A Private Performance (21 page)

“What do you imagine will be her feelings as she reads your letter? You fool, do you not understand how important your family is to us? How would we have obtained these lodgings without the money Lizzy sent you when we were given notice at the last place? Will I ever be promoted without help from your damned brother-in-law?”

Lydia had grown so accustomed to Wickham's expletives that she was no longer offended by them.

“She owes me aid, for she is rich, and must provide for me if my husband cannot.”

Wickham flushed. “I could provide for you if you could bring down your expenses.”

“Bring down your own, then. If you dined more at home … I daresay you regret marrying me.”

This was tempting, but Lydia would never be among those women who had outlived their usefulness to him. Wickham could never leave her without sinking his reputation irrevocably, and he desired to keep some sway over her. So he contented himself with: “My only regret is not getting more out of Darcy. If I had known he was after your sister, I would have got another five
thousand settled on you. Now, get paper and pen and write an apology.”

The Bingleys set off for Yorkshire after a short stay, leaving Kitty to follow with the Darcys. There was but a month available for courtship before Kitty must return to Hertfordshire. It was a sweet month and did not suffer from being so short.

Georgiana received another invitation and had the agony of a decision.

“Fitzwilliam, our uncle has invited me to Radwick Hall for Christmas. Perhaps I ought to go?”

“Good Lord, surely you have no desire to go there, Georgiana!” said Darcy.

“I should not mind it. I would like to see the children; they must be much grown.”

“There will be, with their size, a corresponding increase in their roughness and noise. You had much better come with us to Rushly.”

“My uncle writes that Lady Catherine will be there and would like to see me after all this time,” she ventured.

“Your aunt desires to ascertain the damage done by association with Elizabeth, no doubt.”

“Then I shan't go.”

“Go, by all means,” said Elizabeth. “I could send you with a note, challenging her ladyship to find the ways in which I have contaminated you.”

“Pray don't, Elizabeth! I should be frightened indeed to carry such a message,” cried Georgiana.

“Elizabeth is joking, Georgiana.”

“Oh, I see. Henry will be there.”

“Henry will keep, never fear!” reassured Darcy.

“Henry's keeping qualities may be considerably diminished by his expectations,” said Elizabeth. “I should not be surprised to see him go off quite soon.”

“A wonderful increase must have taken place in our cousin's popularity, Georgiana,” said her brother. “Now he is heir to Rosings, a stream of young ladies will visit Lady Catherine to judge her likely longevity.”

“I should think them horrid and would get him away from them, if I could!” she replied.

“We may be certain Henry will not remain a bachelor much longer. You cannot be his favourite forever.”

“I only meant I like to see him.”

“Fitzwilliam, if it is what she wishes, why can she not go there?”

“Certainly, she may, although she will better enjoy herself with our party. However, if it is really what you wish, Georgiana, go to Radwick Hall, by all means.”

“No, I shall come to Rushly.”

Darcy said, “Excellent. It pleases me to see you consider your own wishes, rather than always falling in with others' plans in order to please them.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“Why do you laugh, Elizabeth?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon. Did you intend no irony in that last statement?”

She turned to her letters. On the top lay an envelope directed in the distinctive handwriting of Lady Englebury. She read through two pages of her ladyship's stimulating news, Darcy glancing at her at times. She came to a hasty postscript.

“What news!” she cried. “Fitzwilliam, Georgiana, just listen to what her ladyship has to say.

‘The dowager countess has, just now, been safely delivered of her babe, for I have her here with me at Deepdene. The fearsome child came into the world, full of loud cries, a great kicking of its sturdy limbs and waving of fists. 'Tis a girl! Captain Joseph Westcombe is become Earl of Bradford and, one day, Marquess of Englebury and I'm glad of it, for he is a deserving man.'”

“I must endorse her ladyship's comment,” said Darcy. “This is one occasion when I heartily agree with her.” He turned to his sister. “What say you, Georgiana? Are you not delighted that Henry's good friend is so rewarded by fortune?”

“I … I … that is, of course.”

Her brother and sister stared at her. Her cheeks were covered with the deepest blush and she fled from the room.

After a time Elizabeth followed her. Georgiana, with admirable calm, said: “I had begun to see Captain Westcombe as my own good friend. I am glad for him but I was selfishly upset that there is an end now to our pleasant conversations.”

“Why should that be? I cannot imagine he will drop all his old friends now he is ennobled.”

“He will never have the same easy way.”

Elizabeth looked keenly at her sister. The corners of her mouth began to twitch. Georgiana looked aghast. Colour flooded back into her cheeks.

“No, Elizabeth! I do assure you, you are quite mistaken.”

 

Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam spent their second Christmas together in the warmth of a family party at Rushly Manor. They were a happy little group: Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, Mr. and Mrs. Bingley (with a decided bump soon to become little Bingley), Kitty with her intended, Georgiana and Caroline.

Caroline was impatient to go to London with the Darcys, where she would stay with Louisa and Mr. Hurst. She had depended upon the Twelfth Night Ball as an event compelling the Darcys to be in London by the New Year. Now she found that their departure was to be delayed until the middle of January, at the earliest!

