by Jann Rowland
“Anthony is not for me,” replied Anne, grinning at her mother. “I only said I require a livelier husband. Darcy is too staid, too reserved for us to do well together, though I know he would have treated me well. Allow Darcy to have his young lady and allow me to find someone of my own. We shall both be happier if you do.”
No further words passed between them. A night of watching her mother, however, informed Anne that she was considering what she had heard, and not focused on her disappointment. Though neither spoke anything further on the subject, by the end of the evening, Anne knew the dream her mother had harbored all these years was dead and buried. It was about time.
Chapter XXIV
Immature girls, not yet out in society, often clamor to attend events, and their pleas grow louder when those events offer the promise of an evening spent dancing. This truism could not be doubted, for Elizabeth remembered an element of it in her own behavior before she had come out. It is more prevalent, however, in younger sisters, those obliged to watch as their elder sisters partake in the enjoyment of their status, while the younger must wait their turn.
While Elizabeth loved Kitty and Lydia, it was often a trial to endure their complaining, Lydia more so than Kitty, for she was the leader in their protests and the louder in making their case. As their father had permitted them to attend the ball at Netherfield, this had set a precedent in their minds, a perceived precedent they were not hesitant to exploit. Whether such tactics found success in other families—whether they would succeed in their present objective—was something Elizabeth could not predict. Their mother was not insensible to their plight and their father was not a disciplinarian; but the fact remained that in Elizabeth’s mind, they were not ready for society—Lydia in particular.
“We attended Mr. Bingley’s ball,” said Lydia that morning in a voice more grating the more she spoke. “Why you should prevent us from attending an assembly, a mere trifle in comparison, is beyond my understanding.”
“There are many things beyond your understanding,” said Mr. Bennet. He had joined them that morning in the sitting-room, his nose buried in his newspaper, though Elizabeth did not think he missed anything going on around him. “Just because you may not understand them, there are valid reasons you should not attend.”
“I would understand them if you would explain,” said Lydia, perhaps not the best way to make her case.
Mr. Bennet pushed his newspaper to the side and regarded his youngest, a suppressed smile causing his lips to twitch. “Have we not made the reasons clear many times? Lydia, you are still but fifteen years of age and not ready to take on all the society you wish. Age and experience will inform you of the truth of this, though you do not wish to accept it now.”
“If anyone should be angry at being excluded,” said Mrs. Bennet, regarding her youngest, a hint of displeasure hovering about her, “it is Kitty; she is two years your elder if you will recall.”
“That is not fair!” exclaimed Lydia.
“Though you may not see it, there is nothing unfair about it,” replied her mother. “Kitty is two years closer to being out than you are, Lydia, and you had best remember it.”
When Lydia opened her mouth to protest further, Mr. Bennet interjected, saying: “It may be to your benefit if you refrained from saying whatever has crossed your mind. Your sisters all came out at eighteen but there is no rule which requires it; if we decide you are not yet ready, you may be nineteen before you make your official debut.”
Laughter bubbled up in Elizabeth’s breast at the sight of Lydia’s mouth closing with haste. The girl’s lips formed up in the rictus of a pout informed Elizabeth of her unhappiness, but she did not push the point, which was just as well. Kitty, by contrast, did not protest, though Elizabeth knew she wished to go as much as Lydia.
“For my part, Papa, I am eager to attend, but I shall wait until my turn comes.”
Lydia’s head whipped around toward her sister, the glare displaying her feelings of betrayal. Prevented from a sharp retort by her father clearing his voice, Lydia subsided, throwing herself back against the cushions on the couch with a childish pout, proving her continued immaturity. Mr. Bennet did not deign to give the girl any of his attention, instead focusing his approval on Kitty.
“That turn will come soon, Kitty,” said Mr. Bennet. “Not only will you turn eighteen next year, but your eldest sister is to marry—and your second eldest, unless I miss my guess.”
