by C. P. Odom
Elizabeth could not share her father’s amusement. Yes, it was a curiosity as all of Mr. Collins’s letters were, but the self-righteous pontifications advising her father to throw off his wayward child forever and declaiming the ruin of the family irritated rather than diverted her. She found Mr. Collins’s declaration of having shared the information about the scandal with Lady Catherine and her daughter to be particularly abhorrent.
Sharing what should have been private is exactly what our family did not need, thought Elizabeth glumly. And, since Lady Catherine was made privy to the news, I am sure it was not long before she shared it with her nephew. Mr. Darcy likely shared it with Mr. Bingley.
How Mr. Darcy must have laughed in relief that I did not accept his proposal at Hunsford, else he would have been drawn into our disgrace! And he must have had even more reason to believe his intervention with Mr. Bingley had been justified since our family’s lack of sense and propriety was one of the signal reasons he separated Jane and his friend.
Always before, when thinking of Mr. Darcy’s actions, Elizabeth had been roused to anger towards the arrogance of the master of Pemberley, but time and events had moderated her resentment. Now, she felt only sadness at Jane’s loss because it was apparent her own family had been just as responsible for her sister’s present unhappiness as Mr. Darcy, who had been trying to protect his friend. He had made a mistake in thinking Jane did not return Bingley’s affection, but he had done so without malice.
Mr. Darcy was correct about the lack of propriety displayed by my mother, my younger sisters, and even my father, she thought morosely. Sensible parents do not permit their children to run wild as Lydia and Kitty had done. And Lady Catherine was right, which is even more disheartening. Neither Kitty nor Lydia should have been allowed out of Longbourn without a family escort. Their defects in decorum were so glaring that any sensible parent would have kept them safely at home.
When she reflected on Darcy’s disastrous proposal at Hunsford, all aspects of the event were tinged with melancholy. For the first time, Elizabeth felt regret for the way she must have wounded Darcy. She had been certain of the validity of her opinions at the time, but subsequent events had revealed errors in so many of the things for which she had castigated him.
She almost cringed as she remembered her feeling of triumph at saying, “I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
That had shocked and surprised him! And she had revelled in her ability to find the perfect words to pierce his arrogance, but now, Elizabeth remembered the stricken look on his face as he finally managed to say, “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings …”
How her accusations must have hurt him—to love someone as Darcy had done and then be described in such harsh, bitter terms by the very object of his affections! She had felt satisfaction at having issued what she considered well-deserved denunciations, but having comprehended her mistakes, her triumph now was ashes in her mouth.
She did not repent her refusal, of course. She still could not like the man and could happily live the rest of her life without meeting him again, but Elizabeth now realised that having the power to hurt another person meant that power had to be exercised carefully. To have used it as savagely as she had done had been a mistake, a defect in her character. She had instinctively recognised Darcy’s vulnerability and had not hesitated a second in wreaking her vengeance, and for that she wished she could apologise. Her cruelty had been inexcusable.
I received two offers of marriage within six months from two men who could not be more different, she thought dejectedly, and now I shall most likely never receive another. I remember talking with Jane so many times about what kind of man we should wish to marry, but such musings are all unthinkable now. Will any offer prove tenable, no matter our feelings for the man, just to have a roof over our heads and food on the table?
When their beloved father died, their family would either be forced to depend on the charity of relatives, none of whom were wealthy, or they would need to find employment of some kind. At least Jane and she had a possibility of being employed as a governess or a teacher, but finding such positions would depend on a large element of luck. And if they did secure such employment, how long would their tenure last? The future looked both bleak and uncertain.
Perhaps it was such a dismal future that caused Elizabeth to reflect on what would have come to pass if she had swallowed her pride and anger and accepted Mr. Darcy’s offer of marriage.
Her immediate thought was that he would have treated her badly, but almost as quickly, she had been forced to dismiss that possibility. Darcy may have been insulting in the way he listed the obstacles and degradations he had been forced to overcome in deciding to make his offer of marriage, but such intensity of emotion made it unthinkable for him to treat her as atrociously as she had first imagined. It was not at all sensible. She had simply yielded to her feelings of resentment rather than use the logic on which she prided herself.
Elizabeth had never before considered the possible result of accepting Mr. Darcy. If they had married, he would not have been able to keep Bingley and Jane separated unless he abandoned Bingley’s acquaintance altogether, and such a dire choice was most unlikely. Since Bingley was his closest friend and Jane was her dearest sister, they would have necessarily been in company together, first at the wedding and on numerous occasions thereafter. It was painful to realise an unforeseen aspect of her refusal of Darcy had been to make certain Mr. Bingley and Jane would forever remain separated. It had been a grave error on her part. She should at least have asked Darcy for more time to consider the decision she had made so quickly and with so little thought.
She should have listened to Charlotte when she counselled against allowing her fancy for Mr. Wickham to cause her to be unpleasant to Mr. Darcy, a man who was ten times Wickham’s consequence. Elizabeth might have decided to do as she had done at Hunsford, though in a more restrained manner, but she was mortified that it had taken the disaster in which her family was ensnared to make her question her response to Darcy’s proposal.
