Chapter 6
DESPERATE STRAITS
Elizabeth was beside herself with horror; nor could she speak of her grief to anyone.
Jane was too bent on searching for optimism in her certainty that all would be well.
Charlotte was obsessed with the Darcy wealth and estates, and considered it a lucky fate that her friend should be forced to marry him.
Kitty and Lydia were frankly jealous. Mary offered to pray for her, but Elizabeth was too angry at God for allowing such a thing to happen to appreciate it.
Papa was too obsessed with ‘honour’. Her mother was wildly excited for the marriage, as if this wedding was the result of a love match, as if Elizabeth was marrying some sort of hero.
All she could talk about was the entail on Longbourn—which meant that upon Mr Bennet’s death, it must go to a distant cousin—and spoke of Mr Darcy as if he were their saviour instead of a wicked ravisher!
“Only think, Lizzy! If it were not for your wedding, we would be hosting your father’s cousin this week instead of buying your wedding clothes.
He will come to gawp at his inheritance next month, but I shall not hesitate to remind him of the displeasure of your powerful husband, if he thinks to throw us out in the hedgerows once your father is gone! ”
She had noticed the stilted way Mr Darcy had walked when he left the drawing room that fateful night, and had believed at the time that he had been inebriated.
Even though she was willing to believe Mr Bingley’s embarrassed explanations—in his profuse apologies, he had insisted that Mr Darcy had walked in his sleep rather than purposely pursuing her—she could not forgive it.
After all, a man who had so little control over himself that he would wander drunkenly into a young lady’s room was no prize, and certainly not the husband she deserved!
Must she fear for any future guest in her home, that they might be so importuned?
A tiny, niggling part of her conscience tried to remind her that it was she who had encouraged him to partake of Miss Bingley’s blasted liqueur, but she shoved the thought aside.
Had not she had the good sense to recognise that it was far too strong?
Even her one sip had sent her into a sleep so deep that she had not wakened whenever in the night he had stumbled into her bed.
Worse, she had been dreaming, dreaming of the passionate husband she now would never have, dreaming of being held and touched and…
and loved, only to waken with a start to find her arm wrapped around him; in her sleep, she had been permitting, nay, encouraging his actions!
She flushed with embarrassment to recall it.
“Papa, please,” she had begged tearfully.
“Do not do this. Tell him that you have changed your mind. Allow me to go to my uncle’s home in London—I will stay away for a year or even longer, so that my sisters will not be shamed by what happened.
It might do! At least, wait and see if the talk amounts to anything!
It could be a storm in a teacup, for all we know! ”
“It will not do, Lizzy,” he had replied sadly, but insistently.
“The reason the talk will not amount to anything is the immediacy of the wedding. I have given him my consent. He is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything which he condescended to ask. I pray that he does not make you miserable, but believe me, child, your misery—and the misery of your mother and sisters—was already guaranteed, had he not submitted to a marriage.”
She could see that it was hopeless. Her family would not help.
She could not sleep at night, and found it difficult to eat.
At church, she sat proudly, stiffly, while all around her, her neighbours whispered about the wedding and congratulated her on her good fortune.
When Mr Darcy took the place beside her, she wanted to scream!
The entire service, she remained frozen in place, hardly daring breathe lest she accidentally touch him.
I cannot do this! she railed to a God who, plainly, did not care.
At her mother’s effusive invitation after the service, he agreed to come to dinner on Monday, but she wondered how she would eat a bite.
Early Monday morning, however, she had the germ of an idea for escape or, at least, delay, when Lydia and Kitty decided to go into town and visit their aunt Philips.
“I shall accompany you, if I may,” she said.
“Only if you do not boast about your wedding clothes. It is unfair that you get so many new things, merely for lying in the right bed at the right time!” Lydia complained.
It was all Elizabeth could do not to slap her. But instead, she meekly trailed behind her sisters while they chattered to each other about the relative handsomeness, or lack thereof, of every officer they knew.
When they reached town, as she had suspected, her sisters were more interested in talking with those officers than hurrying to see their aunt.
She pretended interest in a shop window as they engaged Mr Denny and some other officer in conversation, looking for an opportunity to slip quietly away.
However, Mr Denny, newly arrived from London, was bent on introducing them to a new lieutenant.
“Miss Elizabeth, allow me to present to you Mr Wickham, who has recently joined our corps,” Mr Denny called.
Inwardly sighing, Elizabeth allowed herself to be drawn into the conversation.
Mr Wickham, at least, was kindly and polite, every inch a gentleman.
As they all spoke together pleasantly, Mr Denny was pulled away by another officer, and she suddenly saw a possible solution to one of the other problems she faced in her plan for escape.
But first, she must rid herself of the company of her younger sisters.
Fortunately, she knew just how to do it.
At the next break in the conversation, she smiled at their new acquaintance. “If you will excuse me, I think I shall select some new ribbons to go with my new dresses, and I see Mr Partridge has a fine selection in his window. Lydia, Kitty, would you care to help me choose?”
Lydia, formerly all smiles at the handsome stranger, immediately displayed her sulkiest face, while Kitty followed suit. “No, Lizzy, do it yourself, and you may take your ribbons and stuff them. Come, Kitty, let us go to Aunt Philips now.”
Elizabeth was a little embarrassed at their rudeness, but pasted an agreeable expression on her face.
Just like that, she was alone with Mr Wickham, his brow raised.
“Ah, younger sisters,” she said, pretending that their discourtesy was as nothing.
Turning towards Mr Partridge’s nearby shop, she flashed him an inviting look.
“I hope I shall not be left to select my ribbons alone?”
As she had hoped, he fell into step beside her. She had one goal—to portray herself as airy and a tiny bit silly, as if she was some impractical romantic and not as if she had any deeper thoughts in her head.
Entering the shop with him, she compared pink ribbons to the peonies blooming in the spring and green ones to a summer meadow, asking him his opinion on the colours as if they were the most important thing on her mind.
She giggled at his gallantries, and all in all, behaved in a manner much more like Lydia’s than her own.
Her shopping did not take long, because she could not care a tuppence, really, for ribbons.
But she remained in Mr Partridge’s shop until she was sure her ruse had worked, and that Mr Wickham’s impression of her was of a girl not overly possessed of sense, who might ask of him a favour that was not overly… sensible.