Chapter Three #2
The household settled into an uneasy quiet over the next two days.
Lydia slept much of the time, waking only to weep or stare blankly at the wall.
Mrs. Gardiner tended to her with patient kindness, while Elizabeth was unable to settle to any occupation.
She listened for the knocker, glanced toward the window when carriages passed, though Mr. Darcy did not call.
On the second evening, Lydia woke fretful and asked for tea.
Elizabeth went downstairs to fetch it rather than trouble the servants at so late an hour.
As she descended, she heard voices from the study.
The door stood slightly ajar, and Mr. Darcy’s voice carried into the hallway—not loud, but clear and deliberate.
“Wickham claims he will not take her for less than twenty thousand pounds, though I believe he would settle for ten if pressed hard enough.”
Elizabeth froze, her hand on the banister.
“Ten thousand!” Her father’s voice was sharp with disbelief. “The man is a scoundrel and a—”
“He is,” Mr. Darcy said calmly. “But he knows the value of his silence and departure. He will not go cheaply.”
There was a long pause. Elizabeth knew she should move, should either enter the room or return upstairs, but she could not seem to make her feet obey.
“We must settle this quickly,” Mr. Gardiner said, his tone weary. “Before word spreads further. I shall speak to my solicitor tomorrow about drawing up the settlement. The child need not be troubled with the particulars.”
“I beg you would reconsider,” Mr. Darcy said. “That course, however well-intentioned, would be a grave error.”
Another pause, this one surprised.
“You think we should consult Lydia?” Her father sounded incredulous. “She is fifteen years old and has shown herself to possess not an ounce of sense. What possible good could come from—”
“I have lately had dealings with two young ladies in very different circumstances,” Mr. Darcy interrupted gently.
“And I have learnt—” He paused, seeming to choose his words with care.
“It is sometimes unwise to make decisions for young ladies without their knowledge or consent, no matter how good one’s intentions. ”
Elizabeth’s mind was thrown into confusion with the significance of what he said. Was he speaking of Georgiana? He must be. But what did he mean by two young ladies?
“In the first case,” Mr. Darcy continued, “a young woman was kept ignorant of a man’s true character and the particulars of her own situation.
That ignorance made her vulnerable to deception.
” Another pause, longer this time. “In the second case, I presumed to know what would make a lady happy. I believed that wealth and position would render a gentleman’s addresses welcome, and I did not think to question whether the lady herself shared those sentiments. I was grievously wrong on both counts.”
Elizabeth looked away. He was speaking of her. Of Hunsford.
“I do not suggest we allow Miss Lydia to negotiate with Wickham,” Mr. Darcy said.
“But she should understand what is being arranged on her behalf, and she should have some say in whether she wishes to accept those arrangements. She is the one who must live with the consequences of whatever is decided here.”
“The girl is in no state to be consulted,” Mr. Bennet said flatly. “She weeps one moment and rages the next. How can we expect her to be sensible in such a state?”
“Perhaps no one has ever expected it of her before.” Mr. Darcy’s tone was gentle now. “Perhaps if she is given some voice in her own fate, she might prove more sensible than we anticipate.”
Silence fell in the study. The ticking of the clock was the only sound.
“You ascribe her more sense than I would,” Mr. Gardiner said slowly.
“I suggest she be afforded the opportunity to earn it,” Mr. Darcy replied. “That is all.”
“Very well,” Mr. Bennet said at last, though his tone suggested he thought the exercise futile. “But how do we explain matters to her? The girl fancies herself in love with the scoundrel.”
“I understand that Wickham has told Miss Lydia a great many falsehoods regarding our history,” Mr. Darcy said.
He gestured to the portfolio by his side.
“I have brought with me such documents as shall establish the truth of our dealings and his conduct. My records over the years were sent by express from Pemberley, and the more current items were in the hands of my London solicitor. Letters, accounts, testimonies from those who knew him at Cambridge and in Derbyshire. If she is to act with understanding, she must first understand the true character of the man she believed she would marry.”
“And you think she will give credence to these documents?” Mr. Bennet asked. “She has proven remarkably resistant to reason thus far.”
“I merely propose offering her the opportunity to see the evidence and draw her own conclusions,” Mr. Darcy replied. “Place the whole before her—the truth of Wickham’s character, the settlements he demands, the courses available to her. Then allow her to consider her fate.”
