Chapter 55
Irksome Company
Elizabeth’s despondency upon her husband’s hasty leave-taking was not improved by her mother’s ways. Her partiality to Geoff above his sister irked her to no end.
When introducing the twins to Mr. Finch, she had gushed, “He is to inherit!”
To Elizabeth, she said, “Handsome boy, Lizzy!”
Mrs. Bennet seemed to have no kind words for Janie. Indeed, she took Janie’s chin in her hand and appraised her as if she was judging a prize lamb.
Her head slightly askew, she tsked, “It is fortunate that she shall have a handsome dowry. We must be happy with that.”
Born second to her beautiful sister, Jane (upon whom Mrs. Bennet had staked all her financial hopes), Elizabeth was well-acquainted with her mother’s favouritism. Fortunately, Janie was too young to notice (or at least she seemed oblivious to the meaning of her grandmother’s commentary). Elizabeth was indignant on her behalf. Her cheeks flushed with outrage. Knowing full well the uselessness of speaking, she still could not hold her tongue.
“Mama! Our Janie is beautiful!”
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Bennet said absently. “She is pretty enough.”
A sudden notion struck Elizabeth.
She inquired, “Do you observe a likeness between us? I mean to ask, do you believe that Janie’s countenance favours mine?”
Asked a direct question, Mrs. Bennet looked at Janie closely and then answered, “I fancy... yes, I would say she does. She does not have your chin, but her hair is as tangled as was yours. It has no rule to it. Why, never was a lock of hair more tedious to comb....”
“Yes, Mama,” Elizabeth interrupted.
Her mother’s mind had always been somewhat fallow. She was prone to repeating that wherein she found solace. Elizabeth had been her father’s favourite; Jane the most beautiful. Mrs. Bennet had always favoured Lydia above her other daughters.
Indeed, Lydia’s boys were Mrs. Bennet’s particular delight. Lydia’s oldest son brought her great joy (as he already showed signs of his father’s smarmy charm). Whilst enumerating young George’s many dubious achievements, Mrs. Bennet often misspoke the other grandchildren’s names. Some she could not recall at all.
“There are far too many...,” she explained to Mr. Finch.
He recoiled in horror at her thoughtlessness.
“My condolences,” he said to Elizabeth helplessly.
Elizabeth patted his arm, grateful for his kindness.
Mrs. Bennet chastised Mary for pointing out that Lydia’s children were not remarkable for good behaviour. Mary, however, refused to be checked and gave all her attention to Mr. Finch’s every utterance. Kitty did not much like what, she considered, all the untoward attention that Mary paid her husband. (At one time, Kitty had tangled with Maria Lucas for Mr. Finch’s affection.) Now a vicar’s wife, Kitty was of the opinion that slapping her sister six ways to Sunday would be unChristian (but she could imagine it and that gave her great joy).
Kitty’s recitation of the many gratuities her husband had earned through death, marriage, and births left Mary truly miffed. Initially, she had believed Kitty’s match was highly advantageous—that she married far better than Jane or Elizabeth. Their husbands were rich and that was tantamount to being the devil’s disciples. Now Kitty, the vicar’s wife, was under money’s evil spell.
“Kitty, you speak of nothing but money. I dare say you should hold your tongue. For does the bible not say ‘money is the root of all evil?’”
“I believe, my dear sister,” Mr. Finch corrected, “that 1 Timothy 6:10 reads ‘The love of money is the root of all evil.’”
Mr. Finch was a man of good enough sense not to insult the one who holds the strings to the money purse—or his in-laws. His correction had been kindly meant. Regrettably, that forever lost him Mary’s admiration. Vexed, she suffered his presence no better than her other brothers-in-law. Mr. Finch was a tad wiser than some men of the cloth in that he realised he had transgressed upon poor Mary’s one proficiency. He scurried to make it up to her, but could not.
Elizabeth was moved to remark, “Some believe there is but one conclusion when it comes to wealth. An income of fifty a year is a happy situation so long as one’s expenses are forty-nine and six.”
Suddenly, Elizabeth felt silly to be proffering opinions upon frugality whilst being married to one of the richest men in England. However, Mr. Finch took her part in the discussion. Kitty did too, but only because her husband did. Mary frowned at them all. She began to admire the Methodist movement evermore strongly.
“You are all doomed,” she snorted so vociferously that it sounded as if she did not much mind if they were.
Mrs. Bennet snapped, “Be still, Mary, lest I shall run mad!”
Her mother’s nerves and Sister Mary’s sullen proverbs were distracting, but not fatal. By closing her ears to them Elizabeth might have tarried semi-contentedly at Longbourne until her husband returned. However, when at last the bell heralded a caller, it was not Mr. Darcy come back.
He was preceded.
———
“Lizzy!” erupted Lydia from Longbourne’s vestibule.
Lydia Bennet-Wickham-Kneebone had arrived upon Longbourne’s doorstep. Accompanying her were her four children, two nurses, lady maid, and one increasingly put-upon husband.
