Chapter XVII #2
“No, no, the blue is much prettier,” Lydia declared suddenly, leaning forward with unexpected animation. “The other looks fit for an old aunt in Bath.”
The modiste laughed obligingly.
Miss Darcy smiled faintly from beside the window.
“And this trimming?” the woman suggested.
“Oh! That is beautiful.”
Lydia touched the fabric almost reverently before stopping abruptly, as though startled by her own eagerness.
A short silence followed.
Then, with visible effort, she attempted a laugh. “I daresay I ought not care about gowns at all after behaving so abominably.”
Georgiana answered before anyone else could. “I think,” she said softly, “it is very natural to care.”
Lydia looked at her quickly. For a moment, her expression seemed painfully young. “Well,” she said after a pause, attempting brightness again, “Mama always says new gowns improve every situation.”
Even Mrs. Annesley smiled at that.
By dinner, Lydia appeared less frightened than the day before, though still easily unsettled whenever silence lasted too long. She spoke rapidly at times, then stopped altogether, as though suddenly remembering herself.
Darcy observed rather more than he contributed.
Once or twice, he caught glimpses of the girl; she must have been in Hertfordshire before everything collapsed: vain, careless, lively, foolish.
And each time the thought returned, his anger towards Wickham deepened further.
***
Rain beat steadily against the windows, confining the household indoors the next day, while the drawing room glowed quietly beneath candlelight and fire.
Georgiana sat near the hearth with her workbasket beside her, though she had spent more time listening than sewing.
Lydia occupied the sofa opposite in one of Georgiana’s simpler gowns, still pale from recent distress and uncomfortable whenever silence lingered too long.
Mrs. Annesley attempted conversation now and then with gentle perseverance, but Lydia’s spirits remained uncertain and uneven. At times, she spoke almost like her former self; at others, she fell abruptly into shame or tears.
Darcy, who had entered originally only to enquire after Georgiana’s headache, found himself persuaded by Mrs. Annesley to remain.
Lydia had barely raised her eyes since his arrival.
After a long silence broken only by rain and the turning of pages from a neglected book beside Darcy’s chair, Lydia spoke. “I suppose everybody in Hertfordshire hates me now.”
Mrs. Annesley looked up at once. Georgiana’s work paused.
Darcy closed the book quietly without marking the page.
“No doubt they speak imprudently,” said Mrs. Annesley carefully. “People always do where scandal is concerned.”
Lydia twisted her handkerchief. “They will say I am wicked.”
Darcy regarded her for a moment before answering. “Some will.”
Lydia’s face crumpled at the honesty of the reply.
“But they will not all be right.”
She looked up uncertainly.
Darcy’s expression remained grave but not severe.
“I said it before: You have behaved foolishly,” he continued. “Very foolishly. But foolishness and deliberate corruption are not always the same thing.”
Lydia lowered her eyes again. “I ought to have known better.”
At this, Darcy was silent for several moments. Then he said calmly: “Yes. But Mr. Wickham ought to have known better, too.”
Something in the firmness of the statement caused both girls to look towards him.
Darcy rested one arm against the chair beside him; his gaze lowered briefly towards the fire.
“The advantage between you was never equal,” he said at last. “You were young, flattered, inexperienced, eager to be admired. He understood all that perfectly.”
Lydia blinked rapidly. “I thought he loved me.”
“Yes,” he said. “And he knew you would think so.”
A silence followed.
Georgiana spoke at last. “He always seemed very agreeable.”
Darcy looked towards his sister.
“Yes,” he answered quietly. “That has always been one of Mr. Wickham’s greatest advantages.”
A shadow crossed his face.
“When he was younger, my father believed him almost incapable of fault.”
Mrs. Annesley looked up slightly at this.
“He possessed charm enough,” Darcy continued, “to persuade nearly everyone who wished to think well of him. Good humour. Ease. Readiness of manner.” A faint bitterness touched his voice. “Many mistakes appear less dangerous when accompanied by pleasing manners.”
Lydia listened with unusual seriousness. “He fooled everybody?”
Darcy gave a faint, humourless smile. “Not everybody. But enough.” He paused slightly before adding, “He nearly deceived my father entirely. And my father was neither weak-minded nor inexperienced.”
Georgiana lowered her sewing completely now. “And me,” she said quietly.
Darcy’s expression softened at once. “Yes.”
Lydia looked between them uncertainly.
“I never thought…” She hesitated. “I never thought clever people could be taken in, too.”
At this, Darcy’s eyes rested on her more steadily. “Intelligence alone does not always protect people from deception.”
The words seemed spoken from a deeper reflection than Lydia entirely understood.
“One is most easily deceived,” he continued after a moment, “precisely where one wishes to trust.”
Quiet settled over the room again.
Rain moved softly against the windows.
Lydia then whispered, “I was vain.”
“Yes,” said Darcy calmly. “You were.”
Fresh tears gathered in her eyes.
“But vanity is common at fifteen.”
Lydia stared at him.
Mrs. Annesley’s expression altered faintly with surprise.
“What matters more,” he continued, “is that Mr. Wickham understood how to encourage every weakness likely to flatter him or advantage himself.”
Lydia looked down at her hands. “He always said my family did not value me enough.”
Darcy’s expression darkened. “Of course he did.”
“And he laughed whenever I worried.”
“Yes.”
“He said rules were stupid and old-fashioned.”
Darcy’s gaze remained fixed upon the fire. “A man who profits from destroying boundaries generally dislikes them very much.”
The bluntness of the remark startled even Mrs. Annesley slightly.
Lydia was quiet for a long moment before speaking again in a smaller voice.
“I thought if a gentleman admired a girl enough, nothing else mattered.”
At this, Georgiana’s eyes filled with tears.
Darcy saw it.
And in that moment, looking from one girl to the other, Darcy was struck by a resemblance he had not fully considered before.
Their temperaments could scarcely have been more different.
Georgiana was quiet, where Lydia was impulsive; reserved, where Lydia sought attention.
Yet both had been little more than children.
Both had trusted where they ought not to have trusted.
And both had encountered Wickham at an age when admiration was too easily mistaken for judgement.
Not for the first time, Darcy wondered whether Wickham’s greatest talent had never been charm at all, but rather the ability to discover precisely what another person most wished to hear and convince them he alone could provide it.
Lydia wiped at her eyes awkwardly. “Do you truly think I am not ruined forever?”
Darcy was silent for a moment before answering.
“Yes,” he said in a low voice. “I do.”
And though society might yet disagree with him entirely, he found himself caring less with every passing day about the justice of society’s judgement where Elizabeth Bennet’s family was concerned.
Lydia hesitated. “And what am I to do now?”
The question emerged so quietly that for a moment, nobody answered.
Darcy regarded her steadily.
“In time,” he said, “there will be decisions to make. Your future must be considered carefully, and there may be possibilities once imagined which are no longer open to you.”
Lydia lowered her eyes.
“But that discussion need not take place tonight.” His voice softened slightly. “At present, I think you have spent too many weeks frightened, exhausted, and unhappy. Recover first. The rest may be considered afterwards.”
Lydia stared at him.
No one had spoken to her of the future without either condemning it or attempting to avoid it altogether.
“Recover?” she repeated faintly.
“Yes.”
Something in the simplicity of the answer seemed to affect her unexpectedly.