Darcy & Elizabeth (35 page)

Lydia Takes on as Maid a
Character Familiar to Our Story

As the Gardiners hied for Brighton as much in want of asylum from Lydia Bennet Wickham's company as to visit the Darcys, the dust from their carriage had not time to settle ere their least favourite niece arose upon her high horse and commenced to issue orders in rearrangement of their household to suit herself.

She had been lying in wait for the opportunity to play mistress of the house. Indeed, she had little of late to keep herself amused and had been quite out of humour. Aside from the aforementioned letter-writing campaign to her sisters asking after an increase in her allowance, poor Lydia lacked any resources for solitude. Hence, the dearth of diversion demanded by her confinement encouraged her already indolent mind to imagine that the Gardiners' servants were plotting schemes against her. That they were not was not to her credit, for she was easily the least-liked personage ever to cross the Gardiners' threshold. An uncommonly generous observer such as Mrs. Gardiner might have attributed this general unpopularity with the help as owing to Lydia's being unaccustomed to delegating chores, for the Wickhams seldom had funds to hire more than a single servant.

Indeed, that was what a generous observer might opine. One more objective would undoubtedly note that had she one servant or ten, Lydia was not a kind employer. The wages she paid were mean and her expectations high. The Gardiners were generous to their house-maids and were repaid by their servants' devotion. Lydia believed any kindness extended to those in one's employ was a serious character defect, one that would be repaid through disloyalty and theft. Hence, she watched those servants like a hawk and complained regularly of their laziness. Indeed, Lydia was uncivil and demanding to all the help, particularly when she thought Mrs. Gardiner was beyond earshot.

All the maids weathered Mrs. Wickham's presence with a forbearance found only in very happy households. They all knew that Lydia's tarry there would be but for the length of her confinement. What they did not know about the particulars of that confinement, they conjectured. After they conjectured, they snickered. Of this, Lydia was well aware. Hence, Lydia was nigh as delighted for the Gardiners to take their leave as were they. If all went well, she would be out of their house before they noticed anything amiss.

Her first item of business was to tell the Gardiners' long-time house-maid, Clemmie, that she was to have her duties reduced, rightly supposing the woman would relinquish her situation. That poor woman had been the primary sufferer of Lydia's wayward acts and principal bearer of those tidings to Mrs. Gardiner, therefore Lydia was most anxious to have her gone. Having little intention of anything but a temporary leave-taking, Clemmie removed herself from the Gardiners' premises with a raised fist at Lydia and a vow that Mrs. Gardiner would hear of this outrage forthwith. Any reasonable person would have been intimidated by such threats. But Lydia had never been accused of reasonableness; therefore, she gave it little thought.

Although impetuosity was one of Lydia's most prominent traits, upon this occasion she had not acted with absolute rashness. Elizabeth and Jane had funded a nurse-maid and wet-nurse for her new daughter and she intended to have her own help in place long before the Gardiners' return. By the time they reinstated Clemmie, she would be well advanced towards situating herself in her own lodgings. Elizabeth had held firm in opposition to her pleas for money, but Jane's resolve was notoriously weak. So certain was she of Jane's capitulation, she had located a handsome house just over the way that was soon to be let. What lustre its address lost in being in Cheapside, it was near enough to the Gardiners' house for convenience's sake. In the meantime, she was inclined to enjoy the freedom of having her way in the Gardiners' house and free to impose upon their help for her immediate needs. Indeed, in an unusual fit of forethought, she had put out notice that she would be interviewing for a new house-maid before forcing Clemmie to take her leave.

Unbeknownst to Lydia, Clemmie had seen to it that the neighbourhood was well apprised by whose hand she had lost her situation. Amongst the maids-of-all-chores there was a quiet but efficient channel to both inform and warn off potential help from certain households. Regrettably, under Lydia's command the Gardiners' home was the recipient of a general shunning by any potential servant regardless of race, religion, sex, or national origin. Hence, it came to pass that as the most recently employed baby-nurse both took umbrage at Lydia's abuse and her immediate leave by means of the nearest door, Lydia was in pursuit, waving a monstrous hat-pin and venting curses heretofore unheard on this street emitted from a supposed gentlewoman's mouth.

As this last baby-nurse hastened up the street, Lydia could not keep herself from discharging a somewhat pointless parting shot, “If you cannot do a simple chore, pray never cross my doorstep again, Polly!”

The departing servant gave a look over her shoulder that suggested the unlikelihood of her returning anywhere near Gracechurch St. again.

She, however, issued one qualification, “This doorstep won't see my foot so long as the likes of ye are about!”

