Darcy's Trial

by M. A. Sandiford

  ‘We will have tea,’ Dorothy Wordsworth declared, once all introductions had been made. ‘Tea made with mint, fresh from the garden. And butter scones with gooseberry jam.’

  After instructing the maid, she rejoined the group and plied Bridget with questions about Sir George Beaumont’s latest acquisitions, and the places she had visited in her tour. Elizabeth, who had expected to remain a spectator, was pressed to give her impression of Claife observation station, and soon found herself immersed in a conversation that ranged from the development of tourism in the Lake district to critical reactions to Wordsworth’s preface to Lyrical Ballads. Tea and scones duly arrived, both delicious and plentiful, and the talk was so absorbing that before she knew it she had eaten her way through two scones thickly spread with jam, and drunk several refills of tea. The affectionate interplay between Mary and Dorothy was charming, as they shared the tasks of dandling the little boy and attending to their guests.

  Over an hour passed in this agreeable way, before Bridget glanced at Elizabeth and whispered, ‘We must leave soon, else we will be late back.’

  Elizabeth nodded, and after expressing their disappointment, Dorothy Wordsworth went to retrieve some letters for the Ambleside post. On her return, she was accompanied by a man of perhaps thirty, with a high forehead and thinning straight hair, whom she introduced as her brother. With a tingling scalp Elizabeth found herself face to face with the kind but penetrating eyes of the poet. He observed her with a grave smile as she offered a trembling hand, and with moist eyes she left the cottage, feeling hauntingly as if some part of her being had changed forever.

  Chapter 2

  As they continued their ramble Elizabeth felt little inclination to talk, with her mind abuzz absorbing the lessons of the past hour. Having dallied so long at Dove cottage, they decided not to attempt the full circuit of Grasmere, preferring to turn back along the lakeside path to Penny Rock Woods and across the footbridge to Rydal cave.

  Among many revelations, Elizabeth was impressed most that such a conversation could take place among a group of women. Never in her life had she experienced anything similar. With her father she had read passages from the preface to Lyrical Ballads aloud, and talked them over at length; she had accordingly been able to contribute detailed comments to the discussion at the cottage, to the evident surprise and pleasure of her hosts. Yet she had never held such conversations with Jane or Charlotte. Yes, they had read poems together, and pronounced them sad, or uplifting, or banal. But Jane and Charlotte, for all their taste and intelligence, were not intellectual. They were happy to read a poem and either enjoy it or not, without concerning themselves with the poet’s objectives, or his innovations in language and form.

  It was not that Dorothy and Mary Wordsworth were focussed only on things of the mind. Quite the contrary: they had eagerly applied to Bridget for news of her family, and repaid her with gossip about their friend Mr Coleridge; they were also articulate observers of nature. But their interests were omnivorous, and pursued with little or no regard to social position. They observed the world and thought about it, and were delighted to share these observations and thoughts with anyone else similarly inclined, whether prince or pauper.

  With these reflections came a re-evalution of her present companion. She had suspected Bridget of parading her prestigious connections to the Beaumonts and Beauchamps, while looking down on the Gardiners. However, any such attitude was contradicted by her evident respect and affection for the Wordsworths, who (as Bridget had related) had lived in poverty for many years, after their father, a lawyer, had not been paid for his work; only the settlement of this debt two years before had enabled Wordsworth to marry. Of course Wordsworth was not an average commoner but a poetic genius; still, Elizabeth could not imagine that Caroline Bingley, for example, would have taken pride in such an association.

  As they cut through a copse to the Ambleside road, Elizabeth managed to probe, very gently, for further details of how Bridget had met the Wordsworths; and this time she took pains not to bristle at any mention of higher connections. It transpired that the baronet Sir George Beaumont was not only a patron of the arts but a practitioner, who often toured the Lakes with his wife for the pleasure of painting and sketching; and that a year ago, during such a tour, he had met the poet Coleridge by chance at Keswick, and through Coleridge’s advocacy, had requested an introduction to Wordsworth as well. Thereafter, an unlikely friendship between the Tory baronet and the radical Lake poets had quickly developed—in spite of grave objections to Coleridge’s political views—and the Wordsworths in particular were welcome guests at Grosvenor Square, where Bridget and her husband had been introduced to them.

