Pride & Prejudice Villains Revisited – Redeemed – Reimagined: A Collection of Six Pride and Prejudice Variation Short Stories

by Renata McMann

  Although those stories and the others she’d read hurt, they didn’t measure up to the pain of losing George. She was worried, though, that what was to come next might. Though she knew many people thought her a bit silly, Lydia was possessed of a fine memory. Until now, nothing she’d read directly concerned her, but George had dated every entry. She knew she was coming up to when they’d met.

  Lydia stared at the journal for a long while. She closed it, a finger marking her place, and took in how battered it was. Who would have thought George would carry something like that around with him, let alone keep it for a lifetime?

  Sitting there staring at it, she realized she had to know. Perhaps she was silly after all. Taking a deep breath, Lydia reopened the book and turned the page.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of no fortune must be in want of a rich wife.

  Unfortunately, I got Lydia Bennet. At least she came with some money. Thanks to Darcy, my debts were paid and I got a commission of ensign in the regulars. He even settled a little money on her. Her father is to pay me a hundred pounds a year, but marrying her means I can no longer marry a genuine heiress.

  At first, I thought Darcy rescued her out of some feeling of responsibility toward me. Instead, I’ve come to realize he was pining after Lydia’s sister Elizabeth. Well, he succeeded in buying her and I’ve learned once and for all that Darcy bears me no love of any kind. His father would be disappointed, had he lived to see the day.

  Lydia snapped the journal closed again. She had no idea her sister’s husband had paid for any of those things. Why had no one ever told her? Did Elizabeth know? She had the horrible suspicion that everyone knew. All this time, she’d thought her Uncle Gardiner had been their benefactor, when it was Mr. Darcy. Unable to resist the allure of what other truths her husband’s journal might hold, she returned to reading.

  Still, there are good sides to being married to Lydia. For one, although she has no notion at all what she’s doing, she’s very enthusiastic about her marital obligations. There’s nothing to complain about when it comes to having an attractive, willing young woman in your bed. I’m also sure she’ll be able to persuade two of her sisters and her mother to give her money on a regular basis. Of course, it won’t be enough to live like a gentleman and there’s no future in it, but it will do until I can come up with something better.

  I suppose it’s unfortunate there’s no real chance of Lydia dying young. She’s healthy as a horse, and not much smarter. It runs in the family. The mother is an idiot. The eldest daughter believes the best of everyone. Elizabeth is a gullible fool. The ugly daughter fills her head with bad advice and the fourth one doesn’t put anything into her head at all. Their father doesn’t even have the sense to make his family behave. I suppose that last was something I thought of as a good trait, until I got caught and they forced me into this marriage.

  That was the end of the entry. Tears slid down Lydia’s cheeks, but she was committed now. She wanted to know every horrible, awful thing George had thought of her. A slow simmering anger was building in her. It hurt, but the pain wasn’t as bad as how she’d felt since losing him. She turned the page.

  It’s been two months since my wedding day. Lydia had us engage in some ridiculous sort of celebration this evening, as she did on the same date a month ago. I’ve come to have a great deal of sympathy for her father. Maybe he did try to train her. Maybe it isn’t his fault she’s a fool.

  It’s taken me forever to teach her the concept of not biting the hand that might feed us. She is constantly giving offence without realizing it. There is simply no point to that. She’s so skilled at it, I’d think she was doing it deliberately if I hadn’t met her ridiculous mother who she resembles so closely. I hope she doesn’t deteriorate with age as rapidly as her mother obviously did.

  At least Lydia looks good now, and she finally seems to have gotten it into her head to think before she speaks. We’ll need all of the good will we can pull together. Rumors of my bad behavior are catching up with us. I’d thought Darcy paying my debts would be enough, but the merchants hereabouts have heard of my previous conduct and aren’t willing to give me credit. I’ve been paying with cash anyway, as there’s no point in giving Lydia ideas that will land me in debtor’s prison, but it’s hard not to be respected. I need to go somewhere new where my reputation won’t follow me.

