by C. P. Odom
“Mr. Atkinson,” Lydia said, trying to keep the panic from her voice, “please, have you seen my husband?” Pretending to be married had been Wickham’s instructions when they first arrived since he had arranged for a room for himself and his wife.
“What?” the man exclaimed, and he rushed past Lydia into their room. She heard the banging as the wardrobe doors were opened and the muttered curses as he found it empty. She got to the door just as he emerged into the hallway.
“Gone!” he said furiously. “By Heavens, he has somehow slipped out, and me on the lookout for just such a thing!”
“Then you do not know where he has gone?” Lydia asked plaintively, and Atkinson stared at her as though she were a lunatic.
“Know where he has gone?” he said with a roar. “Do ye take me for daft? Of course, I dinna know where he has gone! And me coming up to collect the week’s rent!”
“I was merely asking,” Lydia said with a whine.
Atkinson chuckled unpleasantly. “Well, lass, it appears yer faithful husband has left ye high and dry. Worse, he has done the same to me! Me, Sam Atkinson! Gulled, by God, gulled!”
“I do not understand,” Lydia said, her voice hardly above a whisper.
“He’s left ye, ye dullard,” Atkinson said with a snarl, and thrust a piece of paper at her. “Worse, he’s done it knowing ye to be with child!”
Lydia took the piece of paper and read, “Bedford Charitable Home for the Unfortunate.” She looked up at Atkinson and said miserably, “I still do not understand. What does this mean?”
“Have ye been sick, wench?” Atkinson asked harshly. “Sick in the morning at the thought of breakfast?” Lydia nodded meekly, and he said, “He’s got ye with child, and now he’s vanished. Vanished from both of us. But I’m out a week’s rent. Have ye got any money, lass?”
“Why, yes,” Lydia said, her mind whirling as it refused to understand what she had been told. “I have fifteen pounds.” She went back in the room and found her purse, but when she looked inside, there was no money in it.
“It is gone!” she said, misery in her voice and in her expression for there was no mistaking what this meant. She knew she had fifteen pounds remaining from the money her mother had given her. She had seen it yesterday. Wickham must have taken it along with all his belongings.
“Yes, and ye’ll be gone too just as soon as ye get dressed,” Atkinson said sternly. He pointed to the piece of paper she still held. “Ye’d best be goin’ there, lass,” he said, and there was at least a measure of sympathy in his voice. “Yer husband, if that is what he is, has left ye with child, and they can give ye a place to sleep until yer time comes. It’s the last hope for those unfortunate lasses who have got themselves pregnant without benefit of matrimony.”
Lydia reeled as sudden understanding blossomed in her mind. She was with child! Not some other hapless female, but she, Lydia Bennet, was with child and unmarried!
For the first time, Lydia realised the true horror of what she had done. She was ruined! Totally and completely ruined! Wickham had deserted her, and her family did not know where she was. For the first time, she comprehended the misfortune of not having any brothers, for brothers might have sought out Wickham and forced him to marry her. She had only her father, who likely could do nothing even if some miracle occurred to inform him of both her dilemma and Wickham’s location.
And soon she would have a child, an unwanted child who would labour under the twin handicaps of having neither a father’s name nor a mother who could support it.
Under the urging and supervision of the proprietor, she returned to the room, numbly dressed herself, and packed her meagre belongings in the satchel bag she had taken with her from Brighton. Soon afterwards, she was out on the street with nary a farthing in her purse and only a slip of paper in her pocket. A few tentative inquiries garnered instructions on the location of the address she sought.
So, Miss Lydia Bennet—daughter of a country gentleman, the favourite daughter of his wife, and soon to be the penniless mother of an unwanted bastard child—trudged off to seek the charity of the Bedford Charitable Home for the Unfortunate. For the first time, the wild, headstrong, fearless girl—who had sought out and flirted with every officer in the regiment—knew fear.
And, though she now comprehended the way her mistakes had led to disaster and ruin for herself, she possessed not a single thought for what she had done to the family that had provided her a home and shelter for all of her sixteen years. Her ruin meant their ruin also, but her bleak thoughts had room for nothing but her own despair.
Chapter 4
He who has never hoped can never despair.
— George Bernard Shaw (1856–1950), Irish literary critic, playwright and essayist
Friday, October 30, 1812
Pemberley, Derbyshire
Fitzwilliam Darcy listened to his sister play the pianoforte, careful to control his expression so he appeared attentive and appreciative of Georgiana’s wonderful expertise at the instrument. Her voice was as flawless as her performance, and yet, despite the appearance of a dutiful and engrossed brother, his thoughts were hundreds of miles away.
“… had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”
Darcy could still envision Elizabeth Bennet uttering those shattering words, her eyes flashing with anger on behalf of a beloved sister and a deceitful scoundrel, her small fists clenched at her side. He had expected to find her anticipating his expression of love and ready to join her future with his, share his life, and bear his children. He had not known it was possible to feel such pain as he had felt then, and he wondered whether he was ever to find joy in life again.