  In exchange, as if testing the water, Elizabeth was more forthcoming about her own background, and especially her long-standing relationship with the Gardiners, whose values and tastes had been formative influences during her childhood. While developing this theme she observed Bridget’s reaction carefully, and detected no sign of prejudice—on the contrary, Bridget declared herself eager to meet them, if the occasion arose.

  As they reached the outskirts of Ambleside, talking ever more freely, Elizabeth felt a flutter of nerves over their impending parting. She was not yet ready to take Bridget fully into her confidence—to recount, for example, the tribulations she and her sister had suffered at the hands of Messrs Darcy and Bingley. Still, more than anyone she had met, she wanted Bridget as a friend. At times she thought this feeling might be returned, but since Bridget’s manner had been confident and lively from the outset, it was hard to be sure of any particular regard. The analogy immediately came to mind of Darcy’s misreading of Jane’s sentiments towards Bingley, and for the hundredth time she cringed with shame at her unfair denunciation of what was almost certainly an honest mistake.

  After the excitement of the day, the evening delivered a cold shower. As they reached the inn, Bridget haltingly explained that much as she would like to meet the Gardiners, she would have to dine separately with her sister and brother-in-law. Elizabeth, struggling to control her disappointment, responded with cold civility, whereupon Bridget left quickly for her room.

  At dinner the two parties were well separated, and since Bridget was facing the wrong way there was no opportunity to study her countenance or to exchange glances. In any case, Elizabeth had much to tell her aunt and uncle, who were enthralled that she had met the Wordsworth family and shaken hands with the poet himself. She wondered whether Bridget would pass by on her way out, but she had reckoned without Mr Henry Beauchamp’s appetite, not to mention his thirst, which kept their party at the dinner table far the longer. Sadly she occupied herself writing a letter to Jane, including full details of their itinerary as well as some account of her adventures, before retiring in such a tumult of emotions that she hardly expected to sleep.

  Next day also dawned bright and breezy, and at breakfast Mr Gardiner declared himself fit enough to undertake a short outing, not to Todd Crag but at least to the northern shore of Windermere. There was no sign of the Beauchamp party, and while the Gardiners were relaxing with the morning paper Elizabeth took the opportunity to visit the Post Office again, so that her letter to Jane would be dispatched with all speed. Irrationally she half hoped to find Bridget again in the queue, but a satisfaction of a different kind greeted her in the unlikely shape of a letter from Jane—in fact, two letters, attached with a rubber band, one addressed so ill that it was surprising it had arrived at all.

  Back at the inn she withdrew to the parlour, now empty, to read her letters in privacy. The first letter opened with the usual neighbourhood gossip, but narrated without Jane’s usual sparkle, reminding Elizabeth anew of Darcy’s arrogant intervention in her affairs—as if that gentleman thought himself able to interpret Jane’s feelings more accurately than Bingley himself, merely on the basis of one or two casual observations. However, these reflections were immediately cast aside when the letter suddenly took a new turn, as Jane in obviously rushed handwriting relate
d the shock of Lydia’s elopement with Wickham.

  Tearing open the second letter, Elizabeth soon confirmed her worst fears. Lydia and Wickham had been sought without success, the trail running cold in London, and there was no reason whatever to suppose them married. Jumping up in great agitation to seek her uncle and aunt, she nearly collided with a woman who loomed suddenly in the doorway.

  ‘Elizabeth! Whatever is the matter?’

  Elizabeth froze in shock as she recognised Bridget’s face, animated with concern. ‘Excuse me, I must find my uncle and aunt on business that cannot be delayed.’

  A wave of dizziness hit her as she stepped forward, and she was in danger of stumbling before she felt a firm grip on her forearm.