There was a long silence. Elizabeth could almost see her father’s sceptical expression, Mr. Gardiner’s thoughtful frown.
“It is irregular,” Mr. Gardiner said slowly.
“So is the entire situation,” Mr. Darcy countered. “Perhaps a novel course is required.”
“Send for her, then,” Mr. Bennet said heavily. “Though I expect nothing but shouts and tantrums.”
The scrape of a chair startled Elizabeth, and she quickly stepped away from the door. She had barely reached the stairs when her uncle emerged from the study.
“Ah, Elizabeth. Would you fetch Lydia, please? We need to speak with her.”
“Of course.” She spoke steadily, though her thoughts were in disorder. “Is she—should I prepare her for difficult news?”
“Just bring her down,” Mr. Gardiner said gently. “And perhaps stay nearby. She may need you.”
Upstairs in the smallest guest room, Lydia lay curled on her side, her face turned to the wall. The tea Elizabeth had meant to fetch was entirely forgotten.
“Lydia,” Elizabeth said, her voice soft. “Papa and Uncle Gardiner wish to speak with you.”
“No.” Lydia kept her face in the pillow, her word muffled. “I shall not go down there. They will only scold me.”
“They would discuss your present circumstances. Mr. Darcy is here as well.”
Abruptly, Lydia pulled herself up from the covers, her face flushing. “That horrid man! He is the reason Wickham could not marry me! He refused to pay Wickham what he owed him, and now—”
“Lydia, please.” Elizabeth lowered herself to the bed and sat beside her sister. “Whatever you believe Mr. Darcy has done, he is here to help resolve the matters. Will you not at least hear what he has to say?”
“They will send me away. To some horrible place where I shall never see anyone again.” Her lips trembled and her voice wavered as if she were about to begin another storm of weeping.
“No one is sending you anywhere without your knowledge,” Elizabeth said firmly. “But you must come down and be part of this conversation. It concerns your future, after all.”
For a long moment Lydia stared at her blankly, then she nodded slowly. She smoothed her wrinkled gown vainly and reached for a shawl with shaking hands.
“Lizzy—” Her voice was small, childlike. “Will you stay with me? I cannot face them alone.”
Taking her sister’s hand again, Elizabeth squeezed her fingers to reassure her. “Yes. I shall stay.”
Lydia entered the library with her chin raised, though her eyelids were pink and swollen. She fixed her gaze somewhere above Mr. Darcy’s shoulder, refusing to look at any of the men.
“I do not see why I must endure this,” she said, an edge of petulance in her tone. “You have already decided everything, I am sure. You always do.”
“Sit down, Lydia,” Mr. Bennet said wearily.
Lydia threw herself into a chair with exaggerated indignation.
“Very well. But I shall not listen to lectures from that man.” She jerked her head toward Mr. Darcy.
“He has done nothing but work against poor Wickham from the start. He is jealous of him, that is all. Wickham told me how Mr. Darcy cheated him of his inheritance, how he—”
“Miss Lydia.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was composed, but a note of authority in it made Lydia fall silent.
“I understand that Mr. Wickham has given you an account of our past acquaintance that differs considerably from the truth. I am here to lay the facts before you. You may judge for yourself which version is more credible.”
Elizabeth, wishing herself anywhere else, took a seat near the window. Perhaps she could disappear into the drapery. The mortification of watching her sister behave so abominably before Mr. Darcy was almost beyond bearing.
Mr. Darcy seemed unperturbed. The gentlemen took their seats, Mr. Darcy in the chair opposite Lydia. He folded his hands, his manner calm and almost gentle. Elizabeth noticed his hands were steady despite the nature of what he was obliged to recount.
“Mr. Wickham and I were raised together,” he began. “His father was my father’s steward, a good and honest man whom my father held in the highest regard. In his youth, Wickham showed some promise as a scholar. My father paid for his education. We attended school together, then university.”
Lydia’s expression remained mutinous, but she was listening.
“My father was exceedingly generous to Wickham,” Mr. Darcy continued.
“Perhaps too generous. He attributed Wickham’s increasingly troubling behaviour to high spirits, to youth, to anything but what it truly was—a fundamental lack of principle.
By the time we reached Cambridge, Wickham was deeply in debt.
He gambled, he drank, he failed to attend his studies.
When his father died, my father believed it was grief that made him so wild. He offered him another chance.”