At this last impudence, Lydia stomped her foot and invoked another curse, this one decidedly less blasphemous that those previous. As she turned to re-enter the house, her eyes lit upon what to her was a most trifling personage. There stood a slight bit of a girl with wide eyes trained upon her—appropriately aghast. Lydia looked at her from forehead to toes, taking note of her small stature and sooty face. Two eyes, quite aptly black as coals, peered back at her with unusual keenness. The reason for the young woman happening to be upon the stoop was partially explained by the offering of assorted threads she carried in a small woven basket. Although Lydia's fit of spleen had been vented, the turn of her countenance still bore traces enough of her recent wrath (and her hand still grasped the hat-pin) so that the poor peddler-girl took an instinctual step back.

Contentiously, Lydia inquired, “Who might you be?”

“N-nobody, m'lady,” said Sally Frances Arbuthnot, at that moment bearing no ingratitude for her lack of prominence.

“You are not some chit come here to spy for a dun—what say you? Speak up, girl! What say you?”

“'Pon my honour, m'lady, I come from a shop just over the way. A servant at this house is in want of these notions. I was told to ask for Clementine.”

By then, Lydia had lowered her weapon and unmindfully jabbed it into her topknot. She looked again at Sally, this time in thoughtful consideration. After a moment's observation she determined that the girl was neither a bill collector nor his agent (so often had she been frequented by such, she could make them out at twenty paces). Hence, when she responded, her tone lost a full octave along with its belligerence.

“She is no longer in my employ,” said Lydia calmly.

Now that reason had reclaimed her, Lydia glanced both ways up the street, suddenly aware of her very public indecorousness. Age had not yet gifted her with much circumspection, but she had come lately of a mind that did she not redeem herself in some manner that the Gardiners might send her packing back to Longbourn before her own design had been set in place. Satisfied there were no overtly prying eyes, she returned her attention to the insignificant girl on her stoop. She looked upon Sally, first one way and then the other as if sizing her up for some unknown duty, then folded her arms, idly tapping a forefinger upon her chin. At that moment, societal disapproval was of small concern to Lydia. She had a far more pressing one. For, if one discounted the woman who had her infant daughter even then attached to her teat, she had absolutely no household help. The enlightenment that overspread Lydia's countenance then suggested the appearance of the girl before her was providential.

“Girl, can you do a maid's work?” she demanded.

Sally was nothing if not alert to a situation that might offer pecuniary advantage, hence she replied without hesitation, “Yes, milady.”

“Come,” Lydia announced.

Silently, Sally followed her across the threshold into a house that, to her disadvantaged eyes, appeared quite grand.

“Can you see to a child as well?”

“Yes, milady.”

Upon this particular occasion Sally's affirmative answers were honest. It would be fair to suggest that had Lydia asked her if she could balance a tricoloured ball on her nose whilst standing atop the back of galloping horse, her response would not have altered. For a girl like Sally who had a biscuit in her pocket for lunch but to whom dinner was still only a hope, to have a chance for a situation in the house of gentlefolk meant she would have said yes to most anything. That these duties were indeed within her sphere of capabilities was of particular good fortune. Still carrying her basket of threads, she followed Lydia through the vestibule and up three sets of stairs to the nursery. In one corner sat a grey-faced woman wearing a faded pink shawl which was loosely thrown across her shoulders. The woman looked upon Lydia with all the apprehension one might invoke had a snake trespassed across a footpath. Lydia returned the compliment.

“She,” said Lydia, pointing directly at the woman, “is bloody worthless!”

The woman's countenance bore an expression so benighted that an observer might infer, indeed, she was. She did, however, begin a small undulation, influencing her rocking chair into motion. The implication was that she was rocking a baby, but her arms were empty. At the intrusion of her mother's discordant voice, a baby begat a thin little wail from the opposite side of the room. Lydia strode to the cradle and looked down. Sally still stood just inside the doorway—her instinct for survival insisted she keep a means of escape at hand. But Lydia snapped her fingers in her direction, bidding her come. With some reluctance, she did.

Standing over the cradle, Sally looked down at what was to become her ward. She was quite a pretty little baby with delicate features and thin limbs. Although her gender was apparent by her white cap with pink streamers, had she been otherwise adorned Sally still would not have taken her for a boy. She looked quite fragile lying amidst a crocheted shawl bearing small pink flowers—so fragile that Sally was instantly taken with her. She thought she had never seen any baby quite so lovely. Wafting up from the child, however, was a familiar odour—one quite incongruous to her genteel surroundings. Sally detected the unmistakable stench of excrement. The baby was by then kicking furiously enough to loosen its coverlet and Sally saw that the remnants of baby waste had seeped up her back and beneath her extremities so ungovernably that the poor child looked to have been bathed in it. Less accustomed to filth than most of her class, Sally immediately went to repairing the situation, Lydia pointing out the location of the proper provisions.