Elizabeth had promised her mother they would stay a week. With Lydia’s unexpected arrival, after several days of strained cordiality, she feared she would be unable to spare that. Pemberley loomed evermore inviting. Inwardly, Elizabeth cringed. Outwardly, she was all graciousness.
Elizabeth raised her arms to bid a kiss, but Lydia went to Mrs. Bennet first. That was to be forgiven. After hugs, squeals, and kisses, Lydia returned her attention to her bereaved sister.
“Lizzy dear, it has been far too long. I am so sorry to hear of your loss! A little boy was it not?”
“William,” Elizabeth interjected.
“We would have come to Pemberley, but I could not bear to make another requisition upon Hughie’s aunt’s purse to hire a coach. We cannot keep a carriage of our own. If you could see to give me a small loan, I might pay a bit on my accounts at the dress shops. I use your name liberally, yet they have cut me off compleatly. Chelsea is such a bore! I would much rather live nearer to the park. Had we a carriage, we could take a turn there every afternoon. But here I am, speaking of my own troubles when you and Darcy are grieving so. You did get my note? Hughie! Mind your hair!”
The single accusation that could not be hurled at Lydia was the she had a slow mind. Indeed, she could flit from one subject to another within the course of a single sentence.
Hat in the crook of his elbow, Major Kneebone stood still as a soldier at post. Lydia then spat in her glove and wiped it across his errant cowlick as if he were a child. Elizabeth waited for her to compleat his mortification before she replied to any of Lydia’s inquiries. In not deigning to come to Pemberley when little William died, Lydia did them all a very large favour. Indeed, her absence was weathered with gratitude all around.
Without any inflection to her voice, Elizabeth said, “Your note was one of great economy. We all admired it a great deal.”
Elizabeth’s refusal to lie with any real conviction had long vexed Lydia. Any lady knew that distortion, equivocation, exaggeration, and outright fabrication were social requirements. Therefore, the ability to prevaricate was a quality admired above all others and proved a lady’s worth in good society. Lydia ignored Elizabeth’s remark and gave up begging for money.
Lydia told her, “I would have come, I assure you. But I was once again without a nurse—I am positive that I told you of that misfortune. We are always in want of a nurse.”
The nursemaid with her was but a girl (not all that taller than Lydia’s daughter, Susanna). Her hair was uncombed and she looked as if she had been abducted from the street. She wore a dress of coarse fabric which looked too tatty to be one of Lydia’s cast-offs. It was chilly and she had n
o coat. At Kneebone’s insistence, Lydia did try to economize (in so far as it did not intrude upon her own wants and needs). Instead of wages, she paid her help in old clothes.
Elizabeth smiled at the girl, took off her shawl and draped it over her shoulders. At this act of kindness, a ripple of excitation overspread the girl’s face. It was doubtful she was above fourteen years old. The boots she wore were too big for her as well. They looked to have come from a pile of refuse.
To Lydia, Elizabeth said, “I see that if you cannot offer alms, you do your part for the poor. You invite them into your home to do your bidding
“I pay them!” Lydia insisted.
This was an ongoing dispute. Elizabeth accused Lydia of mistreating her help and Lydia denied it. Elizabeth believed it was a compleat waste of time to do so again. There was a pair of boots in her own trunk that would fit the girl better than the ones she wore. She would see that she received them (and hoped that Lydia would not take them from her).
“Where are your boys?” Elizabeth queried. “I do hope they are well.”
“Oh, they have run off to play,” Lydia replied nonchalantly. “They are such hellions, I cannot make them mind. They have cost us nothing but grief all this long journey. They keep stones in their pockets to toss at horses and the like. They find great humour in causing a spill. One would think that Hugh could have them behave, but he has no more luck with them than do I!”
Suddenly, a happy thought leapt from the inner workings of Lydia’s mind (which was dedicated to the betterment of Lydia Kneebone).
“Soon the boys shall be back at school and they shall not bother me a whit until next year!”
In attempting to converse with her sister regarding where they would attend school, Elizabeth was unsuccessful. Her lips no more than formed the question ere she was interrupted by Lydia’s interminable yammering. Time and experience had done nothing to calm her conversational indiscretions. This day was not an exception.
“Is not Mr. Darcy to dine with us? I dare say I have not once seen you apart since that little affray we had at Limehouse Public House with Wickham.”
At Wickham’s name, Mrs. Bennet’s eyes rolled back in her head and she began to swoon, saying, “Poor, poor Major Wickham. Killed in the wars, poor man!”
Her mother’s fit of nerves told Elizabeth that she had not comprehended fully what Lydia had said. She was greatly relieved—doubly so. She was most happy that Darcy had taken his leave when he had. Inflicting Lydia on him and the memories of the affair with Wickham would have been unpardonable.
To Lydia, she hissed, “Lydia, hush yourself.”
“What?” Lydia quacked.
More and more frequently, Lydia’s interjections mimicked farm animals (they wavered between a duck and a gander). When Lydia laughed, she brayed. Elizabeth was sorely tempted to tell her that.
Rather, she reminded her, “Did we not agree to not speak of that to Mama?”
“But how can I not? Everyone knew it. And what does it matter now? He is good as dead. He will stay away if he knows what is good for him. My Hughie will run him through it he tries to regain me!”
