Ecstatic over being conveyed to Pemberley in an equipage of unrivalled majesty, Lydia had prattled to her new husband of the prominence of her sister’s husband all the way to Derbyshire. Upon their arrival, however, it was Mrs. Bennet who stood in fluttering welcome beneath the portico. (She had stood upon an upstairs balcony for a most immoderate time watching for their coach to clear the lodge-post, then made haste to be the first to greet them.) It was not her mother alone whom Lydia had come all this way to see, and it was with some impatience that she allowed kisses and introductions.
Having been apprised of the arrival, Elizabeth stood in the enormous vestibule in order to keep them from charging in upon her husband without due warning. Lydia was most effusive with her praise of all things Darcy. She could not tell Elizabeth enough how happy she was to be at last welcome at Pemberley and, in the same breath, relate the highlights of their journey—up to and including having passed by Princess Caroline’s abode and happening to catch sight of that personage and her alleged Italian lover entering a royal coach.
“Imagine, Lizzy! Her livery was not half so handsome as ours! We were so near to her I could all but smell her scent—truly she must issue an intolerable smell—she looked quite podgy and altogether dirty and unkempt. It is no wonder that Prinny keeps his mistresses. He married her bigamously, did he not? Would it not be outrageous to have such an ugly little tart as queen? Although I must say—we have done far worse!”
Indeed, all of that information was delivered not five steps inside the doorstep. From that notorious subject, she flitted to another with such haste that Elizabeth had no opportunity to interject a word. Her next train of discourse was of greater interest to her audience for it pertained to sights that were beheld in the Derbyshire countryside.
“You have never seen a more crowded thoroughfare in London than the road betwixt Nottingham and Matlock,” she explained.
Lydia’s costume was new, a tribute to her husband’s generosity. (Her bonnet was a milliner’s wonder, a series of pheasant plumes projecting out at such an angle as to poke him in the eye for his trouble.) In between her various observations, Lydia introduced her new husband, who had been nodding both in agreement with Lydia’s last bit of information and to avoid her chapeau’s weaponry. With Mrs. Bennet trilling and ejaculating her delight behind them, Elizabeth escorted the couple to the large salon where Darcy stood awaiting them with unprecedented formality. Introductions, therefore, were exchanged somewhat awkwardly, Lydia simpering and giggling whilst Elizabeth attempted to take her new brother-in-law’s measure. She was full curious as to whether or not the Gardiners’ estimation of Kneebone had been inflated by hope. It was readily apparent that he bore not a whisper of Wickham’s twinkle-eyed smirk; indeed, whilst she and Darcy gave Kneebone a detailed evaluation, he appeared neither off-put nor put-out, but remained impassively hospitable to their examination. When Lydia spoke to him, he looked upon her with such devotion, it was impossible for Elizabeth not to forgive him his amorous judgement.
His hair was straw-coloured and unruly. He had used more than a dollop of oil, but it had not done the office of keeping a few sprigs of a cowlick plastered to his skull. (In an oft-used manoeuvre, he nervously scratched his fingers across the crown of his head to tame that one wild lock.) His epaulets disguised narrow shoulders, but he had a thick wrist—the ruddiness of which gave him the appearance of a farm boy lately come to town. Thoroughly prepared to despise the fellow, Darcy was happy to find him not at all appalling. Elizabeth did her best to keep Lydia corralled so the gentlemen could converse uninterrupted. Therefore, Darcy learnt that Kneebone’s not seeing action in the latest hostility fell not to his disinclination to put himself in harm’s way, but that he had seen action in the Peninsular campaign—carrying a fragment of a musket-ball in a portion of his person that remained undisclosed.
Hearing that subject arise of his heroism, Lydia hastened to exclaim, “He was mentioned by name and with honour in the Gazette!”
“Ooooh,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet. “A hero, indeed!”
