New Beginnings

by Leenie Brown

  Wickham tried to ignore the pain in his heart as he saw Lydia’s head bowed and her hands clasped so tightly that her nails were white. He wished to pay the bill and be done with this lesson, but he knew that was not in her best interest. Demonstrations of love, he determined, were not always easy and often looked very much like correction. He gave her hands a light squeeze before beginning. “It seems my wife’s purse is not so deep as her expenses.”

  “That would be a problem, would it not?” asked the innkeeper.

  “Indeed it is. Since her trip was not sanctioned by me, she is fully responsible for her debts.” The knot in his stomach tightened.

  The innkeeper drummed his fingers on the table while he looked over Lydia carefully. “It is not wise to willfully leave the protection of one’s husband, is it my dear?” His tone reminded her of her father. How many times had he used that very tone to chide her for some foolish behavior?

  “So, I have been told,” she replied softly.

  “But do you believe it?” the man prodded.

  “I am beginning to.”

  “Good. My Molly could use some help. She has an extra bed in her room where you may sleep tonight, and I believe you and she are about the same size. She will provide you with an appropriate dress and smock.” He rose. “I have assigned you gentlemen the room at the top of the stairs with the two single beds again as you requested. Come along, Mrs. Wickham, I will take you to Molly.”

  Lydia rose to follow him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “We shall dine before retiring to our rooms,” said Denny.

  The innkeeper nodded and gave Wickham’s shoulder a squeeze as he walked past him. “Molly’ll take care of her right proper.”

  Lydia followed the man through the kitchen and down a hallway to a small room that was barely big enough for two beds, a wardrobe, a small writing desk and a wash stand. A pleasant looking girl greeted the innkeeper with a kiss on the cheek.

  “Molly, this is Mrs. Wickham. She is the lady that will be staying with you tonight and assisting you. Keep her assignments to the back. There is no need to parade her in front of all the patrons. Her husband is too honourable a man to suffer such mortification.”

  “Yes, Papa. Mrs. Wickham, I have a dress on the bed for you. Do you require assistance?”

  Lydia smiled tightly. “No, I can manage.”

  “Right, then,” said Molly. “When you have changed, a bowl of stew awaits you in the kitchen.”

  Lydia pushed the door closed and leaned against it. Mortification. She was a mortification to her dear Wickham. Tears stung her eyes. She had been called many things in her life, foolish, a ninny, one of the silliest girls in all of England, selfish, spoiled, the list could go on and on, but never had she been called a mortification. She wiped at her eyes and began changing her dress. She would face her responsibility with dignity. She would hold her chin high and perform her duties, whatever they may be, to the best of her ability.

  The day was long; the chores were many. She had scrubbed pots and lugged jugs of water. She had plucked chickens and scraped vegetables. Her whole body ached as she followed Molly down the hall to bed. Silently, she slipped out of her dress and into her nightgown.

  “Mrs. Wickham.” Molly held out a package. “Your husband asked me to give you this. He was asking about you all day.”

  Lydia took the package and climbed into bed. She pulled the blankets around her and propped the pillow between her back and the wall. Carefully, she opened the package. Inside was a journal, the very journal that her husband had pulled out of his pocket that morning. She opened it slowly, nervously wanting to see what was written inside. A knot formed in her stomach. She had seen him scratching in it at the table that morning while she had huffed and stomped. She was not sure if she wanted to see a listing of her actions. She knew she had allowed her temper to once again control her actions and tongue, but anger was a much easier emotion to harbour than hurt. It had hurt when Wickham had pushed her away with his arms and his words in Darcy’s office. And it had hurt when she had heard his disappointment in her. She took a breath and opened the book. To her surprise, underneath today’s date were written three simple words, I love you.

  Lydia stared at the words. This was what he was writing as she grumbled about packing? She studied the binding where the papers attached. No pages had been torn out. She looked carefully at the paper. There were no smudges from rubbed out words. These were the words he had written during their argument this morning. Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked rapidly to drive them away.

