His words hung in the air, and he watched Mr Bennet struggle to find the words to say. “How can you be certain, sir?” he whispered.
“Both rings, Mr Bennet, bear the Darcy family crest. There are only two rings like it in the world.” He slipped his own ring off his finger. “Here,” he said as he passed them both to Mr Bennet, “please examine them for yourself.”
Mr Bennet took his time examining both rings, but an instant was all he needed, in truth. “It is as I feared; they are an exact match.” He sighed heavily and handed Mr Darcy’s ring back to him.
Mr Darcy put his ring back on his hand and stared at his father-in-law. “If you wish, sir, I will undertake to inform Lydia myself.”
“No, no…” Mr Bennet slowly rose from his chair. “You do so very much for this family as it is, Mr Darcy. It is I who should give my daughter this unfortunate news.”
Mr Darcy could only sit and watch as the man, who seemed so much smaller now, walked out of the room and went in search of his youngest daughter.
Lydia and Kitty circled the garden and drew gradually nearer and nearer to Mr Bennet’s book room each time. However, they could not see an open window through which they could eavesdrop.
“Oh! This is unfair!” Lydia huffed. “Whenever there is something exciting going on, we are sure to be excluded.” She turned and surveyed the outside of the Georgian limestone house. “Perhaps we should go back inside and listen at the door, Kitty.”
“And risk being caught by Mama, or Sir Percival? Not a chance, Lydia.” She glanced around the garden. “We had better take a walk and amuse ourselves, I think. If there is something to tell, we will know of it by-and-by.”
Reluctantly, Lydia turned her back on the house and walked further into the grounds with her sister. She did not hear a single syllable uttered; Lydia’s thoughts were in the book room, her curiosity still ran high. What on earth is so important that Papa felt the need to send for Mr Darcy?
Kitty led the way and continued to chatter on about Jane’s baby, and compared the labours of the women of their acquaintance who had recently given birth in order to determine for how long their sister might travail. “How long did you endure labour before Georgie was born, Lydia?”
She furrowed her brow. “I cannot rightly remember, Kitty. It felt like days, at the time, but I am sure it was only hours.” She shuddered and looked heavenward. “But oh, how awful it was! I cannot understand why women go through it so willingly.”
Kitty thought about it for a moment. “Perhaps it is out of love. A wife cannot help being with child; therefore, she must not mind it out of love.”
“Oh, Kitty, what a silly, romantic notion. There are ways and means, my dear, to avoid it altogether, I am told.”
“Ways and means? Whatever do you mean?” Kitty stared wide-eyed at her.
“Never you mind; you will know well enough when you are married and wish to keep your husband at bay, which I have no doubt that you will.”
Kitty giggled. “I do not think so, Lydia. You must have noticed, I am sure, how frightfully handsome Sir Percival is.” She blushed deeply. “I do not believe I will seek ways and means to keep him from me.”
Lydia chaffed at the remark. There was no possible way in which she would ever be able to ignore how handsome and attractive Sir Percival was. She dreaded family gatherings where they would be forced to meet as brother and sister only. She did not know how she would keep her countenance knowing that he was the husband of her sister when she, herself, desired him so ardently.
“Look, Lydia! There he is!”
Lydia looked to where her sister excitedly pointed and smiled wanly. The last thing she wanted was to walk with Sir Percival and chaperone the two lovers. “I think, perhaps, I might go back inside. I am a little tired this morning.”
“Oh no, please, Lydia, stay with me,” Kitty pleaded and took hold of her hands. She looked so desperate that by the time Lydia disengaged her hands from Kitty’s grasp, Sir Percival had spotted them and was upon them.
“Ladies! What a pleasant day it is!” Sir Percival bowed and Lydia, despite her desire to escape, now had no choice but to stay.
She curtseyed. “Indeed it is, for we are about to become aunts.”
Kitty hopped up and down. “Is it not exciting?”
“Indeed it is, Miss Bennet. I wonder whether she will have a boy or a girl. Have you also been speculating on that?”
“Not as yet, Sir Percival.” Kitty blushed and took his arm. Lydia’s smile fell from her face as she watched her sister’s hand unconsciously caress the dark blue wool of his jacket as they began to walk.
“Then what would you prefer?”
“Hmm… I had not, in truth, considered whether I would prefer a niece or a nephew.”
Lydia fell behind a step and slowed her pace until they were well ahead of her. She did not wish to hear the couple chatting away so jovially while she hurt so much still from his rejection of her. She knew, in time, that she would recover. She wished it to be sooner, rather than later.
“Lydia!”
She turned at the sound of her father’s voice, glad of the rescue.
“Lydia, child. I would speak with you.”
“Yes, Papa, what is it?” She noticed that Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley followed closely behind him.
“Whatever is the matter, Papa? You look frightfully pale.” Kitty and Sir Percival appeared at Lydia’s side.
“It is Lydia I wish to speak to, on a matter of utmost delicacy.”
Kitty laughed. “Oh, Papa, you know that Lydia always tells me everything.”
Mr Bennet looked from one daughter to the other. “Very well, then, perhaps it will be better if you are with your sister for, Lord knows, I do not bear good tidings.” He took a deep breath and pointed to the grove where there were two stone benches. “But perhaps it would be better if you sat.”
Lydia frowned. “What could be so important that you bid me to sit, Papa?”
“Please, indulge me.”
