Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The following afternoon brought news from London: Lydia had been found.
As they had feared, she was not yet married, but at least Mr Wickham remained with her, and fortunately their uncle had prevailed upon him to do the honourable thing.
A marriage was to take place as soon as a Common License could be obtained and the arrangements made.
Mr Gardiner, it seemed, had pledged himself to cover Mr Wickham’s debts in Brighton, while asking Mr Bennet to settle those remaining in Meryton.
The sum was not insignificant, though thankfully not so large as to bankrupt Longbourn or place the family under unendurable strain.
Still, it was a considerable amount that must be recouped somehow.
Mr Bennet, however, was far too relieved to hear that Lydia had been found and her marriage secured to quarrel long over the particulars.
Mrs Bennet, on the other hand, was in raptures over having a daughter married, and, according to her, married so well at so young an age.
She rejoiced in the news as though it were a triumph, and seemed to forget almost at once that Lydia had eloped at all—or that she had lived openly with Mr Wickham for more than a se’nnight before the wedding could take place.
In her mind, the marriage negated any of the previous difficulties of the affair, and she was only concerned that her daughter was not lost to her forever.
Elizabeth could not share in her mother’s delight.
Though relieved beyond measure that Lydia had been found, she could not disguise from herself that her sister’s marriage to such a man was no blessing.
It was a desperate bargain purchased at great cost to the entire family, binding Lydia for life to one unworthy of her in every respect.
Outwardly, their family’s reputation might be salvaged, but Elizabeth’s heart was heavy with the knowledge that her sister would be chained to a man who could neither love her nor truly care for her, for his primary objective was selfishness.
As she watched her mother’s giddy exclamations, Elizabeth felt the chill of a harsher reality: for Lydia, there could be no true happiness, and for the rest of them, no escape from the shadow Mr Wickham’s presence had cast upon their family.
To Elizabeth, it seemed only to confirm what her heart already feared—that nothing could ever come to pass between herself and Mr Darcy, even had he still wished it.
The thought was almost unbearable, and once again Elizabeth sought refuge out of doors, hoping the open air might soothe her unease and distress.
Yet her steps were restless, her pace quick and uneven, as if she could out-walk the sorrow and loss that she felt.
She had come to see, far too late, that Mr Darcy was the only man she had ever known who matched her in both intelligence and spirit—the only man with whom she might have been truly happy.
This knowledge struck her like a blow; for a moment she could scarcely draw breath, crushed by the certainty that her own blindness had cost her the very love she most desired.
She wandered the familiar paths of Longbourn with little heed for where they led, circling the gardens, crossing the meadows, even pausing beneath the shade of the old elms at the edge of the park.
The crunch of gravel beneath her shoes and the rustle of leaves overhead were her only companions, yet they did little to quiet the storm within her.
More than an hour passed before she found composure enough to return indoors, and even then she contrived to keep out of her mother’s way for the remainder of the afternoon.
It continued in this way for several days, with Mrs Bennet torn between giddy delight and vocal remonstrations about how things ought to have been done.
Late in the afternoon of the third day after news had come that Lydia was found, Elizabeth slipped quietly into her father’s study, once again unable to listen to any more of her mother’s complaints.
“Jane tells me Mama is still insistent that she must go to London to help Lydia purchase her trousseau. Will you speak to her? Mama cannot understand why she has not been summoned to join Lydia in London, nor why Lydia cannot marry from home, despite our attempts to explain otherwise.”
Mr Bennet nodded, though he remained silent for several moments.
At last he said, “I am afraid your mother will be much put out with me. Not only will she not go to London to help Lydia purchase her trousseau, it is likely she will never see Lydia again. A letter has just arrived from my brother. The marriage is set for Tuesday morning, and he asks whether I will receive them here afterward. I have not yet written my reply, but I intend to tell him that, beyond fulfilling the terms of our agreement, I do not wish to have any further contact with the new Mr and Mrs Wickham. They will not be welcome at Longbourn—not after the way they have behaved.”
