Chapter 14 #2
“Do not think, Miss Bennet, that your refusal to answer my question has escaped my notice. I require you to tell me plainly: are you engaged to him?”
“I am not,” I confessed, after a moment’s delay.
“And will you promise never to contract such an engagement?”
“I will not.”
She recoiled. “Obstinate, headstrong girl! Have you no sense of decency—no shame at aspiring to a match so far beyond your station?”
“I am a gentleman’s daughter, ma’am. In marrying Mr. Darcy, I should not consider myself to be quitting my station.”
“Do not imagine that I am ignorant of your mother’s origins—of the condition of your uncles and aunts. You would bring disgrace upon his name. You would be despised by his family and friends.”
“These would be heavy misfortunes indeed. But the wife of Mr. Darcy would, I think, have no cause to repine.”
“Make no mistake, Miss Bennet. I shall never permit this match to come to pass. I had expected to find you more reasonable, but I shall not yield. You and your family will have cause to regret your impudent conduct.”
So saying, she stormed from the room, calling for Mr. Collins. A moment later, I heard the carriage move off down the drive.
Greatly though I wished to flee upstairs, I was at once required to satisfy my family’s curiosity.
They found the rumour of my attachment to Mr. Darcy most amusing, and I contrived not to reveal my distress at the exchange.
Inwardly, however, I seethed with anger and mortification.
Will she tell Mr. Darcy of my refusal of her demand? Will he be offended—or worse, pity me?
His pity I could not bear.
As soon as I could contrive an excuse, I escaped upstairs in search of solitude. Much to my surprise and chagrin, however, Lydia followed me.
I understood her purpose as soon as I stepped into my room, for the leaves of this composition had evidently been disturbed in my absence. I turned to Lydia with wrath in my eye, prepared to deliver a fearsome scold, but the concern on her face—an uncharacteristic expression—took me aback.
Shutting the door behind her, she said, “Are you sad, Lizzy?”
I wished at once to deny it, but something in her face halted me.
Her look recalled to my mind when she had been a small child, toddling after me in the nursery and the garden.
Whenever I scraped my knee or elbow—which was often, given my childish propensity for running and climbing—Lydia would gaze at me with her big, blue eyes and ask, “Lizzy hurt?” Then she would insist upon kissing my cheek until I smiled at her.
I have not thought of that childish sweetness for some years. I blinked back tears at the recollection, seated myself on the bed, and patted the mattress in invitation. At once, she settled beside me.
“I take it you read the papers on my desk, Lyddie?”
“Yes. I— I thought you were writing to Aunt Gardiner again. I wanted to know if you had written anything about me—” here she paused, and her voice sank lower, “or about Wickham.”
“I suppose you found some cause for satisfaction, then.”
“I suppose. Only— Lizzy, I thought you liked Wickham, and you hated Mr. Darcy? But what you wrote— We all know Mr. Darcy treated Wickham badly, but you seem to think Wickham is to blame.”
“I was foolish, Lyddie, to believe Mr. Wickham’s tale without any corroborating evidence, particularly upon so brief an acquaintance.
You are right to surmise that I now have good reason to disbelieve his tale.
I cannot tell you all of it, but suffice it to say that Mr. Darcy has paid Wickham at least ￡4000 over the years—far more than the elder Mr. Darcy’s wishes dictated.
I also have reason to believe that Mr. Wickham is not respectable, no fit company for a young lady. ”
“Oh, poo, Lizzy! You sound like old Mrs. Goulding. The officers are the jolliest company ever to come to Meryton. Just—”
“Lydia,” I said, quite sharply. “I am not accusing all the officers. Only Mr. Wickham, who is a rake and a fortune hunter and has no care for a lady’s reputation.
I have very good reason to believe this—and you know I am not speaking out of some misplaced jealousy or scorned pride, for you have read through my private papers, entirely against my wishes.
I have no interest in the man. So whom will you trust: your sister or a superficially charming stranger? ”
After a moment of pouting, Lydia wilted. “Oh, very well. But he is so very handsome, Lizzy. I don’t know when we will meet with such a gentleman again, if Mamma thinks Mr. Collins so grand a prospect.”
I wrapped an arm about her shoulders.
“Do not fret, Lyddie. Now that Jane is to wed Mr. Bingley, you are certain to visit them in London, and, with a bit of luck, you may find a man who is handsome and charming and good.
At this, she brightened visibly.
“Yes, that is a comfort. What fun we shall all have!”
I attempted a smile, but my heart was not in it, which Lydia perceived at once.
“Lizzy, are you engaged to Mr. Darcy, like that horrible Lady Catherine thought?”
“No, Lyddie. Mr. Darcy and I have no understanding.”
“And that is why you are so sad? Because you love Mr. Darcy and he left?”
“Yes. That is why.”
It was the first time I had used that word to describe my affections, even in the privacy of my own thoughts.
Lydia was quiet for a few moments, thinking. At length, she said, “I suppose he is handsome and very clever, just like you, Lizzy. And he did save Alice Jones.”
“He did.”
“Then you are quite right to like him.”
“Or quite foolish, for he will never marry a lady of little fortune and no connections.”
She nudged me with a teasing smile. “You will be Mr. Bingley’s sister. You have connections now.”
“None sufficient to satisfy his family, I am certain.”
“He did like you, though, did he not? He was always staring at you. I think if he does not propose, then he must be very stupid.”
I laughed at this and changed the subject to my dress for Jane’s wedding. Painful as it was to admit my foolish sentiments, I have found some consolation in confessing my disappointment. I can only pray that Lydia keeps my secret.
I cannot share her optimism, but I may at least hope that Mr. Darcy never learns of my words to his aunt. I cannot bear to imagine him somewhere in the world and thinking ill of me.