Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (2 page)

It had been a heady two months’ engagement. Indeed, with two promised daughters in close company with their betrotheds, one might have expected Mrs. Bennet to have been beside herself with vigilance of chastity. But she was not. The exceedingly advantageous marriages were set. The only insult that she imagined could now befall them was for either of the intended bridegrooms to drop dead before the wedding.

Hence, when both couples had sought the outdoors and, therefore, separate paths for some time alone, her primary concern was that neither of the gentlemen in question caught cold.

Notwithstanding their mother’s peculiar inattention to virginal honour, Jane and Elizabeth Bennet endeavoured to comport themselves during their periods of betrothal with a politesse so precise as to demand society overlook their sister Lydia’s decidedly divergent road to matrimony. Entering into this delicate balance of love and propriety, however, obtruded the very weighty matter of immoderately aroused libido.

The entire quandary might have been circumvented had Elizabeth not allowed (welcomed, invited, summoned) a kiss from Mr. Darcy. For a union that had not been christened by greater affection than the holding of a gloved hand, that was a moment of considerable excitation.

First, one must understand that the distance between Mr. Bingley’s estate of Netherfield and the Bennets’ house of Longbourn was traversed with the regularity and certainty of the sunrise in the short months of the Bennet sisters’ engagements. Upon fine days, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley travelled the three miles upon horseback; upon foul they came by coach. Upon fair days, Bingley and Jane, followed by Elizabeth and Darcy at a discreet distance, walked out to stroll.

It was upon one of those perambulations that this kissing business was initiated.

And, thereupon, temporarily terminated. For Miss Bennet’s and Mr. Darcy’s tender moment came coincident to an extended rainstorm. Hence, all subsequent visits with Elizabeth’s intended were relegated to Longbourn House and the company of assorted sisters, parents, and servants. Mrs. Bennet might turn a blind eye to affection betwixt them, but it was quite unlikely that all would. This was a considerable vexation, in that after that first kiss, Elizabeth thought of little except the anticipation of the next.

That interim was appropriated by a second hazard. The first, being housebound by reason of inclement weather, was quite beyond anyone’s control. The second, no less so. For when she received the letter from Elizabeth advising her of the impending marriages, Lydia Bennet Wickham did not offer her nuptial congratulations by post. She came herself. Lydia had written to her mother to expect her, but such was her haste, she arrived only hours behind her missive.

* * *

Regrettably, the Wickhams’ marital bliss had lasted little longer than it took the rector to pronounce them husband and wife. Howbeit, in the excitement of parading about as Mrs. Wickham, Lydia did not detect this for several months. Indeed, understanding the youngest Bennet sister’s nature (shallow, fickle, and dim), it would not be unreasonable to assume that had the Wickhams remained in London, the abundance of shops there might have kept her insensible of it for years.

But in the gloom of Newcastle, household felicity was not abundant. And, not introspective by nature, Lydia was unable to enjoy the single thing Newcastle did offer in abundance (besides coal), that of quiet (if sooty) solitude.

Reading bored her, sewing was a chore, and walks were, to Lydia, only a means to cover the ground between where she was and where she wanted to be. Activity lay by way of engagement balls and wedding breakfasts. Citing her extreme affection for her sisters (dubious) and homesickness for Longbourn (unquestionable), she applied to her husband to return home.

Lydia two hundred miles away? Happy thought for Wickham. (“Yes, dearest Lydia, you must be with your sisters, but I am not certain my heart will bear your absence. Do not tarry longer than you must and then hurry home to me!”)

Lydia thought she might well tarry as long as possible. For while being ensconced in north England may initially have been regarded as an adventure, its allure waned more precipitously than did her husband’s. The shops were sparse, her friends were even fewer. Those she had soon wearied of hearing how she, the youngest of five sisters, had usurped the title of ranking daughter by becoming the first wed. Her own consideration of that coup paled when she read the letter telling of the engagements of both Jane and Elizabeth, for she had only bested them by six months.

And even in the infinitesimal area of her intellect that Lydia reserved for contemplation, it occurred to her that the proposals Elizabeth and Jane had secured eclipsed hers considerably. Although she knew Wickham more handsome by half than either Mr. Bingley or Mr. Darcy, and certainly more charming (well, Mr. Bingley was amicable, but Mr. Darcy was absolutely dour), the few months of her marriage made her understand one great profundity: Beauty and allurement were not the only attributes of importance when selecting a husband. Money was paramount to both.