In fortune, Kitty arrived in the foyer just then to greet Lydia. (Kitty was exhilarated by the opportunity of visiting with Lydia and besting her in situations.) Kisses and laughter improved the noise until such time as Elizabeth’s head began to throb. It occurred to her that if not for the lack of Jane, their family would be reunited for the first time since Mr. Bennet’s death. However, Jane’s agreeableness was what made the tentacles of her family circle escapable—or at the very least, bearable. Every family has its knaves and fools. All one can do is not to contribute to the inanity. With that thought, she slipped away. If Lydia’s boys were on the loose, their stones might make targets of her own children.
Her motherly instincts were correct.
Just beyond the paling, Lydia’s oldest son, a tall gangly sly-boots with a quick tongue, had Janie by her sashes. He was threatening to tie her up and throw her down the well. Janie flailed at the boy, but without success. From Geoff’s expression, he looked as if he wanted to intercede, but did not know how to go about it.
“Stop it!” he demanded, but the bigger boy laughed.
When Geoff did react, it was not indecisively. He ran full force towards the bigger boy, swinging his fists wildly. Wickham’s son stuck out a foot and tripped him. Geoff struggled to his feet and looked to make another run. However, Elizabeth caught him by the back of the collar and swung him around behind her. Still flailing, he did his best to wriggle free. Elizabeth hollered at the boy to let go of Janie.
Georgie Wickham dropped Janie abruptly and sauntered away. He did not go quietly. Indeed, the curses to which he gave low utterances astounded her. For one who was not yet ten years old, he had a surprising vocabulary.
“You are in compleat want of manners! I shall not have it! Do you hear?” she called after him.
Janie ran to her mother. She looked back at Georgie’s retreating figure and stuck out her tongue. Then, she took refuge in the folds of her mother’s skirts. Only when Janie had been rescued did Geoff quit squirming. He did not speak, but Elizabeth could see the tips of his ears were as red as his face. The lady in her knew that she should discourage such behaviour, but a tingle of motherly pride stopped her. It was good to know that when the time came, they would stand up for themselves—and each other.
Kneeling, she encircled both children in her arms.
“You should come to your Mama if other children misbehave,” she cooed.
Geoff shook his head solemnly, saying, “Papa says it is my duty.”
His voice was that of a child, but his manner was that of a gentleman. In the distance, the bell announced dinner. Elizabeth was not yet ready to subject her children to her family’s questionable embrace.
Taking each by the hand, she said, “Let us strike out on another path, shall we?”
As they walked, neither child spoke. She did not want to end their visit to Longbourne unhappily, but Wickham’s son reminded her far too much of his father. That similarity recalled other, more disquieting events. She could barely look upon the boy without repugnance. Still, Georgie Wickham was but a boy. There was time for his manners to improve. Not wanting to fall prey to the same sort of biases as her mother, Elizabeth decided it might be best to take their leave.
In fortune, Mrs. Bennet was too much engaged with her other daughters to care if they did.
Needing no more provocation, Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy’s children, nurses, and Hannah were on the road with great haste. Elizabeth, however, had to overcome a bout of melancholy. As her coach passed by, her gaze was arrested by the sight of a familiar oak. Under its spreading limbs, she and Darcy enjoyed their first kiss (and where their passion near ran amuck, leaving her far better informed of the anatomical disparity of the sexes). It was also against that ancestral tree she wept for her husband’s safe return after burying her father. As they left Longbourne behind, she had to bite the inside of her lip to keep it from quivering with an overflow of her emotions.
Before they had departed, Elizabeth had sent a rider to inform Darcy of their altered plans. He would be displeased that they traveled without him or, to his mind, enough footmen. (To her mind, he had the greater need of footmen in London.) She held no doubt, however, the circumstances would beg his understanding. Had she dared, she did not care to journey all the way to Derbyshire without her husband. They would stop at Chiltern.
The inn was quite tolerable—even for the family of Mr. Darcy. There they would forgather for a short stay. It was likely that he would make his away from London more hastily knowing that they were from under her mother’s roof.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Janie, who laid her head against her and asked, “Mama, are you sad? Is it for Willy?”
Elizabeth was suddenly aware that a tear was making its way down her cheek. Hastily, she wiped it away with the back of her glove and consoled her daughter.
“
Just now I miss your Papa. I shall be quite happy to see him.”
As a cloud burst opened up in the sky, she felt a renewal of spirits, happy in the knowledge that Longbourne was no longer her home.
It was where she became a woman, not lived as one.
Chapter 56
Vouloir, c’est pouvoir
It might be presumed that whilst struggling to convalesce from a near-mortal wound that a looking-glass would not be the item most wanted within reach of the patient’s sickbed. This particular bed, however, was inhabited by a man of peculiar merit. George Wickham had several good traits, modesty was not amongst them. He admired all of his God-given endowments—his pleasing expression, handsome countenance, and winning ways. Like most men, he was particularly fond of his masculine basket of fancies. Consequently, he was most impatient to learn whether his recent misfortune would disfigure them or create any hindrance in their workings.
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