by Lucy Tilney
“Georgiana needs friends,” he continued, “more than anything she needs to make friends with stable, sensible, trustworthy young women. I'd like to think you and I could be friends too.”
She didn’t look at him. Looking at him was fatal to any woman making an informed, sensible decision. Did he expect her to spy on Georgiana for him? It was an uncomfortable thought. She looked around at the chic ladies - some obviously regulars, some up from the country for a treat, a few shepherding girls still spending the hundreds of guineas their doting grandmamas and godfathers had given them for Christmas - and then at him. He was being sweet but was it natural?
They sat a little longer. She racked with suspicion and he with the overweening sense that yet again he had failed to connect with her. No woman had ever been this difficult. If he had paid Caroline or Claire half the attention he had her they would have ordered their wedding clothes, booked the honeymoon, and put their first son down for Eton. Finally, he ran out of small talk (his supply was naturally limited and he could only pretend to be Charles or his cousin, Ranulf, for so long) and a brief glance at his watch told him he had run out of time.
“I must away for the Derby train but I would like to walk with you back to your office if you don’t mind.”
Her head told her to get rid of him. Why did he want to walk back to Mayfair with her when his house – his miniature city palace – was just across the square? She decided to give into her heart which she realised with uncharacteristic humility was no harder than Jane's given the right incentive.
They walked to Margaret Street at a slightly slower pace discussing Trollope which seemed safe and by the time they reached the office they had discovered that they both loved Septimus Harding and neither could endure Lady Glencora. Whether a friendship could be based on that remained to be seen.
1 The fourth daughter of Queen Victoria, an artist, sculptor, and supporter of the early feminist movement.
IT WAS INEVITABLE
Elizabeth unlocked the office door as the heavens began their deluge. She offered him an umbrella from their growing collection forgotten by visitors and then, because no-one else was there, a cup of tea and, despite only just having had a coffee, he accepted. An impartial observer might have concluded neither wanted to say goodbye.
As she waited for the kettle to boil she sifted through the letters Lily had left on her desk and found one in Jane's hand marked urgent. How odd. If it was urgent why not ‘phone her at her uncle's house? She tilted the envelope towards Darcy so that he could see the mark and with an apologetic shrug sliced it open.
“Of course,” he wandered over to the window and stood with his hands behind his back.
Dear Lizzy,
I hardly know what to write but I’m frightened to use the telephone because I know Mrs. Horris at the Post Office listens in because the whole town knows - Lydia is missing!
She didn’t arrive at school yesterday but as she and Pen are often late due to some nonsense Miss Paterson waited over an hour before telephoning us. I drove Mother and Kitty into Meryton and we looked in every imaginable place and then, at Miss Paterson’s insistence, we went to the police. Sergeant Pollock thinks we are overreacting but Lizzy I have a terribly bad feeling. Dr. Jones has been and given Mother a sedative.
2.00 pm.
I was right. Mrs. Harrington has just been with this note Lydia left in a secret place she and Pen have.
Dearest Pen,
How you will laugh when you know where I have gone! By the time you read this, I will be in the arms of the most handsome, adorable, romantic man I have ever met and if you cannot guess who I mean you are an absolute simpleton. He says we shall have a sea view but I do not care about the sea. That is not the view I am interested in!!! Mmmmmmm!!!
Your affectionate friend, Lydia.
PS. This is a huge secret and you mustn’t tell anyone, especially Mabel or Ruby, or any of my sisters. You know how jealous they all are, especially Lizzy because she met George first and I have no doubt she thinks he likes her best!
The George in question being the photographer from Netherfield whom I actually encouraged her to sit with at the golf club dance. Oh, Lizzy, he’s a grown man, almost twice her age, what is he thinking of?
Mrs. Harrington promised confidentiality but she hasn't forgiven Mother for being snide to Mrs. Purvis (her sister, you recall) at the dance so I fear it is only a matter of time until she tells someone.
11.00am
I hoped I wouldn’t have to post this but she has not been home for two nights now.