But Lydia’s consideration was specific to legal tender, not title or position. Some amongst the gentry would suffer any indignity to maintain, or obtain, position. That alone meant nothing to Lydia. Even she knew title and money were not necessarily synonymous in the vast country estates. Some baronial and ducal homes were in debt up to their leaking roofs. One of her few good qualities was that she was not a social snob. She loved money, true. But her adoration was birthed by the misfortune of her being a spendthrift. Her purse was always in need of replenishing. She desired the exactitude of money, not the encumbrance of wealth.

Hence, a man of position and wealth who could actually produce currency was, to Lydia, truly a prize. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy (who both had those two exceedingly advantageous attributes in abundance and were happily in the additional circumstance of available cash) were to Lydia as much a matrimonial trophy as had their heads been mounted upon the wall.

It came to pass that providence had seen to it that Lydia’s dowry of fifty pounds per annum and Wickham’s paltry army pay did not compleatly embrace Lydia’s wants nor Wickham’s gambling debts. In the light of that injustice (and as it had long been her position that charity did, indeed, begin at home), Lydia saw no reason why all the Bennet sisters’ good fortune should not be communal. Upholding a second strongly clutched belief that the end always justifies the means, Lydia realised it might be necessary to subdue her sisters’ possible reluctance to share in their future husbands’ plethora of funds. Thus, she strove to become, not only their dear youngest sister, but their confidant and teacher as well.

For, if the loss of her brief status of First Daughter was imminent by reason of new marriages, she still clung to the single feat she held over her virga intacta sisters. She alone knew what would befall Jane and Elizabeth upon their wedding night. She alone was in a position to explain it all to them.

Their mother would not. Mrs. Bennet’s only advice to Lydia had been (this was not prior to their actual carnal union, but she advised it all the same), “Bear up, Lydia, and be brave. Suffer as you must and make certain your husband knows it.”

Copulation as recreation would have bumfuzzled Mrs. Bennet, for although her mother thought of Lydia as the daughter most truly after her own heart, she did not share Lydia’s concupiscence. (Lydia knew that their mother had to have consummated relations with their father, but was it not for the undeniable existence of herself and four sisters, she would have argued that possibility to the death.) Lydia sought amorous congress just as studiously as her mother avoided it.

And whatever were Wickham’s drawbacks as a provider, he was a prolific and masterful lover. As it happened, Lydia knew this as fact because he told her so emphatically and often. There were, however, not as many opportunities for Lydia to admire her husband’s self-professed masculine achievements by the sixth month of her marriage. Had the appellation of wife not elated Lydia so, she might have noted that Mrs. Lydia Wickham’s nether-regions were not sacrificed to Venus by Major George Wickham one-tenth as often as when she was Miss Lydia Bennet.

That was regrettable, but had to be forgiven. For even Lydia knew that Major Wickham was so fatigued by his exceedingly weighty and tedious assigned duty of telling the sergeant major what to do that, come evening, he could scarcely pull off his own boots. Exhausted or not, Lydia had some success at cajoling him into accommodating her, but she soon learnt there are only so many bodily orifices to penetrate and without the enthusiasm of her poor, weary husband, her gratification was limited.

Longbourn would be a merry distraction from drab Tyne and Wear. And, as Lydia gradually discovered as the miles grew between her coach and Wickham, distance does invariably soften one’s matrimonial travails. So by the time Lydia reached Hertfordshire, the memory of her husband’s libido had been resurrected to premarital prominence. Hence, she was quite anxious to share with Jane and Elizabeth the fortune that was soon to befall them (even if it had to ensue with lesser lovers than her Wickham).

With as much ado, bedlam, and brouhaha as she could incite, Lydia arrived by hackney coach into her mother’s outstretched arms. She kissed the air in her father’s direction, then bypassed Elizabeth, Jane, Kitty, and Mary altogether to offer her heartfelt (and prodigious) congratulations to her future brothers-in-law.

