Lydia’s Story #2
Pride kept me from detailing how most of my neighbors shunned me and instructed their children to do the same.
“I can take care of myself.” Tucking my basket firmly in the crook of my arm, I resumed walking across the green, heading in the direction of my cottage. “Thank you for returning my basket. Good day to you.”
“Good day, Mrs. Wickham,” he called after me.
I was surprised to find my second-oldest sister waiting for me when I arrived home.
“There you are.” Lizzy greeted me with a kiss on each cheek. “I was wondering where you were.”
“Don’t worry,” I responded. “I wasn’t out doing something scandalous.”
“I never thought you were,” she protested.
Lizzy was the sister who’d married most advantageously.
Our eldest sister, Jane, was happily wed to Charles Bingley, but his wealth did not compare to Darcy’s.
I liked Charles, who was friendly and good-natured.
Darcy was the opposite—aloof, judgmental, and arrogant.
His union with my sister was supposedly a love match, which I would never understand.
But it was obvious that Lizzy was smitten.
I put the tea on. “What brings you to Castleberry?”
She settled at my small kitchen worktable. “Can I not visit my sister?”
“You didn’t bring the children?” I had four in all.
Three sons and a daughter. The boys, George, Edward, and James, would be fine under Darcy’s tutelage.
He paid the tuition at Oxford for George and Edward, as well as the fees at Harrow, the exclusive boarding school James attended along with Darcy and Lizzy’s own son.
It was my daughter, Georgina (my husband insisted on naming both our eldest son and our only daughter after himself), who I fretted would be the most negatively affected by her parents’ dubious reputation.
Girls always bore the brunt of society’s judgment.
But Darcy intended to settle a generous dowry on her, and I trusted he and Lizzy would see that she married well.
Fortunately for Georgie, she’d inherited her father’s good looks and charm, which would be advantageous on the marriage mart. Young men overlooked many detractions if a woman possessed beauty and magnetism. Thankfully, Georgie did not have her father’s poor character and lack of integrity.
“They’re at a garden party with their friends,” Lizzy informed me. “I know you miss them terribly.”
“But it is for the best,” I said firmly, ignoring the painful twinge in my heart as I set a plate of biscuits on the table. “The less associated they are with me and their father, the better for their futures.”
“Actually,” she said after a pause, “that is why I am here.”
“Oh?” The kettle whistled. Lizzy continued talking as I prepared our tea.
“There is a widower, a neighbor in Lambton, who is seeking a wife.”
I set out two teacups. “And?”
“He is very well respected and willing to overlook certain shortcomings.”
I set a steaming cup of tea in front of my sister and settled across from her with my own. I immediately understood her purpose. “You do comprehend that I will never marry again?”
“Not even for the sake of your children?”
“Isn’t it enough that I absent myself from my children’s lives?” As much as I resented Darcy’s supercilious nature, I appreciated all he and Lizzy had done for George, Edward, James, and Georgie. “I allow you to be more of a mother to them than I am.”
“They know you are their mama.”
“I deprive myself of the people I value most in this world to assure their futures. Do not ask me to also throw my life away on another man. I will spend the rest of my years recovering from Wickham.”
George had turned out to be a drinker, liar, and cheat. He ran out on his bills and caroused away from home while I looked after the children.
I learned that, before our marriage, George tried to compromise the daughter of his benefactor, Darcy’s sister, in hopes of getting his hands on her considerable dowry.
He was a spendthrift (well, so was I, but I had the excuse of being a hapless girl who knew nothing of finances), an unfortunate habit that left us destitute.
The only reason we had a roof over our heads was because Darcy stepped in to pay the rent and continued to do so since Wickham’s demise.
To say that I was relieved when George finally drank himself to death after twenty years of marriage was an understatement. I’d barely been widowed for a year and wasn’t about to give up the newfound freedom that I relished.
“I’ve just gotten out from under one terrible marriage,” I told my sister. “I have no intention of condemning myself to another.”
“But Mr. Wilson is exceedingly agreeable.”
“So was Wickham,” I reminded her.
“You could spend more time at Pemberley if you marry Mr. Wilson,” Lizzy pointed out. “You would see the children far more often.”
“Not necessarily,” I countered. “They are almost grown. It won’t be long before they are wed.” And who knew how their spouses’ families would react to a mother-in-law with a name as disreputable as mine.
