Chapter Thirty-Three
London suited Lydia far less than she thought it would and even less than she pretended it did. London was like a prison. To walk out, and actually enjoy it, one must go to the park where one was on parade. And who wished to promenade when one was dressed like a crow?
She hated the black gowns of her widowhood with a passion that bordered on grievance and regarded them as though they were a personal punishment rather than the required uniform of her situation.
Each morning she examined herself critically, tugging at crepe sleeves and mourning ribbons as though they might relent under sufficient resentment.
“I shall never survive a full year of this,” she declared, as Elizabeth looked up from her occupation. “Widowhood is dreadfully depressing.”
“It is only four more months until you can wear grey and lavender.” Elizabeth raised a brow. “Widowhood is not meant to be becoming.”
“Then it ought not to be required,” Lydia returned. “Allow me to visit Cheapside and browse the shops? If I must wear black, I may at least imagine colours.”
With the well-meaning kindness of friends like Maria and Charlotte Lucas, Lydia had come to accept while in Meryton that she had not fallen so far as to be unworthy of respect.
Slowly, she came out of herself, though her old liveliness never returned completely.
She was grateful that the visit had not been prolonged, however.
She was not at peace in Meryton. She did not know if she would ever be at peace again.
With Elizabeth’s permission, Lydia took the carriage whenever it could be spared, attended by a sensible maid, to haunt the modistes of Bond Street and Cheapside.
She did not make purchases; she only imagined.
She read history, poetry, and literature with Miss Darcy, allowed her friend to teach her how to play the harp, and meanwhile imagined lilac muslins, pale pink sarsnets, and a new bonnet trimmed with pink and green ribbon once her mourning was properly laid aside.
It was on such an expedition that the carriage was brought to a sudden halt at a narrow crossing, hemmed in by carts and foot traffic. The maid had just leaned forward to peer out when the door was opened from without, and a man slipped inside and ducked under the window.
The maid gasped. Lydia prepared to scream at the top of her lungs.
“Pray do not scream,” the stranger said quickly, pulling the door shut again in haste and pulling the shade over the window. “I beg you, just a moment.”
Lydia stared at him, heart leaping wildly, but his tone was not violent. His clothes, though dusty, were gentlemanly. His expression was harried rather than threatening.
“There is a man behind us,” he continued in a low, exhausted voice, glancing toward the window as the carriage began to move again. “One who would do me harm for an offense I did not commit. If I am discovered, he will destroy me.”
The maid looked at Lydia, pale with alarm.
Lydia hesitated only a moment.
“You may stay, for only a few moments, long enough to travel a block or two,” she said. “But if you attempt anything improper, I shall scream loud enough to bring half of London upon you.”
“Madam, you do me a kindness I shall never forget.” He inclined his head slightly from his odd situation. “John Willoughby.”
Lydia’s curiosity overcame her fear almost at once. “You look remarkably composed for a fugitive from justice.”
“One improves with practice,” he said lightly, then winced. “That was poorly phrased. I assure you, I am no habitual criminal.”
“All habitual criminals say that,” Lydia replied. “Even my late husband.”
Willoughby looked at her more closely, the black gown, her youthful appearance.
“You are very young to be out with only a maid,” he observed.
“I am a widow,” Lydia said, with a firmness that surprised even herself. “My name is Mrs Wickham.”
His expression changed; not to sympathy, but recognition. “George Wickham?” he asked.
Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “You knew him?”
Willoughby barked a short, humorless laugh. “All scoundrels are acquainted, madam. If not by name, then at least by reputation. We’ve met.”
“I loathe scoundrels,” Lydia said coldly, thinking twice about allowing him to remain.
“As do I,” he agreed cheerfully. “I have long tired of being one myself.”
She studied him, uncertain whether she believed him, but wishing to. She mused that it was possible that she may be forever hopeless at choosing a husband, especially when she found men interesting even when they openly confessed to being scoundrels.
