Chapter 17

Seventeen

Mrs. Lydia Wickham née Bennet, all dressed in black. What a shame to be widowed at the tender age of six and ten. What a pall of despair her arrival at Longbourn cast over the entire household—not so much for Lydia herself, but for the toll it took on the rest of her family's equanimity. Elizabeth, in particular, felt as though every day of Lydia's company was a repetition of the first.

"Had I known my dear Wickham would be shot dead on the steps of St. Clement's—where, as you know, we were wed due to his lodgings being in that parish—within minutes of the ceremony, I am sure I would never have married him at all," she bemoaned to anyone who would listen.

"What can be worse than having to don such dreary old gowns, when I was meant to be wearing fine silks and laces and sparkling jewels, the likes of which my Wickham promised when he and I went away from Brighton together? Oh, I knew I should never have agreed to our brief sojourn to London despite Wickham's adamant insistence, when we were meant to go directly to Gretna Green, for I am sure he would never have been killed there because I never heard of anyone getting themselves killed in Scotland.

"And now my aunt Mrs. Gardiner insists I must wear such dreadful attire as this for the next six months, at least. She even said during the following six months, things will be just as dire. La! By my calculations, I am obliged to suffer for at least twelve whole months."

"Oh, my precious child, how unfortunate indeed to have lost your dear husband before you had a chance to celebrate such a felicitous occasion," cried Mrs. Bennet on that particular day. "But you must count all your other blessings, for, thanks to your late husband's judiciousness, you shall live in your own home—with all that entails. By my brother's account, you will be well settled for life. You must be patient, my child. The mourning period shall be over before you know it!"

"What difference does it make when I will be far, far away in Scotland?" Turning to Kitty, her closest sister by birth as well as affection, Lydia exclaimed, "Oh, you must come and live with me, else I shall go thoroughly distracted."

Before the joy on Kitty's face could be fashioned into an entreaty to accompany her sister, Mr. Bennet declared, "No! I will not hear of it." With that, he folded the paper he had been reading, stood from his seat, tucked the paper under his arm and quit the room.

Kitty was not the only one pouting as a result of Mr. Bennet's newfound fatherly ambitions. Lydia opined, "I declare I am the unluckiest girl in the entire world. Everyone is so mean-hearted to me. It is almost as though everyone blames me—for what, I do not know! Our aunt was so horrid during the days leading up to the marriage. And on the morning of the wedding, there she was, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she were reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat."

Elizabeth was tempted to quit the room to shield herself from such nonsense but owing to her gratitude for being in the company of a sister she had once feared was lost to her forever, she stayed, all the while biting her tongue.

Lydia said, "Well, we breakfasted at ten as usual. I thought it would never be over. And as I said, my uncle and aunt were horridly unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you will believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything remotely fun. To be sure, London was rather dull, but there was still some entertainment to be had.

"Well, just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away on business with that horrid man, Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away, and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if my uncle had been prevented from going, the wedding need not have been delayed, for Mr. Darcy could have done just as well."

"Mr. Darcy!" exclaimed Elizabeth in utter amazement. This was new intelligence—the import of which she could not pretend to ignore.

"Oh, yes! He was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What would Wickham think? It was to be such a secret! Not that it matters much now, what with his being dead and all."

"Still, if it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."

"Certainly," said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity. "We will ask you no questions."

"Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, for I have heard it said that dead people have no secrets."

With such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power by running away.

But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible, or at least it was impossible not to try for information.

Mr. Darcy attended Lydia's wedding!

It was precisely the kind of scene, and precisely among the company, where she would have imagined him least likely to appear, with the least reason to be present. Wild, fleeting conjectures raced through her mind, each more frantic than the last, yet none brought any true satisfaction. Those explanations that cast his actions in the most favorable, even heroic, light filled her with a desperate hope—but also felt like the least probable. The agony of not knowing was palpable and would not be repressed. She could not endure the torment of such uncertainty any longer. Then, in a burst of restless energy, Elizabeth seized a sheet of paper and hurriedly began to write a letter to her London relation.