Kitty smiled and nodded, her countenance suffused with pleasure, a sharp contrast to Lydia’s continued pouting. Nodding at his second youngest, Mr. Bennet turned a look on her sister, his expression pointed.
“As for you, Lydia, I do not wish to hear more of your silliness. Part of growing into a young lady who is a credit to her family is showing your mother you can understand what society expects of you.
“Next year you shall be sixteen years of age. At that time, you will find your participation in certain events increasing. You will not be out until you are eighteen, and perhaps not then if you cannot show yourself worthy of being in society. Remember how it was for each of your sisters—so will it be for you.”
With a sulky nod from Lydia, they dropped the conversation in favor of other matters. Elizabeth, grateful as she was that her parents were taking a firm hand with their youngest daughter, could not have approved more. Lydia, she knew, was not a stupid girl. She would learn to behave, and if she proved difficult, she would learn through being obliged to stay home when she would otherwise be out.
Later that morning, Elizabeth was out on the estate, walking to enjoy the fine autumn day, the dry paths of the estate and the light breeze, bringing the delightful scents of the ongoing harvest. The month of September had passed and with it, the season had begun waning toward winter in earnest, though fine days were still in abundance.
It was with surprise and pleasure that she met Mr. Darcy on her walk, his tall steed appearing around a bend in the road, the clopping of the hooves announcing his coming. With a skip in her step, Elizabeth approached the gentleman, greeted him, and then with great relish, she related the events of the morning, injecting some anecdotes about the time before her own coming out, providing him much amusement. At length, when her recital drew to a close, Mr. Darcy turned to her and favored her with a knowing smile.
“The next time I see him, I must thank your father. Georgiana, as you might imagine, has been eager to attend. As I now know your sisters will remain at home, I can inform my sister she will also not attend and not leave her feeling ill-used.”
Elizabeth laughed and fixed the gentleman with a mock glare. “It seems to me your sister was hiding her true self when she first arrived in Hertfordshire. Why, she is becoming more like Lydia every passing day!”
“Please, do not say such things!” was Mr. Darcy’s dramatic reply. “I do not believe I could handle such a spirited young lady as Miss Lydia.”
They laughed together and Elizabeth, an idea coming to her, suggested: “Perhaps Georgiana could stay at Longbourn that night while we are all at the assembly? That would help them all feel better about being excluded.”
Mr. Darcy cocked his head to the side, regarding her with an air of thoughtful interest. “Miss Elizabeth, someday you will be an excellent mother, for you seem to understand how best to handle children.”
It was an audacious statement, and Elizabeth felt her cheeks heating at the inference behind his comment. For once in her life, she felt at a loss for words, no clever rejoinder entering her mind to throw back at him to hide her embarrassment. In desperation, she blurted:
“Lydia and Georgiana are hardly children; they are on the cusp of being young ladies!”
The smile with which Mr. Darcy regarded her came easily to his lips. “No, but I suspect your facility with a child of three will be as great as with a girl entering society.”
“Oh, and do you suppose I shall raise my own children?” asked Elizabeth, finding a hint of poise in his continued praise. “If I marry
right, I might have the ability to leave them with nurses and governesses, bring them out to show off to society and ignore them at all other times.”
The snort with which Mr. Darcy responded spoke without the possibility of error what he thought of her rejoinder. “If that be the case, then I do not know you as well as I thought. I cannot see you leaving the care of your children to another. You will be a loving mother, active in your children’s daily concerns, nurturing, guiding, and adoring them far more than they could ever possibly deserve.”
“And what sort of father will you be?” asked Elizabeth, turning the tables back on him. “Is it your intention to relegate your children to the nursery until duty calls them to your presence and that of your guests?”
“Nothing of the sort,” replied Mr. Darcy, not daunted in the slightest. “Of my most cherished memories were those of riding with my father, learning of the estate business from him. Though my father was not a warm man by any measurement, it was during those times I felt closest to him. I wish to be more of a father than my own was, to guide my children to adulthood, to carry on my family’s legacy in the manner of which I would be proud.”