“I am returning to Barton when this is over,” he continued, his voice softening.
His eyes lit up. “To propose to a young lady who promised to wait for me. I mean to deserve her, if I can but escape my present difficulties. We will retire to my estate, and I shall improve it as I ought. We will do it together.”
The carriage jolted, then slowed again; they were approaching Darcy House.
Willoughby glanced out, then sat up. “This is my moment. You have my eternal gratitude, madam.”
He opened the door, slipped out as quickly as he had entered, and was gone. Lost in the crowded street. Only when the carriage entered the crescent in front of Darcy House, did Lydia notice the paper lying upon the seat across from her. A folded letter.
She picked it up slowly, her fingers trembling. Not with fear now, but with something far more dangerous…interest.
“You will speak of this to no one,” she instructed the maid, handing her a shilling. “Our experience today was irregular, but there was no harm done, and no need to alarm my sister.”
“Yes, ma’am,” promised the maid.
Lydia returned to her room with the letter and examined it. It was unsealed, and so she felt only a small pang of guilt when she unfolded it and began to read.
My dear Mr. Willoughby,
You once showed me how insignificant I was in the world of men at a time when I badly needed to see it properly. For that reason alone you deserve an explanation, though you will likely never forgive me.
I have used your name. I own it freely. I allowed Colonel Brandon to believe that you were responsible for my present situation.
I knew he would pursue you with all the fervour of a wronged guardian.
I did it because I required time…time to escape his watchfulness, and time for Robert to secure the means by which we might leave England together.
Our delay was beneficial, for Robert's mother recently became intolerably angry with his brother, and irrevocably made Robert her heir, and now we have the means to go away.
You must understand. Robert Ferrars is the father of my child.
He would have been ruined had Brandon known, for his family would cast him off at once.
By naming you, I spared him that disgrace long enough for us to make our plans.
I know it was wrong…wickedly, selfishly wrong. But desperation blinds me.
By the morrow we shall be gone. Colonel Brandon will no doubt pursue you instead, believing you responsible.
I beg you not to suffer for my sake any more than you already have.
When we are safely abroad, I will write to the Colonel with the truth.
I promise you. And if he catches you, you shall have this letter to exonerate you.
Forgive me, I beg you,
Eliza W.
This lady does not ask for very much, does she? Lydia mused to herself as she folded the letter. Poor Mr Willoughby.
John Willoughby presented himself at Darcy House with an air of practiced composure that did not quite conceal the urgency beneath it.
“I am seeking Mrs Wickham,” he explained to the butler, lowering his voice.
“We met by chance in some public place or other yesterday. I believe I lost a letter when I met her. I must have dropped it. It is of no consequence to anyone but myself, but I should be grateful to have it back, if she found it.”
The name Mrs Wickham and the word letter alone was enough. Within minutes, he was shown not into a public room, but into Mr Darcy’s study. Darcy rose at once, his expression guarded; Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated comfortably, narrowed his eyes as he regarded the newcomer.
“Mr Willoughby,” Darcy said coolly, returning to his seat once the men had greeted one another. “You wished to see Mrs Wickham?”
Willoughby bowed. “I did not know her or her residence when we met by chance yesterday. I hoped merely to retrieve a letter that fell from my pocket when I met her, that is, if she indeed found it. I regret the impropriety of my call.”
Fitzwilliam’s brows knit. “Met…where, precisely?”
“It does not sound good, but she is under your protection, so I will be perfectly truthful. I met her in your carriage. At an intersection. I entered to avoid a man who has been pursuing me for nearly three weeks. Your driver did not see me.”
Darcy’s face hardened. “Mrs Wickham was alone?”
“The lady was with her maid. I was persuasive. She allowed me to travel for a few blocks only without screaming. I assure you that I left the carriage as quietly as I entered it.”
Darcy did not hesitate. He rose from his desk and rang the bell. “Ask Mrs Wickham to come here at once.”
Lydia arrived pale but composed, her mourning gown severe against her youth. One glance at Willoughby told her everything.
