Lydia’s Story #4
Lizzy’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as she took him in. I couldn’t blame her. Michael Haddad was a striking man. “I think you were a very small boy when we last met,” she said.
“Probably no older than thirteen. I have told Mrs. Wickham that all of us admired the famous Bennet sisters of Longbourn.”
“How charming.” Lizzy gestured toward the parlor. “You must join us.”
If she’d been near enough to me, I would have kicked her.
He hesitated. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“Don’t be silly,” she insisted. “Please do join us in the parlor.”
“If you insist,” he said, with a slight smile on his lips, which suggested he was more than happy to be asked to stay. As he went in ahead of us, I held my sister back with hard pinch on her arm.
“Ouch!” Lizzy exclaimed. “What was that for?”
“Why did you invite him to linger?” I whispered furiously.
“Lydia! Do you not see how fortuitous this is? Now Mr. Wilson will see that you are respectable enough for the vicar to condescend to be seen visiting you.”
I shook my head, frustrated. After entertaining no male visitors at all, I was suddenly forced to play hostess to two men. “When did you become our mother? First I had to endure her matchmaking, and now I must deal with you.”
“You will thank me one day,” Lizzy said, all confidence. “Just wait and see.”
I sighed and fetched another teacup for the vicar, introductions were made all around, and I retook my seat, hoping Mr. Haddad would drink quickly so this interminable visit could come to a hasty end.
“Haddad? I do not believe I have heard that name before,” Mr. Wilson said. “Where is your family from?”
“My parents were born in Ramallah, a small town in Palestine not far from Jerusalem. They came to England before I was born.”
“Palestine? Your parents are Turks? From the Levant?”
“Arabs, yes,” Mr. Haddad said.
Mr. Wilson frowned. “And you are the vicar here in Castleberry?”
“Yes,” Mr. Haddad said. “I am, indeed.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Wilson’s frown deepened. “Did your family convert to Christianity once they came to England?”
“No, my family has been Christian for centuries.” Mr. Haddad was all patience as he explained. “We are descendants of the original Christians, and we have retained and practiced our faith for centuries.”
“How interesting.” Mr. Wilson sipped his tea. “I thought all Turks… erm… Arabs… were Mohammedans.”
“That is understandable,” Mr. Haddad replied. “While the majority of Arabs in the Levant are indeed Muslims, there are, naturally, many Christians in the birthplace of Jesus.”
I listened with great interest. I vaguely recalled that the Haddad parents came from foreign lands, but I hadn’t known where they were from until now. That explained the vicar’s lovely dark curls and liquid midnight eyes.
“It is so considerate of the vicar to visit,” Lizzy piped in. “Do you often visit all of your parishioners?”
“I do try,” he answered. “But I had occasion to call on Mrs. Wickham today in order to return her basket.”
Lizzy blinked her eyes, all innocence. “And why, pray tell, were you in possession of my sister’s basket?”
“Mrs. Wickham is kind enough to donate the harvest from her garden to the local parish.”
Mr. Wilson shot me an admiring glance. “How commendable.”
“Isn’t it?” Lizzy said with a pert smile. My sister knew perfectly well why the vicar had my basket. I sighed when I realized she was attempting to coax the man into singing my praises in front of my potential suitor. Another echo of our mother.
Mr. Haddad obliged. “Mrs. Wickham delivers fruits and vegetables every week. She has helped to feed many of our poorer families. But,” he added, “I would not have come had I known I would be interrupting.”
I narrowed my eyes. The vicar should be aware that I was entertaining a potential suitor this afternoon because I’d told him as much. But I suppose my schedule was of so little interest to him that he’d forgotten.
Mr. Wilson studied the vicar. “I wonder if you know my great friend Squire Worsley.”
Michael sipped his tea. “I do, indeed. He is the district’s leading landowner and our magistrate. As it happens, he is also responsible for giving me the living at Castleberry.”
“Yes, he is a very influential man,” Mr. Wilson said. “Worsley and I are longtime acquaintances. We attended Eton together.”
It made sense that Michael had sought a living.
His father was not a landowner, which meant that each of his sons would have to make their own way.
A church living was a permanent job that included a home to live in, income, and some farmland.
All in all, the position offered a modest but comfortable life.
Mr. Wilson turned the conversation back to the subject of gardening. “How far apart do you plant your strawberries?” he asked me.
“At least two foot lengths apart,” I answered gamely, in order to contribute to the conversation, “to give them the space they need to grow. Naturally I remove some of the runners throughout the growing season so that they don’t overtake the other plants.”
