Lydia Bennet's Story (27 page)

Lydia stood at the library door in fear and trepidation, debating whether she had the nerve to go in as Mr Darcy swept past her into the room and stood before the woman who had collapsed, looking worn to a frazzle and as crimson as the port in the punch bowl, with her hat sliding off the top of her head. Jane administered smelling salts.
“For all our sakes, madam,” Darcy boomed, “I would ask you to calm down and state your business. How may we help you?”
“I’m here to see Captain Wickham, sir, George Wickham. I know he’s here, so don’t tell me nothing different.” She took a large slug of wine from the glass Mr Bingley proffered.
“And who are you, madam? Whom do I address?” Mr Darcy continued as he stared at her in contempt. She drained the glass, bit into the apple puff Jane had presented on her other side, and pronounced her identity between gobbled mouthfuls, as she spat crumbs down her dress, “Mrs Wickham, sir. My name is Mrs Molly Wickham!

IF ANY STRANGER HAD walked in at that exact moment, it is likely he would have thought himself arrived at Bedlam. There was an uproar. Lydia screamed and flew across the room in seconds and had to be restrained by Mr and Mrs Darcy from attacking the bovine creature who was now sprawled across a chaise longue, looking considerably worse for wear from having guzzled too much wine. Mrs Bennet was experiencing palpitations, threatening to faint, but as vocal as ever. Jane was endeavouring to keep calm whilst her husband rushed about, determined to be useful but quite unable to be effective.

“I am Mrs Wickham!” Lydia cried, shrugging off restraining hands and thrusting her countenance into the woman’s face. “Who are you? That you are come to make mischief is plain for all to see. Explain yourself. Exactly what do you want with my husband?”

“Your husband? I don’t know nothing about your husband,” the woman replied, getting rather red and agitated in the face. “I only know about my own, useless lump that he is. I know he is here, but he don’t know I am. No, he did not think I had the wherewithal to find him, nor the money!” She produced a leather pouch, which she waved under Lydia’s nose.

