Chapter Thirty #2
She laced her fingers through his. “Then we shall do our very best. We shall be insistent. We shall be kind. And we shall not allow others to define her by the worst man she ever knew.”
He looked down at her in fascination. “You are formidable.”
She giggled. “I have had a great deal of practice with difficult relations.”
Outside their door, the house lay silent. Somewhere in a distant corridor, a door closed softly. Life at Pemberley continued. Within its walls, two people resolved to meet injustice not with pride or distance, but with care.
A few days later, Elizabeth invited the Misses Jenks and Miss Poole to call upon her and Lydia.
Mary attended as well. She sent her carriage to convey them, and hoped that the ladies would see Lydia as the child she was, and forgive her for who she had married in her foolishness.
If Lydia could gain at least the sympathy, if not the approbation of these ladies, it could prevent much difficulty in the village.
Her hope was rewarded when Lydia, who had appeared at Elizabeth’s request under duress, appeared afraid of her own shadow, and barely spoke above a whisper.
It pained Elizabeth to see her lively younger sister so broken, but at this moment, it was this vulnerability that would save her reputation in Lambton.
Miss Jenks, Miss Matilda, and Miss Poole, uncommonly kind and gentle as always, were properly shocked afresh by Wickham’s perfidy when they took in the sight of Mrs Wickham, and did not stay long. Deborah Jenks pressed Elizabeth’s hand in understanding as they took their leave.
The next evening, just before dinner, a footman entered the drawing room with uncharacteristic haste, his expression troubled.
“Mr Darcy,” he said quietly, “there are several tenants gathered at the back steps. They demand to speak with you. They are agitated. Mrs Reynolds attempted to send them away, but they insist upon being heard.”
Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged a glance.
“I will see them,” Darcy said at once.
Elizabeth rose. “I am coming with you.”
“Mrs Darcy, I must insist that you allow–” he began before his wife interrupted him.
“No.” Elizabeth crossed her arms and glared at him.
“I am coming too,” Richard hastened from his chair. “Georgie, Prissy, remain inside.” His tone brooked no argument.
Assembled behind the house, were three men and four women, plainly dressed, their faces lined by weather and labour. The men stood with hats in hand, but their posture was tense, wounded pride mixed with sadness.
Mr Brewer, whose family had farmed the lower fields for three generations, stepped forward first. “Begging your pardon, Mr Darcy,” he said stiffly. “We would not disturb your family lightly.”
“You are never a disturbance here, Mr Brewer,” Darcy replied respectfully. “Speak freely.”
Brewer hesitated, as if he felt quite differently now that he was here, and faced with Mr Darcy’s respectful address and his gentle wife.
His wife had no difficulty pushing him aside, and answering. “It is being said that Mrs Wickham resides in the big house.”
Elizabeth sensed her husband and Richard tense.
Darcy’s voice remained even. “It is true.”
A gasp rippled through the small group. Mrs Blackwell let out a small cry.
“And she lives here in comfort here at the big house,” she said angrily. “Warm rooms, fine food, kindness and protection.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said gently. “She does.”
The woman’s voice trembled. “My daughter had none of that when he was done with her.” Her words were not sharp, but they struck Elizabeth’s heart all the same.
Another man spoke, more roughly. “We do not say she bears his guilt. But to see the name Wickham sheltered at Pemberley of all places. Feels terrible hurtful, Mr Darcy. Feels as though the pain he caused is forgotten.”
Darcy’s gaze was steady. “It is not forgotten.”
Elizabeth stepped forward. “I believe you must meet my sister,”
The group stilled.
Darcy murmured in her ear. “Perhaps this is not the best time.”
Elizabeth ignored him and turned to the footman who had lingered near the doorway. “Ask Mrs Wickham to join us,” she said calmly. “Tell her only that I require her presence.”
The footman hesitated, startled, but bowed and disappeared within. The tenants exchanged uneasy glances.
“We brung no pitchforks, ma’am,” Mrs Brewer objected. “Only came to be heard.”
“You shall be,” Elizabeth replied.
Several minutes later, the door opened again. Lydia came out slowly, her eyes wide in terror.
She was dressed simply in pale yellow muslin, her hair neatly arranged.
There was more colour in her cheeks than there was when Elizabeth found her in Newcastle, but she remained painfully thin, her eyes shadowed.
Lydia stopped when she saw the gathering.
The fear in her expression was immediate and unmistakable.
Elizabeth moved to her side at once. “Come,” she said softly. “You are safe.”
Lydia’s gaze drifted across the unfamiliar faces. She swallowed.
Darcy addressed the tenants gently. “You wished to speak of her presence here. She stands before you. You may say what you feel.”
There was a long, painful silence.
Mrs Brewer stared at Lydia, and something in her face changed. The anger drained first, replaced by shock…then shame.
“She’s… Why, she’s jest a child,” she gasped.
“I am not,” Lydia protested faintly, though there was no defiance in it. Only weariness.
Mr Blackwell removed his cap entirely, gripping it in both hands. “Forgive us, miss. We thought…we believed…we…we were mistaken.”
One of the women turned away, her hand pressed to her mouth.
Mr Brewer bowed his head. “We came seeking justice,” he said hoarsely. “We did not know we were bringing cruelty instead.”
One by one, the tenants bowed awkwardly, ashamed.
“We beg your pardon Mrs Darcy…Miss…er…Mrs Wickham,” Mrs Bell said. “Truly sorry, we are.”
Darcy spoke then, firm but gently. “Mrs Wickham has been as harmed as anyone. She remains here under my protection, just like every family who has been hurt by George Wickham. Not as indulgence, but as duty. To her. To you. To all who were harmed by the same man.”
Mr Shelton inclined his head. “Then we thank you, sir.”
The group dispersed quietly soon after, subdued and chastened. Lydia remained on the steps, staring after them.
“They were not angry with me,” she said softly.
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “No. They were only hurting. And we know what it is to be hurt by him too.”
Lydia’s voice shook. “I thought I deserved their hatred.”
Elizabeth turned her gently back into the house. “You deserve to grow strong again.”
For the first time since arriving at Pemberley, Lydia crossed its threshold not as someone merely sheltered, but as someone seen.