Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (50 page)

At this rebuke, Lydia flung down her napkin in a huff.

“What would you have me do, Lizzy?”

“I would have you bathe them.”

Lydia gave a heaving sigh, tilted her head, and gave her mother an imploring look,

“Oh Mama! You know what bother it is to get them clean. I have no nurse. What am I to do?”

Brightening under the influence of a notion, Mrs. Bennet said, “Perchance Chauncey’s nurse could do it.”

With the exact same tilt to the head, Lydia and Mrs. Bennet turned in synchronic query to Elizabeth upon this possibility.

“They are not her children to bathe.”

As always, Jane was the peacemaker. “I shall go.”

Knowing full well the entire contretemps was escalating into an outright squabble, Elizabeth nonetheless held firm. There were times when one must simply stand one’s ground lest no one be safe.

“No, Jane, they are Lydia’s children, she should see to them herself.”

Lydia, annoyed, “Mother!”

Elizabeth looked at her father. He sat at the head of the table, his spectacles upon the end of his nose, reading (more than likely rereading) a letter. It was a pose quite familiar in him. He always seemed to have something to take his attention when bickering commenced. Often he would simply remove himself. Rarely did he abandon his food. A previously read letter was ideal in this specific situation. He was present but otherwise occupied.

Elizabeth looked upon him with exasperated affection. In spite of the semi--grievous (she knew it should be wholly grievous, but could only grant Mr. Collins’s passing a limited amount of sorrow) circumstances, she was happy to be able to spend some time with her father.

He looked to her quite thin. Was it lack of seeing him more regularly or a sincere dissipation of his constitution, she had no objective opinion, for Darcy had not accompanied them, decrying his hearing deficiency. Elizabeth thought it a perfectly good excuse, for she despaired of him having to deal with her relatives and loss of hearing concurrently. That Rosings Park was across the hedge from the Collinses’ was reason enough to plead infirmity. (Neither did Bingley come. His reason was not quite so grave, and a little suspect. Elizabeth concluded it was a matter of Bingley refusing to weather Mrs. Bennet if Darcy did not have to.)

The entire bath confrontation was solved by Jane “helping” Lydia bathe her children.

“You have servants for such things, Jane. We are too poor,” Lydia complained pitifully.

Upon hearing this lament, Elizabeth made a mental note to query Jane if she was slipping Lydia money, then hastily dismissed it. If she was giving Lydia help, certainly kind-hearted Jane was. Elizabeth came perilously close to reminding Lydia she was in no worse circumstance than her own parents. And she might be in better had she been even a little prudent with money. But she did not. It would begin an even greater argument and round of rebuke, reproof, and complaint.

Elizabeth had simply had enough for one meal and was certain her father’s stomach was paying him as well.

In an unusual attack of poor judgement, Elizabeth inquired of her mother about their father’s health. A hypochondriac of unrivalled eminence, Mrs. Bennet plaintively enumerated her own many ills (for she enjoyed her own nerves and spasms more than any other diversion). Sourly, Elizabeth held her tongue. She believed, nevertheless, if her mother truly was in fear of loss of circumstance upon her husband’s death, she might do a better job of looking after him.

After a week of unremitting solicitude, the Family Bennet took their leave. Lord and Lady Lucas were yet at Hunsford, hence there were enough condolences remaining.

Lady Lucas, for one, was quite happy to have them go. For, although one of her dearest friends, Mrs. Bennet caused her considerable consternation. Not a day passed without that lady reminding her at least once how well her own daughters had married. This, always couched midmost in a statement of sympathy for Charlotte (e.g., “Poor Charlotte, had she married half so well as Lizzy or Jane, she might not have such worry now!”).

Lady Lucas, in turn, and with the identical measure of sincerity, pitied Mrs. Bennet’s situation at the death of her husband, thus reminding Mrs. Bennet that her grandson (the unfortunate son) was to inherit Longbourn (e.g., “But at least, dear Mrs. Bennet, her son shall have a nice entailment coming to him in time.”).

This tender compassion very nearly came to blows.

In light of this thinly veiled animosity, any respite was welcome. The Bennets fled and the Lucases waved tear-stained pocket squares as they did.

As Elizabeth and Jane were actual friends of Charlotte’s and not merely unwilling relatives of her late husband, they stayed on. It was a compleat bafflement as to why Lydia wanted to stay also. Lydia, so far as Elizabeth had known, had never harboured any particular regard for Charlotte. Indeed, Lydia mocked her linen cap.