  ‘Sit down, dear. You look very pale.’ Bridget guided her to an armchair. ‘A maid can fetch your relatives. Where …’

  ‘They will be resting in their room.’

  Bridget span and called out for a maid, returning only seconds later to kneel beside the chair.

  ‘They will be here soon. Dear Elizabeth, is there anything else I can do? A glass of wine? You look so ill.’

  ‘I am not ill, Bridget, only distressed by some news I have just received of my youngest sister. She is but fifteen years old, and very flirtatious with the officers. It seems that one of them has persuaded her to elope with him. I have learned recently of his poor reputation, and see no prospect that he will honour his promise of marriage. She is lost forever, and the worst of it is that I am mostly to blame.’ She slumped forward, head in hands, and burst into tears. ‘I could have told my family what I knew of this man, and so prevented this disaster. Oh wretched, wretched mistake!’

  Bridget stroked her hair with soft cooing noises, as if comforting a child. ‘Elizabeth, it is not your fault if this scoundrel has deceived your sister. The shame is his, and his alone. Remember too that such events are not uncommon. With luck he will be persuaded to marry her, and before long all will be forgotten.’

  Elizabeth straightened, shaking her head. ‘But how is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be found? No, she is lost, and our family must share in her disgrace. Henceforth no respectable person will have anything to do with us.’

  ‘In that case I must renounce any claim to respectability,’ Bridget returned, meeting her eye intently, ‘for I would dearly love to count you as my friend.’

  Elizabeth stared at her in astonishment. ‘But last night you seemed only too eager to keep our two parties quite separate.’

  Bridget lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘My brother-in-law is not altogether to be relied on. Although at root a decent man, he is prone to drink more than he should, whereupon he is easily provoked to give offence. I did consider joining your table, but having deserted my party for most of the day I felt obliged to stay with them.’

  Elizabeth felt her body relax, and took a deep breath. ‘I fear we will have to leave Ambleside as soon as can be arranged, but if you agree, I would love to write to you. I have so valued our time together.’

  Bridget smiled back. ‘Then write we shall.’

  They heard footsteps in the hall, and Bridget rose as an anxious Mrs Gardiner entered the parlour. Wiping away her tears, Elizabeth bade her friend a grateful farewell and steeled herself to impart the bad news.

  Chapter 3

  On reaching Longbourn, the travellers found the household in confusion. Mr Bennet had left for London, in an attempt to trace Wickham and Lydia’s route from Clapham, where they had been observed last. Mrs Bennet had retired to her dressing room, where she ranted hysterically over the extent of her sufferings, the folly of not permitting her to accompany Lydia to Brighton, and her conviction that Mr Bennet would be killed in a duel with Wickham, after which Mr Collins would inherit Longbourn and turn them all out.

  Jane, looking pale and weary, led Elizabeth to a quiet corner of the garden, and unfolded the main part of the story. They had received a visit from Colonel Forster, who had been kind and apologetic, but unable to report any information of value from his enquiries among the other officers. He brought a letter from Lydia to Mrs Foster, now in Jane’s possession, making clear Lydia’s belief that they were to be married in Gretna Green, but giving no clue as to their present whereabouts. It was now known that Wickham had left behind debts at Meryton, and news of the elopement had spread rapidly around the neighbourhood, and no doubt further afield.

  Although the situation was as hopeless as she had feared, Elizabeth was glad to be back home, where she could take some of the load off Jane. She was also relieved that Mrs Gardiner decided to stay on, with the children, while Mr Gardiner proceeded to London to assist Mr Bennet. Since enquiries at hotels had yielded nothing, Mr Gardiner had written to Colonel Forster in the hope of finding men in the regiment who might know of Wickham’s other associates. Post followed post without further communication bar a letter from Mr Collins, which Jane had permission to open. While Elizabeth had no desire to read this foolish homily from start to finish, a superficial scan revealed one or two choice phrases such as ‘The death of your daughter would have been a blessing by comparison’, and ‘Who will connect themselves with such a family?’—the latter graciously offered by no less a personage than Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