“You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
Darcy wondered how he ever could have deceived himself into believing Elizabeth expected his addresses. He now realised that their conversations and the attention he paid to her at Rosings—all intended to indicate interest on his part—had missed the mark entirely. As he learned to his dismay at the parsonage, Elizabeth had been taken completely by surprise at the avowal of his feelings for her as well as by his terribly inept offer of marriage. He squirmed in embarrassment as he remembered how he had expounded on the inferiority of her family and the degradations he would assume in order to marry her.
Yet, he had no such comprehension when he spoke those words! He could still remember his complete assurance of an acceptance of his offer and his utter disbelief at the swiftness of her rejection. She did not even express her surprise or ask for a day or two to consider it!
“… your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others …”
During the terrible months afterwards as he had struggled to make sense of how everything had gone so utterly wrong, Darcy had gradually been forced to accept the unwelcome realization that it was not his interference on behalf of Bingley or his supposed offenses against George Wickham that had been the basis of Elizabeth’s rejection of his offer. The greater harm had come from the way he had behaved towards Elizabeth, her family, and most of those he met in Hertfordshire. To be charged—and rightfully so—with selfishness and disdain for the feelings of others was a staggering indictment, striking as it did at the heart of his regard for himself as a gentleman.
His acknowledgement of the validity of Elizabeth’s charges had been a supremely painful and mortifying discovery, especially since the accusations were made by the person he held most dear.
Darcy was haunted by the memory of his first introduction to the local society at the assembly in Meryton and his efforts to avoid being introduced to people he considered to have little beauty and no fashion. He also remembered that Bingley encouraged him to dance with Elizabeth Bennet and he rudely declined to do so. He had thought nothing of his intemperate language at the tim
e. He had only wanted Bingley to leave him alone until the insufferable evening was ended and he could return to the familiar environs of Netherfield.
He had forced himself to think on how his words would have sounded to others. His remark that “there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with” was an insult to every lady in the room. And he had gone on to say Elizabeth herself was “tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.” How could he have been so blind?
The more Darcy considered those days from the previous autumn, the more he was forced to yield to the truth of Elizabeth’s charges and the more dejected he became.
Elizabeth’s words that he was “the last man in the world” she would marry resounded in his ears, for they had been the death knell of all his hopes. Such a decided opinion was not to be changed. And, while the letter he had written Elizabeth might exonerate him of those offences against Wickham, it did nothing to justify his separation of Bingley and her sister. It was all so hopeless.
***
As her brother returned his attention to her, Georgiana silently wondered how her brother could believe he could conceal his turmoil. It had been obvious something devastating had happened when he visited Aunt Catherine during the spring, for his temperament was totally changed afterwards. He had always been reserved and quiet, especially with those he did not know well, but he had been open and amiable with her. Now William was withdrawn though he struggled to pretend otherwise. His soul seemed gripped by some intense personal tragedy, for she had, on a few occasions and when he did not know she was observing, caught him with a look of almost unbearable sadness on his face. To see her only sibling—almost a father to her—suffering such melancholy tore at her affectionate heart.
As was his way, he had never said a word to her of his troubles, especially in light of the terrible events from the previous summer when Georgiana almost succumbed to the sly arguments and flatteries of George Wickham. It was not a matter of distrust, she knew, but because he did not wish to burden a sister who he thought still needed to heal.
She desperately wished to enquire about what troubled him, but her natural shyness had been intensified by the episode with Wickham, and she had not been able to summon the courage to broach the subject. However, her love and concern for William’s welfare continued to bother her, and she was desperate to help him find the solace he so desperately needed.
***
Darcy was jolted out of his sombre reflections by a maid entering with a letter on a silver tray. He took the letter and thanked the maid, noting with mild surprise that it was from his cousin Anne de Bourgh. Due to her ill health, Anne had never been a good correspondent, and a letter from her was something of an occasion.
The contents of this letter brought him bolt upright almost immediately and caused him to turn so pale Georgiana stopped playing to stare at him in perplexity.
Oct. 26, 1812
Rosings, Kent
Dearest Cousin,
As you well know, I do not write often, but I have become aware of an event so distressing I felt I should lose no time in informing you. I must apologise for not writing of it sooner, but I suffered one of those spells of weakness that increasingly plague me. I did not worry overmuch at first since I was sure my mother would have notified you of all the particulars. It was only today that I began to suspect she had not made you aware of the events I am about to relate.