“But, Papa—” Elizabeth began, only to stop when he raised his hand.
“I do not wish to hear it, Elizabeth,” he said sternly.
“I do not wish to welcome them here either,” she replied steadily, “but it is what is best. You may not wish to hear it, but Jane and I are agreed: it will be worse if you refuse to receive them. If they do not come here, if no one sees them as man and wife, people will continue to speculate that we have spread a falsehood to salvage our reputations, when in truth Lydia has been hidden away. As much as I dread their arrival, we must endure it—for appearance’s sake if for no other reason. ”
For several minutes, Mr Bennet sat in silence, his brow furrowed.
At last he gave a curt nod. “Yes. I suppose you are correct, Lizzy, as you and Jane usually are. Still, your mother must be told that no money is to be spent upon Lydia’s wardrobe, nor upon anything else.
She shall begin her new life with what she already owns, and the money already squandered to see her married must suffice. ”
Elizabeth’s unease deepened at these words. “How much has been required?” she asked.
“Your uncle will not say,” Mr Bennet admitted with a heavy sigh.
“I have not seen him yet, though I mean to speak seriously when next we meet. But he has refused to name any figure, and I cannot believe all of this has been arranged so easily without a great cost. Somehow Wickham has procured a new commission in the north—they are to go to Newcastle after the marriage. I will agree to their stopping here for a day or two, but no longer. I cannot abide them beyond that.”
“Yes, I think that is best,” Elizabeth said softly. After a pause, she ventured, “Do you suppose Uncle was obliged to lay out a great sum to persuade him?”
“Wickham would be a fool to take Lydia for anything less than ten thousand pounds,” her father muttered darkly, before dismissing Elizabeth with a wave of his hand, claiming he must write his answer to Mr Gardiner without delay.
Deeply troubled by her father’s revelations, Elizabeth did what she always did when confronted with a problem she could not solve: she walked.
The afternoon was well advanced, yet this early in August there would be light for several hours still, not that she could have got lost on the estate she had traversed from the early years of her youth.
A soft breeze stirred the hedgerows, carrying with it the scent of new-mown hay, and she felt no fear in venturing out.
Their tenants often crossed her path with nods of respect, and she knew no one from the neighbouring estates would trouble her here.
She set off at a brisk pace towards Oakham Mount.
Since her return to Hertfordshire, the place had taken on a curious significance.
In former days she had often climbed the little summit—the highest point in the neighbourhood—for the view it afforded, but never had it offered her such solace as it did now.
Almost daily she found herself drawn there, as if the open sky and wide sweep of fields might give her perspective when her heart could not.
And, as she reached the peak and the countryside spread out in golden light before her, her thoughts, as always, turned to Mr Darcy.
How she wished she had understood him better when first they met. How she wished she had not allowed pride and vanity to blind her to the man he truly was. How she wished, too, that he had been more agreeable in company.
This last thought made her chuckle softly, though the sound was devoid of any joy.
The sound was carried away on the wind, and she knew it was foolish to go on wishing for what could never be.
Wickham was to be her brother now, and she must accept that she would likely never see Mr Darcy again.
No—her last memory of him must remain that moment in the inn at Lambton, when he had looked at her with something like longing before the mask fell back into place.
She had known then that it was the end of their acquaintance.
However much she might long for things to be otherwise, the lengthening shadows reminded her that they were not—and could not be.
The sound of hoofbeats startled her, and she turned away from the view. What she saw was most unexpected. For there, a stone’s throw away, was Mr Darcy.
He was astride the same black stallion she had seen him ride in Derbyshire, dressed as comfortably as on that first morning before he had gone in to change.
Then, as now, he looked every inch the country gentleman—not a creature of fashion, but a man accustomed to work not often expected of the master of so great an estate.
Still, he appeared more handsome than she had ever seen him, and her heart leapt wildly, urging her to believe he had come for her.