Lydia gasped. “That belongs to my husband. How did you get your dirty hands on it, you thieving strumpet?”
“Lydia, please, you are not helping matters,” Lizzy said leading her sister away. “Let us try and resolve this in a more civilised manner.”
“It’s my money, what I’m owed,” protested the woman. “He’s never paid me a penny since he married me, and I’m entitled to what’s due to me!”
“Did you take Captain Wickham’s money?” asked Mr Darcy.
“I did and I’d do it again; he’s never paid a penny for his board, all the years I’ve known him. It’s mine, I earned it!”
Mrs Bennet moaned loudly. “My poor, poor Lydia. To what depths of shame must she be plunged?”
“Captain Wickham is in Bath, madam. Is that how you came to be in possession of his purse?” Mr Darcy added.
“He is not in Bath!” cried Lydia. “He is here.” She swallowed hard as she took in his expression.
“What do you mean, he is here?” Mr Darcy’s face looked thunderous.
“He is upstairs sleeping.”
“Good God! Well, let’s have him fetched.”
“I’ll go,” shouted Bingley, springing to attention.
“Wait for me,” said Darcy in a measured tone. “It may well take two of us to bring him to order.”
With the gentlemen gone, the ladies were rather at a loss to know what to do and say next, though they were all relieved to see that the woman calling herself Molly Wickham was quiet at last, content to sup on yet another glass of wine as she regarded her fellow females with suspicion.
Lydia spoke up first. “You say you are married to my husband, is that right?”
“I am married to George Wickham, as God is my witness, madam. Married at Walcot Church in Bath.”
“You have the certificate to prove it?”
“I don’t have no piece of paper, but I swear it’s true, on my life. He was keen on it too; keen enough to get his hands on me and my money at the time. He was in a bit of a bother, debts to pay and such. I was working in the Saracen’s Head Tavern, and he was one of my regulars—as regular as George Wickham can be—and then he comes to me one night, declares his love for me, and begs me to marry him.”
“When was this?”
“Two years ago next month, though to tell the truth I haven’t seen much of him since. No, he upped and left as soon as he could. But he visits every now and again, eases his way back into my bed and my affections. Well I can’t say no to him, no woman can I’m sure, and he has had plenty.”
“Stop,” cried Mrs Darcy, who had heard quite enough. “We do not need to know any particulars, apart from the details of your marriage.”
“My husband told me he’d been set upon by a cutpurse, and he will verify your story as lies,” cried Lydia. “He is being fetched now. Tell me you are lying, and I will see you are in no more trouble than necessary.”
“I ain’t no cutpurse, ma’am, though my husband has nearly driven me to it. I swear I am married to George Wickham. You can ask Tobias Hughes and his missus. He’s my landlord, and they witnessed our marriage, no word of a lie. Now he’s what I call an honourable gentleman. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here now.”
“Well, it would be easy enough to discover a gentleman’s movements if you were intent on pursuing him,” said Lydia crossly.
“Not Wickham, he’s as slippery as an eel and never in the same place twice!”
As I know to my cost, thought Lydia. “How did you track him down?”
“Well, he begged Tobias for money for the stage, as he was out of pocket, being as his money had gone. Wickham gave him some twaddle about having to leave to see a dying relative in Hertfordshire but was no more specific than that. Mr Hughes obliged him with a little, but knowing what a tricky customer he can be, told him to forget about paying him back and asked if he could send any more on to him. He said yes, of course, gave his address as Netherfield Park, which Tobias, bless him, passed on to me as soon as he could.”
Lydia was feeling far from well again and was just beginning to take it all in. She opened her mouth to speak and managed to whisper, “If this is true then I cannot be married.”
Mrs Bennet writhed in her seat, threw back her head, and groaned, emitting huge sighing lamentations and crying out in hysterics before Lizzy could reach her side to calm and reason with her. “Not married!” Mrs Bennet cried. “Not married!”
“I am not married,” muttered Lydia again.
Darcy and Bingley appeared at the door. “He is gone!” Bingley shouted. “I have instructed the grounds to be searched, but his bed is untouched.”
“If he was here,” declared Mr Darcy, “I think we may surmise his reasons for not stopping.”
“He was here,” cried Lydia, “I saw him, spoke to him. But he has no money, nothing, not a penny.”
“Well, it is certain that he has now,” Bingley continued. “He has had a change of my clothes and replenished his funds.”
“She is not married!” shouted Mrs Bennet, pointing at her daughter and stabbing the air with a finger. “He has sullied my dearest girl and left her without a thread of decency or respectability. I rue the day you set eyes on him, Miss Lizzy!”
“Mother, please! You will make yourself ill,” cried Lizzy, fetching out Mrs Bennet’s salts to waft under her nose.
A servant appeared at the door. “Mr Bingley, sir, one of the horses is missing from the stables, but we cannot see anyone about the immediate area.”
“Upon my word, Lydia,” wailed Mrs Bennet, “can it get any worse? Oh, I feel faint, my heart, such a pain. I think it’s stopped, quick, help me!”
“Thank you, Thomson. Tell the men to keep looking,” Bingley said, with one eye on his mother-in-law who was now writhing in her chair.
“I doubt very much if we shall see anything of Captain Wickham this evening,” said Mr Darcy.
“No, I think it quite clear he has absconded. However, I feel I have neglected my guests for too long,” said Bingley. “Will you hold the fort here, Darcy? I will return, though heaven knows how this can be hushed up.”