My Dearest Aunt,

You will readily comprehend the depth of my curiosity regarding a certain matter which Lydia has so carelessly let slip. I find myself at a loss to understand how Mr. Darcy, someone unconnected with our family, and indeed, as good as a stranger to us all, could have been present at such an inauspicious moment. Pray, write at once, and explain this mystery to me, if it is possible to do so without breaching any secrecy that may have been intended.

If, for reasons that I cannot now fathom, the matter is meant to remain concealed, as Lydia seems to suggest, I must resign myself to ignorance, though I confess, this will not come easily to me.

With that in mind, if you do not tell me the truth in an honorable manner, rest assured I shall be driven to tricks and schemes of my own invention to uncover it!

Yours most sincerely,

EB

Elizabeth sealed the letter, her mind still reeling with the possibilities, determined that this mystery—whatever it was—would not escape her. It was just as well that her elder sister was not a party in Elizabeth's scheme. Jane's delicate sense of honor would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall and Elizabeth was glad of it. Until it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.

Elizabeth swiftly received a response to her letter and, clutching it, hastened to a secluded grove where she could read undisturbed. The crisp rustle of leaves underfoot, their early shedding the first hints of the approaching autumn, accompanied her quick steps. Settling onto a bench, she readied herself to delight in the contents. She was comforted by the letter's length, which suggested it bore no rejection of Lydia's audacious claim.

My Dear Niece,

Do not think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary on your side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am—and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit.

Soon after learning of Lydia's egregious conduct, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called and was shut up with him for several hours. From what I can collect, upon his learning of what Wickham and Lydia had done while calling on your family at Longbourn, Mr. Darcy came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in him.

He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private concerns open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He considered it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavor to remedy an evil which had been brought on indirectly by himself.

Elizabeth barely perused the part of the letter that detailed Mr. Darcy's means of bringing about Lydia's recovery and the interactions between all the concerned parties. Her primary aim was to learn the breadth of the gentleman's sacrifices for people so wholly unconnected to him.

She continued with the section that read:

I dare say no one was more shocked than I was to learn that Lydia was to be so well provided for. I never supposed that the lieutenant's resources would allow for such an advantageous situation. Despite it being a hackneyed remark, in this case, it was never more appropriate: one can never judge a book by its cover.

On the other hand, Mr. Darcy was the one who paid for everything: Wickham's debts, amounting to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own settled upon Lydia, and a new commission in the North purchased. But alas, it was all for naught owing to the young man's untimely, unseemly demise which I doubt Mrs. Wickham confided the reason for how unfortunate for one's new husband to be killed by an aggrieved father wishing to exact retribution for the ruination of not one but two of his daughters.

That said, it is not an unreasonable surmise that Mr. Darcy assumed all of Wickham's final expenses as well as secured his widow's future livelihood.

All this Mr. Darcy took upon himself and would not allow your uncle to put forth any amount—save scant discretionary funds requisite for a young bride. Other than that, nothing was to be done that he did not do. Ultimately, your uncle had to concede. Instead of being primarily responsible for his niece, he could only take indirect credit, which he found quite frustrating. I believe your letter this morning delighted him because it clarified the situation, attributing the merits rightfully, stripping him of any unearned accolades. However, Lizzy, keep this information between us, or share it with Jane at most.

Part of the missive's conclusion that stood out to Elizabeth read:

Mr. Darcy said you had mentioned our having toured his home in Derbyshire and his apology for having missed us, which surely was enough to convince us of his having more than a casual interest in the matter, was it not?

Reading this, Elizabeth was sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with concern, on finding how steadfastly both her aunt and uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.

The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the greatest share.

Pain for the low opinion her Hertfordshire relations suffered toward Mr. Darcy—he who had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Pleasure for her heart's whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity's silent stirrings could not justify such actions.

Despite all these considerations, Elizabeth could not help but reflect on everything she and her family owed him. The gratitude she felt for his compassion, his evident sense of honor, and her aunt's repeated commendations—revisited again and again with each subsequent reading—were sufficient inducements to regard him as the best man in the world.