  There was a list of today’s tasks written below those wonderful words, but that did not matter to Lydia. She closed the book and held it close to her heart as she snuggled down into her blankets.

  Chapter 3

  “Mrs. Wickham.” Molly shook Lydia gently. “Your husband is waiting for you.”

  Lydia blinked and squinted trying to take in the face of the girl who woke her.

  “Your husband is waiting for you in the dining room, Mrs. Wickham,” Molly repeated. “He said to make haste.”

  Lydia moaned and stretched. The sun was barely peeping through the window. Her body begged her to stay in bed. She rolled to her side, planning to ignore the pleading of the young woman. As she moved, something jabbed her between the ribs. She sat up and looked under the blankets to see what had caused her pain. There, staring back at her was his journal. She sighed. How could she ignore him?

  “You may tell him that I will be ready shortly,” she said, slipping her feet over the edge of the bed and sitting there to get her bearing before rising. “Do you have a pencil?” she asked before Molly could leave.

  “Yes, ma’am. In the desk. Do you require anything else?”

  “No, thank you, Molly. You have been most helpful already.” Molly’s smile as she dropped a quick curtsy and slipped out of the room caught Lydia by surprise.

  When was the last time a servant had smiled at her? She was sure she could not remember ever having received such a response. Demanding and scolding, which were her normal wont when dealing with servants, certainly did not elicit smiles.

  Lydia rubbed her neck and stretched her arms and legs. Her muscle spoke loudly to her of the reasons why she must start thanking those who served her. Theirs was a hard lot in life.

  She pulled out a drawer on the desk and found a pencil. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she opened the journal and tapped her lip with the pencil as she thought. There were so many things she wished to say to him, but there were only two words that kept springing to her mind, so she wrote them. Then, closing the book, she returned the pencil to the drawer and hurried to dress.

  ~*~*~*~*~*~

  “Sit down, Wickham. She will be here soon. Must you insist on wearing a hole in the floor while drinking your coffee?” Denny folded his paper and set it on the table. “Your pacing is making me nervous, and nerves are not good for digestion.”

  “I pace to relieve my own nerves. Would you prefer I sit and fidget or tap?” Wickham grinned at his friend. While Denny found pacing to be mildly annoying, fidgeting and tapping drove him to near madness, a fact that Wickham had often used to his advantage when playing cards.

  “No, no tapping,” pleaded Denny. “Pray tell what has your nerves in such a state this morning?”

  “My wife. If you have not noticed, our last two meetings were less than pleasant. I find being forceful unsettling. I have spent most of my life trying to please, not incite.”

  “Yes, and that tactic worked well?” Denny gave his friend a pointed look.

  “Well, it got me what I wanted at the time.”

  “Yes, it got you what you wanted, along with some beatings and the need to hide from male kinfolk. I say you are wrong — you have spent most of your life inciting through trying to be pleasing.”

  Wickham shrugged. “I suppose you are right.” He sighed. “I have gone about things quite wrong in the past. How do I know I am not going about things wrong now?”

>   “Because you are doing the opposite of what you were doing in the past. Besides, we will know the results within six months.” Denny took up his cup and held it as he gave Wickham an appraising look. Then, having come to a decision, he said, “When breaking horses and new recruits, I find they only kick the hardest in the beginning, then things settle down somewhat. Give her time. Coming up against unmovable boundaries is a new experience for her.”

  “I know.” Indeed, he knew she had been left to do as she pleased for most of her life. He had watched her mother not only bend to her every wish, but he had also seen her take up Lydia’s case to have her way, even when the notion was silly. And her father, when he was not steadfastly ignoring his daughter’s behaviour, had been easily bent to accept his wife’s recommendations.

  “A bit of praise, well-placed, has been known to work wonders with some of the young lads I take in.” Denny returned his cup to the table and took up his paper once again.