Love, Jane.
Elizabeth fell into her chair. Darcy pulled up the other one and sitting next to her took her hand in his offering in the kindest tones to accompany her in a taxi cab to her uncle’s house if it would help.
“Please tell me what is happening, Elizabeth, you look very ill. Has something happened to one of your parents?”
Every ounce of sense and Elizabeth was proud of her sensibleness (had he not just complimented her on it himself?) balked at revealing the truth to him but somehow it came tumbling out.
“No, no, not my parents. My youngest sister who is still in school has run away with George Wickham, whom I believe you know, and we do not know where to begin to look for her.”
Without realising it she pushed the letter into his hand and stood up to get her things together but was in such a state she sat down again almost immediately. He looked at her for a moment in compassionate silence before turning his attention to the paper.
“When I think that I’ve known him for over a year… his studio is upstairs and he occasionally takes photographs for us… I suspected him to be a ladies’ man but never, ever could I have thought him capable of this. Poor silly Lydia, all she reads and thinks is romance, she must have been like a lamb to the slaughter!”
She shivered and he tenderly placed her coat around her shoulders, “As grievous as the situation is,” he said, “George Wickham is not the type to directly harm her; take advantage of her yes, I am afraid so, but he will not do her any violence. Please believe me, you will get her back safely.”
“I want to believe you,” she said watching him pace the little room, his brow furrowing and occasionally biting his lip. Suddenly he stopped. “Let me hail you a taxi. I advise you to go to your aunt and uncle and spend the next day or two in London. You won’t help your parents or your sister by rushing home in your present condition.”
“But Jane posted this letter yesterday. She will depend on me being home tonight.”
He shook his head emphatically, “It would be much better for you to go home in a day or two.”
As he spoke she realised that if she stayed in London until the following morning she could track down Denny and make him tell her where George would take someone.
Darcy slipped out and returned a few moments later.
“A cab is waiting for you and the fare is taken care of. Please excuse me, I must get my train. I hope with all my heart there will be a speedy conclusion to your worries.”
He paused and looked very seriously at her for a long moment before disappearing. He couldn’t leave fast enough but what else could she expect? It was not reasonable to think that a fastidious man like that would want to prolong time in the company of a woman from such a shabby family who were so unaware of their school-age daughter’s actions that she had run off with a man twice her age right under their noses.
As painful as it was to inform her aunt and uncle of Lydia’s actions it was even worse to lie awake thinking of Lydia herself and her uncontrolled desire for excitement that had led her to such an act. She remembered the sampler of Grandmother Bennet's that now hung in Mary's room, worked in fine old silk threads it said, “Never let your passions become stronger than your Virtue.” It wasn't advice Mary needed but even had it been put in Lydia's room she wouldn't have taken it in.
Around 2.30am she gave up pretending she would sleep and padded into her tiny kitchen to make a cup of chocolate. O
f course, Lydia would sacrifice everything for drama, she had never been taught otherwise, never been encouraged to think on serious matters, or to value anything beyond her own comfort and entertainment most which consisted of the cinema or reading gossip rags.
In the morning she chased a scrambled egg and a mushroom around her plate while her uncle, sanguine as always, voiced the opinion that the wretched fellow would get bored and put Lydia on a train home soon, and her aunt, although deeply distressed, was mostly intent on inventing schemes to save her niece’s reputation.
When they tried to look for him Denny was not to be found and an agonising four days followed in which Elizabeth did not go home because her uncle's advice coincided with Mr. Darcy's because, he said, his incorrigible sister would have found some way to blame Elizabeth for knowing George first. And it was true, next to someone else's scandal, Phoebe loved a scapegoat.
On the 23rd of January when Elizabeth had exhausted every possibility of Lydia being abandoned in an alley, raped by strangers, sold to a brothel, given drugs, or murdered and left floating in a canal when the telephone rang and a young man identifying himself as the desk clerk in the Metropole Hotel in Brighton informed her sister was waiting for her.
