10. Chapter 9: He who sows wickedness

Ch 9: He who sows wickedness reaps trouble

Edwards allowed Stevens and Davis to manhandle Wickham into the manse, now empty, as Bradley had removed himself to the parsonage. There, Wickham was bound to a chair in the small dining room.

Leaving the servants to watch their prisoner, he left the room, returning a moment later with a large bottle of port and two glasses in his hand. He knew Bradley, the son of a man who drank far too much, seldom indulged, but he always had a stock for his guests.

Edwards made a show of graciously pouring two glasses of the richly colored liquid. Moving behind Wickham, he released the bindings on the man's left hand. "Behave yourself with that hand or these good men will not hesitate to break it." He warned loudly enough for the footmen to hear. They grunted their assent.

"You are indeed a civilized man, Mr. Edwards." Wickham flexed and stretched his hand carefully before he reached for the glass. "Is all this really necessary?" He glanced down at the ropes that held him tightly.

"I think you will just have to humor us, Wickham. We are all a bit protective of the young Mr. Darcy and his sister." Edwards lifted his glass and took a careful sip, carefully judging the strength of the beverage. That will do nicely

Shrugging as best he could under the circumstances, Wickham took a tentative draw from his glass. "You have brought out the fine stuff, sir. What is this, the last pleasures of a condemned man?" He laughed scornfully. You make a good show of things, sir, but at the end, I know how it will be. You will deliver you heady warnings. You will rave and threaten. Then I will go on my way. I will play your game for now.

"You say that lightly, Mr. Wickham. You do realize that you are in a very precarious position right now." Placing his glass carefully on the table, Edwards leaned in on his elbows, steepling his fingers under his chin. "If I were you, I might think carefully about making so little of the danger you are in."

"What danger?" Wickham scoffed, tossing back the rest of the glass and landing it heavily on the table. "Darcy's not man enough to prosecute me."

Unobtrusively, Edwards refilled the glass. "What makes you say that? You have stolen from him tonight, both his property and his sister. That is no small thing."

"A few trinkets, nothing more – nothing that matters to him. Had he not seen them first hand, he would never have noticed. Those things are nothing to him." Wickham rolled his dark eyes bitterly, shaking back the dark, unruly curls that had fallen into his face.

"His sister? Is she nothing to him?" Edwards leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lifting his glass once more, Wickham savored its contents. "Ah, Georgiana. No, she indeed is something special. A rare young woman indeed."

"A rare woman or a rare dowry?"

Wickham smiled wryly with an enigmatic shrug of his broad shoulders.

"So what brought you back here? Were you not studying to take orders? Or was it law?"

"Studying does not appeal to me. I have not the dour temperament that supports the tedium. Whereas Darcy, that man could study for hours on end and find it endlessly fascinating," the bound man spat the words, emptying his glass again.

"So how then did you employ yourself, young Wickham? Your father always hoped…"

Slamming his hand on the table, he barked, "My father was a fool! He died with nothing to show for his life. Darcy's father favored me, not his stiff-backed son. He promised me the life of a gentleman, and I mean to have it." He reached for his glass again, not surprised to find it full once again.

"Ahh," Edwards nodded knowingly. "So you spent Darcy's legacy on a gentleman's lifestyle. Now you have debts of honor to repay, no?" You think you are far more clever than you are, young Wickham.

Dark eyes across the table narrowed dangerously but gave no answer.

"I would hazard there are a number of merchants, too, who would want their pound of flesh from you." Sipping his glass once again, the older man smiled through pursed lips. "What town's merchants are you running from, Mr. Wickham? Tell me, or will you have me guess?" He refilled the younger man's glass once again. Either way, I will know.

Absently, Wickham fingered his glass, but said nothing.

"You look more like your mother than your father," Edwards remarked idly.

"You knew her?" Wickham blinked hard several times as if trying to focus his eyes.

"I did. I know your father did not often speak of her. Would you like to hear my memories of her?" An unruly brow lifted in question.

"It seems as good a way as any to pass the time." Although he lifted his glass and drank nonchalantly, his companion could see the clear flicker of interest in Wickham's eyes.

Leaning back, Edwards began to speak of the remembrances he had of Lavinia Wickham. As he spoke, Edwards watched his companion's eyes. The young man's eyes betrayed an interest far deeper than he wished to admit. Lavinia had died just three years after her son's birth, so he had never really known her. She had delighted in her only child, pampering and spoiling him from the earliest days. George was indeed her pride and joy. Edwards spoke of her voice, her eyes, her peculiar mannerisms and tastes, glossing over the woman's greed and selfishness. He also failed to mention her near obsession with leaving behind her roots and becoming part of the gentry as Lackley and Bingley were doing.