  Wickham smiled. “I believe we canvassed this subject already. I know all about well-placed praise, Denny. That is not an area where I need help.”

  “Indeed,” Denny agreed, chuckling from behind his paper. “Just use your gift wisely, my friend.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Wickham, Mr. Denny.” Lydia tripped lightly into the room and plunked her bag down near the door. “Packed and ported.” She walked over to Wickham and held out the journal. “For you, sir. What tasks shall I be assigned today?”

  Wickham held out a chair for her. “Perhaps you should eat first.” She seemed rather cheerful this morning. It was a bit unnerving.

  “I can eat and listen at the same time, George.” There, that was better, a hint of annoyance.

  “We are, as you know, going home today, so there is the matter of installing you in the guest room before we bring the children home.”

  Lydia drew in a breath and released it slowly. “Am I to prepare the room by myself?” She had promised herself that she would keep her temper in check, but the thought of cleaning and preparing a room made her already tired mind scream in protest.

  He sighed. “No, not completely. Harriet will assist you, and should you need to move anything heavy, either Matthew or I will be available.”

  Lydia nodded and concentrated on eating. She would not cry, no, she would not. She kept her gaze on her plate.

  Wickham’s heart lurched. Lydia stomping or flying about he could handle with ease compared to the sullen, sad Lydia, who sat before him. The room was silent except for the clink of utensils on the plate and the ruffling of the newspaper.

  Lydia swallowed the last of her tea. “Is the carriage waiting?” Wickham nodded. “Then, I shall meet you there.” She slipped past him and snatched up her travelling bag before nearly running to the carriage. She was tired, and her heart hurt. Sleep, she needed sleep, and the faster she could get to the carriage, the faster she could doze off on the journey. She knew that, sleeping or not, on this journey her eyes would be closed. She had seen the look of pain in his eyes when he had spoken of today’s task. She had heard him sigh as if a weight was pressing down on him. She knew that she was the cause, and it made her heartache.

  ~*~*~*~*~*~

  Wickham watched as his wife carried a heavy pail of water up the stairs. Her face was flushed and wisps of caramel coloured hair hung in her face and down her neck. “May I carry that for you?”

  She darted a look at him. “No, I can manage. It is my punishment after all.” There was a hint of annoyance in her voice.

  She had been quiet all day. She had slept in the carriage, and when they had reached home, she had merely grabbed her bag and headed to the guest room to start working. The only times she had spoken to him had been when absolutely necessary to answer a question or ask for assistance in rearranging the larger pieces of furniture. And when she had spoken, it had been in flat tones. Something was amiss, and he knew that before the day was done, he would find out what it was.

  “Is there anything that I can do for you?”

  She paused again on the steps. “No. We have almost finished. Perhaps you could write it in your journal.” She snapped, her control of her temper slipping. She chided herself for her angry words as she hurried to her room. She was not angry with him, but she had once again allowed her displeasure with herself to bubble over and find its release at someone else’s expense.

  Wickham watched her hurry up the stairs. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his journal as he headed to his study. He did need to write in his journal, and there were a few crocuses blooming in the garden. He had wanted to pick some for her room since purple was her favourite colour. Wickham opened the journal as he approached his desk. He flipped to the last page in preparation for recording today’s tasks.

  He shook his head and smiled at what he saw written in her flowery script under his confession of love. Thank you — two simple words that caused him to feel a small amount of hope. Perhaps Denny was right, and he was doing things properly this time. He turned to a fresh page and wrote.

  Tucking his journal back into his pocket, he slipped out the back door and into the side garden. Carefully he picked four flowers. Taking them back inside, he retrieved a porcelain bowl and filled it with water. Placing the flowers in the bowl, he took it to his office. He would place it in her room later.

  Harriet hurried past his study on her way to the kitchen. “Harriet,” he called.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is your mistress finished?”

  “Yes, sir. I am fetching water for her bath.”

