by P. O. Dixon
I rather supposed the grand lady had severed all ties with my husband and me. This was not the time to redress old wounds. Wanting to change the subject, Elizabeth said, “Mr. Collins, how is our dear Charlotte?”
The tall, heavy-looking young man, whose air was grave and stately and whose manners were very formal, was standing by the fireplace with Mr. Gardiner and Bingley. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Collins is in Hertfordshire. Indeed, she is spending this time away from her responsibilities in Hunsford with her family. She sends her apologies for not being here. However, I contend it is better this way. You see, my dear wife is perfectly comfortable in her station in life and, despite being a frequent guest in the home of my noble patroness, she is not so comfortable in the presence of nobility as am I.”
Elizabeth was more than happy when the end of the evening spared her further company with her ladyship. Lady Catherine detested Elizabeth as much now as ever before, it seemed, and Elizabeth might easily say the same of her sentiments toward her ladyship. Her feelings had not, however, kept her from attempting to heal the breach in Darcy’s relationship with his aunt as a consequence of Elizabeth and Darcy’s marriage. By Elizabeth’s persuasion, Darcy was prevailed upon to overlook the offense, and seek reconciliation. It had been in vain. Elizabeth’s earlier attempts at reconciliation aside, she firmly believed that Darcy must bear some culpability for his aunt’s behavior, just as he had expected of her where her relations were concerned. Later that evening, when Elizabeth and Darcy were preparing for bedtime, she told him as much.
“I believe you owe me an apology, sir,” Elizabeth said to her husband.
“An apology? Whatever for, my love?”
“Well—as I recall, you said the other night was the worst night ever with the strongest indication that my mother and sister were to blame. I contend that that night was nothing in comparison to this evening.”
“I take it you are referring to my aunt’s behavior. You must understand that she likes to make her opinion known. I have grown rather accustomed to it by now.”
“Is that your way of saying your aunt’s ridiculousness is somehow more tolerable than my mother’s? Why does that not surprise me?”
“It doesn’t surprise you because it shouldn’t surprise you.”
“What does surprise me, sir, is the level of your hypocrisy.”
“I do not make the rules, my love.”
“And what rule would that be? What is considered as ridiculousness in those you deem beneath your sphere is somehow estimable in those in the aristocracy?”
“Exactly. Is there any wonder I love you so much? Not only are you the most charming, the wittiest, and the handsomest woman of my acquaintance, but you are also a fast learner.”
“Oh, Mr. Darcy! If it were not for our ridiculous rule of never going to bed angry, you would surely find yourself in my bad graces for such a remark—rather insult layered in sweetness.”
“Yes, and you knew this about me, yet you fell in love with me still. You knew that I would never truly bear the ridiculousness of others and that is why you gave yourself so much trouble of shielding me from your aunt Mrs. Philips as well as several others during the days of our courtship. Do not suppose for one second that I was unaware of what you were doing or that I did not love you even more for your compassion.”
“First of all, you mean you would not truly bear the ridiculousness of anyone other than Lady Catherine.”
“Yes, that is precisely what I mean. Even you will allow that, despite my aunt’s eccentricities, there is no denying her benevolence. She is greatly esteemed by those in our circle.”
“I find it interesting, sir, that you consider her ladyship as anything resembling benevolent. I consider her manner a mixture of condescension and unmasked disdain.”
“No, I am rather certain the disdain did not manifest itself until after she had suspected you and I were engaged.” His spirits rising to playfulness even at Elizabeth’s expense, he said, “Let us not forget all the good fortune her actions inadvertently brought into our lives.”
“And this must be your excuse for her!” She threw up her hands. “You are unbelievable, Mr. Darcy!”
“You’re unbelievable, Mrs. Darcy. Have you forgotten all the warmth and kindness she extended to you when you were in Kent? Your relations, as a whole, are quite in arrears in terms of extending that same level of generosity to me.”
“Does your uncharitable assessment extend to Uncle and Aunt Gardiner, sir?”
“Oh, no—forgive me. The Gardiners’ generosity I must exclude from my grievances.”
“It is comforting to know that you find at least two of my relations unobjectionable. However, I believe I did Uncle and Aunt Philips a great disservice in limiting their time in your company and you in theirs. Perhaps I ought to make amends by writing to invite them to join as at Pemberley as well. Nearly everyone else from our families has descended upon us. It seems terribly unfair that they should be excluded. Why should they not have their share of the fun?” Elizabeth asked in a voice similar to Lydia’s.
Dread overspread Darcy’s countenance. “You would not dare.”
“Do not tempt me, sir. What’s more, I shall send one of the Darcy carriages to bring them here. Just imagine all the refinement and culture that might wear off on them during their travels, and they shall stay at all the finest establishments that you patronize as well. I am excited just thinking about the scheme.”
“Pray do not give yourself the trouble, I beseech you. Our party is quite large enough as it is.”
“I will forego my plan on one condition, sir.”
“Pray what condition is that? I will agree to anything.”
“You must desist in your hypocrisy and show my family the same amount of deference and tolerance as you show your own family.”
Darcy exhaled. “Is that all?”
