham; but how am I to force him to do so?" "I understand that Wickham is currently embarrassed for funds," said Darcy, sipping his wine. "Bribe him." "I fear that I do not have sufficient funds at my disposal to satisfy such a one as Wickham, and neither does my father. Am I to bankrupt myself, and my wife and children, to satisfy Wickham's greed?" "Allow me to provide the funds," said Darcy. "If I had exposed Wickham in Meryton, this would not have happened." "No, Darcy. This concern belongs to my family, and while I am grateful for your assistance in determining Wickham's whereabouts, I cannot allow it." "Then, you must meet him." "I cannot. I gave my promise to Catherine." Darcy smiled. "I believe that both your family's honour and your promise to Catherine may be satisfied." Darcy outlined his scheme as Henry listened intently. The directions provided by Mrs. Younge led them to a narrow road in a part of London that made Gracechurch-street appear the very height of fashion; thus, the arrival of Darcy's elegant town-chaise caused no inconsiderable stir. As Henry and Darcy stepped down, they were surrounded by children clutching at their coats, hands out and eyes lifted in supplication. "Mind your purse," Darcy muttered unromantically. A burly footman--indeed the same who had delivered the note to Gracechurch-street--leapt in front of them, waving a stout ax-handle. "Stand back, ye rascals!" he cried. "Make way for the gentlemen!" "Joseph, you'll come inside with us," Darcy said to the footman, who nodded even as he glared at the retreating children. Darcy unceremoniously thumped the door with his walking stick. It popped open immediately; likely the landlord had been watching from the window. Darcy presented his card and said, "Pray tell Mr. Wickham that Mr. Darcy and Mr. Tilney desire an interview. Have you a parlour?" "Yes, your honour," said the terrified landlord, handling the card gingerly as though it might explode in his hand. "Right this way." The room into which he ushered them was shabby, but mostly clean. Joseph took up a post just outside the door. After a few moments, Wickham slouched into the room. Darcy cordially invited him to take a chair, but he remained standing. His expression was an odd mixture of fear and defiance. "How did you find me?" he asked. "When you have purchased friendship for money," said Darcy mildly, "you must remember that it can be further bartered. Your dear friend Mrs. Younge provided us with your directions, at no inconsiderable expense, I may add." Wickham sneered. "The Younge, as you already know, is an untrustworthy slut. I am astonished that you dirtied your feet, Darcy." Henry wondered briefly what the young ladies of Meryton, who had swooned as one over the scarlet-coated, gentlemanlike Wickham, would think of this sneering, foul-mouthed fellow with the uncombed hair and the wine stain on his waistcoat. He also wondered what Lydia thought of him, and for the first time sincerely pitied his sister. "I would like to see Lydia," he said. Darcy went to the door and summoned the landlord. "Go to the young lady who is staying with Mr. Wickham," he said, "and tell her that her brother desires her presence." The landlord had regained his equilibrium. "Her brother, are you?" He glared at Wickham. "A havey-cavey business, this is. His wife, he called her. If she's his wife, I says to the missus, then I'm King George. I run a respectable place here. I know the Quality thinks naught of such goings-on, but it's not what we're accustomed to." "You will not be further troubled by the young lady's presence," said Darcy. "Aye, that is well," grumbled the landlord. "And if you'd see your way clear to pay the reckoning, your honour, I'd be much obliged. Not a farthing have we seen yet from this one, and not likely to, from what I can tell." "You will be paid what you are owed," said Darcy, betraying a touch of impatience. "Pray fetch the young lady." The landlord retreated up the stairs, muttering under his breath. Presently Lydia came flouncing down and into the parlour. "Hello, Henry," she said with an air of defiance not unlike Wickham's. Henry crossed the room swiftly, drew her close, and kissed her on the forehead. Lydia stood stiffly in his embrace. He stepped back, holding her by the shoulders and looking her over carefully. He was relieved to see that there was no evidence of ill-usage, though her gown was crumpled and grimy around the hem. "Your family has suffered much anxiety on your behalf, Lydia," he said softly. "Why did you not send word?" "I left a note with Harriet Forster," she said impatiently, drawing away from Henry and going to stand with Wickham. "Indeed you did," said Henry pleasantly. "I have seen the note, which stated that you were on your way to Gretna Green." Wickham looked sharply at Lydia, then glanced away, shaking his head. Henry noted this, but continued. "The landlord of this fine establishment has a notion that you and Mr. Wickham are married. Are you indeed Mrs. Wickham, Lydia? If so, then I will leave you with your husband." "We are not married yet," said Lydia. "But we soon will be. It does not much signify when." "Very well. Pack your things. I shall take you to your uncle's house, and you may await your nuptials there." "Why should I do that?" cried Lydia. "My aunt and uncle never go out, and keep no company. I want to stay with Wickham." Henry's voice grew stern. "Lydia, I am here in the place of your father, and you will