Three more glasses of port later, Edwards finished his storytelling. He noticed Wickham's unfocused gaze and the lax expression that had spread over the younger man's face.Now we can begin. "So how long a ride did you have to get here, Wickham? You were quite the horseman, if I remember."

"Better dan Darcy, always," he slurred with a derisive toss of his head. "T'was not but a day and an hour's ride."

Manchester! "Did you have a pleasant ride? As I recall, that town has a particularly unforgiving group of merchants. They have seen too many supposed gentlemen run out on their debts. They are quick to obtain a writ of debt." The older man lifted a knowing eyebrow.

"Da fools! Dey think demselves so clever! T'was child's play ta keep away from dem!" He laughed as he reached clumsily for his glass, knocking in over on the table. The few remaining drops slid slowly onto the white cloth staining it crimson. "T'was da gamers da kept me running! I 'spose I'll be runnin' agin soon." Impotently he pulled at his bonds, his left hand playing ineffectively at the knots.

"I would not expect so. That may very well be the last such ride you ever make." The threat in Edwards' tone was clear.

Clumsily, Wickham leaned his hand on the table, leaning forward to look the other man in the eye. "Donna' be threatenin' me now, sir," he slurred unsteadily, his head bobbing and weaving. "You willna' go tellin' da magistrate any more dan Darcy will." He struggled drunkenly to sit back in his chair.

"I suppose not, sir. There really is no need." Edwards contemplated him coolly. "I am the magistrate."

The look of fear in Georgiana's eyes and the smug satisfaction on Wickham's face shook Bradley to the core. It was all he could do to remain in their company while decisions were being made . Every part of him rebelled against standing there rationally, wanting alternately to throttle Wickham for his attempts to compromise her and to shake Georgiana for so thoughtlessly endangering herself by being in the company of that man.

I am overreacting, I know. Bradley reminded himself as he quickly made his way down the path his hands flexing into tight fists. Even so, his feet took him where he knew he would find solace. But how can I not? After where I have been, how can I not? He paused, staring up into the moonlight, drawing a deep breath before he began to move again. She is safe. Nothing happened! Nothing happened! He shook his head forcefully. But that is not true. Too much happened, much more than ever should have. Oh, what could have been! Breathless from his brisk walk, he stopped once more, face in his hands, breathing hard. She is safe and well, I know. She will be safe and that cur will never be near her again. I know! But just a few moments more and I have no doubt what that cad would have done! I have no doubt. How can this be happening all over again?

A few minutes later, a single candle lit the front of the church as Bradley paced. His footsteps echoed loudly in the otherwise empty building, his strident voice ringing against the walls ,all hopes at calming his violent reactions given up in the face of his tortured memories.

"How could you, Lord! How could You?" he demanded angrily, pausing to stare at the ceiling. "After all that You have put me through, how could You put me through such a thing again!" He slammed his fist angrily against the heavy wood of a nearby pew. "Was it not enough to take my Emily from me? How can You possibly have allowed this young girl to fall prey…" His voice broke with a sob as he fell to his knees.

"Could You not protect her? Was it not enough that You took her parents? Why would You not keep her from this? Were You not watching over her?" He rose to pace angrily again. "How could You have failed to protect her? Is Your arm too short to save? Did You not see what was going on? If You are so good, how could You fail me so!"

Heavy footfalls rang out against the stone walls as he turned on his heel away from one wall to head for the other. He stopped at an unadorned wooden bookstand that held his heavily worn bible. Angrily, almost defiantly, he pulled the book open. The pages parted to a well used place. As he looked down at the tear-stained words, Bradley did not even have to read them to know what they said. A crushing weight descended on his shoulders as he sank to his knees again. Face in his hands, ragged sobs heaved through his chest. He remembered.

Two men stood beside the fresh grave, the evening mist hanging heavily in the air.

"How could He take her from me?" the younger man demanded angrily. "Was it not enough that He demanded her mother from me when she was born? How could He require my child from me too?"

"John…" The older man laid a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "I know you are grieving…"

"What do you know of grief? You will go home to your wife and daughters! I had to trade my wife for my daughter! Now my girl is gone too! My home is empty today! Empty, do you understand! Empty as am I." His shoulders sagged as he covered his face with his hands.

"His ways are not like our ways, John, you must remember that. They are better than ours*"

Whirling on his mentor, Bradley cried raggedly, "How can you say that? How? My daughter, my only child, was seduced by that cur and made with child! Are those His ways? Now she has died in her confinement. You dare tell me that this is better? I cannot… No sir I cannot…" Turning his back, he stalked away, towards the gate of the now lonely grave yard. The older man watched him take several more steps, unsurprised when he abruptly turned and headed back.

