Chapter 19
“How is Mother?” Elizabeth asked Jane when she came downstairs with the tea tray from Mrs Bennet’s bedroom.
“The same as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that,” Jane sighed. “Weeping, cursing the Forsters and complaining of heart palpitations.”
“It can do no good,” said Elizabeth, shaking her head unhappily. “But at least our uncle is in London now and may have more success than Father in seeking out Lydia’s whereabouts. That ought to give Mother some comfort.”
“Uncle Gardiner is a sensible man,” Jane agreed.
“But Mother has worked herself into a dreadful state. Before you returned from Derbyshire, she was terrified that Father would find Wickham and be killed by him in a duel. Now that Father is back here, she is up in arms that there is no one in London to fight a duel with Wickham and make him marry Lydia.”
“If only Mother would think sensibly,” said Elizabeth with great frustration. “I do not believe that even a duel could make Wickham marry Lydia, do you? He aspires to marry an heiress. Why would he take a girl with so little in the way of fortune or expectations?”
“I still hope that it might all be some terrible misunderstanding and we will receive a letter from Scotland any day announcing their marriage,” Jane replied wistfully. “It pains me to think so badly of Mr Wickham and Lydia, even now.”
“You and I both know that there is no misunderstanding, Jane,” Elizabeth replied as gently as she could.
It would do no good to indulge such fantasy.
“Mr Wickham is quite capable of such wickedness, and Lydia is young and reckless enough to be carried along with him. I cannot understand why Father allowed her to stay with the Forsters at Brighton. This might all have been avoided if Lydia had been kept away from the militia.”
This was all true, but a pointless observation nonetheless. It was Elizabeth’s turn to sigh, an even longer sound of hopelessness than Jane’s.
“Well may you sigh, Lizzy,” commented her father, coming out from his library and seeing his two eldest daughters in the hallway.
“I am inclined to sigh myself. Or perhaps I will copy your mother, take to my bed in my nightgown and cap and demand all my meals be brought upstairs. You think neither of these things useful? No, nor do I, and yet I may come to them.”
Despite his playful words, his eyes were tired and his skin rather grey, displaying his sleepless nights and fruitless efforts for the world to see.
“Do you think we might get a letter from our uncle today, Father?” Jane asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine, Jane. I judge it more likely that Mr Gardiner will write today than Lydia or Mr Wickham, and more likely too than that nice young man who took Netherfield Park. Bingley, wasn’t it?
The only person more likely to write than my brother Gardiner must be Mr Collins.
Oh yes, I’m sure Mr Collins will have much to say. ”
Jane blanched at this mention of Mr Bingley and dropped her eyes.
If Elizabeth had not seen the sorrow and pain underlying her father’s facetious statements, she might have rebuked him for such insensitivity to her sister’s feelings.
As it was, she forbore. Surely all of them were carrying their burdens as best they could.
“Mr Collins might be more likely to write,” Elizabeth commented, “but I am sure we are all far more eager to read what Mr Gardiner has to tell us.”
“I must go and speak to Mrs Hill about luncheon,” said Jane, excusing herself from this conversation and walking away towards the kitchens.
“Did I speak out of turn, Lizzy?” asked her father mildly as they watched Jane vanish around the corner.
“I’m afraid we must all get used to certain facts now that Lydia has ruined our family so comprehensively.
Mrs Bennet will have to accept, for example, that young men of ￡5000 a year who might marry her daughters are going to be scarcer than hens’ teeth. ”
“That might be true of Mother, but Jane knows it very well already, Father,” Elizabeth did now reproach him gently. “There is no need to remind Jane. I believe she really did love Mr Bingley, and there was every sign that he returned her affection. Her loss is great.”
“Ah well, perhaps it is for the best. Mr Bingley did not call on Jane in London before we were ruined, did he? That does not speak of great affection to me.”
As her father shuffled back to his library, Elizabeth stood alone in the hallway and felt a wave of hopelessness sweep over her.
As her father had taken pains to remind her, they were all ruined now.
Whether or not Mr Bingley cared for Jane, he would never marry her now, and there was no hope for the rest of them either.
Elizabeth’s sadness deepened with the return of her reflection that she would likely never see Mr Darcy and Georgiana again, at least not on the same familiar terms. It was strange that this should be such a cause of pain to her.
