Chapter 33
Time both accelerated and crawled the following week.
Accelerated whenever Darcy called on Elizabeth at Longbourn, which was more often and of longer duration than propriety permitted.
As though Darcy would ever be tempted to adhere to society’s strictures when his bride-to-be and her family endangered themselves to capture a madman.
His aunt, who stubbornly persisted in her claims despite the apparent success of Dr. Sculthorpe in detaining Bedlam’s director, was another matter.
Seconds dragged through molasses in her presence, but he took solace in the knowledge that Elizabeth’s scheme would offer Anne a choice.
If Richard had been persuasive enough. The colonel had yet to return from London, and while he wrote to appease Darcy that all was well, his absence affirmed otherwise.
Sitting in Longbourn’s cozy drawing room, packed with Bennets and Bingleys, he noted how the dreary weather mirrored the downcast, dispirited attitude of the occupants within.
“How much longer are we to continue in this state of boredom?” Lydia complained.
Mary lowered the pamphlet she had been reading. “There are many edifying occupations with which you may entertain yourself without venturing out of doors.”
Lydia glowered at her sister. “I require others to entertain me.”
Kitty said, with excessive cheer, “You could help me trim this bonnet.”
“If I have to trim one more bonnet, I shall scream!”
“Calm yourself, Lydia,” Mrs. Bingley soothed. “We must allow enough time for news to reach Mr. Wickham.”
“Why do you not take a rest upstairs? Or you could use that marvelous machine again,” Mrs. Bennet suggested.
Pounding her fist against her leg, Lydia said, “I do not get to have any fun. I could not even attend my own funeral!” She poked out her bottom lip so far a bird could have perched on it and crossed her arms. “Tell me again how well-attended my funeral was and how many ladies mourned with Mama in the parlor.”
Elizabeth sighed. “You would have thought the king had passed.” She tilted her chin and winked at Darcy.
He stifled a laugh. It was true that Lydia’s death had been received with a great deal of exhibition, but her “mourners” were more curious than grievous, their explanation of her grotesque disfigurement from so many bee stings arousing more interest among their macabre neighbors than they had hoped to placate.
It had been quite a show despite their sincerest efforts to minimize attention.
But too many wishes to see the lively beauty who had thoughtlessly tormented the less fortunate in looks, her indulgent parents brought low.
Lydia had paid for her sins in their minds, but their forgiveness was half-hearted. They certainly would not forget.
Darcy hated disguise — even when it was necessary — but seeing how her neighbors sympathized for her family’s benefit more than out of respectful remembrance for the departed stirred his pity.
Mr. Bennet chuckled. “It was a respectable attendance, but you will have many more when word of your resurrection spreads. I daresay you will have devotees calling from several counties.”
Mrs. Bennet cheered. “We shall have to invite our neighbors to dine with us. A banquet to celebrate Lydia’s return.”
“I will not disagree, my love,” said Mr. Bennet with a resigned sigh. “Perhaps they will more readily forgive us this deception once they hear the rest of the story … and are fed from our table.”
Lydia clasped her hands under her chin and giggled. “Oh, how delightful! I do wish Wickham would hurry up!”
Darcy wondered if she understood what she said.
Mrs. Bingley looked at her with concern. “You do understand what will happen when he does finally arrive, do you not, dearest?”
Popping a grape into her mouth, one of the many condolence offerings left by a nearby family, she replied, “He will be escorted to his regiment to face trial.”
It was apparent that Lydia’s inability to foresee consequences was not limited to her own decisions.
Her father pressed. “Lydia, do you understand what will happen beyond his trial? He has attempted murder on at least three occasions, callously lashing out against the woman he married as well as his unborn child.”
“Oh, but I am not pregnant.”
“But he did not know that.”
“I do not know why I should spare him when he tried to rid himself of me … and our child. Had his aim not run so contrary to mine, I could endure it, but I very much wish to continue alive. Therefore, I have no option. He will face his trial, and I will accept the judge’s decision …
whatever it may be.” Lydia’s chin quivered, but her voice was sharp.
“Eye for eye,” Mary commented. Piety could be harsh.
“What will you do … after?” Kitty asked.
Lydia sighed. “Since I have had so much time at my disposal, I have given the matter a great deal of thought.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
She looked at their faces, giggling. “Do not look so shocked! I am capable of thought. Besides, I think you will approve of my conclusions. I am too flighty and fun-loving to be trusted with important decisions, and I am much too lively and handsome not to attract the wrong kind of attention.”
