Chapter 5
FIVE
Within the week, the concern of pregnancy was put to rest. Lydia’s courses came exactly on schedule and the household breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Now that they were assured that Wickham’s bastard did not reside in their niece’s womb, the Gardiners set to work finding Lydia a proper husband.
Lydia herself was not especially keen on the idea, fearing that she was to be stuck as the child bride of some disgusting old codger, but it seemed she had little choice in the matter.
She could not go home to Longbourn, returning to Brighton was apparently out of the question, and the Gardiners had explicitly told her that she could not remain with them forever, either.
Since Wickham had scarpered—not that Lydia wanted him back in any case—her only real option was to marry whomever her aunt and uncle arranged for her.
“I believe we have found an interested gentleman at last,” Mr Gardiner cheerfully announced at dinner one evening.
“His name is Mr Harold Stone, and he is one of my clerks. He has had some interest in starting a business of his own, but has heretofore lacked the capital for it. Ten thousand pounds will go a long way.”
So not an officer, then. Not that Lydia was especially surprised.
Her preferences were categorically unheeded on the matter.
When she had even suggested applying to the war office in London for potential matches, she had received such powerful glares from her family that it was a wonder her hair did not catch fire.
“I have met Mr Stone before,” added Mrs Gardiner as she passed the parsnips on to Elizabeth. “He is an amiable, gentlemanlike man, if rather quiet. I think his steadiness will be good for you, Lydia.”
Steadiness. Be still my heart.
Lydia’s gaze wandered to Elizabeth, who seemed disinclined to add to the conversation.
Her countenance was blank, her disinterest palpable, and her attention wholly fixed on her plate.
Were it not for the dark circles beneath her eyes, no one could have possibly guessed that she was suffering from heartbreak under the guise of careful neutrality.
Lydia knew, however. So did the Gardiners. They had all watched Elizabeth since Mr Darcy’s last departure over a week ago and concurred that her listlessness was unnatural. She was pining, even if she strove to hide it.
Mrs Gardiner had sent Mr Darcy at least two more invitations to dine, but both had been politely rebuffed. How did he expect to attach himself to Elizabeth if he did not come near her? Lydia was exasperated with them both.
“You shall meet him again tomorrow evening,” said Mr Gardiner to his wife, “for I have taken the liberty of inviting him to dinner. He would like to meet Lydia and determine if they would suit before agreeing to the terms.”
Huzzah, was Lydia’s dull, silent response.
“I think I shall also send round a note to Mr Darcy.” Mrs Gardiner flicked a glance in Elizabeth’s direction and Lydia’s attention followed thither. She was just in time to see her sister flinch. “I am sure he would like to make Mr Stone’s acquaintance, as well.”
The following evening, Lydia was dressed in one of her best frocks—generously sent to her from Longbourn, as if Mr Bennet could not even bear to have his youngest daughter’s things in the house—and waited anxiously for Mr Stone to arrive.
With Wickham, Lydia had not thought much about what their future would look like, but this new arrangement made her understand the permanence of marriage in a fresh way.
What if this Mr Stone was old? Or ugly? Cruel?
She would be consigned to misery for the rest of her days—or his—and she no longer had a family to take her in, should the marriage fail.
Not that they would be able to, Mr Gardiner had helpfully reminded her.
In essence, she would be stuck with this Mr Stone regardless of what he looked like or how he treated her. The thought made her tremble.
A hand reached out and clasped her own, and Lydia followed the length of the attached arm to reach her sister’s face.
It was full of softness and commiseration, a great change in Elizabeth’s attitude of late.
Not that she had been outright vicious since their row, but a quiet resentment had seemed to simmer beneath her skin whenever they interacted.
For once, Elizabeth was all sympathy, and Lydia clutched at her in gratitude.
The parlour door opened and they stood. Lydia steeled herself for her first glimpse of the man she was supposed to marry—but it was only Mr Darcy.
Well, perhaps not only Mr Darcy, as if he were an inconsequential addition to their party. A glimpse of Elizabeth and the tightening of her grip on Lydia’s hand confirmed that he was not inconsequential in the least.
Mr Darcy bowed to the room and offered individual greetings, ending with Elizabeth. She kept her gaze affixed to the floor and mumbled something indistinct before he ambled away, his countenance forlorn.
Lydia discreetly stamped her foot behind her skirts. How can they boast so much cleverness between them and yet be so infuriatingly stupid?
She was not long left to ponder the conundrum, for her proposed groom arrived on Mr Darcy’s coattails.
Mr Harold Stone was both more and less than she had expected; more, in that he was relatively young, perhaps around Mr Bingley’s age, and he was stocky in figure.
Less, in that he was not especially handsome, though at least he was not horribly plain, either.
He was a good deal shorter than Lydia preferred, and she doubted if there were more than an inch or two’s difference in their heights.
At least his reddish hair laid thick upon his head, for she pitied men who went prematurely bald.
“Mr Stone, come in, come in,” enthused Mr Gardiner, striding forward to shake the younger man’s hand.
Mr Stone babbled something in greeting, though Lydia knew not what. She suspected he did not know any better.
“You remember my wife, I hope? And this is Mr Darcy,”—Mr Darcy bowed and Mr Stone nearly fell over in an attempt to emulate him, blushing fiercely—“this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, our elder niece.” Elizabeth smiled warmly and dipped into a curtsey, her movements observed closely by the tall, brooding gentleman over her shoulder.
“And this,” concluded Mr Gardiner, sweeping his hand out to indicate Lydia, “is Miss Lydia Bennet, your prospective bride.”
Mr Stone, who had stammered his way from person to person, seemed to be struck entirely dumb at the sight of Lydia.
She was inclined to glower at him in response, but the point of Elizabeth’s elbow in her ribs reminded her that she was supposed to remain pleasant.
She hitched a smile onto her lips, curtseyed, and said, “Good evening, Mr Stone. Delighted to meet you.”
“Good evening, Miss Bennet—that is, Miss Lydia. It is nice to see you. Meet you, rather.” Lydia watched a bead of sweat slip from Mr Stone’s hairline and slide down his cleanly shaven cheek. He withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed it away. “I say, it is rather warm in here. Are you overheated?”
Lydia looked to Elizabeth, who encouraged her towards Mr Stone with a flick of her hand. Lydia swallowed a sigh and set herself to resurrecting old habits. If Lydia Bennet had one talent, it was charming gentlemen.