My children were born barely a year apart until I learned how to avoid conception. George was twenty; Edward, almost nineteen; James had just celebrated his seventeenth birthday; and, in the fall, Georgie would be fifteen, the same age as I was when I foolishly married her father.
“You would like Mr. Wilson,” Lizzy assured me. “Darcy is very fond of him.”
Which was reason enough for me to avoid the man. Any friend of Darcy’s risked being as insufferable as the man himself.
“He is a bit older,” Lizzy continued, “but he has retained his handsome looks.”
My sister presumed an appealing face was still enough to entice a race to the altar? I wasn’t fifteen anymore. “How old is he?”
“Fifty-five,” she answered, quickly adding, “but he’s still a fine figure of a man.”
There again was the assumption that a physically appealing specimen would be enough for me to willingly become someone’s wife again. “Almost twenty years older than me.”
“And reasonably wealthy,” she added. “He and his first wife had no children. And his property is not entailed.”
Meaning his second wife stood to inherit upon his death.
But as pleasant as the thought of never worrying about money again was, I just couldn’t bring myself to consider being shackled to another man.
“I cannot endure another loveless marriage.” A shiver of revulsion went through me.
“The thought of a strange old man rutting over me is not to be borne.”
Lizzy’s eyes widened. “You did not enjoy Wickham’s attentions?”
“Why in the world should that surprise you?”
“I suppose I assumed, despite Wickham’s many lesser qualities, that his prowess and charms extended to the bedchamber.”
I stared at her. “Are you saying you actually enjoy having Darcy do that to you?” I asked incredulously. Surely Darcy was as much of a prig in bed as he was in public.
Lizzy flushed and reached for her tea. “Let’s just say that I do not find the marriage bed to be disagreeable in the least.”
“You enjoy it!” I sputtered in disbelief.
She sipped her tea. “With the right man, you can as well.”
“Ha!” I bit into a biscuit with a satisfying crunch, enjoying the sweet buttery flavor on my tongue, a treat that gave me far more pleasure than any man ever could. “I doubt that.”
“At least allow Mr. Wilson to call upon you here.”
“What have you told him about me?”
“The truth. That you married at fifteen to a man who set an unfortunate example for his impressionable young wife.”
“A bachelor visiting the home of a disreputable widow will outrage the entire village.”
“I shall make certain to be here to chaperone. What harm is there in meeting him?” she pressed.
I knew Lizzy well enough to comprehend that she would not let go of any issue she felt strongly about.
Besides, for years my sister sent me all of her pin money so that I could keep the children clothed and fed as Wickham’s debts piled up.
Meeting Mr. Wilson was a way to show my appreciation.
Even though I resented owing her or anyone anything.
“Very well,” I relented. “Mr. Wilson can come for tea. Just don’t expect to hear wedding bells anytime soon.”
“There you go,” I said to the cucumber plant as I secured it to the trellis. “Now you should grow tall and strong.” I checked to make certain the soil around the plant was moist. Cucumbers required a great deal of water, especially during the flowering stage.
“Do you always speak with your plants?” asked a voice from behind me.
I immediately recognized Mr. Haddad, even though I’d spoken to him only once. I straightened, embarrassed to be caught in my shabby gardening dress and the floppy ancient bonnet I used for outdoor work.
“Good day, Vicar.” I removed my gloves and swiped the perspiration on my upper lip with the back of my hand. “I do find plants are often more reliably good company than people.”
His eyes twinkled. “I myself never understood the allure of gardening, except, of course, for the food that results.”
“I enjoy being in nature and feel a keen sense of accomplishment when the plants grow and prosper,” I told him. “I began gardening out of need, in order to put food on the table for my children. But now I find respite, and much-needed solitude, among my fruits and vegetables.”
He surveyed my flourishing garden. “You seem to have a bountiful harvest.”
“Yes, indeed.” I did not bother to hide the pride I felt in the abundant garden I’d created.
And my neighbors noticed as well. Although they did not speak to me, except for a stiff nod, I did observe how they lingered whenever they passed my garden.
I grew flowers, too. Ribbons of color that streamed across my modest property.
“I pretend not to notice when some of the young men in the neighborhood pluck a few flowers for the girls they hope to court.”
“That is generous of you. Considering how they treat you.”