Such a mixture of vanity and sense Darcy had never heard.
He paid rapt attention as she continued, “I did not choose wisely with Wickham, but I could not bear to live alone too long. I should very much like to remarry, but I will rely on Jane, Lizzy, and Papa to help me select my next husband. I want what they have secured, so I will trust their judgment to help me.”
Such a mixture of selfishness and praise. Darcy shook his head.
The conversation wavered between the profound and ridiculous until Hill barged into the room, chest heaving and hands fidgeting. “Mr. Wickham is riding up the drive!”
Elizabeth lunged at Lydia, grabbing her hands as Kitty and Mary pushed her forward.
“All this sitting around, and I am to be denied witnessing Wickham’s comeuppance?” Lydia squealed.
“Hush!” echoed through the room.
“Now is not the time, Lydia!” chastised Mama.
“You will spoil everything!” added Kitty.
Thinking quickly, Elizabeth put her hands on Lydia’s cheeks. Looking into her eyes, she asked, “Do you promise to guard the strictest silence if we allow you to listen from the next room? The strictest silence.”
Lydia nodded her head, pursing her lips together.
Dragging her sister into the next room, Elizabeth left Lydia with her ear pressed against the wall and her hands clamped over her mouth.
There was a knock at the door, but Hill waited until Elizabeth ran back down the hall and into the drawing room, where she struggled to control her breath and her heartbeat.
Soft mumbles and hesitant footsteps — slow and hushed, like anything somber — and Wickham appeared, red-eyed, disheveled, and donning a black armband. He looked so contrite, Elizabeth’s palm itched to slap his duplicitous face.
One hand over his heart, looking pale and grave garbed in black, he asked, “Where is she? Where is my dear wife?” His voice cracked, as though he had wept his entire journey … from wherever that had originated.
Wickham’s patience in waiting until such a time as he could have received the news and returned from his barracks impressed upon Elizabeth his desire to maintain his farce. It made him vulnerable.
She would exploit his weakness.
Mama leapt to her feet, fluttering her handkerchief and babbling incoherently about her tremendous loss and crediting the newly widowed Wickham with all the sympathy he ought to have felt for his dearly departed wife. Mama would have done well as a dramatic actress.
Wickham stepped inside the drawing room, his frown deepening. “Where is Lydia?”
Good grief, he did not expect them to display her body an entire week, did he? And in the summer?
“I had hoped—” Wickham’s voice choked, and his eyes overflowed.
It had been many months since Elizabeth could conjure up any sympathy for the man, but his eagerness to see the evidence of his handiwork chilled her to the bone. Any understanding she might have extended him, had he possessed a modicum of good, burned in a flash as her anger rose.
Papa stared vacantly at the cold fireplace while Mama wept bitterly at his side.
Bingley slid forward in his chair, nodding in lieu of a bow, his snub genteelly covered over by his grieving wife who clung to his arm for support.
Mary and Kitty embraced each other on the settee, their faces turned toward each other when they were not covered with their handkerchiefs.
Fitzwilliam stood beside Elizabeth’s chair, wearing his usual expression (which lent itself well to the occasion. She would have to compliment him on it later.)
Elizabeth felt Fitzwilliam’s tension seep into her muscles, saw the flicker of a smirk cross Wickham’s face. What a vile man.
Swallowing her ire, Elizabeth gestured toward the chair closest to the wall where Lydia listened from the other side, determined more than before to be kinder to her sister for having to endure the touch and attention of the slimy eel.
Wickham sat slowly, with the caution of one prepared to bolt away at the slightest provocation.
“Please, where is my dear Lydia? I take it you buried her already?” He dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair.
When he lifted his head, fresh tear trails stained his cheeks.
Elizabeth wondered why he bothered with the militia when it was plain to see he was born for the theater.
“In due time,” Papa said absently, reaching blindly to hold Mama’s hand to his chest. Mama lost no time imitating Jane’s pose with Mr. Bingley, and Papa soon found himself with his arms full. Had it not been imperative to maintain her act, Elizabeth would have smiled at the display.
Wickham shifted in his chair. “May I ask … I must know…” He ran his hand through his hair again, his voice tight. “How did it happen?”