Trouble With Wickham by Olivia Kane

Ten minutes ago she would not have understood the awkwardness that the arrival of Lydia and Wickham caused Mr. Darcy and Georgiana. She was immediately thankful that Elizabeth had informed her of their past, and in such a timely manner. However, she watched worriedly as her mother and father, blissfully ignorant, naturally encouraged the two sides of the family toward each other, when increased familiarity was the last thing that Mr. Darcy wanted.
    Charlotte decided that she, too, must feign ignorance, for she had promised Elizabeth her confidence. As much as she desired to let her parents in on the family dynamics, she knew she could not do so.  However, her mother would be horrified to know that she was causing her guests discomfort, and were she to be made aware of the elopement, Charlotte was sure she would handle it with the utmost discretion.
    Oh, what to do? Betray her good friend or let her mother act the fool?
    She decided, as she always did, to discuss the situation with Guy. Guy would see the situation plainly. He would know what to do. He always knew what to do.
    Wickham, who earlier in the day merely nodded impassively when his wife informed him that they would be attending the hunt in Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s place, continued in that mode, standing stead silently in the drawing room, next to his chattering wife, staring off into space.
    And in that space he saw Georgiana Darcy staring back at him.
    It was the last face he expected to see that night.
    When his eyes met hers she appeared to him as an angel from on high, her head encircled by a golden halo. It was his eyesight tricking him of course, as it had been the whole day. It was merely the candlelight emanating from the sconces directly behind her that gave her a heavenly affect.
    A rush of long forgotten feelings flooded his heart and, so bewitched, his reflexes were no longer under his command. He relaxed his hold on his drinks glass, releasing it from his grip. The glass hit the floor, splitting the delicate stem from the whole, flinging drops of Madeira hither and yon, eliciting shrieks of alarm from those who saw it happen. Yet for a few short, still seconds, George Wickham’s mind failed to register the loss of his drink. He could only see Georgiana.
    Mr. Darcy’s eyes followed Wickham’s across the room to his sister and his face lost all its color. It was said afterwards that in that moment Mr. Darcy’s legendary composure failed him, and he looked very much like a man who wanted to murder George Wickham.
    Elizabeth quickly placed her hand on her husband’s forearm to calm him but to no avail, and he stomped off toward his sister, leading her gently away from the commotion, turning her back on Wickham.
    “Are you alright?” he whispered. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, and he dabbed them away with his handkerchief.
    “Yes, please don’t make a scene,” Georgiana whispered back.
    “I did not know he was going to be here.”
    “Apparently neither did our hosts.” Georgiana looked back over her shoulder and smiled. She was not afraid of George Wickham.
    Hastings and another servant arrived, waving off Wickham’s clumsy attempts to help, gingerly picking up the broken glass with their gloved hands. Lydia put her arm protectively around Wickham and made excuses, exclaiming, “Ever since he took a nasty fall on the horribly uneven pavement outside of the Meryton Arms he has not been himself. So clumsy!”
    Hugh saw through Lydia’s excuse immediately. The pavement outside the Meryton Arms was no more uneven than any other section of Center street and he would know; he had exited the tavern sober and once or twice in his cups. Lydia’s subterfuge was a wasted art; Wickham was a known drunk, his recent fall was common knowledge and the topic of conversation earlier in the day in the tavern itself.
    One would have to be blind not to notice Wickham’s feeble attempt to comb his hair over the ugly purple and black welt at his