“She ties it under her chin! I shall not wear one until I am thirty!”

“Charlotte is thirty,” Elizabeth dryly apprised her.

But Lydia was not of a mind to return home forthwith, for her boys were going to visit Longbourn.

Not that Mrs. Bennet was a particularly attentive grandmother. Quite the opposite, looking after them would be relegated to the servants. Mrs. Bennet would merely take to her room and complain to Mr. Bennet of the inconvenience when that opportunity arose. But for Lydia, a holiday was a holiday.

When Lydia made the announcement that she was to stay on, it was not mitigated by the understanding that her children would not. Therefore, Charlotte’s countenance overspread with a look of barely concealed horror. So profound was her expression of distaste, Elizabeth was not certain it did not rival one she might have presented at the apparition of her dead husband risen from the grave.

In that Lydia stayed, the Lucases quit Hunsford as well (Lady Lucas unable to tolerate the Bennets’ youngest).

Hence, the first order of business for Charlotte in this respite from unrelenting sympathy was to take to her bed to recuperate.

Thereupon, save for Chauncey, the three sisters had the house to themselves. And that dear boy was not about long. Forthwith of displaying the unique talent of inserting his entire right hand inside his mouth, the nurse took him to his nap.

Which was just as well. Although Lydia did say “ick,” no one else had a comment upon that lad’s proclivities other than those that were best not shared.

In the silence that followed his leave-taking, Jane was moved to note that it was the first quiet they had enjoyed for a fortnight. Evidently, this comment reminded Lydia of the true motive she had for remaining at Charlotte’s.

“Lizzy! I thought I would burst lest Mama and Papa not take their leave!”

Elizabeth surmised this exclamation did not introduce a subject upon which she would look with favour. She was not to be disappointed.

“I have only just learnt that when your coach was robbed that day, the bandits stole you! You related it was merely highwaymen bent on thievery! But Wickham says not. He says he learnt Mr. Darcy murdered them for it!” She turned to Jane and repeated for her benefit, “Murdered three men!”

The lace Jane was working upon fell to the floor in a dainty clump.

No, Elizabeth did not favour this discourse. She peeked at Jane, not unwitting of what she would witness. Had her forsaken handwork not, Jane’s astonished expression betrayed her innocence of the unabridged story of the attack. That dastardly Wickham. Bingley had kept his silence with his wife. Why could not have Wickham?

“They stole Lizzy, Jane! And Darcy killed them for it! Is that not the most dramatic and romantic doing you could ever fathom? And our own sister!” she nearly screeched that exclamation, but lowered her voice conspiratorially as she turned back to Elizabeth, “Lizzy, were you defiled? You are so lucky!”

Well. It had taken ever so long a time, but the story had finally made its way the length and breadth of England and thus unto her sister’s eager ears. Elizabeth was grateful that Lydia had been struck with an unlikely attack of good judgement and had not told their parents. But as it had been quite some time since anyone dared to speak of it in her presence, she was in a quandary what notion of Lydia’s to quash first. That there were bandits (indeed), manslaughter (undeniably), that it was dramatic (regrettably), romantic (not at all), and that she was lucky (hardly). Elizabeth was almost moved to apologise to Lydia that she was not violated.

Howbeit Elizabeth silently blessed Bingley’s discretion, she realised that it was no longer germane. In light of the terrified look upon Jane’s countenance, Elizabeth worried she might swoon even then. Had she heard it direct of its occurrence, Jane might not have recovered. However impregnable Lydia’s hyperbole appeared, she knew she must convince Jane it was not quite as horrifying as it sounded.

“Lydia, being accosted by thieves is frightening, not romantic. Only fables name it thus. I was not defiled and I shall not discuss it with you beyond that. If you continue to press the matter, I shall vacate the room.”

Lydia bestowed her a profound look of disgust.

“I merely want to ascertain the particulars, Lizzy. Wickham boasted that he knew all, but he did not. Do tell!”

This beseechment was denied. In defiance of her sister’s prying, Elizabeth stood and folded her arms. In response to her implacability, Lydia instituted a lengthy and grating whine, one that she accentuated with a petulant a stamp of her foot.

“Lizz-e-e-e, you are so-o-o-o selfish! Can you not even share such an exploit with your own sisters?”