“You seem rather too relieved. What exactly did you expect me to say?”
“Well—for a moment I thought you were going to tell me that George Wickham should be allowed to attend the dinner party. You and I both know it is Lydia’s favorite wish.”
“Sir, nothing you can ever do or say would warrant punishment as severe as that, I assure you.”
Chapter 6
The evening of Elizabeth’s dinner party finally had arrived. Everyone who was anyone in the county was assembled in Pemberley’s dining room. It was Elizabeth’s moment to shine—to impress upon those who questioned Darcy’s decision to eschew society’s expectations as well as his family’s by choosing a wife from outside his sphere.
Elegantly adorned women and handsomely attired gentleman sat at the host of tables appropriately arranged to accommodate the rather large gathering. At what would be the head sat Darcy himself. Elizabeth sat at his right, Georgiana his left. Beyond them sat Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam, The Earl and Countess of Matlock, Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her daughter Miss Anne de Bourgh, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Bingley, Miss Caroline Bingley, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, Mr. William Collins, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, Miss Mary Bennet, and Miss Kitty Bennet.
Deliberately interspersed between the Darcys’ relations were many of the wealthiest personages in Derbyshire and parts of the neighboring counties. Conspicuously absent was Mrs. Lydia Wickham. Elizabeth did not know whether to rejoice in her good fortune or worry that some ill fate had befallen her sister who had spent the best part of the day in Lambton with her dear husband. She settled upon the latter. Sensing her increasing concern, Darcy had taken Elizabeth by the hand just before the first course. “If something has happened,” he said in a low voice, “we would have heard about it. You must not make yourself uneasy. Trust me, all is well.”
The luster of fine china, the sparkling glitter of exquisite crystal glasses, and the warm glow of the host of candelabras all about the room spoke not only of Darcy’s wealth but to the elegance of the occasion. At length, the soft buzz of genteel conversation, the gentle clatter of sterling silver eating utensils, and the
occasionally raised glasses in a toast to the mistress of Pemberley conspired to make Elizabeth forget that her youngest sister had forfeited her part in the evening’s gaiety.
Things took a decided turn when the third course was being served and in waltzed Elizabeth’s wayward sister. As though realizing how late she was, Lydia placed her fingers on her mouth. “La! I am ever so sorry for my tardiness, but I could hardly tear myself away from my dear Wickham, who so wanted to be here himself.”
Elizabeth felt the color spread all over her body. Remembering herself, she looked at the butler. “Pray prepare a place for my sister.”
Mrs. Althea Grantham, who resided at the neighboring estate and whose husband had more than six thousand pounds a year, said, “Pardon me, young woman. Did you say your husband’s name is Wickham?” Speaking to no one in particular, she continued, “What an uncanny coincidence this is. If I recall correctly, the late Mr. Darcy’s steward was named Wickham.”
“Coincidence? I think not. The late Mr. Darcy was my Wickham’s godfather. In fact, my dear Wickham was always Mr. Darcy’s favorite, though one would never know it. Did you know that my Wickham is not allowed to set foot at Pemberley?” She looked at her sister pointedly. “Is that not true, Lizzy?”
“No doubt you regale in discussing your husband; however, I pray you will give us all leave to enjoy this evening by avoiding those matters best discussed in privacy.”
“I agree, wholeheartedly, with Mrs. Darcy,” said Lord Edward Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s uncle, who prided himself not only because he was a peer, but because he was the head of the noble Fitzwilliam family.
Lydia said, “La! I do not know what all this fuss is about. My Wickham is the best man I know. Even you dare not argue with me, Lizzy. The whole world knows he was your favorite for the longest time.” She turned to her mother. “Isn’t that true, Mama?”
Normally eager for her share in the conversation, Lydia’s words rendered Mrs. Bennet speechless.
This was insufficient inducement for young Lydia to hold her tongue. “Many a young woman would love to trade places with me. Am I not correct, Georgiana?” Lydia took a sip of wine in an attempt to mask a knowing simper. “From what my Wickham has told me, Georgiana might have been the one in my place, only she is not as clever as I am.”
Heads lurched, jerked, twisted, and turned with Lydia’s pronouncement, not that she took any notice of the turmoil overtaking the room. Lydia said, “You should see the way they stop and stare whenever my Wickham and I enter a room. He is the most handsome, the most charming man in the world.”
Elizabeth was appalled. That wicked man had indeed told his silly wife things she did not need to know, and soon everyone in the room would be privy to the Ramsgate affair if she did not do something. She looked at her father, pleadingly, to entreat his interference.
Taking the hint, Mr. Bennet, an odd mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humor, reserve, and caprice, picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. Standing, he said, “Lydia, my dear, I know this is rather untoward, but I really am in need of a word with you.”
“Oh, Papa! Can it not wait? I only just arrived, and I am famished. My Wickham and I had no time to eat as a consequence of our being forced to spend so many of our nights apart from each other.”
“Come along, my dear,” said he, assisting his daughter to her feet.
All the pride and joy that Mr. Bennet felt over the marriages of his two eldest daughters to two honorable and, yes, wealthy young men was nothing in comparison to the shame he now suffered as a result of Lydia’s inexcusable behavior that evening.