The conversation continued for almost another hour—to my horror—well past the time for a polite visit. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief when both men finally rose to depart.
I happily closed the door behind them and fell back against it with a long exhale. “I thought they’d never leave.”
Lizzy’s eyes twinkled. “They did stay quite a while.”
“I realize that I have not been in polite society for ages, but when did afternoon calls become so interminably long?”
“They didn’t.” Lizzy shot me a contemplative look. “Mr. Wilson is well known for his courtesy and decorum, and yet he lingered much longer than a polite visit requires. He must be very drawn to you.”
“I have done as you asked.” I went to gather up the tea tray. “I met your Mr. Wilson.”
“Did you like him?”
“Not enough to marry him.”
“Come now, Lydia. You agreed to give him a chance.”
“I did give him a chance.”
“Your vicar also stayed for a very long time.”
I’d noticed that as well. “At any rate, I am relieved that that is over.”
“How long did you say you’ve been reacquainted with the vicar?”
I picked up the tray. “We met twice in the last week. And then again today.”
She followed me into the kitchen. “Did you notice how he looks at you?”
“Notice how who looks at me?”
“The vicar, silly. Who else?”
“How does he look at me?” I began rinsing out the teacups.
“With great interest.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Don’t be absurd. The man barely knows I exist.”
“Oh, he definitely takes notice of you.”
“Lizzy, you are being ridiculous. The vicar didn’t even remember that Mr. Wilson was calling today.”
“You told him that a potential suitor was coming to see you this afternoon?”
“Yes, and he forgot. That’s why he ended up accidentally interrupting the visit.”
“Is that so,” she said with a thoughtful expression on her face. “Anyhow, let us return to the subject of Mr. Wilson. He is most amiable, is he not?”
“Not amiable enough to marry, no matter how much Darcy longs for this match to make me respectable.”
“What does Darcy have to do with this?” she asked, her tone a little sharp.
“He already ensured my first terrible marriage. And while I am grateful for all he has done for me and the children, I do not require his input on a second husband.”
Lizzy’s mouth dropped open. “What are you talking about?”
“I haven’t forgotten that Darcy was at my wedding, that he indeed paid for it.”
“You had run off with Wickham. We, all of your sisters, would have been ruined if Wickham hadn’t wed you.”
I thought of my own daughter. My sweet Georgie.
“I used to think I was obliged to be grateful for Darcy’s interference.
All of you certainly told me that I should be.
” Fire flared in my belly. “But I look at Georgie, and I see that she is still just a little girl. A child of fifteen should be reprimanded and sent back to her parents. Not forced to marry a man that Darcy knew better than anyone would be the ruin of any girl.”
Lizzy flushed. “Darcy saved you from ruin!”
“No, he saved you, his future wife, from disgrace so that you wouldn’t be tainted when he wed you. He sacrificed my happiness and well-being to ensure that his future wife’s reputation would remain spotless.”
“That’s absurd!” she burst out. “Darcy is all that is good and kind. He acted as he did to salvage the Bennet name after you ran off with Wickham. Do you think any of your sisters would be respectably wed if Darcy hadn’t paid Wickham a fortune to make you his wife?”
“I beg your pardon.” I blinked. “What did you say?”
Lizzy stilled. “Nothing. The story of your marriage is long in the past, where it should stay.”
“Darcy paid Wickham to marry me?” I asked, incredulous. “He didn’t just cover the wedding expenses?”
Lizzy shook her head. “I don’t know what I was saying. I misspoke—”
“Stop lying to me!” I slammed down the cup I was rinsing, and it shattered to the floor. “I want the truth. I demand it. You owe me that at least.”
“I don’t know why I said that.” Pale, Lizzy sank into a wooden ladder-back chair at the table. “I’m an idiot. Forgive me.”
I felt sick. “What did you mean when you said Darcy paid Wickham a fortune to marry me? We eloped. Darcy caught up to us after we ran off but before we could wed.”
“Oh, Lydia.” Sorrow filled Lizzy’s voice. “Wickham never intended to marry you. He was going to desert you once he tired of you.”
Horror rippled through me. George intended to use me and then cast me aside? I plopped down into the chair opposite her as the implications of her revelation sank in. “George didn’t wish to marry me.”
The unhappy alliance. The fights. The drinking. The tears. George constantly being gone from home. His unending womanizing. His indifference. All of it made sense now. My husband hadn’t wanted me. He’d been forced to wed me. I blinked back tears of humiliation. “Does everyone know?” I whispered.
“No, dearest, Darcy didn’t even tell me. I found out quite by accident.”
“Were Mama and Papa aware?”