Chapter 13
Darcy, feeling how much he had failed, embarked on a scheme to improve himself.
In his first efforts in that regard, he had penned long letters to each of Elizabeth’s family members, apologising to them for what he had done.
He was painfully honest, owning to all the defects in his character that had led to his present circumstance.
I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.
As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper.
I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves (my father particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own.
It is this that has led to my downfall, but I assure you, it will be no more.
I shall change, and I shall become a husband worthy of Elizabeth when she returns.
Mr Darcy,
I write to you not because I wish it but on behalf of my wife.
She has gladly seen Mary settled into matrimony, and that done, she is anxious to complete the business with our two youngest. Your friend Bingley, as I am sure you are aware, is greatly occupied with expanding his nursery.
As your own is, and will likely remain, empty, I should think you can spare a place for your mother-in-law and her daughters, perhaps even secure them some introductions to likely suitors.
Try not to lose any of them. Silly and ignorant though they are, I am fond of them.
T. Bennet
Darcy learnt from Bingley that the former Miss Mary Bennet was now the second Mrs Collins.
Mrs Charlotte Collins had died in childbed, and Mr Collins had wasted very little time in setting his sights on a second wife.
Unseemly? Perhaps, but a man who had sent his wife away could scarce have an opinion.
As for the proposal that he take on the younger Miss Bennets, Darcy had but one thought: culpae poenae par esto.
Let the punishment fit the crime. But would he ever be forgiven?
Did he deserve forgiveness from this man?
Likely not, but Mr Bennet did deserve the respite it would afford him, and thus Darcy agreed.
Kitty and Lydia Bennet, now ages nineteen and seventeen respectively, were still silly and nonsensical.
Both girls were delighted to be in London and wasted little of the opportunity afforded them.
After a short period of time spent depleting their clothing allowance, they attended any event to which Darcy could secure them an invitation.
They were more determined flirts than ever, each focused on the goal of finding a husband, preferably before the other did.
Mrs Bennet did little to check them, no matter how wild they were.
Because they were also pretty, more was forgiven them than Darcy might have imagined.
Nevertheless, the Season began to draw to a close without a single offer made for either of them, the gentleman of the ton being ever mindful of fortune.
By the middle of July, when town began to empty of everyone and everything of interest, Lydia Bennet thought that life among the ton was not nearly as interesting as she had hoped it would be.
She walked with Kitty in Hyde Park one dreadfully hot day, dreaming of something or someone to take her mind off the tedium.
“Kitty, look over there! Is that not Mr George Wickham? You know, the very handsome one who used to be with Colonel Forster’s regiment?”
“Aye, Lydia. And more handsome than ever! See there—a man can look as well without his regimentals as with!”
“Kitty! Who have you been seeing without their regimentals?” With a loud laugh at her own wit, Lydia called out to Mr Wickham, causing their mother, who was fanning herself on a bench nearby, to chastise her for brazenness. Lydia disregarded her.
A beaming grin breaking over his face, Mr Wickham strolled over to them, offering an exaggerated bow. “Miss Kitty Bennet and Miss Lydia Bennet. I daresay this is the finest thing that has happened to me all week, to see you both here.”
“And ours too!” Lydia said with a smile. The three broke into easy chatter. Mr Wickham seemed most interested to learn they were living with Darcy but said little of it.
Though scarcely seventeen, Lydia fancied she knew as well as any how to entice a man. She made sure to jiggle her bosom when she laughed, and she touched her finger to her lips whenever she could, giving Mr Wickham longing glances as she did it.
Too soon, Mrs Bennet rose. “Girls! I shall melt in this heat! Let us get back to Darcy House now.”
They obeyed her reluctantly. As they began to stroll away, Mr Wickham tugged Lydia’s arm slightly, whispering, “Same time tomorrow… Come alone.”
Thus began a pattern that persisted over the next fortnight of clandestine meetings and whispered sweet nothings.