  With nothing learned from Colonel Forster’s enquiries, except for fresh revelations of Wickham’s debts, Mr Bennet elected to return to Longbourn, while Mrs Gardiner, keen to return to her home, met him halfway so that he could return in his own coach. Just two days later, an express from Mr Gardiner brought startlingly good news. Wickham and Lydia had been found, and were shortly to be married. His debts were less than had been feared, and he asked from Mr Bennet only Lydia’s share of the £5000 settled on the sisters, along with a small yearly allowance. On hearing this news Mrs Bennet could hardly contain her joy. Instead Elizabeth, cringing at these effusions, wondered along with her father how much money Mr Gardiner must have secretly contributed in order to bring about this welcome conclusion.

  During the following week, Elizabeth gradually recovered her health and peace of mind, as the disturbing flux of events settled down. Mr Bennet resumed his books, Elizabeth her rambles, and Mrs Bennet continued to fret on when the nuptuals would take place, and whether Mrs Gardiner had followed her recommendations in the matter of Lydia’s wedding clothes.

  Although Elizabeth had told Jane of her visit to Dove Cottage, she was wary of elaborating on her conversations with Bridget, and her hopes for their friendship. She often recalled the scene of their final meeting in the inn, partly with embarrassment that in her distress she had revealed her family’s disgrace to a very recent acquaintance, and partly with gratitude to Bridget for her kindness. However, she worried that after cold deliberation, as well as discussions with her husband, Bridget might have had second thoughts—and so, reluctantly, she decided to let Bridget initiate their correspondence, and was upset that day followed day without any post from the Lakes.

  Meanwhile, a stream of letters from Mr Gardiner kept them up-to-date with plans for Wickham’s career, details of the settlement, and arrangements for the wedding. It was decided that the couple would move to the north of England, where Wickham would take up his commission in the regulars. However, as a signal that the match was accepted by her parents, Lydia and Wickham would visit Longbourn directly after the ceremony, and remain there several days before proceeding north—thus providing Mrs Bennet with some consolation in the opportunity to show off her married daughter in the neighbourhood.

  The day arrived, and by dinner-time the family were reunited. After embracing her mother in a fit of giggles, Lydia was received less warmly by her father and her sisters. Mr Bennet and Mary openly disapproved, Kitty was jealous, while Jane and Elizabeth maintained a stony silence. Wickham simpered and flattered in a manner so repellent to Elizabeth that she sought every excuse to avoid his company. On one occasion however, cornered by Lydia in the conservatory, she politely listened to an account of the wedding.

  ‘
It was at St Clement’s, you know, because Wickham was lodged there. We had to arrive on the Monday at eleven, and my aunt accompanied me in the carriage and kept telling me how I should behave, but I heard not one word in ten because I was thinking of my dear Wickham and whether he would be wearing his blue coat. And before that, I was worried that the wedding might not happen at all, for my uncle, who was to give me away, was called away on business, and we had the church only for the hour. But luckily he came back ten minutes later and we set out in time. However, I thought afterwards that the wedding could have proceeded anyway, for Mr Darcy might have done as well.’

  ‘Mr Darcy!’ repeated Elizabeth in amazement.

  ‘Oh yes, he came with Wickham, you know. But oh Lord, I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. They made me promise so faithfully!’

  ‘Then I had better forget you told me, and we will think no more of it,’ Elizabeth said.

  However, for the rest of the evening Elizabeth could think of little else. She wondered whether to inform her father, but having given her word to Lydia, decided on reflection that it would be better to seek further information. Accordingly, she sat down and penned a quick note to her aunt.

  Almost by return, Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving a reply, comprising two sheets closely written as follows:

  Gracechurch Street My Dear Niece,

  I am relieved to have the opportunity to inform at least one member of your family what has happened, but please let this go no further than yourself, or Jane at most.