"So, Reverend Allen, you seem to have the Almighty's wisdom today," Bradley challenged bitterly. "Tell me, how is this better than what I would have chosen for myself? How can I have faith in a God who would do this…" he spread his hand toward the grave as his voice broke, "…to me?"

Allen watched as his friend stood broken and panting, having exhausted himself in his tirade. Crossing the few steps to Bradley, he soon stood beside the grief-stricken curate. "John, I do not know. Truly I do not know."

"Then how can you… How can you expect me to still believe?" His fury spent, John Bradley's voice was barely above a whisper.

Taking the younger man's elbow, David Allen guided the curate to a small stone bench that stood nearby. Both sat, but said nothing for a long moment. The breeze, warm and moist, but with a hint of chill, caressed their faces and warned of a coming storm.

"John, I do not have answers for you. In reality, I know very little," Allen began softly, looking out over the curate's shoulder, not yet willing to meet the younger man's aching eyes. "Do you believe that she is, both of them are, in the arms of our Savior now?"

Bradley chewed his lip, frowning. Begrudgingly, he conceded. "Yes, I do. Were it not for that, I would go mad with my grief."

Nodding slowly, Allen continued. "Does not the Apostle Paul write for us that to live is good, but to die and join our Savior and heavenly Father is far better?** Perhaps we hold on too tightly to this life? Is it not better for her, she now knows neither sorrow nor suffering. She no longer has to battle with those who would condemn her, for He does not.***"

Tears trickled down Bradley's face as he thought of the rejection and judgment his daughter had faced and his own anger in the face of such self-righteousness.

"He does not take lightly the deaths of His saints+. He would not have taken her from you lightly." Shaking his head again, Allen looked down, his green eyes misting over with tears of his own, his throat constricting painfully. "John, I do not understand why this has happened. At the end of it all, there is only one thing I truly know, and it must be enough."

Seeking the vicar's eyes, Bradley demanded, "What would that be?"

"That God is good. Over and over and over again, I have read and I have seen that He is good." Allen watched as anger began to etch the younger man's brow. "Either He is always good, or he is not. Whether I understand or not does not determine His goodness. If His ways and His thoughts are not as ours*, is it any wonder that we do not understand? But you must choose. Is He good, and these things are beyond our understanding? Or is He not, and we cannot believe anything the Holy Scripture would tell us? As far as I can see, it must be one or the other."

Bradley's jaw set angrily as he weighed the two options in his mind. He did not like either; nor did he appreciate the older man's challenge.

Allen watched the curate consider his words. Patiently he brushed his own graying locks, weighed down by the mists, out of his eyes. "You must choose, John. I would say that you must make that choice now. Turn your back on Him and walk away now because you cannot trust Him and his ways. Or take that walk of faith and believe that He is and will always be good, whether you understand Him or not. Choose this day who you will serve, as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.++ Walk away now and find your comfort where you can, in honest work, in food and drink or the arms of a warm woman; find your comfort as you will. Or turn to Him and know that His grace will be sufficient for all you need. +++. Choose!" The vicar's challenge rang loudly through the deserted church yard.

"How can you ask that of me now?" Bradley gasped, shocked by his mentor's ultimatum.

"If not now, when?"

Angrily, Bradley sprang to his feet and walked away, leaving the vicar to watch his retreat.

His ragged sobs gave way to a soothing peace as he remembered that night, alone in his home, those he loved gone, when he chose as Allen had demanded. Lifting his face with a sigh, Bradley looked at the ceiling once again. "I do not understand, Lord, but this one thing I do know, you are good. I must not lose myself in the past. This is a new day and I must let it be so." Pushing himself to his feet, he smiled wryly to himself, "Now that I have finished my mad ranting—Lord you are indeed so patient with me—it is time for me to seek Your wisdom."

The vicar began to pace again, but without the angry desperation of before. "I know You say that all things work together for the good of Your people.^ But what good is there in any of this?" He changed the direction of his pacing, now striding from the front of the church to the back. "How is there good to be had in this?" he murmured to the empty room.

He paced back and forth several times until he stopped in the middle of the church building and sighed with new understanding. "Of course, of course! How could I not have seen? You are indeed good. You are not willing to abandon any of us to our folly, You want us to turn to You.^^ Both of them are deep in their foolishness, and You have given them a chance now to turn from it. There is probably much for all of us to learn in this." He laughed, self-deprecatingly. "What must we do, heavenly Father, so that none of us need repeat this lesson?"

Returning to the altar with a renewed sense of purpose and strength, Bradley took to his knees to begin his prayers in earnest.

The house seemed eerily quiet now as Darcy sat bleary eyed in his study, staring into the flickering fireplace. Bingley and Caroline had left with the Lackley's, with much consternation on Miss Bingley's part.