Moved, Elizabeth managed a smile, saying: “Then we are much alike, Mr. Darcy. I have always felt my mother’s love, have always know my father cared for me, though he did not always know how to say it. I wish to pass that on to my children.”
Both so moved by their conversation, they said little after that, content in the feeling of rightness which existed between them. When they parted not long after, Elizabeth farewelled him, content knowing that the proposal she now wished to receive as soon as may be would be forthcoming before long.
Monotony was Fitzwilliam’s familiar friend those days, for there was not much of interest to find in the management of a company of militia. As an active man, Fitzwilliam could not understand how men like Colonel Forster endured it, for there was little of interest to be done, days stuck behind a desk. Fitzwilliam did not even have much to do with the training of the men, for his officers handled most of those tasks. Because of this, Fitzwilliam had learned to appreciate those times when local society allowed him to leave his cares behind. The militia was a different animal from the regulars—this he had known. But he had not known how different it would be.
The typical militia officer completed his duties as soon as may be, so he could focus on the more pleasant parts of his position. While this did not rise to the level which required official reprimands, the perfectionist in Fitzwilliam rebelled at the thought of work completed without attention to detail. It was like commanding a group of young women, intent upon gossip, feminine fripperies, and the time and location of the next assembly.
As the days lengthened to weeks, which became months, Fitzwilliam began to realize there was something missing in his life, something which he could not fill by returning to active duty in his former regiment. His arm was much stronger by now, the weakness surrendering to health and strength, and with it, the knowledge that he could set this unfamiliar task aside and move back into the familiar. The fact was Fitzwilliam did not know what he wanted.
Had he not had a certain libertine to watch, Fitzwilliam thought he might become distracted by his thoughts. As it was, he had little trust for Wickham and every incentive to keep the man in line, and Fitzwilliam did not shirk his self-appointed task to make something of him.
“I see Wickham continues to bestow his charm on Miss Bingley,” said Darcy one day while they were attending a dinner in the neighborhood.
“Aye, he does at that,” replied Fitzwilliam. “Bingley has warned his sister and watches Wickham as much as we do—I do not think she is in any danger. Anne is of far greater concern.”
Darcy directed a sidelong glance at Fitzwilliam. “Do you suspect him more than the last time we spoke?”
“Do you not see how he is drawn to her?” Fitzwilliam snorted. “If it were not for his need to keep up appearances—to distract us—I doubt he would pay the slightest attention to your friend’s excellent sister.”
The sardonic quality in Fitzwilliam’s voice prompted a snort from Darcy. Fitzwilliam knew Darcy tolerated the woman better because her insistence in putting herself forward to him as an excellent match had waned the closer he had become to Miss Elizabeth. Now Miss Bingley appeared to be aiming toward friendships with Anne and Georgiana, likely to improve her social position. It would not do to accuse the woman of having nothing else in mind than her own benefit in society; Fitzwilliam, however, was certain it was at least part of her thinking.
“I have not missed it,” was Darcy’s brief reply. “Wickham is careful to avoid showing Anne any preference while we are present, yet he is always nearby, always with a word or two, a compliment here and a jest there.”
“What do you think of Anne’s response to him?”
“It is difficult to say,” said Darcy, his shoulders rising in a helpless shrug. “Anne declares that she will not allow him to tempt her into anything. You and I both know, however, that her exposure to society has been limited. She has never had to contend with a man of Wickham’s ilk, so she cannot know what he is about.”
“I suppose I must speak with him then,” said Fitzwilliam.
At Darcy’s look, Fitzwilliam nodded. “It would be better coming from me, for I am his commanding officer.”
Darcy nodded and they dropped the subject. A few moments later, Darcy drifted away to put himself in the orbit of the lady who had captured his imagination. Genuinely pleased for his cousin, Fitzwilliam took himself to the side of the woman who interested him.