Kneebone’s ruddy complexion coloured the approximate shade of a ripe tomato and Lydia rushed to his side and patted his arm with affection. As she had not witnessed that which the other females of Lydia’s parish had forthwith of their wedding, Elizabeth remained somewhat suspicious of Lydia’s apparent alteration into a devoted wife. But Kneebone covered Lydia’s hand with his in a comforting little gesture and said that she wanted him to quit the guards and sell out of the army. He, however, was unwilling to live solely upon his aunt’s allowance. With that remark, a silence ensued, not of a particularly deadly variety, but awkward enough for Elizabeth to want it filled. Therefore, she told Darcy of the unusual liveliness of their local roads.
“Pray, what do you make of it?” inquired Major Kneebone of Darcy.
A small expression of concern crossed Darcy’s countenance (one so tiny only Elizabeth detected it), but he replied benignly, “I fear it was not a good crop year. Some cottagers seek a means of employment in the east.”
“Many believe that the Corn Laws are to blame,” Kneebone said mildly.
Just as mildly Darcy replied, “I would agree with those who do.”
Knowing that many large landowners were avaricious enough to have supported a law that enriched their own pockets at the peril of those who could least weather the high cost of bread, Kneebone looked quite astonished at Mr. Darcy’s position. “Indeed, did you stand among those landowners of Derbyshire who opposed them publicly?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Would it be far too bold of me to observe that those in favour of such decrees are merchants and bankers who claimed their property through default and not, like yourself, true lovers of the land?”
“Yes, it would be bold,” said Mr. Darcy, “but not incorrect.”
Both men then exchanged a moment of understanding—one disturbed by the interruption of their mother-in-law.
Mrs. Bennet demanded an alteration in the topic of their discourse, announcing, “Politics, gentlemen! Is there any subject more tiresome to ladies? Do desist!”
“Mama, some ladies are in want of information of that sort,” insisted Elizabeth, unhappy at the prospect of not furthering the subject of keen national interest. “You are quite unfair to our sex!”
She had not an ally in Lydia, however, for beyond her husband’s past heroics, she disliked the discourse. Elizabeth saw immediately that she was overruled if not outnumbered. A servant offered the men a glass of claret and Mrs. Bennet took both her daughters by the arms, insisting they leave the men be. Elizabeth gave a longing look over her shoulder, hoping against hope that her husband would rescue her. It was a point of pride that Darcy did not exclude her from what usually came under the banner of men-talk (the pride was for her husband’s lack of male-prone insecurities, not for her own acumen). As her mother whisked her away, it was the first time in her recent recollection that he had not rescued her. Upon this occasion, she supposed, it was acceptable. Indeed, it was her duty to rescue him. Lydia’s behaviour when in his company was inexcusably forward. Even in the presence of her new husband, she could not keep her hands to herself. If he could escape her, he would—and Elizabeth would not have to peel Lydia’s fingers off his coat lapels.
Darcy was by then deep in conversation with Kneebone, which left the ladies to betake themselves to the nursery and admire Lydia’s newborn. Whilst Elizabeth led the way, Mrs. Bennet was happy for the opportunity to lament the recently departed Wickham, for he had been a particular favourite of hers. Amongst her few admirable qualities was that Lydia was the one daughter who did not scruple to confront and correct her mother’s many misconceptions.
“Oh, do not speak to me of Wickham,” she said with finality. “He was black at heart, hollow and black!”
“But dear, sweet Lydia,” said Mrs. Bennet, only slightly chastened, “Wickham had such a handsome countenance a
nd an open, pleasing way. I cannot believe all that you say of him is true.”
At this, Lydia snorted. For her part, Elizabeth was altogether uneasy having Lydia within Pemberley—sporting a new husband or not. Just the mention of Wickham’s name gave her a small shiver down her spine.