By the end of the first week, Lydia Bennet was clay in Wickham’s hands.
At the end of the second, she was quite convinced they were in love, and as was natural for people in love, she permitted him a few liberties: kisses, some caresses, and even a brief peek at her bare bosom.
In short time, Lydia believed they had made a plan to elope.
She left Darcy House one morning, prepared to meet Wickham at the place she had learnt he was staying, so that they could depart for Gretna Green immediately.
She left behind a note that declared she had fallen in love and intended to marry Mr Wickham, which fortunately was found only an hour after she departed.
Darcy went at once to Wickham’s lodgings, a small room above a tavern on Little St Andrew’s Street, a place that stank of too much sweat, smoke, and despair.
For his life, he could not comprehend why Wickham was adept at fooling young girls who had lives ahead of them, better lives than this; but so it was.
It was Lydia who flung wide the door, thinking it was Wickham who was evidently away. Her delight turned quickly to vexation. “Get out, Darcy,” she hissed. “George will return in moments, and we are going to—”
Darcy said patiently, “Wickham is not going to marry you, and if he did, your life would be one I would not wish on anyone. Now come home with me, and let us forget all about this.”
“Home? Home?” Lydia was suddenly and thoroughly enraged. “I do not live with you.”
“For now, yes, you do, and I do not think your father—”
“My father hates you for what you did!”
“I do too, but it does not mean I shall surrender you to George Wickham. I intend to see that you do not come to harm.”
“Oh? Like you kept Lizzy from harm?” she retorted immediately. “You are so selfish, always thinking about yourself and what you want to do. What about what I want to do?”
Darcy began to move slowly around the room, gathering a reticule he assumed was Lydia’s, a shawl, and some small parcel. “Wickham thinks only of his own wants and needs. Money is spent on gambling or drink before even he feeds himself. Is that the sort of life you want?”
Lydia looked as though she was considering that. “George is owed money by—”
“I have known George nearly my entire life, and never, in nearly three decades, have I heard of anyone owing him anything. It is generally the opposite. What I do think likely is that Wickham wished to harm your reputation in some manner that would cause me to pay him off to save you. I believe we can think of better ways to spend my money, do you not agree?”
Lydia seemed to be considering the offer. Finally she asked, “Why?”
“Are we not family?” He extended his arm, and she took it almost absently, allowing him to remove her from Wickham’s rooms.
She shrugged. “Maybe, but Lizzy is probably dead, so likely we are not any more family than any other man she ever knew.”
The careless way she spoke hurt more than anything else she might have said. His voice was hoarse as he replied, “Pray, do not speak so.”
He handed her into the carriage, and once he entered and was seated across from her, she spoke almost gently, “If she were alive, do you not think she would have returned to you by now?”
He shook his head. “No, I treated her quite abhorrently. I cannot think anything but sheer desperation would induce her to come back to me.”
“I always thought she might come to Longbourn, if she were able. But perhaps she was too ashamed. Mama would not have looked kindly upon her. I do miss her. She was a wonderful sister and always took good care of me.”
Such simple words made Darcy unspeakably sad.
He looked at Lydia with compassion, hoping he had not taken her sister from her forever.
Silently, he offered the girl yet another of his many worthless apologies.
How he wished he had considered what his selfishness, his resentful temper, could have wrought before he did any of what he did in 1812!
“I hope you know…I hope everyone knows, Elizabeth did nothing wrong. All of this was my fault.”
Lydia, with some measure of her usual impertinence returned to her, tossed back, “Yes, I believe we all think this was entirely your fault.”
There was silence in the carriage for several minutes before she spoke again, “May I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Do you want her back because you love her? Or because she belongs to you?”
“Because I love her,” he said immediately. “Deeply and ardently, and I…I simply cannot abide the notion of living without her.”
“What will you do if you find her, only to realise she does not wish to return to you?”
“W-well…” Darcy stammered a bit. “A woman’s place—”