Darcy & Elizabeth (40 page)

Darcy gave Geoff to Lady Millhouse and picked up Janie. To her he said, “You will learn to dance and play and sing and speak French. If you take a fence before your brother, I fear I shall never forgive you.”

Lady Millhouse, now with Geoff attempting to stand in her lap, was in great satisfaction.

Said she, “I am certain if I have my way, young Geoff here may be the first on a horse, but Janie would not be second in proficiency.”

With that both Elizabeth and Lady Millhouse shared a momentary gaze. Within that look was the understanding that they both felt alike in that sentiment. Darcy missed this exchange, for he had begun to take his daughter upon a turn around the room to a strain of music that only he could hear.

Required: One Husband—Must Wear Regimentals and Have an Open Mind

For the duration of Wickham's deployment, Lydia and her sons had resided with her parents at Longbourn. As she was, at best, an inattentive mother, this was not a particularly happy arrangement for anyone but her. Yet it had been propitious that she was with them when word of Wickham's valorous death arrived, for when she first learnt of her husband's demise she was very nearly inconsolable. She wailed, wept, and tore at her clothing with such vehemence that her mother feared she might do herself harm. However untenable her marriage had become, at that moment she truly believed that she had loved Wickham more than any living thing (well, save herself—she was grief-stricken, not mad).

Still too bereft to stand, she had herself wheeled directly to church. In that Lydia had not seen the inside of a church since she had lived under her father's roof, her family was quite astonished that her very first inclination had been ecclesiastical, certain that she went thither to beg for her husband's immortal soul. If they were of that opinion, Lydia did not choose to correct their misapprehension. For she had, in fact, had a religious reawakening between the house and the nave. Indeed, as she knelt her thoughts
were
of Wickham. But she did not offer appeals upon his behalf. Rather, she gave thanks to God above for answering her prayers for Wickham's death. (She gave thanks for that in general and the cannon shot that felled him in particular.) Once that had been done, she guiltlessly hied for home.

Her enjoyment of the blessing of her husband's obliteration was sweet. But quite soon that giddiness was superseded by an even greater delight. For it was customary for the members of the brigade of a fallen comrade to pay their respects to his family. When first she beheld their regimentals in her mother's parlour, she all but swooned. Fortuitously, this discomposure was mistaken for grief and she was rushed her mother's smelling salts. She only allowed herself to be revived by the visage of the handsomest of the officers kneeling before her waving the salts-bottle beneath her nose.

Having been pressed into widow's weeds to mourn for a man of whom she thought very little in life, Lydia saw him much improved in death. She took an officer upon each arm and allowed them to take her upon turns about the park. Whilst she strolled, she touched a pocket-square to the corner of her eye at regular intervals. She thought it quite fitting that at last she found a redeeming virtue in her husband—his fellow officers.

Her good fortune was very nearly met by theirs in not having actually been acquainted with Wickham. They were, therefore, relieved of the necessity of outright lies in finding some good quality of his to praise. These were Whitehall garrisoned officers, many second sons of the aristocracy who gained their rank and their situation through their well-placed connections. They assumed that because Wickham had been an officer, he was therefore a gentleman. Thereby they spoke reverently of his courage and respectfully of his honour. For her part, Lydia did remarkably well conveying the correct portion of grief and determined pluck to be believable. Time and opportunity, however, obliged her to become less innocent. There would be only so many days in which and so many officers in whom she could find a replacement for Wickham.

Never the sharpest tool in the shed, even she knew that she had erred mightily in running off with Wickham. (Many a time she groused to herself of unbought cows and free milk.) The bloom had been off Wickham's rose long before the birth of their first child. Wickham was nothing more than a bounder and a cad. She had grieved for him, in her way, long before she learnt of his death. Regrettably, the lesson that she learnt was only a singular one. She knew that she had erred with Wickham specifically, but did not see that her admiration for the shallower traits of mankind were at fault. Her goal was still regimentals without due consideration to what sort of man's shoulders they adorned. What with people dying right and left, she had been much occupied by mourning and had to hastily practice her rusty flirting skills. Through constant study of her looking-glass, though, she perfected a gaze that was half-hidden behind her fan—one which told her comforter that she just might, in spite of her grief, desire him. Her countenance bore a combination of trepidation and fevered despair which rendered the officers
quite
sympathetic. (She exuded just enough fevered despair to put colour in the pallor of her cheeks—she had abandoned actual weeping in that it made her eyes red and her nose run.) She chatted and coquetted quite at her leisure.