obey me as you would obey him. Now fetch your things." "She does not want to go with you," Wickham interjected. "I have offered her my protection. You've no right to interfere." Wickham recoiled at the cold glare that Henry turned upon him. "I am her brother," he said in a low, steady voice, "and you, sir, are not her husband." He turned to his sister. "Go on, Lydia." Her expression was sulky, but she left the room with a flounce of her muslin skirt. It was not very long until she returned with a single small bag. Whatever her reasons for the elopement, it was clear that she had not expected to embark upon an extended journey. Darcy summoned the waiting footman. "Joseph, you will see Miss Bennet to the chaise. Wait for me there." "Yes, sir," said Joseph, but Lydia did not move. "Wickham," she said coquettishly, "will you not walk out with me?" "No, he will not," said Henry angrily. "Go out to the chaise and wait for us, do you hear?" "You are insufferable, Henry," she cried. "I am going to tell my mother!" With this affectionate sisterly pronouncement, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room. Joseph tried to relieve her of the bag, but she would not allow it. The door was shut once more, and the three men were alone. "You have what you came for," said Wickham. "There is no longer any reason for you to stay." "Indeed, there is," said Henry. "We have much to discuss. First of all, we must set a wedding date." Wickham laughed. "A wedding date? I have no intention of marrying--not to your sister, at any rate." "Then why did you elope with her? Why did you not leave her at Brighton?" Wickham poured a glass of wine and tossed it off. "I found myself obliged to leave the regiment for--personal reasons." "We have spoken to Colonel Forster," said Darcy. "We know of your outstanding debts of honour." Wickham darted a venomous look at Darcy. "Yes. I was in need of funds for my journey, and Lydia seemed to have plenty of blunt. Her mother was forever sending it to her. She always had new dresses and bonnets and other fripperies. I asked her for a loan, and she was able to extract my circumstances. I had been drinking, you see." He poured another glass of wine. "She insisted on accompanying me. I never told her that we were going to Scotland. London was at all times my object." "In other words, you took a young girl's money, and her honour, without a thought for anyone but yourself." Henry's voice was contemptuous. "I needed the money, yes. I do not deny that having a travelling partner has its--benefits." His eyes challenged Henry, and his sneer was more pronounced than ever. With an effort, Henry controlled his anger. There would be a better time and place to indulge it. "You chose your travelling partner badly, Wickham. Lydia is by no means without friends or resources. Did you think that you could ruin her without suffering any consequences? I like you not as a brother, but so it must be." "I have always thought to make my fortune through marriage," said Wickham. With a glance at Darcy, he added, "Especially since some have conspired to keep me from making my own." Darcy actually laughed at this. "Save your breath to cool your porridge, sir. Tilney and I both know the truth." Wickham smiled coldly. All he had left were words, and he would use them as weapons as he could. "Why have you become involved in this affair, Darcy? Are you still trying to insinuate yourself with Elizabeth Bennet? Yes, perhaps this scheme will succeed. She is an intelligent young lady, and cannot be moved by your riches alone." Darcy said nothing, though he had gone white around the mouth. Perceiving Wickham's plan to distract them, Henry steered the discussion back on course. "I cannot make your fortune, Wickham, though Lydia's family would not see her starve. We will give you what assistance we can. Shall I arrange for the banns to be cried?" Wickham took a seat, put his feet up on a small table, and poured another glass of wine. He leaned back, perfectly at his ease and clearly feeling himself in control of the interview. "I will marry Lydia," he said, sipping the wine, "if you agree to pay me the sum of ten thousand pounds." "You know that my father cannot pay such a sum, nor can I." Wickham spread his hands genially. "Then what are we to do, Tilney? Are you going to call me out? Though I know not what such a meeting shall solve: either you are dead, or I am dead, and your sister is still unmarried and ruined. I suppose that Darcy acts for you. I fear that I cannot name my friends; I have none left." "That is no one's fault but your own," said Darcy sharply. Henry held up a quelling hand toward Darcy. "We will meet," he said to Wickham, "but you will need no second. Darcy?" Darcy rose and went to a small table in the corner, upon which stood a quill and ink-bottle. He wrote something on the back of one of his calling cards and handed it to Wickham. "Be at the location I have written on the card at noon on the day after tomorrow. Present the card to the proprietor, and you will be admitted." Wickham stared at the card, and then Henry, in astonishment. "13 Bond-street?" "Will you meet me there?" asked Henry. "And will you agree to abide by the outcome of that meeting?" Wickham laughed. "Aye, I will meet you. And I will agree to abide by the outcome. You may regret it." "We shall see," said Henry, and strode out of the room with Darcy following closely behind. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.