What if the Likes of Wickham Ran a Trading Firm

 

When the world turns upside down and global markets follow suit, one starts to wonder — what would a Regency-era stock scandal look like?

Imagine Jane Bennet as the ever-hopeful financial optimist, encouraging everyone to hold firm because “things will surely improve.” Elizabeth, with her dry wit and perceptive instincts, warns that the rally is built on nothing more than clever words and borrowed time. And in a corner office — a smoke-filled, well-appointed room lined with ledgers, decanters, and just enough gilt to suggest borrowed success — sits Mr. Wickham, sipping port and charming investors, spinning tales of a guaranteed return based on exclusive information from a friend of a friend.

Now that’s a market you could lose your head — and your dowry — in.

Mr. Bennet, of course, says nothing, but is often seen behind his paper, arching a brow whenever someone mentions “momentum plays.” Charlotte Lucas, ever the pragmatist, nods in agreement with Elizabeth but insists one must stay wedded to a particular stock despite its dreadful underlying fundamentals. Mr. Darcy, with silent discernment and impeccable timing, waits until the dust settles before placing a single, decisive bid that doubles in value by week’s end. And Lady Catherine de Bourgh? She insists she had prognosticated the market correction long before it unfolded, and that had she only spent more time studying the peculiarities of the stock markets she should have been a great proficient.

“To be well-informed in matters of fortune is not nearly so enviable as being rich.” 

In the aftermath, Miss Bingley — her own fortunes having suffered (though not nearly so modestly as she claimed) — was heard to remark, “To be well-informed in matters of fortune is not nearly so enviable as being rich.” Mr. Collins, newly convinced that Scripture condemns short selling, has resolved never again to invest in anything but unclaimed pew cushions. And Mary Bennet, after quoting three maxims on the folly of speculation, took to keeping a ledger of moral gains and losses, which no one has asked to see.

The idea hit me while recalling Reminiscences of a Stock Operator, a classic tale of risk, timing, and reading the crowd. Replace ticker symbols with war bonds and East India shares, and suddenly the drawing room becomes a trading floor. The Panic of 1796 - 1797? The canal mania of the 1810s? All ripe for retelling with a literary twist.

One day I may just write it. For now, it is enough to imagine it — and take heart in the fact that fiction, at least, follows its own rules of justice. Wickham rarely gets away unscathed. Even when the market says otherwise.

Postscript
I do, in fact, own a leather-bound limited edition of Reminiscences of a Stock Operator—hand-numbered and exceedingly high priced for peak irrational exuberance, for one must have some evidence of the excessiveness of the dot-com boom. I prefer to keep mine on the bookshelf.