Soon, however, most of the other officers tired of observing that Mrs. Wickham's charms did not extend beyond her frontal development and drifted away. They found amusement in the country town of Meryton beyond one semi-grief-stricken hoyden lacking and went on to pay their respects to other deserving widows. Two young gentlemen, however, were more lenient in their diversions and stayed behind. For disparate reasons, they called upon Lydia each day. These young officers were unique in having claimed an actual acquaintance with Wickham. (As there were few amongst his acquaintance whom Wickham did not persuade to loan him money, Lydia was initially a bit wary.) Soon, however, she was convinced that it was her charms alone which Captain Knapper and Major Kneebone admired.

Although they came together, these two officers were as opposite as men could be. Knapper was handsome in his regimentals, but Major Kneebone gave them little distinction. Moreover, Kneebone was not only plain-featured, but, at least in Captain Knapper's company, a bit timid—an attribute that Lydia deplored. The witty and affable Captain Knapper was her particular friend. It was difficult to enjoy his charms properly whilst Major Kneebone skulked about; therefore, Lydia was not above bullying Kitty into entertaining him. But as Kitty was well-employed with her own romance, she was often uncooperative. Hence, in order to be alone with the dashing Captain Knapper, Lydia did not scruple to sneak out of the house to meet with him. The stories he told her and the promises he made were to her wholly credible. It was as if she was once again that desirable young girl and not a betrayed, and finally bewidowed, wife.

Although Wickham had been the consummate philanderer, revenging herself on him in kind had been only briefly fulfilling.

She had learnt a difficult lesson—for Wickham may have been quick with words of love and alluring touches, but in bed he served only himself. Other than their very first couplings which saw her innocent and easily pleased, her satisfaction thereafter had been accidental. Long disdaining Mr. Darcy's correctness, she was eventually learned enough at love to know that her sister was being pleased in ways that she had been slighted. Lydia was less of a sensual nature than just simply libidinous. Having not had the pleasure of any kind of manly attention in some time, she found herself lifting her skirts whilst wedged against a tree with undue haste.

When it looked as if she would have a second chance at finding a husband, it had been her design to do better than Wickham. But she had vastly underestimated just how hungry she had become for sexual reward. As her vulnerability to the allure of regimentals was well known, she believed that she could not be wholly at fault for succumbing as she had once again. Lydia told herself this so many times that quite soon she believed that she owned no part of what had come to pass.

She had been seduced.

She had been seduced, but she hoped not abandoned. When Captain Knapper was so urgently called away upon some important regimental duties, he had said he would return forthwith and, after a suitable period of mourning, they would be wed.

Of all this, however, Jane and Elizabeth had been unwitting. By the time these two officers decamped from Meryton, the sisters had breathed a sigh of relief. They had been wholly aghast at Lydia's vulgar flirtatiousness, but Elizabeth's impending birth sent them home. As the trail of officers coming to call had all but stopt, they had believed Lydia would be saved from herself. They learnt they were sorely mistaken when Mary apprised them that Lydia “had the morning sickness.”

Mary had written of it all to Jane, as she was the oldest sister. (Mrs. Bennet still took to her bed.) It was Jane who endeavoured to make Lydia an honest woman by employing a method of counting that somehow rendered her with child by her dead husband. But facts were facts, and a half-year after she last was in Wickham's company, Lydia was three months gone. As it is far easier to feign pregnancy than disguise it, Lydia admired Jane's mathematics and continued with the ruse that she was further along than she actually was. All knew, however, that it was imperative that she be rousted out of Hertfordshire and into the obscurity of London until after the baby was born.

Whilst continuing with the fiction of who fathered her child, Lydia had surreptitiously written to the true culprit advising him of her situation. However, she had met with little success. When at last a response was sent, it was not from Knapper at all. Major Hugh Kneebone arrived in Cheapside, full of concern and deep regret on behalf of his friend, whom he had thought was a gentleman. He brought Lydia a letter from Knapper, of the contents of which he was clearly witting. It apprised Lydia that Knapper was promised to another and offered her his best wishes.

