‘There is nothing wrong with women,’ said the man in the red coat sourly. ‘It is wives that are the curse.’
‘Ah, there speaks a married man,’ said the newcomer with a wry smile.
‘George Wickham,’ said the man in the red coat.
‘John Willoughby,’ returned the other.
‘At least your wife is rich,’ said Wickham.
‘An heiress,’ said Willoughby, putting one leg over the arm of the chair. ‘Miss Grey, as she was. A great catch. Everyone told me at the time that I was the luckiest of men.’
‘And so you were!’ said Wickham, impressed. ‘I saw her myself, and I would have been glad to marry her. She had fifty thousand pounds, had she not?’
‘Aye, and she has it still, for she will not part with a penny.’
‘No?’ asked Wickham, looking at Willoughby’s expertly tailored new coat and his shining boots.
‘Maybe a little, then,’ admitted Willoughby grudgingly. ‘But only so that I will look well in public and make her friends jealous. When I think of the woman I could have married…’ He sighed. ‘Her name was Marianne. She was a beautiful young girl, good-humoured, passionate, romantic…you should have seen her, Wickham, as I saw her, on that first day, running down the hill with the wind in her hair, as free as a bird, until, by some lucky chance she fell and sprained her ankle and I had the good fortune to be able to carry her home. The feel of her in my arms! And the sight of her, blushing profusely, whilst her heart beat a tattoo against my chest. I tell you, Wickham, if I had married her instead of this shrew I would be a happy man.’
‘Then why did you not do so? Let me guess. She had no money.’
‘No. She was poor. But it did not signify, for I was due to inherit a fortune.’
‘Ah. Then your tale is like mine, for I should have inherited a fortune, too, or at least a living, and a rich one; and if I had, then I would have been able to marry a woman of my choice.’
Willoughby looked at him and laughed. ‘You do not have the look of a clergyman. Do not tell me you meant to take holy orders, for I will not believe you!’
The landlord entered with a bottle of wine and a glass.
‘Another bottle, and another glass, landlord,’ said Willoughby. ‘The best you have in your cellar.’
The landlord bowed and left the room, whilst Wickham poured his wine and drank, then pulled a face.
‘Sour?’ asked Willoughby.
‘Abominable,’ Wickham admitted.
‘Never mind, you will join me tonight. We will drown our sorrows together—unless you still have plans to join the clergy?’ he asked.
Wickham laughed. ‘Not I. But I would have taken the living anyway. And then I would have sold it, and a good price I would have got for it as well, for it was one of the best in England.’
‘What happened?’ asked Willoughby.
‘The old man who left it to me had a son. The son decided I was not fit to hold the living and bribed me not to take it, giving me a paltry sum in exchange. I should have held out for more, but my debts were heavy,’ he said with a sigh.
The landlord entered. Willoughby poured himself a glass of wine and savoured it, then poured a glass for Wickham.
‘Another bottle,’ he said to the overjoyed landlord, then changed his mind and said, ‘Another two.’
As the landlord left, Willoughby turned again to Wickham.
‘We have both suffered through the interference of relatives,’ he said. ‘In my case, it was not a son but a great-aunt, a wealthy woman with no children. She was not expected to live for more than a few months. I was her heir, until certain rumours reached her of a girl I had taken up with. She told me that unless I married the girl she would disinherit me. I ask you, Wickham, what man would marry a sixteen-year-old girl he had taken to London for a few weeks, a girl with neither money nor useful connections, just because he had got her with child?’
‘Only a fool,’ said Wickham.
‘Though in one way at least it was my own fault,’ said Willoughby, ‘for I should have made sure she had no one to come after her. I thought I had done so. I knew her to be an orphan, but I neglected to ask her if she had a guardian.’
‘And had she?’
‘She had. The worst kind, for he was a colonel, no less, by the name of Brandon.’ He drank deeply. ‘He had the effrontery to tell me to marry her and, when I refused, he called me out.’ He blanched and drained his glass. ‘I thought I was done for. But the fool deloped.’ He poured himself another glass of wine and added bitterly, ‘Not that it did me any good, for once my aunt had disinherited me I had to marry money and so I could not marry Marianne anyway.’
‘A sad tale,’ said Wickham. He was full of sympathy, for he was drinking Willoughby’s excellent wine. ‘You have suffered at the hands of an aunt and a guardian, though you, at least, escaped marriage to the girl who threw herself at your head. I have suffered at the hands of a son and a guardian and, worse still, they were one and the same man: Fitzwilliam Darcy.’
‘Darcy?’ exclaimed Willoughby. ‘I know the name. Indeed, I know the estate, one of the finest in the country. He is a powerful man to have against you.’
‘Indeed. He not only deprived me of my living but he robbed me of an heiress: having spent the paltry sum he gave me for the living, I soon found myself short of funds again and I looked about me for a means of alleviating my difficulties, to find salvation in the form of Georgiana Darcy. She was fond of me, and a little effort on my part secured her affections. I must admit that the idea of being revenged on Darcy added to her appeal. He had deprived me of one living, it was only right that he should provide me with another.’
‘And marrying an heiress was a living you knew you would find congenial, I suppose?’
‘Far more congenial than making sermons! So once I had wooed her I persuaded her into an elopement.’
‘And Darcy found out?’
‘It was the merest chance. He paid her a surprise visit and she, foolish girl, told him everything, so the elopement came to naught. I left the neighbourhood and went into Hertfordshire, only to find that Darcy was staying there. Damn the man! I am sure he came between me and an heiress I was pursuing there, a Miss King; in any case, she was sent away to Liverpool and so that, too, came to nothing. I left the neighbourhood and went down to Brighton, where I came across Lydia Bennet, a girl I had known in Hertfordshire.’
‘Let me guess. She was sixteen, eager for a trip to London…a few weeks of fun, and then…’
‘And then Darcy came after me. He was, by the unluckiest chance, enamoured of Lydia’s sister and, not wanting a scandal in the family, he told me I must marry her. Marry Lydia Bennet! A girl with no money and no sense.’
‘But with connections.’
‘Connections to Darcy, who has never done anything for me but the meanest things and who has used me ill from beginning to end. But once again my debts were pressing and I had no choice but to settle for a paltry sum. I was a fool. I should have held out for more money, or run. I could have married an heiress. I know how to make myself agreeable to women. If only I had done so, I could be as you are now,’ he said bitterly.
‘Married to a shrew,’ Willoughby told him.
‘But a shrew with money.’
Willoughby acknowledged the point.
‘But