This tactic unfruitful, Lydia embarked upon an alternative, “It is my understanding Darcy behaved valiantly in saving you. Thus, it is not as if there was cowardice to shield. Darcy was heroic, was he not? You must tell all!”

The oblique strategy revealed that years of practise had refined Lydia’s inveiglement skills. Elizabeth, however, was still disinclined to respond. Her husband’s heroism was beyond any telling. Particularly to her present company. Moreover, Lydia’s abuse of familiarity bade Elizabeth suffer an attack of sanctimony unrecollected of herself.

Hence, rather sniffily, Elizabeth corrected her, “Mister Darcy did only what he had to do, Lydia, no more.”

Still snagged in the drama of Elizabeth’s long past kidnapping, Jane interrupted them both, “Pray Lizzy, why did you not speak of this to me!”

“There was nothing I chose to relate, Jane. ’Tis done. It is long over. If only others will let it be.”

Pointedly, her eyes rested upon Lydia.

“You, Lizzy, think of no one but yourself,” Lydia pouted again. “As extraordinary a story as that and you refuse to share it. What can I do but enjoy another’s adventures? I, who have nothing. Only Wickham. Not once has he rescued me. He is utterly worthless.”

With her lower lip protruding significantly, Lydia sat in a disgusted heap. Jane stood, thoroughly aghast and categorically appalled at all that she had heard. To suffer learning that highwaymen had beset dearest Lizzy only to be subjected to hearing Lydia casting aspersion upon the father of her children made her feel faint.

Swooning, however, was out of the question. If Wickham’s character was indefensible, Lydia’s defamation still had to be protested.

“Lydia! How can you speak so contemptuously of your own husband?”

Elizabeth nodded in agreement. Albeit she thought quite contemptuously of the wastrel Wickham, even she was appalled to hear such unadulterated disparagement from his wife.

Lydia responded to them both with a snort, “Well of course, you, sisters, have greater reason to amuse your husbands than I do Wickham. If he were in the circumstance of Mr. Darcy or Mr. Bingley, I dare say I could find him more affection. As it is, Wickham is poor and cannot even diddle long enough for me to come, so what good is he as a husband?”

Agape yet over Lydia’s ridicule of her husband, it was clear Jane’s sensibilities were further sullied upon her uttering the word “diddle.” Hitherto, Elizabeth would have been in concern for Jane’s discombobulation. But in that it otherwise spared the conversation her dear sister’s enquiry as to whither Lydia journeyed during coition, she fretted not.

Jane was diverted from that query by ascertaining just which of Lydia’s indignities demanded reproach first. Unable to come to a decision, she used a non-specific, all-purpose announcement.

“Lydia, I am shocked!”

Lydia rolled her eyes. Thereupon, she continued to enumerate Wickham’s shortcomings.

“Be not astonished, Jane. Wickham does not deserve your sympathy. He has lifted more skirts than…” She searched a moment for an example, “…Casanova! And I for one say good riddance. When he is at home he wheedles me into submitting to him, then cannot remember to withdraw. He leaves me high in the belly, then takes his foul weapon elsewhere.”

Jane firmly believed that all God’s creatures were fundamentally good, howbeit it had been a particularly demanding search to find a redeeming quality belonging to Wickham. He had proven himself unreliable, duplicitous, and vain. In absence of any obvious virtue, Jane had fancied him at least an ardent husband. Thus, it was particularly difficult for her to encounter the dual revelation that not only was he unfaithful, he was absent-minded as well.

Elizabeth, however, had long concluded that Wickham was nothing less than a simpering Lothario. Therefore, she was not particularly astounded to learn he was guilty of gross marital misconduct. Ergo, it was not difficult to find sympathy for someone who had partaken her wedding vows with him. Even if she was a twit.

Thus, Elizabeth patted Lydia’s hand, whilst saying, “Perchance you are mistaken. You have children. A husband would not forsake his family thusly.”

Other than shopping, self-pity was Lydia’s favourite pastime. Thus, it was seldom necessary to coax it from her. Moreover, she often found consolation (if not out-right delight) in shared misery.

Lydia grimaced, “Open your eyes, Lizzy, all men stray. ’Tis their nature.”

Thereupon, she sighed with exaggerated resignation. Elizabeth was not of a mind to carry the marital standard of fidelity upon behalf of all husbands, but she felt compelled to disabuse Lydia of the notion that every husband cavorted outside marriage.