“There, there, little one,” Sally cooed, when at last the baby was put to order. “There, there.”

Lydia announced, “You did well. Your bed is in that far corner. Please spare me further bother until after supper. Then bring my daughter to me after she has been bathed once again.”

With that, seemingly satisfied with the turn of events and evidently unworried about Sally's lack of proper references, Lydia quit the room, closing the door solidly behind her. Sally's countenance remained placid, registering no reaction to Lydia's abrupt departure. Rather, she returned her attention to the small bundle before her and wondered should she lift her from her cradle. The baby returned Sally's earnest gaze with an expression that was both familiar and unsettling. Sally was torn from that perplexity when she recalled she was not alone. The poor woman who sat in the corner still rocked with eerie determination.

“My name is Sally,” said she. “Pray, how are you called?”

“Malmsy,” said the woman, rocking with renewed vigour.

“How'd y'do, Malmsy. And the baby,” Sally continued, “how is she called?”

“Her name be Susanna.”

“Susanna,” Sally repeated. Then with a great intake of air, she asked, “Shall I call her Sue?”

“Suit yerself.”

Reacquaintance

It had been Elizabeth Darcy's inaugural trip to Brighton and she was most anticipatory in the prospect of it. Everyone else in the first tier of their party was quite familiar with its roadways and façades, but fortune saw them happy to rediscover its charms with her.

The Darcys and the Fitzwilliams took their first turn about the town in a splendid barouche. It had been taken to accommodate them all. Elizabeth certainly did not complain, but would have liked to have been shown the sights by her husband's side in a curricle. From her introduction to that equipage, she had decided it the most felicitous of conveyances imaginable. That, of course, was not just to the merit of the curricle (it was, indeed, a most invigorating conveyance) but to her husband's meritorious driving. Indeed, of their public enterprises, in her estimation being drawn about in a two-wheeled curricle was second only to that dancing. She needed only to think of the splashing-board, lamps, and silver moulding to recall the giddy exhilaration of taking a corner and very nearly having themselves upended. But she reminded herself that the sea breeze was exceedingly pure and their sojourn extended. There would be many opportunities for them to take to the open road alone.

They had arrived in good stead, but their journey had been lengthy, dirty, and tiring. Yet when they first arrived and their trunks were only just being unfastened, they could smell the enticement of the sea air. On a whim, each took a baby in their arms and strolled in the direction of the shore. At a word from Mr. Darcy, Goodwin began directing their retinue of servitors to unburden their carriage of three months worth of trunks, boxes, and cases. As the Darcys strode off, they heard Hannah wrangling with Goodwin over whose trunks would be the first to be taken down. It was an odd comfort. Rather than being irksome, the interminable squabbling was a reminder of home. It was but a short stroll to the esplanade, but so healthy the size of their children, by the time they gained the sea-walk, Elizabeth had tired.

The rush of the surf, the burst of sea air, and the sound of the gulls squawking overhead instantly invigorated them both. They silently shared the recognition that their visit would be a rejuvenation not only of their vigour, but of their spirits as well. That night, the combination of the fatigue of the road and the salt air had Elizabeth sleeping more soundly than she had in some time. Indeed, by the time they arose, their morning tour had become one of the afternoon. Having been in Brighton for a week, Fitzwilliam and Georgiana were impatient of them, however. Fitzwilliam grumbled because it was expected of him. But in actuality their late start was not injury enough to ruin their anticipation. Indeed, it only whetted it.

“What shall be first on our agenda, Darcy? Shall we observe the vistas or the architecture?” he inquired. “Or shall we just meander?”

Such was his past experience when travelling with Darcy, Fitzwilliam knew full well that nothing less than a well-ordered undertaking would be tolerated. Indeed, Darcy ignored what he saw to be a good-natured, if deliberate, gibe against his meticulous nature. Had he wanted to counter it, it was too late. He had already issued detailed instructions to his driver to turn to the outskirts of town towards Devil's Dyke. His design was for them first to observe the periphery of Brighton and from thence to hie the town's centre. They must see the panorama from above if they were fully to appreciate it. Other than identifying their first destination, he did not explain his design. Rather, he wanted it to appear as if it had been left to chance. With a knowing smile, Fitzwilliam said no more. Rather he sat back with the others to enjoy their sight-seeing.