Lydia did as he asked and, as a procession, all six of them made their way to the stone benches. Lydia sat with Kitty on one side of her and Sir Percival on the other. Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley remained standing with Mr Bennet.
He, however, paced up and down in front of the bench she sat on. “I…” He started and then stopped. Lydia watched her father. It was not often that he was lost for words; in fact, Lydia could not remember the last time. “I…” he began again, and turned to face her. He ran his hand across his balding white head and frowned at her. “Oh…” he said, and dug his hand into his pocket, “…perhaps it will be better if you read it for yourself, after all.” He withdrew his hand and held out a piece of paper to her.
“What is it, Papa?”
“Read it, if you please,” he said.
Lydia thought her father’s voice sounded weak. Whatever the paper contained, she feared it was not happy news; his countenance told her that, at least. She took the paper from her father and opened it. Indeed, it was a letter of sorts. “Mrs Wickham,” she read. “Why, this is addressed to me. Papa, why did you open this?”
“Read on, child. You will understand why I took it upon myself to do so.” He hung his head forlornly.
“Mrs Wickham…” Lydia continued, “…it is my painful duty to inform you that a report has this day been received from France notifying the death…” Lydia’s voice cracked as she read. “…of Lieutenant George Wickham!” She wailed and fell forward off the bench.
Sir Percival mercifully caught her before she fell to the ground, and together with Mr Darcy, who rushed forward to her aid, he helped her back onto the bench.
“No!” Lydia cried. “It cannot be! Tell me, Papa, this is some cruel trick!”
Mr Bennet exhaled desperately. “I am afraid I can do no such thing.”
Lydia felt Kitty’s arms about her as Sir Percival pulled her closer to him. Kitty too sobbed bitterly. “Papa, please tell me this is not true!” she wept.
“
Mrs Wickham, if you will allow me.” Mr Darcy stepped forward and knelt before her.
Lydia looked into Mr Darcy’s face through the veil of her tears and saw only kindness there.
“My father, Mrs Wickham, had two rings made with the Darcy family crest; one he gave to me, and the other to George Wickham. Do you remember such a ring?”
Lydia could not speak, she felt as though her heart were being torn from her chest. She nodded that she did remember such a ring.
“It was returned to you with the communiqué.” Mr Darcy reached out, took Lydia’s hand, and placed Wickham’s ring in it. “You have my deepest condolences, dear sister.”
Lydia did not hear his sympathies. She looked down at the piece of gold in her hand turned it over. It was Wickham’s ring. The letter was right. It was true. Wickham was dead.
The world suddenly grew dark and Lydia heard a woman screaming. She was not aware of anything other than Kitty crying, “She’s fainted!” a pair of strong arms carrying her, and the whisper of Sir Percival’s gentle voice, “Do not fear, Lydia, you are safe with me.”
The rain started again and the couple running through the forest were soaked to the skin.
“Where are we going?” the man called out.
“Trust me!” his female companion cried back to him in an accent that was different from his.
He had no choice but to follow her. They ran for what seemed like miles, until the woman could run no more.
“It is not far,” she said in perfect English, with only a slight trace of a French accent.
They continued to press on to a destination that only she knew. Their boots were caked with mud, their clothes torn from the brambles in the forest. The only sound was the incessant drumming of the rain on the leaves and their heavy breathing from the exertion.
As the sun began to set, they came upon an old abandoned woodcutter’s cottage.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“This is where my uncle hid us when we were children.” She smiled back at him—a brilliant and heart-warming smile. “We lived here for more than a year.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “We will be safe here—for the night, at least.”
The pair entered the cottage and barred the door. The man hurried to light a fire with the old wood stacked in a corner. “This will burn quickly, it is so old and dry,” he lamented. “Thank God, someone left in a hurry and left so much,” he said as he snatched the tinderbox from the mantelshelf.
The woman, meanwhile, was busying herself in the corner. She used an old spoon from the dusty table to prise out a stone in the wall of the chimney. She struggled a little, but the man was far too occupied to notice. Finally, the stone came free and the woman plunged her hand into the hole it left when she pulled it out. She smiled and then laughed as her fingers clasped around a small bundle inside. “Yes! I did not think there was anything left.”
“What is it?” the man said as he looked up. The small fire began to flicker brightly and light the room around them.
“We’ll soon dry out now, thank you.” She smiled.
“What do you have there?” he asked again.
“This cottage was not hurriedly abandoned. We left it this way in case we should have need of it again.” She looked down at the tiny muslin bundle in her hand. “My uncle hid this here years ago, and forgot about it. I thought I would check and see if he had left anything for emergencies. I did not believe there was, but seems there is…” She grinned up at him. “…and I think this is an emergency, do you not?”
He nodded, his expression curious. “I’d say.”
She took him by the hand and led him to the table, where she carefully untied the parcel and opened it. There, to his great surprise, was a handful of the most delicate, beautiful pieces of jewellery he had ever seen in his life. “I think this will take care of us for a few years, at least.”
“At least.” He laughed. He reached out and pulled the woman to him. “You are remarkable, and I love you.”
She giggled, relaxed in his embrace, and allowed his mouth to claim hers. When he finally released her, she breathed, “And I love you, too, Georges Wickham.”
Four Years Voyages of Capt. George Roberts, by Daniel Defoe, published in 1726.
The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle, by Tobias Smollett, published in 1751.
Pride & Prejudice, by Jane Austen, published in 1813.
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Wickham Page 37