She had not said a word to Darcy of the ghostly visage she thought she had observed when taking leave of Brighton. Darcy had made it clear that he had no true evidence whether Wickham had or had not perished upon the battlefield of Waterloo. In light of no other information, they had chosen to believe the official notification of his death. She had successfully kept that worry in the farthest reaches of her thoughts. At least that was where it stayed until his name was spoken in her presence. She listened as Lydia quickly returned to better humour, warbling and preening over her new daughter for Mrs. Bennet’s benefit. Elizabeth gave all the appropriate adulations to the baby’s aspect and admired her good nature, taking her carefully into her arms, but as she did so, she was overtaken by ever-increasing unease. It was a disconcertion that could not be appeased by the notion of Lydia procuring an adoring and gentlemanly husband. Lydia had overcome widowhood, adultery, and imposture with unseemly effortlessness. Indeed, Lydia had always managed to overcome life’s many struggles without sacrificing much of anything, save time and conscience. Elizabeth was torn between pity for Kneebone and holding out hope that Lydia would come to merit him.
Elizabeth’s thoughts were interrupted by her mother’s voice.
“’Twas a great sadness for your mama not to attend this wedding, Lydia. Married twice, and I had not the pleasure of witnessing either one!”
With unsparing precision, a tear then sprang from the corner of Mrs. Bennet’s eye. With a dainty flourish, she withdrew a gauzy, lace-trimmed handkerchief from her bodice and dabbed at it without conviction.
“Oh, what does it matter?” retorted Lydia dismissively. “The flowers were unexceptional and I was forbidden to wear lace. If we had not gone into the vestry to sign the registry, I should not have thought much had come to pass at all.”
Suddenly jealous of her possessing her baby, Lydia had taken her gurgling daughter from Elizabeth, jiggling her a bit upon her shoulder. As this manoeuvre was clearly not one that Lydia regularly employed, her movements were clumsy. The baby began to fuss a bit—whereupon Lydia began to jiggle her more zealously.
“’Tis a pity,” offered Mrs. Bennet, reaching out and fluffing Lydia’s bobbing tendrils, “that swaddling is no longer done.”
Mrs. Bennet and Lydia commiserated that sad fact emphatically, nodding and waggling their eyebrows in unison. It was then that Elizabeth’s attention was arrested by the young nursemaid. The girl, who was no bigger than a mite, bore the precise expression of one of much longer years—one who had spent a great deal of time witnessing the many follies of her fellow man. Indeed, Elizabeth was quite certain that the girl’s countenance mirrored her own contemptuous dislike of the display before them. At that very moment, the girl’s gaze caught hers—and she thereupon cast her eyes deferentially to the floor. The little nurse’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment as if she had been caught in some covert act. Elizabeth had wanted to speak to her, to bid her not to be afraid—for the sight of her countenance had given her stomach an added twinge. The girl, however, stepped back with head still bowed and folded her hands in front of her.
Lydia continued to jiggle the baby who then began to cry with some vehemence. Sighing with equal resolve, Lydia thrust her towards the nursemaid, who then enveloped the child in her small arms and immediately began to hum. Elizabeth looked at the girl once again, but she had turned away with the baby towards a homely wreck of woman, who sat in the corner already opening her dress-front in anticipation of the feeding. Quite involuntarily, Elizabeth grimaced. It was a trial not to snatch Lydia’s baby from her, but she held her ground.
With a quick whisper, she bid, “Pray, Lydia, your wet-nurse, is she…entirely reliable?”
Lydia looked upon her as if she had run mad, impatiently replying, “Of course. Can you not see she is rich with milk?”
“You do not take my meaning…” Elizabeth began to explain, then the little nursemaid turned to her with such an expression of reassurance, she quit the subject entirely.
“Come, Lizzy,” said her mother, turning up her nose at the thought of witnessing the very act she had vociferously avoided for herself and her daughters. “We must implore the major to tell us more of his aunt.”
“She keeps a box on Drury Lane,” announced Lydia. “She is sickly and Hugh is her only relation! Can there be a happier thought?”