  “I will speak with her first. Fill the tub, we will not be long.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harriet curtsied and scurried away.

  Wickham mounted the stairs two at a time. He knocked quietly at her door and waited.

  Lydia opened the door. “George,” she said in surprise. “Did you wish to inspect my work?”

  “No, if it meets your satisfaction, then you have succeeded. I wanted to talk to you.”

  Lydia bit her lip and allowed him to enter.

  “Leave the door open.” He walked to the window and looked out. “It is a pleasant view of the hillside.”

  “Yes, it is quite nice.” Lydia played with the ribbon on her dressing gown.

  He turned from the view. “Tomorrow we will go over the account books and make your new budget.”

  Lydia nodded but did not lift her eyes from the ribbon that ran back and forth through her fingers.

  “Lydia, what is wrong? Are you angry with me?”

  “No, George, I am not angry with you.”

  “Then what is it? Why will you not speak to me or even look at me?” His voice pleaded with her.

  She blinked fiercely at the tears of shame and anger with herself that once again threatened to fall. “I never….he and I, we never…” she fought to find the right words.

  Wickham stiffened and turned away. “That is not how it sounded when we spoke at Pemberley.”

  “I know. I was angry.” She often said things, hurtful, cutting things when she was angry.

  “How do I know what to believe? I want to trust you, but I need proof.”

  Lydia swallowed a sob. “I understand.”

  Wickham spun to face her. “Do you? Do you really understand? If what you have told me is true, and if I were to take you into my bed tonight, and if you were to conceive, what would society think? Perhaps some would believe us when we told them that the child is ours, but there would be those who would question. Your reputation is already tainted due to your adventure with a man who is not your husband. A child would utterly destroy your reputation, and that reputation would be held against me and our children. Do you have any idea what it is like to be whispered about? Thought of as a by-blow? Because I do, and I do not wish that for any of my children.”

  Lydia trembled at the anger in his voice and the fire in his eyes. “I am sorry, George.” She covered her face with her hands and allowed the tears to flow down her cheeks.

  “So
was my mother,” he whispered, “but sorrow did not change how I was viewed.” He exited the room and quietly closed the door. Though he hated to leave her in such grief, he knew that he must. She must feel the weight of what she had done, the reality of the peril in which she had placed her family.

  “Matthew,” he called as he descended the stairs, “I am going out for a while. The flowers on my desk, make sure they get to my wife’s room.”

  “Of course, sir. Will you be returning for dinner?” Matthew handed Wickham his hat.

  “Yes, but have a tray sent to my study. I need to work on my ledgers.” He paused and looked up the stairs before turning toward the door. While the accounts did need his attention, his study was not the place he wished to be, and his books were not the company he wished to keep.

  “Very good, sir.” Matthew bowed and started toward Wickham’s study but stopped before he had taken ten steps. “Sir, if you do not mind my saying, you are doing a good thing.” He bowed once more before continuing on his way.

  Wickham watched the silver-haired man walk regally down the hall. Matthew had been in his employ for six years now. It was one of those rare master-servant relationships. Although Wickham was the master, it often felt like the servant was more in charge than he. No, it was more of a master-advisor relationship, thought Wickham wryly. The knowledge that Matthew also saw his current course of action as good eased Wickham’s mind.

  Chapter 4

  Lydia sat in the parlour, awaiting the arrival of her sister and children. She tried to focus on her stitching, but her mind could not be confined to the activity. Focusing on one activity for any length of time had always been a challenge for her. However, today, it was a near impossibility. Wickham had not spoken to her since leaving her room yesterday. He had sent her some flowers, but there had been no note, no word of comfort. She knew he had every reason to be angry with her. She was angry with herself. She sighed and looked out the window. Her rash nature had put her family once again in a precarious position. If it had not been for her impulsivity, her purchases might not have exceeded her allowance, and she would not have needed to seek money from her sister.