  Not to mention, I have to get away from that harpy Colonel Forster is married to. She will not accept my overtures of peace. I’ve even seen her slight Lydia. It isn’t as if it’s my wife’s fault she ran off with me. She was raised to be a fool and I was very charming. Mrs. Forster is the one who’s at fault, if anyone. Maybe she knows the truth of that and it’s the reason she hates me. Either way, I’ll never get ahead if I stay here under a commanding officer who’s constantly having poison whispered in his ears and in a town where no one shows me the respect I’m due.

  I see no other choice but to volunteer for service on the continent. I’ll have to present it to Lydia in terms that will make her go along with it. I don’t need my last days here to be filled with a berating or crying woman. She’s too pretty for me to want to remember her that way. No, I’ll tell her in terms that make me appear to be the best of men. It is for King and Country that I will go to war. I’ll probably add that I’m afraid Napoleon might invade England. After all, I can’t have my darling wife unsafe. She’s sure to buy that, the stupid ninny.

  Not for the first time in the past weeks, Lydia wished George was alive again. Only, this time she wished it so that she could berate him until his ears bled. Yes, she’d bought it. She remembered it well, the night he told her he felt he must go to war. She’d cried, yet she’d idolized him. She’d loved him for wanting to keep her safe and for being so brave. He was right. She was a ninny. She turned another page.

  I arrived on the continent two days ago. I’ve decided I will behave very well. No gambling. No carousing. I will present myself as a reformed gambler who couldn’t resist. I will help people out. I will do my job, at least when people are watching. The trouble so far is, there is always someone watching. Still, I must buckle down and behave well. My reputation is worth a little extra effort. In order to keep tongues from wagging, I have to give them nothing to wag about.

  I’ve met an ensign named Matthews. He shouldn’t be here. He had a perfectly good job working for his father back in London. He’s one of those men who actually is noble. The sort who believes all that nonsense about duty. Poor fellow. With such a curse, it’s no wonder he feels he must serve his country and protect his family. I’ve taken him under my wing out of pity. Well, and because he’s wealthy. It never hurts to have wealthy friends, especially ones who don’t know me well.

  Lydia frowned. She should have been more suspicious of George making such good friends with Matthews. Her husband had mentioned him often in his letters, with seemingly genuine affection. How could George have been so duplicitous? Should she tell Matthews now?

  Matthews is proving just as useful as I’d hoped. I exerted a little charm and now he’s my dearest friend. A dear friend who pays my way, which is the best kind. He pays whenever we go for drinks, or if I need new kit. He thinks I’m trying to save all of my money for my wife and child.

  I was shocked when Lydia wrote me almost nine months after I left saying we had a daughter. Lydia named her Jane, after her sister who is most likely to give her money. At least she’s learned something from me. I have suspicions that Jane Wickham is not my child, but there’s no point in making an issue of it. I write Lydia loving letters and she responds in kind. I have no idea which of us is lying more.

  You were, Lydia thought bitterly. She couldn’t believe he’d been writing her lies while she was in England, waiting for him. Taking care of their daughter and dreaming of his love. What a fool she’d been. How could she have been so taken in by George for so many years? It was small comfort that others had been equally fooled.

  Matthews
has made it his mission to help me save. He thinks I’m very naïve about money. I let him have his delusions. Helping me seems to make him feel better about himself. Why take that from him? He helped me to arrange for money to be put in a bank account in England. In turn, I’m helping him cope with the mysteries of his military duty. I’d say he’s getting more out of our so called friendship than I am, if not for all the free drinks.

  Lydia sighed, rubbing at her eyes, and moved to a seat nearer the fire so she could read better. She looked about, not having realized it was lit. One of the maids must have come and gone without disturbing her. That was kind of them. She hoped that if her expression had been too suffused with emotion, they’d chalked it up to grief. She looked down at the journal, scanning the next, very short, entry.

  It’s a sad day. Matthews was wounded. They’re sending him home to England. He’s been my constant companion for two years. I think I’ll miss him. I know I’ll miss his money.