Elizabeth was almost speechless. So much for George having any decency of any sort - he had left her in a hotel and given them the Gardiners’ details!
Less than twenty minutes’ walk took her from Brighton railway station to the red terracotta hotel with white wrought iron balconies and elaborate Victorian conservatory entrance. Everyone was expecting her from the doorman who ushered her to the reception desk, to the clerk who dashed off to find the manager, and the manager himself could not have been kinder.
Miss Bennet’s bill, he assured her, had been paid. Would she like tea? Was there anything at all he could do?
Lydia was not equally pleasant. She was peeved that after only five days that Georgie had gone off on business with some tall, disagreeable man and hadn’t told her when he would return. Elizabeth wearily picked up her things strewn all over the room; Lydia had planned well for the trip and had no intention of returning home in a hurry. She had begun to get dressed at Elizabeth's chivvying but flatly refused to add another stitch when she realised the plan was to go to her aunt and uncle in Hampstead and it was with extreme difficulty Elizabeth convinced her that the bill was paid and George was gone. It was even harder to get her to consent to go to her uncle’s house because if she couldn't stay and have more 'fun' with Georgie she wanted to go home and have a good laugh about it with Pen and Mabel.
Elizabeth persisted and found that suggesting a shopping trip and returning home from London with a few bags from nice shops to give credence to a story of having gone to visit relations was the best way. If only Jane and their mother hadn't raced around town advertising that she had gone, but then what else could they have done? Still, she thought the idea of Lydia sneaking on to a train to pay a surprise visit to her aunt and uncle would be believable. Indeed she was so convinced that had the impartial observer been at work again he might have concluded she had never spent a day in Meryton in her life.
Lydia kicked the bedpost and flung Jane's baby blue silk slip into her bag, “I thought the war had changed the world, well, apparently not. It might as well be a hundred years ago and we are all being cheated, Lizzy, cheated of our youth and a little bit of fun before the endless grind of marriage and babies; it’s just rotten, that’s what it is, stinking and rotten.”
Elizabeth bit her tongue, “Common sense, decency, and consideration for one’s family are timeless principles, you should know that. Your fun has worried your parents, sisters, and aunts and uncles sick. I won’t ask what you thought you were doing because I’m scared of the answer.”
The journey back up to London was miserable. Undoubtedly 1924 was a far better year to be a foolish young woman than 1824 but Meryton was not Bloomsbury and Elizabeth knew, as Lydia clearly did not, that her escapade would neither be overlooked nor forgiven.
CONDOLENCES
The next day, and with more composure than anyone had ever suspected her capable of, Phoebe telephoned the doctor’s wife and informed her that she would not be able to attend the Women’s Institute meeting and blamed Jane for having a migraine.
Mrs. Jones thanked the Almighty and jotted down an ‘apology’ from Mrs. Bennet before going to the kitchen to ensure her cook had baked a plentiful supply of cakes and scones because she fully expected everyone to bring their mother, sister, and best friend. After all, there was barely a woman in town who didn’t have an opinion on solicitors’ daughters marrying up and cultivating too many airs and graces.
What can you expect with the father never at home… Mrs. Bennet will have to resign from the Mothers’ Union… ooooh, chocolate eclairs, don’t mind if I do… Mr. Collins says… pass the shortbread, Beryl… I don’t care what anyone says, she’s not having anything to do with my Stella now… he should be made to marry her… it’s the other four I feel sorry for… aren’t there institutions, I mean, homes they could send her to… did you see her at the golf club dance with her hem around her knees and lamp-black on her eyes… Charles Bingley had a lucky escape… Mr. Collins says… one more lump, Mildred… she was carrying on with the chauffeur at Netherfield… pass the gingerbread, Nora, and tell us what Miss Theale said… I wonder if she’s you know what… it’s all those sheiks at the cinema turning their heads… her being the vicar’s cousin too… poor Jane they won’t ask her to take over as almoner at the hospital now… let me tempt you with a madeleine, Mrs. Long…
It was fair to say the meeting went off better without Phoebe than it ever had with her although very little was discussed in the way of helping the children of indigent farm labourers or the fundraiser for the cottage hospital.