Was Georgiana thought to be contagious? Was she in immediate danger? Had the doctor been sent for? Packing had to be done. Where was her maid! Darcy shook his head to clear the echoes of her shrill, nasal voice from his memory. He laughed softly, remembering Mrs. Reynolds's rolled eyes and exasperated expression as she had watched the manic woman.

Shortly thereafter, he sat down to write a letter to Richard, asking him to come to Pemberley immediately to discuss what was to be done. He dispatched an express rider with the message. That done, the young gentleman found himself with little useful employment. Georgiana was above stairs with Mrs. Cooperton. Now is certainly not the time to intrude. She needs someone to mother her tonight. Edwards had Wickham firmly in his custody and Bradley was nowhere to be found.

Surely he is at the church. Yes, I see the light over there. Where else would he be? Darcy sighed heavily. Pushing himself up from his desk, he paced distractedly around the room, wishing for answers.

Father, how could you have loved him so? I do not remember you ever denying him any request. Why? I never understood. You found it quite easy to say no to me. The uneasy feelings of unresolved boyhood jealousy filtered to the surface. Why was I not enough for you, Father? Why was I so lacking that you chose to seek him out and favor him, creating a man who would do this to me today? He hung his head in grief, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

Though he had never before given the thought words, Fitzwilliam Darcy had long wondered what was so deficient in him that his father would be so firm and unyielding at times. George Darcy was neither an unkind nor unfeeling man, but he did insist on a standard of excellence in all things for his son. When Fitzwilliam fell short, there were always consequences to be paid. But when it came to young George Wickham, all such standards fell by the wayside. Young George was allowed to do whatever he pleased, never experiencing the disappointment or displeasure of the senior Darcy. To his son, it seemed that Wickham could do no wrong.

"I always resented him for that," Darcy said very softly. "And you, father. I always resented you for that as well." An uncomfortable flush came across his cheeks as he spoke the words, a part of him waiting to hear his father's voice in reprimand. But it never came and the aching loneliness that followed settled into his gut like a cold stone. "I need your wisdom, father. What do I do now?"

Without realizing it, Darcy had wandered to the bookcase, his hand leaning on a shelf that contained several, leather bound tomes. Father's journals. Since George Darcy's death, his son had considered reading the volumes, craving his father's presence. He had not yet done so, somehow uneasy about exposing his father's innermost thoughts. As a boy, he had been a voracious reader, but he had been taught not to violate those journals, that they were his father's private expressions. Throughout his life, Darcy had honored his father's command. But now, in his permanent absence, Darcy yearned for his father's voice. Selecting the nearest one of many, Darcy removed it reverently from the shelf and settled into the large chair by the fire.

He hesitated a long moment before opening the tome, relishing the feel of the tooled leather cover under his fingertips. Tracing the patterns in the leather, he thought on his father's face, his voice, even his scent. He searched his mind to call to remembrance everything he could about George Darcy, hoping that by doing so, it would be as if his father was there in the room with him as he read the words his father had written.

Finally, he gently opened the cover. His father's familiar handwriting drew him in. George Darcy's voice speaking the words, he read in the first entry. Though it only told of the preparation for the spring plantings, his excitement over new farming methods to be employed that year and a minor tenant dispute, Darcy took comfort there. Entranced by the sense of communion with his father, Darcy continued to read. The next entry had a very different tone.

My dearest Anne is angry at me once again. In truth, I cannot blame her, and yet, I do not know what more I can do. Fitzwilliam came to her upset again.

Darcy could hear his father's deep sigh. How often had his mother intervened between father and son, soothing their misunderstandings and forging the bond that would eventually tie the two men together so strongly. He shook his head sadly, missing his parents painfully.

My son came to me asking for favors--this time it was a horse. I know I should not have given it to him, but I cannot deny the boy anything. I presented him with the gelding, and Anne was dreadfully cross with me.

She tells me I am doing him no favors by giving him everything he asks for. She says I will leave him expecting that everything is his for the asking. She fears he will never make anything of himself. When I tell her he will be a gentleman, she simply looks at me with those eyes that break my heart every time. What have I done? What have I done?

Darcy paused, deep furrows appearing in his brow. This does not make sense. What is he talking about? I never asked him for a horse. He surprised me that year for my birthday with a fine stallion. I remember George was so jealous of the beast, having no such animal of his own. Not a month later, he asked father for a horse and I remember he gave Wickham… His thoughts trailed off as his chest tightened. With shaking hands he opened the pages again and read the words over and over again—my son.

The color drained from his face and he felt a cold chill settle into his gut. There it was, in his father's own hand. George Wickham was his son. The journal fell to the floor forgotten as Darcy's face sank into his hands.

* ISA 55:8-9**Phil 1:21***RO 8:1+PS 116:15++JOS 24:15+++2CO 12:9^ RO 8:28^^2 Pet 3:9 .