“Pray, do you recall when first you and I came to Brighton?” Fitzwilliam said to Darcy. “Mere boys we were.”

“Indeed,” replied Darcy. To Elizabeth he explained, “It was the year after I left Cambridge. We stopt here before making for London, and from thence we departed upon our tour of the Continent.”

Elizabeth and Georgiana smiled at each other at their husbands' remembrances. They had spent many an evening hearing them relate tales of their travels—at least the ruins visited and the scenery admired. Either nothing of a romantic or adventurous nature occurred on that year-long pilgrimage, or both gentlemen were far too circumspect to talk of it.

Fitzwilliam, still recollecting that long-past Brighton visit, said, “When last we were here, Brighton was still just a small fishing village—but one in a state of alteration.”

All nodded knowingly, for that was just after the Prince Regent discovered Brighton's charms and begun to build his pavilion, thus besetting upon the quiet village the nation's most fashionable society. Their attention was then arrested by the sight of a smattering of tents upon the far down. With a scholarly tone quite new to him, Darcy explained to the ladies that prior to the end of hostilities, Brighton had been the most vulnerable of seaside towns. It was the port most expeditious to France and the shortest overland route to London. Pointing them out with his stick, he added that the downs had once been thick with tents that stretched forth in long narrow rows and served as the temporary encampments of militia.

With that last word, Darcy quit his commentary. This cessation was abrupt. So abrupt was it, it did the very thing he had sought not to do—it reminded Elizabeth that Brighton was where Lydia and Wickham were first thrown together. Darcy believed the memory of her sister's near ruin grieved Elizabeth to the same degree that the name of Ramsgate lived in infamy within him. The similarity lay only in the odd fact that both seductions involved the same cad. Other than that, their outcomes were very different—Wickham was thwarted from eloping with Georgiana and he was gently forced into marriage with Lydia. Elizabeth's contempt for Wickham was considerable, but she was long past fretting over what had come to pass. Hence, the disconcertion Darcy felt on her behalf was misplaced. It was his alone. He could not bear to think of Wickham at all. Indeed, he allowed that memory to cast a pallor over his mood—one that he did not expect to lift with any haste.

In his obvious discomfiture for having broached the subject, Elizabeth took his arm. She was certain that whatever ill will she still endured over that entire escapade paled in comparison with his. For any mention or thought of Wickham grieved him still. Ubiquitous as Wickham had been, there were very few places they could escape his memory altogether. She patted Darcy's arm with kindly meant reassurance.

“Let us not think of the past,” was her wise counsel.

It was wise, but she knew how far was the chasm between doing and not.

Darcy chose simply to alter the subject of the conversation and addressed Fitzwilliam, seated across, “What say you, Fitzwilliam, to the Prince of Wales's invitation?”

Upon hearing this, Elizabeth's mood brightened. Fitzwilliam had already been weighted down with medals for service to his country, but she had only just learnt of his invitation to join the prince's favourite regiment, the 10th Light Dragoons. The unspoken question was not so much if he found favour with such an honour, but whether Fitzwilliam would ever be fit enough to join such a regiment.

“My military service is compleat,” said he quite solemnly.

Although it was clear to his other listeners that his conclusion was a melancholy one, Georgiana appeared relieved.

“He has given enough in service of the Crown, I should think,” said she.

Still, Fitzwilliam's countenance just then was not a happy one. It was difficult for Elizabeth to witness his dispirit, hence she could but imagine how Darcy must suffer for him. She took her husband's hand. Synchronously, but more in mercy of their own discomfort than Fitzwilliam's, they both looked away, Darcy to the left, she to the right. Hence they did not observe Georgiana's own form of comfort—she turned so as to allow her flowering belly to rest against her husband's side. Elizabeth glanced back and caught sight of this unspoken comfort as it bid a small smile tempt the corners of his mouth. It was not something she thought that she would disclose to Darcy. It was far too intimate an exchange.

They had no sooner returned from their tour than their party was improved by the Gardiners, who, having been secluded with Lydia for the whole of the winter had lately arrived from London. Indeed, they had accepted Elizabeth's invitation to join them at Brighton without discussion and in no little haste to enjoy the relaxation the sea air could provide. Verily, they were anxious to the point of being ready to flee to the sanctuary of any abode uninhabited by their youngest niece. This state of disturbance upon their part was painfully obvious and, as she was the agent of that particular affliction, Elizabeth felt exceedingly guilt-ridden. She was, therefore, even more inclined to do whatever she could to make it up to them (lest someday someone repay the compliment).