  She shook her head. Her husband had been a horrible man. Should she tell everyone so they would know not to grieve for him? Ruining his reputation when he was no longer around to fix it seemed a fitting punishment.

  I’ve been trying to make new friends since Matthews left. I can charm anyone I wish into liking me. I can get all the free meals and drinks I like. It all seems less amusing than it used to, though. I’d grown so accustomed to Matthews. We made a good team. Making new friends, no matter how much money they have, hardly seems worth it, somehow.

  Still, it’s good for my reputation. I can’t seem to like any of them well enough to keep up my side of the friendships, but I make sure to extract myself with care. I must be doing a fair job of it, as I’ve heard that people now speak well of me. My reputation on the continent is much better than it was in England. I can’t say I’m not enjoying it.

  Lydia frowned. She recalled his letters from the time after Matthews left but before he returned to her. She’d sensed a sadness in them. He’d seemed terribly lonely. She’d attributed it to missing her and his friend. Could all of the emotion in his letters really just have been a shame to cover up the fact that he was too lazy to make new friends and that he missed Matthews’ money?

  I stayed in Brussels after Napoleon went to Elba and I was lucky enough to fight in Waterloo and receive the perfect wound. At long last, I’ve been shot. I’ve both hoped for and dreaded the day. It went as well as it possibly could have. The ball went through my left arm. They say that now that I’m well enough to sit up, soon I’ll be able to walk. Then they’ll send me home. My arm will likely still be in a sling, but I don’t mind. It’s only by the grace of God that it all went so well. There seem to be no significant complications.

  Better still, Matthews somehow heard of it. He wrote me that he has a job waiting for me in his family’s business. He seems to think I’ll be perfect for it. From his description, I might be, but it sounds like a great deal of work. I suppose I have no alternative but to accept. Thanks to Matthews I have a little money saved, but it won’t last long. I hate to lose the last shreds of my claim to the title of gentleman by working for a living, but I have little choice other than gainful employment. I have a wife and a daughter to think of, after all. Besides, Matthews says me taking the job will benefit both of us. I’ve missed helping him out.

  A bitter smile touched Lydia’s lips. She wasn’t sure she should read what came next. She could recall George’s return so well. Did she really wish to ruin the memory?

  I am finally reunited with my wife. She’s been staying with her sister Mary, who married a clerk of their uncle’s, an attorney. At first, I was concerned. Why would she be there when Jane and Elizabeth have much nicer homes? I was worried she’d offended the rest of her family, even though I knew I’d taught her the concept of being nice to people who could help her.

  It was a strange sort of day. As I’m still not sure how to interpret much of it, I’ve decided to write it down as faithfully as I can so that I may revisit it later. The first thing I recall after I arrived is that I hadn’t known where Mary lived, so I stopped at the uncle’s house. He was surprisingly kind.

  “Welcome, Mr. Wickham,” the uncle said. “I’m sure you want to see your family, but if you would like a drink first, you can rest a bit.”

  “Thank you, but no,” I told Lydia’s uncle. “I am eager to see my wife.” I wasn’t, but after four years, I knew I should pretend I was. “I also want to meet my daughter.” I realized that would be a good thing to add.

  “Of course. You were wounded?” he said, gesturing to my arm.

  “Just a scratch,” I said honestly.

  “Infected?”

  “Not badly. It’s almost well.”

  I saw disbelief in his eyes. At first, I thought he didn’t think I was actually wounded. Then I saw the sympathy. He thought I was being stoic. In fact, I was being truthful. It’s odd that it didn’t occur to me sooner, but I realize now that my wound is worth more than just an honorable reason to come home. People respect it.

  He insisted he carry my belongings to Mary’s house. He was red-faced, overweight and on the wrong side of fifty, yet he wanted to carry my portmanteau. I finally let him, thinking the brief walk would do him less harm than the argument.

  I have to admit, I’d forgotten how beautiful my wife is. Or maybe she grew more attractive while I was away? Either way, I can’t help but be thankful for her comeliness.