Perhaps she should have reacted as any other young lady would have done in her position and accepted his offer with pleasure or, at the very least, politely declined his offer and thanked him for the honour.
However, these thoughts meant nothing for they belonged in the distant past, and they would never be repeated. She was certain on that point.
If Mr. Darcy has an occasional thought about me, which is doubtful, I am certain it is only to wish never to be in my presence again. After being rebuked so dreadfully, he would never allow me another opportunity to hurt him in such a way.
The effect of these morbid thoughts could not fail to have an impact, and Elizabeth passed the entire day in her room. She did not emerge until hunger caused her to go downstairs for the evening meal, and she ate in silence, occupied by her thoughts.
Afterward, she returned to her seat by the window and did not leave it until well after midnight. She had been having trouble sleeping since she had returned from her excursion to the Lakes, and even after she retired, she tossed and turned for hours before she finally fell into a troubled and dream-filled sleep.
Chapter 3
Logical consequences are the scarecrows of fools and the beacons of wise men.
— Thomas Huxley (1825–1895), English biologist
Monday, September 21, 1812
East End, London
Lydia had felt a certain queasiness when she first arose on that fateful Monday morning, but the sickness did not fully take hold of her until she sat down to breakfast with Wickham. Almost as soon as he removed the cover from the cooked ham, the smell hit her nostrils, and she was barely able to reach the washbasin before she completely lost the contents of her stomach. Some of it slopped over onto the floor
and stained her already discoloured nightgown.
Wickham threw down his napkin in disgust and immediately took his coat from a hook on the door.
“Wickham, dear, where are you going?” Lydia called weakly, sitting down on the bed but keeping the washbasin in her lap, for she was by no means certain she would not need it again.
“Out,” was Wickham’s only reply, and then he was gone, even as Lydia felt another racking spasm twist her stomach.
At first, Wickham had no destination in mind. He wanted only to walk and think of some solution to his predicament. After he paid the landlord for the past week’s rent, there was enough money for another three or four weeks at the cheap inn, but he did not know what to do after that. He could not sell his militia commission as he might have done in the regular army. Militia commissions were only given to men whose families owned a certain amount of land, and he had deceived Lieutenant Denny in that regard.
He had left London for Hertfordshire in the company of Denny to escape the creditors who were searching for him, and the possibility of employment in the countryside was his best prospect, but he was now in the same trap as before. He had to go somewhere—do something—but he did not know where. And Wickham knew he would have nothing to live on in a few more weeks.
On an impulse, he decided to visit Mrs. Younge’s establishment in Edward Street. He had gone there when he and Lydia first arrived in London, but she had no room for him. Because of their former connexion, he knew she would have found room for him if it was at all possible, so he had not returned. Now, he thought it might be worth another visit. Anything was better than to return to Lydia in that small, grimy room, and he wondered for the hundredth time why he had allowed her to come with him. Her plan to go to Gretna Green had been ludicrous, and at first he had thought her joking. If he did not have enough money to stay with the regiment, how could he possibly have had the funds to go all the way to Scotland?
Wickham shook his head in resignation. All Lydia ever wanted to do was go out to the theatre or a ball. Did she not realise she had left behind all hope of attending such social events when she came away with him? His reputation, at least in Hertfordshire and Brighton, had been destroyed, but hers had been even more utterly ruined. It was past time to be on his way.
She was a foolish, silly girl and had no idea of what she had done to herself. Her company in his bed had begun to pall, and he would be glad to see the last of her. The thought struck him that, if he took all their money, he could travel a lot farther than if he had to pay for two.
When he got to his destination, he found Mrs. Younge in the small room she used as an office, making entries in a book and adding columns of figures. Wickham leaned against the doorjamb, smiling at the sight. She had not yet seen him, and she looked like a reputable shopkeeper, which she most assuredly was not.
“Well, it looks as though the blood-sucking landlord business is thriving,” he drawled, and the handsome woman glanced up quickly, a look of outrage on her face. The anger faded as she recognised him, and she nodded once before returning to her figures. When she was finished, she looked up at him with a wry smile.
“Well, as always, you unquestionably look the part of an elegant gentleman,” she said. Wickham gave her a mock bow, and she continued. “Have a seat, please. And tell me what brings you to my humble domicile this fine morning?”
He grimaced with distaste as he sat down, and he related what had driven him from his room.
“I must admit I am at my wit’s end. I am thoroughly sick of her, but that is not what keeps me from leaving. I simply do not know what to do now. I had thought a commission in the militia would provide an opportunity for a steady stream of income, but I had the most bloody awful luck you can imagine.”
“You always were more convinced of your skill at games of chance than you should have been,” Mrs. Younge said sternly, but Wickham only smiled and gave a sheepish shrug of his shoulders.
“As it happens, I have an opportunity that might suit you if you do not mind occasionally getting your hands dirty. But first, let us discuss your problem with this Miss Lydia Bennet. You have been in town since the beginning of August, is that right?”