“I am sure you can think of something, my love,” Jane soothed. “I will stay here for the present and see to mama.”
Darcy interrogated the woman once more, with the benefit of Mrs Bennet’s advice ringing in his ears. Molly Wickham was looking more terrified than ever and extremely cross to find out that her husband had disappeared.
“Take pity on a girl, sir,” she appealed to Mr Darcy. Until that moment he had not considered what was to be done with the woman. “These pennies are all I have in the world!”
“We cannot very well send her on her way at this time of night,” whispered Mrs Darcy, “and for all we know she may be telling the truth.”
“Of that I have no doubt. Even if the only fact is that Wickham has had some dealings with her, we are obliged, I think, to ensure her safety and well-being,” answered her husband.
“She will have to stay here,” said Jane.
“No,” argued Darcy, “that is not to be borne. She will have the house stripped in hours; who’s to say she hasn’t a dozen accomplices waiting without, and whilst Wickham is not here to deny or confirm her story, I would prefer to be cautious of her claims. Perhaps I can get her set up at the inn at Meryton. In the morning I will put her on the first stage to London.”
“We’ll all be murdered in our beds,” wailed Mrs Bennet. Jane left Lizzy in charge and went in search of a sedative. Mrs Garnett had some laudanum, and she was sure a few drops in a cup of tea would do the trick!
Mr Bennet appeared at the library door at that very moment with a look of astonishment on his face and a glass of wine in his hand. He had come to escape the dreary company by whiling away a few hours with a fine drink and a good book. “What on earth are you all doing in here?” he asked. He had never seen so many members of his family intent on being in a library.
“We have been tricked, Mr Bennet,” cried his wife. “Come, sit here and be some comfort to me whilst I tell you of our misfortunes, which are more vexatious than you can imagine!”
Jane returned with the draught for her mother and Isabella for her sister. Though anxious not to be in the way, she was most concerned for her friend. Lydia gave her the worst of the details and could not help giving herself up to tears.
“I will return in just a little while,” Isabella said gently, offering her handkerchief as Lydia sobbed once more. She left, returning two minutes later with her brother. Lydia was horrified. What on earth was Isabella doing? She could not bear to look at him. What must Alexander think of her now? Was it any wonder that he did not address her in any way or attempt to talk to her? He just went straight to Mr Darcy and spent the next ten minutes in conversation with him. No doubt they were both declaring that nothing less than this outcome would ever have surprised the pair of them.
Isabella returned to her friend’s side. “We have arranged it all, Lydia,” she declared. “I hope it is to your satisfaction for it is our dearest wish to help you. You are to come back to the rectory now and stay with us for a while until it is all sorted out. Alexander has spoken to Mr Darcy and will speak to your father. Everyone is agreed it will be for the best. That is, if you wish it, my dear.”
“But Alexander will not wish to become embroiled in my scandal, surely?” Lydia asked, looking up at her friend.
“It was his suggestion. He is as anxious as I to help you. Believe me, Lydia; he would do anything for a friend of mine and especially for you. Now do not worry; all your bags are being taken care of and put into the carriage waiting at the door as I speak. Mrs Bingley seems to think you would prefer to leave by a side door; I am sure she is right.”
Lydia hesitated. She did not know if she felt strong enough to face Alexander and his penetrating eyes. Surely they would reveal all he really thought on the matter. But she knew she could not refuse. “Thank you, Isabella. I do not deserve such a friend, truly.”
Lydia thought she was fortunate indeed to have such friends, and though she found it difficult to believe that her removal to the rectory had been at the suggestion of Mr Fitzalan, she was grateful to be leaving Netherfield and the tittle-tattle behind her. She had been assured by Jane that, although speculation was rife, no one was any the wiser and not only had Mr Bingley been able to convince people that the woman was some poor family retainer who had run mad, but he had announced supper in the orangery with immediate effect. In their haste to fill their stomachs and their glasses and make the most of Mr Bingley’s generous hospitality, the company was occupied only for a few moments more with the odd woman who was clearly deranged. Soon after, she was quite forgotten as the heady consumption of copious amounts of food and the contents of the wine cellar rendered the majority insensible.
Lydia was surprised at her family’s kindness on parting. Everyone had good wishes for her and even Mr Darcy bade her a cordial goodnight; no doubt, she thought, because if indeed it turned out she was not married to Captain Wickham after all, the connection with his family would be finally severed forever. Lydia was thankful that her mama had retired to her bed as soon as she could. She did not think she could have kept her composure. Her papa had the same weary expression on his face that he always reserved for her alone and could only say, “Never mind, Lydia, he duped us all.”
Outside, Isabella was waiting in the carriage, and it only remained for Mr Fitzalan to hand Lydia in. He was very gentlemanly, and she knew he had behaved with consideration. She was unsure whether the extra gentle pressure of his hand was her imagination, but she was certain that the moonlight did not play a trick as he smiled reassuringly before she stepped up to take her seat. No doubt Isabella had told him to be kind.