Chapter Fifty-Six

G eorge Wickham stood in the bedroom he now shared with Evelina, holding her small mirror up to his face. Its polished surface was rather pitted, so he had to move it around a bit to see himself clearly. While the loss of two front teeth detracted from his pleasing appearance, he thought himself still a good-looking chap. He had failed utterly with Georgiana Darcy, but there was no reason he could not still come out on top. There were many wealthy families with marriageable daughters. Evelina had been successful in being hired as Georgiana's companion; perhaps the strategy should be reenacted.

And perhaps with Evelina's wages from such a family, he could purchase new teeth made of ivory.

A pounding on the front door interrupted his reverie. He stood still, listening. He heard Evelina say, loudly, "George is not here."

Mr. Wickham's heart leapt into his throat. He knew Evelina had spoken loudly so that he might hear her words, and make an escape. He looked about. He was on the fourth floor, so going out the window was impossible. Under the bed? No; too close to the floor. He would never fit.

He heard Evelina cry out, "You have no right to search my house!"

Then a response, in a deep, male voice. "If you have got nothing to hide, then you need not worry, Missus!"

Evelina's wardrobe! He threw open the doors and crawled inside, stepping on her various petticoats and chemises. He then closed the doors. Now all he had to do was to remain quiet.

Sitting behind the closed doors of the wardrobe, he could no longer make out any words, but after about ten minutes he heard footsteps thundering into Evelina's room. He held his breath. There was silence. He smiled in the dark; once again, he had outwitted his enemies!

But then the doors of the wardrobe were thrown open. "What have we here?" the deep voice taunted him. Then "Up here, Bob!" More footsteps. Then Mr. Wickham was grasped firmly by four meaty hands and pulled from his sanctuary. He was dragged roughly down the four flights of stairs, past Mrs. Miller, who was gaping at him, past a sobbing Evelina, and out the front door.

His hands were tied behind his back with coarse hemp rope and he was deposited none too gently onto the floor of a black coach. The two men who had dragged him from the wardrobe sat on the benches, resting their feet on Mr. Wickham's prone form.

"Where are you taking me? I demand answers!"

"Oi! You are being arrested for debt," one of them replied. "First step is the sponging house. If your missus can scare up the money you owe, then you can be released. If not…" And the laugh that followed was not a happy sound.

Debt? Debt! He owed monies here and there and everywhere, but it had never before been a problem. Perhaps the merchants to whom he owed money had banded together to pay for a writ, as such legal instruments were not cheap. Mr. Wickham begged to be released, promising to make it worth their while, but he was ignored. Finally, one of them kicked him, hard. "Shut it, will ya?"

Finally, the coach stopped. The two men clambered out and dragged Wickham out by his feet. Unable to use his hands to cushion his fall, Wickham felt his forehead crack on the cobblestones. "Aw, let him up," one man said.

"Gladly," was the reply. "You're too heavy to carry, mate, so now you must walk."

He was hauled to his feet and marched into a house not much different from Evelina's boarding house. He was greeted at the entry way by a woman about ten years older than Evelina. " "And who have we here?" she asked Wickham's guards.

"George Wickham."

"Well, George Wickham, I'm Missus Harvester," she said. "Do you know where you are?"

"Sponging house," he replied. "But fear you not, madam, I will not be here long. I shall make good on my debts in short order."

"Really?" she laughed. "How much is he in for, Bob?" she asked, turning to one of the men who had captured Wickham.

"Five thousand pounds," was the succinct reply.

Wickham gasped. Five thousand pounds! That was an impossible sum. But now he knew that this could not possibly be the work of a collection of London merchants. This had to be the work of Darcy. Wickham's heart began to pound heavily and sweat dripped from his forehead down to his chin. Five. Thousand. Pounds.

Mrs. Harvester cleared her throat to gain his attention. She led the way up the stairs, saying, "Come with me, Mr. Wickham." Wickham followed her, casting his eyes every which way so that he might find a means of escape.

"Forget it," she advised him.

"Forget – what?"

"Escape. There is none. Believe you me, smarter men than you have tried it."

Wickham shrugged. She could say what she liked, he would find a way out. She stopped in front of a solid wooden door. Producing a key from her pocket, she opened it. "Here you be, your own bedroom."

He paused at the doorway, taking it in. His hostess gave him a bit of a push, sending him into the room. The door closed behind him and he heard the lock turn.

There was no bed; the straw pallet was evidently to serve as such. There was a cracked washbasin and a pitcher sitting on a table. There was a window. A window! His room was on the second floor; he could easily walk away from such a fall. He rushed to the window, only to discover that there were bars across it. Perhaps the bars could be loosened? He opened the window and wiggled the bars, one by one. They held firmly.

He sank down onto the straw pallet. There was nothing to do now except to hope that Evelina could locate him.