Lydia arrived at four in the afternoon. By five they had supped, and fifteen minutes after six o’clock the men retired to Mr. Bennet’s library to enjoy a decanter of port. The Miss Bennets and their mother anticipated conversation with Mrs. Wickham in the west parlour. She, however, had urgent business to attend to with Elizabeth and Jane. With whispered entreaty, she herded them into the first available bedroom. Once there, Jane sat upon the side of the bed in apprehension. Elizabeth chose to stand with arms folded, her posture reflecting a compleat understanding that all this urgency was undoubtedly in preparation for the disclosure of another of Lydia’s schemes.

Her premonition was not unrewarded. For Lydia closed the door and, without taking her hand from the knob, turned. Thereupon, she issued a tremendous, if melodramatic, sigh. She went to both sisters, took one hand of each in hers and clasped them to her bosom.

“Oh, to be a naïve young girl again!” Lydia, the wise matron of sixteen, gushed directly to the twenty-two-year-old Jane. “You know nothing of men and their carnal cravings, do you, my dear, sweet, innocent sister?”

Jane, of course, did not. But all three knew if Lydia wanted to disconcert someone with graphic delineation, Jane would be the victim of choice.

Watching the manipulative Lydia homing in upon Jane as if singling out a lamb for slaughter did not sit well with Elizabeth. Lydia, however, was so enthralled to be in a position of authority that she did not see Elizabeth glaring at her. Jane’s wide-eyed, wary look invited Lydia to expand.

“There are things you must know, Jane, Lizzy.”

She looked over at Elizabeth, whose countenance bore the distinct expression of one who knew herself far more ignorant than she would have liked. It also beheld a pronounced distaste for being enlightened by a younger sister, particularly Lydia, the unparalleled Queen of Theatrics.

As if reading her mind, Lydia said, “If you believe our mother will advise you, Lizzy, do not be so foolhardy.”

She then repeated what Mrs. Bennet had told her about the wedding bed, punctuating it with a merry laugh. Noting a compleat lack of sisterly camaraderie upon the subject of their mother’s marital shortcomings, she hastily prattled on.

“Indubitably, you believe Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are compleat gentlemen. Surely, it is thus that they strive to be. But they are men and beneath their chivalrous manners lurk barely tethered desires of the flesh!”

More than one Sunday the vicar had warned of carnal pleasure, hence it was understandable for at least Jane to be alarmed. However, if Jane was held in fright, Elizabeth was not. Her disdain for Lydia’s pompousness was compromised somewhat by curiosity. Intelligence available to young ladies upon this subject was intentionally meagre. Decorum and society demanded benightedness.

Yet Elizabeth managed to respond mildly, “How kind of you, Lydia, to have come all this distance to warn us of carnal cravings of the unwed.”

Not compleatly oblivious to the mockery from the headiness of her singular position of matrimony, Lydia replied, “Of course not, Lizzy. But you would do well to listen to my admonishments lest you be taken unawares by Mr. Darcy’s conjugal embrace.”

“Pray?”

Elizabeth’s reluctant interest at hand, Lydia returned to the sanctuary of Jane’s more genuine one and came directly to the point.

“When you give yourself for the first time, you must be prepared. For, are you not, when your lover takes you the pain will be unbearable.”

Believing Lydia’s superior practise in this had to be accepted, Jane’s eyes widened even more (physical pain, for anyone, was the very thing which Jane held in greatest repugnance).

“Lydia,” Jane said, “do you think it best to talk so unguardedly? Is this not private?”

“Yes,” Lydia agreed, undaunted. “I am speaking to you both privately, am I not?”

Of course, the only way Lydia knew to speak was without caution (privacy was hardly a hindrance upon her, either). Hence, Lydia continued unrestrained.

“It will be glorious beyond words, but you may cry out to God to take your life!”

“Lydia, really…”

“’Tis true, Lizzy!”

Lydia turned to Elizabeth, lifting her chin defensively, “You know nothing of this…one must assume.”

No, she did not. It was a quandary, for she was very keen to hear the details that were kept so scrupulously from the ears of maidens. However, she did not want to lend encouragement to Lydia (whom she knew needed little) nor to have Jane -terrorised by hyperbole. That was clearly Lydia’s impending effect, if not intent. For Lydia returned her attention to her eldest sister, whose face had lost all colour.