After another day Professor and Mrs. Bennet arrived in West Hampstead to join Lydia for a week in London under the inexplicable impression that the Bennets on a cosy family outing looked normal to the rest of Meryton. With the briefest of greetings, Elizabeth changed places with them in the taxi and was taken to Kings Cross to spend a couple of days at home. The cabbie at least was happy.
On arrival at Longbourn, she was relieved to have Jane to herself. Mary had taken over the back parlour and Kitty remained in her room. Elizabeth then had nothing to do except console Jane and wonder relentlessly what Mr. Darcy had been about to say to her when she had picked up the letter.
“I don’t suppose he’ll ever say anything to me again,” she said aloud to her empty room when she went to find a cardigan and the thought was far bleaker one than she could ever have imagined.
“No point in pretending to be normal,” said Mary when they gathered for afternoon tea, “we’ll never be normal again. People will never stop talking about us because they all know our sister was writing about wanting to see Mr. Wickham in the altogether to say nothing of the gossip about Albert Mooney.”
Elizabeth laid down her cup and flush of panic flooded through her, “Are you sure everyone knows?”
“Of course I’m sure! I was in the draper’s and Jessie Pike and Lupin Browne were wondering in stage whispers about whether or not a friend enjoyed her view.”
“I thought it had to be in the dark,” said Kitty and began to bawl. Over her recriminations, Elizabeth heard Ivy in the front hall saying something that sounded horribly like, “Please wait here, Mr. Collins sir, and I’ll tell the ladies you’ve arrived.” Her heart sank.
“Miss Jane, Mr. Collins says you’re expecting him.” Elizabeth and Jane exchanged weary glances.
“Yes, I was expecting him,” muttered Jane, “but not because he was invited.”
Before any of them could think of anything to do short of clambering out of the window and over the hydrangeas their cousin bustled into the room.
“I have come to condole with you,” he said quite clearly believing himself.
“Thank you, Cousin William, but why do we need condoling?” Elizabeth tried to look a
nd sound bright. She was determined to cling to the idea they could get away with it.
“Your sister, my dear, your sister Lydia.”
“Lydia?” replied Elizabeth inspected the contents of the teapot as if she had no idea what he was talking about.
Mr. Collins started to look confused, “Lydia has run away with the photographer from Netherfield, has she not?”
Ivy came in with a fresh pot of tea and seeing that Jane was transfixed by a lily on the wallpaper Elizabeth began to busy herself with the cups.
“Cousin Elizabeth, you may wish to dissemble but the truth is - the whole of Meryton knows it - that your youngest sister has gone off in the company of a man and has lost her virtue. My dear, I realise the world overlooks in my sex a thousand irregularities it cannot condone in yours and however unjust that may be we must live with it, nay, you must live with it for if one young lady in a family goes astray it may ruin the prospects of all the rest.”
He folded his hands across his ample middle and looked benignly at them.
“Quite right,” said Mary, “virtue in a female is a beautiful but brittle ornament and once shattered it is impossible to repair. Lydia’s loss of reputation will damage us all, you are quite right, Cousin William. Do have a piece of shortbread.”
He broke the shortbread with as much solemnity as the Sacred Host and laying one piece on the plate, continued, “I do hope it will be possible to effect a mawwiage in a wegistwy office. Do you think so, Cousin Jane?”
Jane looked away. She hadn’t eaten properly for several days and was squeamish.
“William!” Elizabeth’s scant supply of patience had run dry. “What on earth have you been listening to and from whom?”
“The whole town is talking of it. Mrs. Partridge told me this morning as she was buttering my kippers and then Mrs. Long and Miss Theale mentioned it to me on my way to say my Morning Office and Miss Frith and Colonel Baxter happened to ask me about it on my way back. The chemist, the baker, the undertaker, and the barmaid at the Spotted Dog are all talking of it…”