  When I walked in, she started toward me, but veered away so as not to hit my injured arm. Somehow, holding her with my good arm felt right. It was the oddest sensation, and one of the confusing things about the day that I wish to capture here for later scrutiny. It was as if her uncle, Mary and my never-before-met brother-in-law all melted away. There was only Lydia, her warm body clasped to my side. She even smelled good, and her hair was like silk against my cheek. I’d also forgotten how tall she is. Quite the tallest woman I know.

  “I’ve been very good,” she whispered. “I stay with a different relative for about a month and moved on to someone else. That way no one gets too upset with me. I’ve even saved a little money like you said I should. Not as much as you’d want me to, but…”

  I interrupted her with a kiss. I will never tell her that I only told her to save so she wouldn’t go into debt. Then it happened. A little girl of about three came into the room. She looked up at me with my own mother’s eyes and something strange shifted inside me. Something undefinable. I think I may even be afraid of it, whatever it is.

  Several wet drops hit the page and Lydia realized she was weeping again. She wiped her eyes. It wouldn’t do to smear George’s words. They were the first kind things he’d written about her.

  I’ve come to the conclusion that I must continue to pretend. I’m enjoying the adoration here too much to allow anyone to see who I really am underneath the facade of returned hero, loyal husband and devoted friend. Let people think that my years on the continent have changed me. It will be just pretense, but no one will ever know. I will do the best I can in the job Matthews is offering. I will pretend to be the best husband and father ever.

  I will be the only one who knows it isn’t true.

  Her tears stopped as she read those words. How could he write that, undoing all the joy of his previous entry? Which man was he, the one she recalled or the one who’d called her names and didn’t even seem to like her? She should never have opened his journal. She wished she’d never found it. It was almost like losing him all over again.

  She hurtled the worn volume across the room. It lay there, open, mocking her with its truths. George had been pretending. Their whole life was pretense. Matthews and her children must never know. They shouldn’t have to feel the betrayal churning inside her.

  Her gaze went to the fire. She stood and crossed to the book, realizing it must be burned. As she reached to grab it, she took in three words; my beloved Lydia. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Did she dare read the entry? It was near the back of the book, much farther than
where she’d left off. Picking up the journal, she crossed to the fire.

  Looking back, I see how odd life is. I sit every evening in my chair by the fire, my beloved Lydia across from me, and I wonder how it is that God chose to grant me such a blessed life. I wasn’t worthy. Far from it. At one time, I was the worst of men. If anyone deserved to be punished by a life of misery, it was me.

  Lately, I find myself wondering when it all changed. Certainly, it began when I met my dear Jane for the first time. Something altered in my heart. I was too blind to realize it then, though I noted it. In my ignorance, I even feared it.

  It grew when Lydia handed me my son George for the first time. He was so amazingly small. Such a little life, and it was up to me to make sure he prospered. More than that, it came to me that it was up to me to ensure he didn’t make the mistakes I’d made.

  Then there is Lizzy. Our youngest. She has all of her mother’s beauty and all of her aunt’s stubbornness. I used to feel sorry for her husband, young Richard Fitzwilliam. Growing up knowing her through family, he’d never had any hope of wedding anyone else, and she orders him about like the Colonel his father was. I feel sorry for him no longer, however, as life has taught me that being ensnared by the woman you love is no hardship at all.

  Yes, I love my Lydia. I’ve been back through this journal half a dozen times, trying to chart the path of my life, and I can’t find the day, the moment, I came to love her. I wanted to. I wanted to give her that moment to keep always, because I feel that I’m slipping away.

  I’m old now, and tired. I can hardly hold my pen and I can’t see well enough to read or write by a flame any longer, but must sneak this journal out by the light of day. Though I don’t wish to leave my Lydia alone, I feel I might meet our all mighty Father soon. When I do, I won’t ask him why he gave me such a wonderful life. It is not my place to question his wisdom. All I will say, all that will be in my heart, is thank you.