The confrontation with Wickham was of an urgent nature, Fitzwilliam decided, so he arranged to have it the following day. Wickham, though a man who had always been ruled by his lusts, was intelligent enough, and understood at once why Fitzwilliam wished to speak to him. It was fortunate for Fitzwilliam’s temper that he contented himself with a knowing look and a smirk, allowing Fitzwilliam to raise the subject between them.
“You have been busy of late, Wickham. Every time we are in company, I can find you by the side of two ladies in particular.”
Wickham shrugged. “Though I have no notion whom you mean by the second, I have noted a distinct thawing in Miss Bingley’s manners of late. It is my hope she is receptive to my overtures, for I find her an intriguing woman.”
“You mean you find her money intriguing,” replied Fitzwilliam with a snort.
Having the temerity to laugh, Wickham replied: “Yes, well, that is part of her appeal. Perhaps you and Darcy might be less fastidious when you consider the financial prospects of your intended brides but those of us who do not possess your means must weigh that aspect with the other facets of a woman.”
Though annoyed Wickham had dragged him into a different discussion, Fitzwilliam felt compelled to say: “If you think me a wealthy man, you are mistaken.”
Shrugging, as if to show his lack of interest, Wickham fell silent, though his knowing look never abated. As it always did whenever he spoke to Wickham, Fitzwilliam’s ire rose, though he tamped down on it with ruthless intent.
“Miss Bingley may take care of herself. As I informed you before, I doubt you have any chance of gaining her favor.”
“She now understands Darcy is not an option. If she cannot have him, why not me?”
“I can think of several reasons,” rejoined Fitzwilliam. “But I do not wish to discuss such things. Of greater concern is the second young lady to whom I referred. You do not suppose Darcy and I to be witless, do you? We have marked the interest you have shown in Anne, though you have attempted to hide it from us.”
“Do you accuse me of misbehavior?” asked Wickham, though he appeared amused rather than offended. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“No, your behavior has been acceptable, at least. There is little trust in me for you, but I will own I have had little cause to reprimand you.”
“Then I would ask you to leave well enough alone.” Wickham grinned at Fitzwilliam’s level loo
k and added: “Your protectiveness for your cousin is not hidden, Colonel. Why you would think I would risk what might befall me should I entertain such ideas is beyond my comprehension.”
“As long as you understand we will not allow you to make off with Anne. If there is any such shade of an idea in your head, I suggest you dispatch it at once. Stick to Miss Bingley and woo her if you can, but remember: we will protect her as much as we will Anne. And Georgiana, for that matter.”
The reference to Georgiana was deliberate, for Fitzwilliam wished to see if he could provoke a reaction. There was nothing he could see, for Wickham ignored the reference in favor of nodding and requesting permission to withdraw. Knowing he had done all he could at present to prevent Wickham from digging his own grave, Fitzwilliam allowed him to depart.
For some time after, he sat and thought on the matter; however much he considered it, Fitzwilliam could come to no resolutions. There was little denying that Wickham had focused on Miss Bingley at the very least, but whether he meant to get what he wished in the manner he had always attempted before, Fitzwilliam could not say. While examples of his integrity had been so rare as to be nonexistent, this time he was under the watchful eyes of two who could have a great deal to say concerning his future. That might make all the difference.
A few days later, Fitzwilliam reported his conversation with Wickham to Darcy. Sitting as they were in Bingley’s library, which had become something of a study, where he attended to his correspondence and did what work there was for him to do, Darcy leaned back with a glass of Bingley’s port; a similar glass was clutched in Fitzwilliam’s hand. The discussion had proceeded as he might have predicted. There was something glib about Wickham’s manner; then again there always was, for Wickham had a habit of minimizing such things whenever it suited his purpose.
“Then I suppose we must continue to watch him,” said Darcy. “You have warned him as you can—the rest is his responsibility.”