It was the first or second week in August when my mother’s funny little parson came to Rosings with information regarding the family of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who visited her friend in the spring and was so often a guest at our table. You may remember my mother commenting on how unwise it was for all of Miss Bennet’s younger sisters to be out in society when the eldest was not married. It appears this may be one of those rare occasions when Mother was right since it seems, from Mr. Collins’s account, that Miss Bennet’s youngest sister was allowed to go to Brighton with a young friend of hers and without any family member to act as chaperone. There, she evidently fell under the spell of George Wickham, who I remember was once a favourite of your father. It seems she became acquainted with him when he joined a regiment of militia quartered in Meryton for the winter. And when he deserted his regiment in Brighton, she apparently accompanied him. Mr. Collins says there was a note left saying they were going to Gretna Green to be married, but nothing has been heard from them since.
It cannot be construed as anything other than ominous that Miss Bennet’s sister has not been heard from in the intervening months. At a later time, Mr. Collins reported that efforts had been made by Miss Bennet’s relations to locate the couple, but they were only able to trace them to London. The pair do not appear to have gone any farther and undoubtedly not to Scotland.
I quite liked Miss Bennet when she visited, and I grieve for the mortification this scandal must exact on her and her family, for Mr. Collins says the Bennets have been all but ostracised by the gentlefolk of their country neighbourhood. When I asked my mother whether any news had been received of the sister, I became alarmed that she had not told you of this sad episode. I commented that you, as Mr. Wickham’s youthful companion, might be able to provide some insight as to where he might have hidden himself, and Mother replied she was afraid of just that very thing.
I thought this an exceedingly odd comment, and thus inspired, I dared to ask her forthrightly whether she had informed you of this event, saying I thought you had rather liked Miss Bennet when she visited. My mother would not answer me directly, mumbling something I interpreted as her thinking you far too attentive to Miss Bennet. I tried to tell her you needed to be attentive to someone since it is past time for you to be married, and she repeated her tired, old delusion of the two of us being engaged and meant for each other.
This occurred last night, and I resolved to write to you immediately upon awakening. My maid Margaret will take this into the village to post, for I believe my mother might otherwise intercept it. I do not expect a reply since I cannot think of a way for you to write to me without my mother becoming aware of it, but I thought I ought to provide this information to you.
I hope this letter finds you otherwise in good health and happiness.
I remain, your loving cousin,
Anne
Darcy sat as though paralysed, and all the terrible events Anne had related played out in his imagination. He remembered Elizabeth’s foolish younger sister, and he knew it would scarcely have been a challenge for Wickham to lure her into an attachment. He saw them disappearing from Brighton and arriving in London. He supposed Wickham would flee to Mrs. Younge; the attachment between them had always been rather mysterious but quite solid. After the affair with Wickham and her dismissal from his service, he knew Mrs. Younge had taken a large house in Edward Street and supported herself by letting rooms.
He envisioned Elizabeth’s face crumpling as she received the news of her sister’s dreadful elopement with all the disastrous implications for her family and especially for all the sisters. Even if her prospects for an advantageous marriage did not include him, it was heart-rending to think they had been taken from her through no fault of her own.
He had engaged in many fanciful daydreams in which he had occasion to meet Elizabeth; he would have been able to convince her of her mistakes and to apologise for his own so that she agreed to a renewal of his addresses. Now, he knew such thoughts had always been nothing but impossible fantasies. Whatever small hopes he had before this letter from Anne, they had now disappeared completely.
He had already admitted Elizabeth’s ill-opinion of him. Now she had further offenses to lie at his feet for he had declined to make Wickham’s transgressions well known throughout the neighbourhood. If he had done so, it might have kept his erstwhile boyhood companion from being received in any of the better homes and, therefore, would have prevented him from working his wiles on ot
her unsuspecting young women.
Darcy had been thinking of his own desires at the time—of his obsessive concern for privacy in family matters—which resulted in Wickham remaining at large, unsuspected of ill-intent. Now, the young woman he had chosen as his latest prey had been Elizabeth’s own sister. Darcy completely comprehended that, if he ever had occasion to meet Elizabeth Bennet again, she would turn her head away from him in disdain at his display of further ungentlemanly behaviour.
“William, what does it all mean?” Georgiana asked plaintively from behind him, and he turned his head to see she had been reading Anne’s letter over his shoulder. His first impulse was to fold the letter and put it away, but after thinking for a moment, he handed it to her.
“It appears, my sweet, that George Wickham has reappeared to disturb my tranquillity,” he said heavily. “I had thought never to see him again, but he continues to turn up like the proverbial bad coin.”
Georgiana swiftly reread the letter, coming over to sit beside him on the couch. Finally, she looked at her brother and asked, “Who is this Miss Elizabeth Bennet? I cannot remember ever hearing her name before.”
Darcy took a moment to ponder his sister’s question carefully before answering. “She is the member of a family to whom I was introduced when I was in Hertfordshire with Bingley last autumn.”
“Why was her younger sister allowed to go to Brighton without an escort?” Georgiana asked, her confusion evident. “The reason for my near-disaster at Ramsgate was that the person who had charge of me had deceived us. But this Bennet family must be very foolish indeed to allow one of the girls to go off without a chaperone.”