“So,” said Lydia after reading his missive. “So,” she repeated wretchedly.

Lydia had dropped the letter and it had wafted to the floor at her feet. Kneebone caught it and attempted to hand it back to her, but she shook her head and drew her hands to her face.

“What shall I do?” she wept piteously. “Where shall I go? My aunt cannot keep us here forever. I shall be forced into the streets with my child!”

If this ploy for sympathy would have been a bit obvious to the casual listener, it was not to poor bewitched Kneebone. As Lydia pressed her tear-streaked face upon his chest (and ran her finger temptingly around the frog-closure of his military jacket), Kneebone found himself quite touched by her wretchedness. Although he professed himself quite ready to leave her to her despair, Lydia insisted he come and sit upon the sofa with her until her heart palpitations had ceased. She allowed him to pat her hand for a spell, but soon picked up the knitting needles from a workbox and commenced to click them as if to add a row to a tiny bonnet (one not of her construction). This tender sight touched the deepest reaches of Kneebone's tender heart, and he was loath to leave her by herself.

This little scene was one exceedingly familiar to him. He had stood by and watched helplessly as Knapper left other women similarly interfered with in his wake. If they had not been in Lydia's exact predicament, it was not for the want of trying. Whilst in the past Kneebone observed these goings on with regret upon the ladies' behalf and disgust for Knapper, seldom did he allow his own feelings to be troubled beyond simple sympathy. When at last the major took his leave, he had already formed an attachment for this little innocent dove—so in want of a hero to save her from disgrace—precisely as Lydia had planned. She had bid him adieu with the recollection of the tear perched upon her dewy cheek (whatever her faults, Lydia took great care of her complexion) to stay with him until next they met. As she put that cheek forward for him to peck her good-bye, Lydia also managed to display a fairly good vantage of her appurtenances. This ploy was but one in her coquetry arsenal (which included wetted petticoats and undersized bodices) and she was quite witting that it had done its office.

Presently, Lydia received a letter from the major, asking if he might call again upon her. She very nearly whooped aloud. Although it was unapparent to those dearest to her, Lydia was not the simpleton that she once had been. Her humour had entirely abandoned her when she realised that she had once again been left a fool by mistaking a Lothario for a lover. She was pragmatic enough to realise that with four children, finding a man who was willing to take her in wedlock would be no small undertaking. She was bent on not being left wholly out to dry once again and set her sights upon the only man both eligible and naïve enough to want her.

When Lydia wrote to Kneebone in return, she asked him a particular favour. She told him that it was necessary to betake herself to the London lodgings she lately habituated with Wickham to retrieve and catalogue his effects. It was all her poor husband had left her and it was urgent that she turn them into funds for her keep. Ever the gentleman, Kneebone was happy to accompany her thither. These apartments had been far beyond the Wickhams' financial reach and although Lydia did her best to persuade him otherwise, the landlord demanded payment before allowing release of the belongings. That took a considerable portion, but still remaining were a pair of duelling pistols in a rosewood box, a pair of brass spurs, several pair of braces, and a collection of risqué snuff-boxes. Lydia professed great regret at having to part with them, but Kneebone saw them put up for auction, which brought her near a hundred guineas.

Having him aid her in her endeavours was a stroke of genius upon Lydia's part. By the time it had all been taken care of, Kneebone was quite accustomed to seeing to Lydia and was so compleatly smitten with her (and her adorable little daughter), that he proposed to hold that office from that day forward. Far from believing himself taken advantage of, he could not quite believe his good fortune in finding a ready-made family. That he, Hugh Kneebone, gangly of leg and long of chin, could merit such a match was of unrivalled bliss. Lydia, to him, was the loveliest, most vivacious vixen that ever the world had seen. He cared not who went before him, he was only in want of her upon his arm to make his happiness compleat. As she had not been entirely forthcoming about just how many children she had, her family liked him even more for not breaking the engagement when he was lately apprised.

Lydia, of course, did not return his affection. His only attributes appeared to be his regimentals and a willingness to wed her. She wept buckets the night before the wedding, praying for God to take her lest she have to surrender herself to her new husband's detestable bed.