For some reason, Lydia’s return to indecorous self-centeredness was a very present relief. It was as if Elizabeth had been waiting for the other, very large shoe to drop. She did not even bother to attempt to admonish her.
As they quit the room, she looked back upon the little nursemaid as she stood stroking the baby’s head whilst the other woman nursed. Carefully and quietly she closed the door. Somehow, beyond all reason, she was comforted.
66
Footsteps Retraced
Since that fortuitous day on which she became employed by Lydia, what Sally knew to be true had been twirled three-hundred-and-sixty degrees and then back again. To what her family had just uncovered of the nature of Lydia’s husband and marriage, Sally Frances had long been privy. She knew it all because loquacious Lydia had merrily admitted to much of her family’s travails, and what she had not put forth she had hinted at broadly enough for Sally to have surmised. Lydia had not shared these private matters with Sally because she felt any kinship with her baby’s nurse. Indeed, because her Aunt Gardiner did not offer her a sympathetic ear, she simply had no one else to listen to her prattle. Sally was, and always had been, a very good listener. She came, however, with a bias.
Sally’s penurious perspective gifted her little respect for well-born folks who by accident crossed her path prior to her turning up on Gracechurch St. That point of view had not been challenged during the days she had lain in wait for an excuse to make her way to the Gardiners’ home. In that her first glimpse of that breed up close had been Lydia, her regard did not immediately improve for that specimen. After a very few weeks under her supervision, Sally held out little hope for the English race in general if Mrs. Wickham represented the ruling class. Had the Gardiners not arrived home and proved Lydia was not, as a rule, typical of her society, Sally might have been so dejected as to give up her project to search out her brother’s history altogether. Although Sally thought Mrs. Gardiner was a fine woman, she was well aware that she was disapproving of Lydia bringing someone into their home without references (and, truth be known, with a street address that would have struck fear in her heart). Lydia asked nothing of her except was she capable of caring for a baby. Mr. Gardiner was in trade, and from what little she saw of him, he was as kind as his wife. Their children were so well behaved that whilst Lydia complained endlessly about them behind her aunt’s back, Sally seldom was aware they were there. If there was any one indicator of Lydia’s being a societal aberrance, it was the Gardiners’ barely concealed dislike of her character. (In time Sally would learn that Lydia may not have been the most admired lady of her class, but neither was she a compleat peculiarity.)
It had quickly fallen apparent to Sally that Lydia was nothing if not an immodest strumpet who used her wiles far more ruthlessly than any woman of the street. Yet her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, was the finest lady Sally’s eyes had ever beheld. True, her home was not one-tenth as fine as the Darcys’ house in Mayfair, but it was still grand by any standard Sally had ever had. Lydia had been little bother to her, as she only paid a visit to her daughter once a day. Indeed, Mrs. Gardiner peeked in on the baby with far more regularity than Lydia.
Sally’s opinion of Major Kneebone was not quite so mean as her regard for Lydia. Despite his uniform, he was basically a man of books and quiet pursuits, which wa
s not the worst sort—although clearly, he was a dunce when it came to women. As Sally had witnessed the whole of their courtship, she was well aware that Lydia had seduced the major as surely as if she had sat in a cheap dressing-gown in a window in Seven Dials. (Indeed, she thought those tarts a tad less devious.) So eagre had Lydia been to escape the quiet gentility of the Gardiners’ house, he might as well have had a bull’s-eye painted upon his forehead.
They made quite an odd pair, which only disposed Sally to believe that there was no accounting for some people’s taste. Although she initially disliked the notion of that kind Major Kneebone taking conniving Lydia as a wife, their nuptials proved altogether serendipitous in that they had attracted an invitation for the couple to visit Pemberley. Sally had been saving her pennies to sit aboard a post-chaise, only to end up travelling all the way to Derbyshire accompanied by the finest livery in three counties.
Darcy & Elizabeth Page 45