It was not as if they were taken unawares by Lydia's own special form of conceit, for they were not altogether surprised. Lydia had resided in their home during the days it took for Darcy to barter and coerce Wickham into taking her hand in holy wedlock. Although Mrs. Gardiner had no kind remarks for her behaviour then, she soon understood that Lydia in want of a wedding was not half so ill-mannered as Lydia in want of everything. Although she had come to them in all-appreciative obligation, her ingratitude expanded with the same rapidity as her waistline. Elizabeth and Jane had intended her stay to be temporary, but kind Mrs. Gardiner insisted upon standing by her through her term. Yet by the time Lydia delivered her first daughter, she had availed herself of every kind of rant and demand. Had Mrs. Gardiner been of less hardy stock, she might have taken to her own bed.

With the Gardiners came the first Elizabeth had learnt of Lydia's successful parturition, and they related to her the single celebratory aspect of Lydia's confinement. On her fourth attempt, Lydia had finally produced a child worthy of her attention—one cast in her own image. She at last had a daughter—a baby she could swath in pink ribbons and frilly lace to her heart's content. (The little attention Wickham gave his sons was to insist that they be encrusted with those accoutrements particular to the masculine sex as soon as they left the breast.) As there was nothing Lydia liked better than her own contented heart, she was momentarily most inordinately pleased. Regrettably, the poor child had lost her novelty within the month and Lydia turned her notice to a more lucrative project.

Much to the Gardiners' dismay, she embarked upon a mission to interview the specific suitor she had deemed father to her child. As their number may not have been legion, it was large enough to engender a project intricate in contemplation and manipulation. It also involved wiles unworthy of the most unprincipled of women. The Gardiners were a little less inclined to subject their children to Lydia's machinations than they were to witnessing it for themselves. They left Lydia to their home, Cheapside, and the whole of London with which to have her way, only taking time to bundle into their trunks whatever clothing was handy before taking leave. It was with a deplorably mismatched ensemble that Mrs. Gardiner apprised Elizabeth of the specifics of her sister's latest roguery.

“Bless me, Elizabeth! Mr. Gardiner and I did what we could, but she was in no greater means of listening to reason than she was lo those many years ago…”

Leaving Lydia to her own devices was the single incautious decision that good couple had ever made. Yet in the end, no one, least of all Elizabeth, would have quibbled with the necessity of divesting themselves of Lydia's daily fits and indecorous behaviour. So great was her own culpability in subjecting them to Lydia in the first place, Elizabeth patted her aunt's hand and shook her head in consolation (doing so without actually “tsking” aloud with only the greatest of discipline). Simultaneously to her commiseration, Elizabeth was hastily apprising and discarding what next to do with Lydia. She veritably scratched her head with perplexity, for now that nunneries were obsolete, she truly had little notion which way to turn. That unprofitable employment she gave up in favour of one more to her liking.

All Lydia's schemes and deception might have taken their toll on dear Mrs. Gardiner's spirits. Hence, Elizabeth inveigled her to take a turn round the shingles that lined the waterfront with her and Darcy. Since Darcy's rescue of Lydia's honour and insistence on bearing the burden of the remuneration Wickham required, the Gardiners held few in higher esteem than him. Aware of her discomposure (but not necessarily its origin), Darcy offered Mrs. Gardiner his arm. The fondness and admiration she held for her niece's excellent husband sent Mrs. Gardiner into a bit of a flutter. Elizabeth and Mr. Gardiner exchanged amused expressions as she took his arm in turn. Thereupon the two mismatched couples led the entire party out that day upon a stroll. Such walks became a daily pleasure—each one a new adventure.

Upon one such walk Darcy inquired which direction they favoured their path to take. The sight that the Gardiners were most in want of viewing that day was the Brighton Pavilion, for it was still in the throes of the Prince Regent's ever-altering design. Regrettably, when their walk allowed them at last to gaze upon its opulence, they stood for the whole of ten minutes before they realized how little amused they were by its general gaudiness. But it was there that Mr. Gardiner espied a curiously built ramp that, word had it, was fitted particularly for the prince.

Mr. Gardiner was not one whose bent was much to gossip, but as a man in trade he could not help being privy to idle talk. It was quite seldom, however, that he had opportunity to observe firsthand the mad doings of royalty; hence upon this occasion he was a keen observer. As a gentleman, he believed it only courteous to share what intelligence he carried with his companions. Whilst Darcy pretended disinterest, Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner wanted to hear it all.

“See there,” he said, “that must be it! It is a chair on rollers!”