“You have come for it,” she said quietly.
She drew the folded letter from her reticule and put it into Darcy’s outstretched hand without protest.
Darcy read only a few lines before his expression changed, from suspicion, to concern.
“The name of this pursuer is known to us,” he said at last, handing the letter to his cousin.
“It was well-meant, I suppose, of Miss Williams to send me such a letter.” Willoughby said to them. “But I believe the young lady underestimated the rage with which a guardian might pursue a man. I do not think I could even get Brandon to read it before he killed me.”
Fitzwilliam was already on his feet, scanning the note without Willoughby’s permission. “I cannot approve of your behaviour yesterday, sir, but I will find Brandon and bring him here. We can help you settle this.”
Some hours later, in the quiet of Darcy’s study, Colonel Brandon read the letter in silence. When he finished, his shoulders sagged.
“It is Eliza’s hand,” he said heavily. “I owe you an apology, Willoughby. I believed her when she accused you. I believed that you ruined her intentionally.”
Willoughby inclined his head. “I accept your apology freely, and I cannot fault you for what you believed to be true. I should have been more cautious with Miss Williams. I assure you that other than an idle flirtation, I barely knew her.”
He rose to his feet. “But I must leave you. Mr Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I apologise for having imposed upon Mrs Wickham, and I thank you for your assistance in this matter. Brandon, your company is always a tonic, but I must away to Devonshire. I made a promise to Miss Marianne, and she is waiting for me.”
Colonel Brandon hesitated. “I must tell you…I regret it on not only your part but on mine. I received a letter this morning from Sir John Middleton.”
Willoughby’s breath caught.
“Miss Marianne,” Brandon said. “When you left the area so abruptly, she believed herself abandoned, and spent a week in despair before her family insisted upon her attendance at a dinner at Barton Park. Sir John’s house was visited by an old friend of his.
The man is an elderly gentleman, an earl of considerable fortune.
Lord Winsford is known for his rather lecherous admiration of a pretty woman.
He admired Miss Marianne and her music. He called upon the cottage and proposed the next morning. ”
Willoughby went very still. “Brandon, you cannot…Marianne would never.”
“If only that were true. You know that I felt the same as you about the lady. I had every intention of dealing with you, and returning to throw myself upon her mercy, but we are both too late. Miss Marianne, believing her chance of happiness lost,” Brandon continued quietly.
“And weary of seeing her family suffer poverty…well, Willoughby, she accepted. They were married in haste by special license two days ago. The announcement was in the papers this morning. Against her sister’s wishes.
Even against her mother’s concerns, Miss Marianne is now Lady Winsford.
Middleton feels responsible. He is quite distraught. ”
For a long moment, Willoughby said nothing.
Then he laughed, a short, broken sound. “She always said that she would be impossibly resolute if she ever believed herself wounded beyond repair.”
The other men watched him with grave sympathy.
“I am leaving London tomorrow,” Willoughby said at last. “I will return to Combe Magna. My estate requires attention. If I am to live with what I have lost, I might as well at least learn to deserve the estate I keep.”
The following morning, Willoughby called upon Darcy House to take his leave of Lydia and the gentlemen, thanking them again for trying to help him.
Lydia encountered Willoughby in the hall just before his departure.
“I heard from my brother about your lady. I am sorry,” she said simply.
“She was apparently never my lady,” he replied. “But so am I.”
“I thought my life was ruined once,” Lydia said. “I think now that I was wrong. One can survive, even when their heart feels incapable of loving again.”
Willoughby smiled sadly. “You are braver than you know, Mrs Wickham.”
“And you,” she said. “Are not what I thought you were when you jumped into my sister’s carriage.”
He bowed. “I hope one day to be what I should have been all along.”
They parted not as flirt and fool, but as two people who had loved poorly, suffered deeply, and learned too late. And when Willoughby rode away from London, it was not in pursuit of pleasure, but of purpose.