Chapter Five
Late that evening, Elizabeth looked in on Lydia before she retired. She walked softly down the hall and paused at the open door of Lydia’s room.
Lydia was sitting up in bed, the single candle casting long, trembling shadows. She was surrounded by a small mess of papers spread across the coverlet. Elizabeth instantly recognised them as the treasured notes Wickham had sent to Lydia in Brighton.
Lydia was holding one note, her expression unnervingly still.
She held it not with the breathless reverence she once had, but with a cold, studious focus.
Elizabeth could only imagine the shallow nature of the words her sister was absorbing, but she saw the exact moment the meaning—the betrayal—sank in.
Lydia’s lips pressed into a thin, white line, and her eyes, fixed on the paper, held a look of devastating quiet.
Then, without a sound, Lydia slowly, deliberately tore the note in half.
She tore the pieces into quarters, and then into smaller fragments, until they were a meaningless pile of scraps.
She swept all the notes—the entire collection—into the cold hearth.
She stared at the notes for a moment, made as if to retrieve them, then took a taper, lit it from the candle, and set the pile alight.
The little stack of paper curled and blackened.
Lydia stared into the hearth as it burned to ash, her face illuminated by the transient flame, yet still devoid of tears.
The act was not one of temper, but of surrender.
Elizabeth, satisfied that her sister was finally confronting the truth in her own quiet way, withdrew without a word, leaving Lydia to her lonely reckoning.
The days that followed had a strange sense of everything being held in abeyance.
Mrs. Gardiner took Lydia out to the shops on Oxford Street, where they purchased two new day dresses and a spencer in a becoming shade of blue.
Elizabeth accompanied them as much to help with the selections, as to ensure Lydia’s comfort.
As the modiste adjusted the hem of the first gown, Lydia stood before the tall pier glass.
She stared at her reflection with an expression Elizabeth had never seen on her youngest sister’s face before—blank and haunted.
Then, without warning, Lydia flinched as if struck and stepped back so quickly she nearly fell from the fitting platform.
“Is all well, miss?” the modiste asked, steadying her with a practiced hand.
Lydia’s face had gone white. “Yes,” she whispered, her fingers clutching at the fabric of the new gown. “Yes, it is nothing.”
Elizabeth exchanged a worried glance with Mrs. Gardiner.
Lydia submitted to the remainder of the fittings with uncharacteristic docility.
She spoke scarcely a word, starting at sudden movements and sounds.
There were no demands for the finest lace, no insistence upon the most fashionable ribbons—none of the rapacious enthusiasm that usually accompanied Lydia’s shopping expeditions.
She simply stood upon the fitting platform, staring at nothing, while the modiste worked around her.
Mrs. Gardiner spoke quietly with the dressmaker, suggesting a style with a high waist and generous pleats, easily let out should her figure alter—practical considerations that made Elizabeth’s throat tighten. The modiste nodded her understanding, her expression professionally neutral.
Lydia said nothing. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, littered with pins and scraps of fabric, and made no objection to any of it.
On Sunday, the family attended services at St. Clement Danes.
Lydia sat between Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
The sermon was drawn from the Gospel of Luke—the parable of the prodigal son, and the father’s joy at his child’s return despite all that had been squandered and lost.
“For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found,” the vicar intoned from the pulpit.
Lydia sat rigid beside Elizabeth, her hands clasped tight in her lap.
She did not turn to whisper or inspect the neighbours’ bonnets as she usually did.
As the vicar spoke of the prodigal son—of the father’s joy at a child’s return regardless of their errors—Lydia’s gaze remained fixed on the floor.
When Elizabeth looked over, silent tears tracked through the powder on Lydia’s cheeks. She looked neither dramatic nor defiant, only small and frightened.
After the service, as they walked back to Gracechurch Street, Lydia remained quiet until they turned the corner near the house.
“The son in the story went home on his own,” she said, her voice low. “He chose to go back. But I did not. I had to be found.” She looked up at Mrs. Gardiner, her expression anxious. “Do you think... is there forgiveness for that?”
Mrs. Gardiner squeezed her hand firmly. “I believe the return itself matters more than the manner in which it came about, my dear. You are here now.”
Lydia nodded and said nothing more, but the fretful energy that usually defined her seemed to have quieted.
They had agreed to allow Lydia until Monday morning to consider her course.
No one pressed her, though the tension in the house was palpable.
Elizabeth watched her sister pass through the rooms as though scarcely aware of her surroundings, picking up her needlework and setting it down without making a stitch, staring out windows, occasionally dissolving into quiet tears.
Late one evening, Elizabeth found Lydia sitting by the dying fire, turning a small paste brooch over and over in her hand—a gift from Wickham she had sworn never to part with.
“He told me it belonged to his mother, a family heirloom,” Lydia whispered, her voice devoid of its usual petulance. “But I saw a tray of them at the warehouse on Oxford Street yesterday. It is only glass, Lizzy. It is all just cheap glass.”
With a trembling hand, she tossed the bauble into the grate. She watched the fire swallow it without flinching, her face settling into a new, harder line.
Monday morning arrived grey and damp. The family gathered in the drawing room—Mr. Bennet, the Gardiners, Elizabeth, and Lydia. The younger children had been taken to the nursery.
Lydia sat very straight in her chair, her hands clasped in her lap. Her face was pale but composed.
“I have decided,” she said, speaking in a low but firm tone, “I shall not marry Mr. Wickham.”
Mr. Bennet exhaled slowly.
“I know what I did was wicked,” Lydia continued, trembling now.
“I was foolish and vain and thought only of my own amusement. I brought shame on all of you, and I—” She stopped, swallowing hard.
“The sermon yesterday spoke of forgiveness, of being lost and found again. I do not know if I can be found, but I must try. I shall accept the consequences of what I have done.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I hope I am not—” Lydia’s voice dropped even lower. “I hope there will be no child. But if there is, I shall bear it as I must. It is no more than I deserve.”
“You deserve a chance to redeem yourself,” Mrs. Gardiner said gently. “And Mr. Darcy has offered you that chance.”
Lydia nodded. “Then I accept his proposal. Let Mr. Wickham go to the Indies. I want nothing more to do with him.”
Mr. Gardiner rose immediately. “I shall send word to Mr. Darcy at once.”
He withdrew to his study and composed a brief note. A servant was dispatched with it to the address Mr. Darcy had left.