“Dead on,” he acknowledged. “I came to see you on Sunday the first.”
“Very well,” she said, doing some quick calculations in her head. “Yes, enough time has passed. George, it seems your Miss Lydia is in the family way.”
Wickham’s mouth fell open in astonishment; then a look of concern crossed his face. “Are you sure?”
“I ought to know.”
Mrs. Younge had once kept the accounts for a house of ill repute until the owner had tried once too often and too forcibly to recruit her as one of his ladies. He had thought her refined bearing and elegant appearance and speech would be a remarkable draw. He had not known about the thin Italian stiletto she kept up the sleeve of her gown. She was not certain he had died, but she had not stayed long enough to find out. The upshot of her experience at his establishment was that she was well acquainted with the number of weeks it took for a young woman to show signs of being with child.
“It is called morning sickness,” she continued, “and it occurs in some women when they are first with child. It usually goes away in a month or so, but your Miss Lydia will probably have difficulty eating for a while. And, in about eight months, she will present the world with a little Wickham bastard.”
“Thank you for such an apt description,” Wickham said harshly; then his tone softened. “What was the opportunity you mentioned?”
“My business has been successful enough for me to put aside enough to buy another house in a more disreputable part of town. I can manage both quite easily, but I should not care to go into the part of town where the new house is located without an escort. If you still keep a rapier inside your walking stick—”
“I do,” he said, lifting it up to show her.
“—and if you do not mind using a cudgel on the occasional hard head who does not want to pay his weekly rent—in advance, of course.”
“Of course,” Wickham responded, and the two of them shared a quick, predatory smile.
“Then I could provide food and lodging here and a little on the side. Provided”—she smiled thinly—“you keep my bed warm on those few nights when I need a gentleman’s companionship.”
“Of course,” Wickham agreed again. He knew Mrs. Younge did not need such solace often, but she was always fastidious. She had no desire to take some uncouth, ill-mannered lout to bed. She preferred a gentleman—or at least a reasonable facsimile.
“Then it is agreed,” she said. A frugal woman, she pulled out a piece of paper, carefully tore off the top fourth of it, and wrote a name and address on it.
“Go back to your Miss Lydia this afternoon, and wait until she is asleep. Then get your things. I assume you have already determined a way to leave without the owner seeing you?”
Wickham gave a quick nod, and they shared another knowing grin.
“Then collect your belongings and come here tonight, but leave this behind,” she said, handing him the paper.
Wickham took it and looked at the name. “Bedford Charitable Home for the Unfortunate,” he read.
“It is a place where your Miss Lydia can at least find a place to sleep while she waits to have her child. It is not too far from your current lodgings, so she can walk there. I do not have much sympathy for her. She sounds like an exceptionally foolish young lady.”
“That she is,” agreed Wickham.
“But I do have sufficient pity to point her in the direction of possible succour.”
“Excellent!” Wickham said. It might not be much he was being offered, but it was better than he had thought to find.
“And then,” Mrs. Younge said, standing up and starting to unbutton the top of her gown, “you might c
lose the door and come into the bedroom. It has been a very long time since I have had a man—not since Ramsgate, in fact.”
Wickham grimaced at the mention of the place where that bastard Darcy had foiled their best scheme, but he was quick to step inside and close the door. When he entered the adjoining small bedroom, Mrs. Younge had already disrobed to the waist.
My God, Wickham thought admiringly, she must be nearing forty, but to look at her, you would swear she was not a day over thirty, or even five and twenty…
He took off his coat and began to work feverishly on the fastenings of his waistcoat, thanking his lucky stars he had decided to come her way that morning.
***
Tuesday, September 22, 1812
East End, London
When Lydia Bennet awoke the next morning, the taste in her mouth bore a reminder of her illness of the previous day, and that was almost enough to bring on the sickness anew. She lay back and closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and slowly the waves of nausea subsided.
When she finally felt well enough, she sat up slowly and swung her legs out of bed. She saw that Wickham had arisen, and she hoped he had not already left as he had the previous day. She had no occupation until he returned, and even then, he hardly wanted to talk. He simply sat by the window, drinking wine steadily, and staring down at the people passing by in the street.
She poured herself a glass from what was left in the bottle and sipped cautiously, hoping to rinse the vile taste from her mouth but also fearful of bringing on another bout of sickness. That was when she noticed Wickham’s small trunk was missing. That trunk contained everything he brought from Brighton, and it was not in its customary place under the window. Wickham had been sitting on it while he drank yesterday evening, and now it was gone.
Quickly, she opened the door of the wardrobe she shared with Wickham, and her stomach wrenched in panic as she found all his clothing, his shaving brush, and razor were gone. Only her meagre belongings remained, and she looked about the room wildly. Nothing belonging to Wickham was left, and the icy fear of abandonment—the secret fear of all dependent women—struck her for the first time. She hurriedly pulled on a robe and dashed out into the hall, intending to seek out the proprietor. She did not have far to look, for he was just coming up the stairs to the second floor.