Only weeks ago, she had never met Georgiana — and she would happily never have spoken to Mr Darcy again.
Georgiana had already written to Elizabeth once, her letter all open warmth and artless friendliness. It seemed that Mr Darcy too had departed Pemberley suddenly around the same time as Elizabeth. Feeling lonely, the young woman had written straight away.
Though Elizabeth would have liked to keep up the correspondence, this could not be.
Allowing Georgiana to continue writing her in ignorance of the scandal that must come would put her at quite unacceptable risk.
With a heavy heart, Elizabeth wrote back kindly and evasively, advising the girl that she must seek her brother’s guidance before writing again, given certain family considerations about which he would be the best judge.
∞∞∞
It was noon when the sound of a horse’s hooves on the path outside drew Mr Bennet, Mrs Hill, Jane, and Elizabeth to the front door from their various corners of the house.
The housekeeper got there first and dealt with the messenger, sending him on his way before passing over one letter into Mr Bennet’s hands and another into Elizabeth’s before returning to her work.
“It is my uncle’s handwriting, Father,” Jane noted excitedly. “Open it, Father, do open it. Oh, I hope it is good news.”
Her own letter not being in an instantly recognisable hand, Elizabeth barely glanced at the envelope before slipping it into her pocket. Only Mr Gardiner’s news from London could interest any of them now. Friends and acquaintances would have to wait.
Both young women watched their father’s face as he read, Jane and Elizabeth both veering between anticipation and apprehension as his expressions changed. As he reached the end, he took off his glasses and handed the paper to Elizabeth, who seized it and eagerly began to read.
“Perhaps you can make sense of it, Lizzy. I cannot,” he declared, his brow furrowed and mouth grim.
“Uncle has found them!” Elizabeth told Jane joyfully, putting a hand on her own heart. “Thank God! Lydia is now at Gracechurch Street. They are not yet married, but hope to be so soon, if Father will agree to the following terms…Oh! How strange…I would not have expected…”
“No, nor would I,” affirmed her father, his expression extremely serious.
“What is it?” asked Jane.
“Mr Wickham asks so little,” Elizabeth tried to explain and passed the note to her sister to see for herself.
“I shall, of course, agree to everything,” Mr Bennet added with a shrug. “But still…”
“Write straight away, Father,” Jane urged him. “I will help sharpen you a pen if you need. Why should you hesitate at a time like this?”
“No, no. I have many pens. Do not trouble yourself, Jane. I do not hesitate over writing back and committing myself to meeting these very modest demands from a young man I understood to be of expensive tastes and unrestrained habits. I hesitate because I do not know how to thank your uncle. God knows what he has done to achieve this, or rather, what he has paid.”
“Oh, Father!” murmured Jane. “Perhaps Mr Wickham simply is not so bad after all.”
Elizabeth and her father exchanged a glance of shared cynicism and human understanding.
“Yes, he is, my dear Jane. Every bit as bad and worse. Now, you go upstairs and tell your mother the good news, and I shall go to my library and begin my reply.”
Left alone once more, Elizabeth felt a small part of the recent tension leaving her body.
Snatching up her coat, she went outside to walk in the garden and breathe in the warm summer day.
Lydia was found, and something might be salvaged for her future and the family’s.
For a few minutes, at least, she would be content with that.
In the small orchard at the back of the house, Elizabeth hoisted herself into the fork of an old apple tree and finally took out her own letter, only half paying attention as she opened it. She smiled, although sadly, upon seeing that it was another letter from Georgiana at Pemberley.
Whatever her family managed to hide from the wider world, Mr Darcy would always know the truth of Lydia’s elopement.
Her younger sister’s rescue could do nothing to repair the social chasm that must now stand between Elizabeth and Pemberley.
She supposed she must write back again with the same advice as before.
Once Georgiana had spoken to Mr Darcy, there would be no more letters, she was sure.
Dear Elizabeth,
I am glad to hear that you are safely home and hope that whatever family issue demanded your presence so urgently has now been happily resolved.
If my brother were here, I would naturally have turned to him as you advised before writing to you again.
However, Fitzwilliam’s departure was as sudden as your own, and I do not know for certain where he has gone in London or when he will return.
I have written to Darcy House, but if he is staying with friends, he might not see my letters.