This is my fault, he silently berated himself. Certainly, years of over-indulgence and adoration by a mother of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper played a large part in how Lydia turned out, but years of neglect and disparagement by a father was the greater factor. A reflective glance over the entirety of his youngest daughter’s life gave him cause to consider that she wanted nothing but attention. With four older children and not one of them a male child to carry on his name and inherit his estate, Mr. Bennet simply had no such attention to give.
What had he done during those times when Lydia needed a father’s guidance as well as a father’s hand but laughed at her? What had he done when she needed a father’s presence as well as a father’s supervision but stolen away to the solace of his library? And what had he done when the daughter whom he boasted aloud of being his favorite warned him that no good would come from his indifference toward allowing young Lydia to go away to Brighton that fateful summer but made sport of her concern?
“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love,” he had said upon seeing that Elizabeth’s whole heart was in the subject. “We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man. He will keep her out of any real mischief. She is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton, she will be of less importance even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her of her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life.”
He shook his head in remembrance of ever having uttered those words. I have no one to blame but myself.
“Papa,” Lydia cried, thus interrupting his silent self-recriminations, “why did you insist on speaking to me in private? Could whatever it is that you wish to say to me not wait for Heaven’s sake? I hardly had a bite to eat all day, for I fully intended to make up for my lapse at dinner and now what am I to do?”
“Perhaps if you had spent more time eating and less time attempting to make yourself ridiculous in front of your sister’s guests, there would have been no need for my intervention.”
“La! I was merely doing my best to add a bit of liveliness where there was none.” With a self-satisfied smile, she said, “Lizzy and her haughty old husband ought to be thanking me.”
“Have you ever once considered that it is you who ought to be thanking the two of them?”
Her mouth gaped. “Why would I thank the two of them when they have so much and my Wickham and I have so very little? Those two deserve no such gratitude from me. Darcy especially does not, for his selfishness is what led to my husband’s diminished circumstances. My Wickham reminded me of as much when he and I were together earlier.” She shuddered in feigned disgust. “Oh! Papa, it was so very dreadful to have to spend the better part of the day in that drab little room in the inn at Lambton. I hope Lizzy and Darcy are pleased with themselves for forcing my Wickham and me to endure such dreadful conditions.”
“Lydia! Even you cannot be so foolish as to fail to realize that Darcy’s benevolence is the reason you are not living on the streets of London. You cannot be unaware that he would not rest until he found you, and that he practically forced Wickham to marry you to spare you a life of disgrace. He saved our entire family’s reputation and at considerable cost to himself, I must concede. He paid the bulk of your husband’s debts. He paid for your husband’s commission in Newcastle. The entire expense was upwards of ten thousand pounds, and this is how you repay him.”
“Found me!” Lydia exclaimed with excitement. “How do you suppose he found me when I was never lost? I was safe and secure with my dear Wickham the entire time. As for practically forcing my husband to marry me, that is nothing more than a deliberate falsehood. My Wickham could hardly wait to marry me. He promised me he would make me the happiest woman in the world every single day and night. How dare Darcy try to take credit for that! Although none of this ought to come as a surprise to me. My Wickham tells me time and again how much Darcy likes to have his own way.”
Mr. Bennet said, “Pray what explanation did your Wickham provide for the ten thousand pounds Darcy spent to patch-up your husband’s debauched affairs?”
“I posit ten thousand pounds is merely a pittance to what Darcy can afford, and, wha
t’s more, I am sure he would not have parted with a single shilling if not for his ill-treatment of my Wickham for the better part of his life. As well informed as you are, Papa, you surely must know that Darcy denied my dear Wickham the living in Kympton that ought to have been his.”
Mr. Bennet threw up his hands. There was no amending his failures in regards to Lydia, and he did not mean to spend another minute of his time attempting to do so. I have done my part, at least for this one night, by removing her from polite society. I have neither the inclination nor the patience to do more. Thus resolved, he walked to the door and, without looking back, he quit the room. Reining in Lydia is no longer my concern. She has a husband for that.
He did, however, remain close by outside the door to assure that Lydia stayed put for the duration of the meal. Later, when he observed the women making their way to the parlor, he decided to abandon his post and join the gentlemen for port.
Not only did he need a drink, but he also needed a good measure of sensible conversation to wash away the memory of the time spent earlier alone with Lydia. The first person he saw upon entering the increasingly smoke-filled room was his cousin, Mr. Collins. Lydia’s foolishness was nothing in comparison to what Mr. Bennet might encounter in that quarter. Congratulating himself that William Collins was one man he did not have to call his son-in-law, the elderly man went directly to the opposite end of the room. At least he could take credit for having done something right by not siding with his wife when she insisted that their second eldest daughter accept the foolish man’s hand in marriage. Oh, what a grave mistake that would have been, he considered with a swift shake of his head.
As a man of the cloth, Mr. William Collins thought it was his solemn duty to distance himself from the Bennets and to abdicate himself of the appalling behavior of the youngest Bennet daughter in the eyes of all those gathered there who would one day be his peers.