“I am excessively delighted that we shall stay to see the babe,” she cooed. “I was quite afraid you would not like to disappoint Lady Reerdon.”

“Lady Reerdon?” asked Elizabeth, puzzled. “Do you mean the Twelfth Night Ball? She will not miss us in that crowd. I have long since written our excuses.”

 

Eleven days after Christmas, Jane presented her husband with a baby girl, pronounced by all who saw her to be quite the most beautiful baby in the world. Tiny Elizabeth Angelina Bingley gurgled and slept and did a few unmentionable babylike things through Topsy-Turvy Day, and, unfortunately, Twelfth Night as well. Of the nocturnal hazards, Jane was blissfully unaware, and Nurse would not have had it otherwise.

Two more weeks passed quickly by. Edward Turner had returned to his duties. Mrs. Bennet wrote frantic notes to Kitty about wedding clothes. Mr. Bennet would meet them in London to convey Kitty home. Caroline declared she could never tear herself away from little Elizabeth Angelina, but somehow she hardened her heart, and was first in the carriage for the departure to London.

T
HE INN AT
M
ERYTON HAD
distinguished guests in February. Were it thrice its size, Longbourn House would not be big enough to hold both George Wickham and Fitzwilliam Darcy. That the Darcys preferred the inn was a relief all round.

Lydia travelled to Hertfordshire in Bingley's carriage, and was welcomed back to her mother's arms with joy. Wickham was still in London, on business of dubious respectability, but he tore himself from his cares to arrive in time for dinner on the evening before Kitty's wedding. Mrs. Bennet had arranged one of her little family parties. By this, Mr. Bennet grumbled, she meant a party to show off her family.

All were assembled in the drawing room, when Lydia swaggered in on her husband's arm. Mrs. Bennet had long forgiven Wickham's attempt to ruin her daughter; a patched-together marriage is still a marriage, after all. She hardly knew of which son-in-law to be proudest: Bingley, with his charm and wealth; Darcy, with so much wealth he did not need charm; or Wickham, with his silver tongue, dashing ways and red coat.

“Mrs. Bennet,” Wickham declared, “the kindest and most gracious lady ever to hold the post of mother-in-law! Your wonderful appearance gives me the inexpressible delight of knowing that you are in good health.”

“His delight is not so inexpressible that he is rendered silent,” Darcy muttered to Elizabeth. She squeezed his arm and laughed softly.

“Treat his performance as a comedy,” she whispered. He smiled ruefully.

Wickham moved on to coo happily over his father-in-law, who replied: “I see you are the same as ever.”

“I hope you will never find me changed, sir,” said Wickham.

“Elizabeth, my friend of old.”

“Mr. Wickham, how are you?” she replied.

“Darcy! We meet again.”

Darcy bowed coldly, and Wickham dropped the hand he had begun to extend to him.

“Good evening, Mr. Wickham,” said Darcy, with frigid correctness.

Wickham changed his mind and extended his hand again.

“Come, Darcy, will you not take my hand?” The whole room fell silent. Wickham looked laughingly at Elizabeth, and she turned her head away.

Darcy took the offered hand. On a being less august, his expression may have been described as sulky. Moments later, Mrs. Bennet indicated that it was time to move to the dining room. Wickham turned back to Elizabeth and said: “Come, sister, we need not stand upon ceremony. Will you take my arm?”

“You forget yourself, sir,” said Darcy.

Elizabeth, in the charming manner that could soften her censure, said, “Sometimes ceremony is a useful platform on which to stand, Mr. Wickham, if it means we avoid offending our friends.”

Lydia uttered a little gasp of anger and surprise, but Wickham turned to her and shrugged. Sir William Lucas stepped up to Elizabeth and bowed.

“I thank you, Sir William,” said Elizabeth. She took his arm and moved away.

Mr. Bennet gave his arm to Lady Lucas. Darcy made a courtly bow to Mrs. Bennet, and she put her hand upon his arm.

“I thank you, sir,” she replied, preening somewhat, and sailed ahead into her dining room, leaving any ruffled feathers to smooth themselves.

 

That night, Mrs. Bennet was kept busy with visitors to her dressing room.

Kitty declared that she had never said she would get married, had not meant it, and was sure that her gown did not become her.

“You will look very well, Kitty. 'Tis nothing but a fit of nerves,” said her mother.

“La! You are strange!” cried Lydia. “On the eve of my wedding, I could scarcely breathe for happiness. When the glorious day dawned, I had no thoughts but of love.”

Kitty burst into hysterical sobs, and locked herself in her room.

“This is no time to bring up that old story, Lydia,” scolded her mother. “Your triumph is over. It is Kitty's turn.”

Lydia flopped down on a footstool and, looking in the mirror, said: “I thought Mr. Darcy behaved very shabbily to poor Wickham, giving him his hand so grudgingly. As a child, Wickham was such a favourite with Mr. Darcy's father, you know.”

“Men will have their quarrels, dearest girl. I never inquire into them.”

“There was a time when you did, Mama! You took Wickham's side before Mr. Darcy married Lizzy!”

“Did I, Lydia? I really don't recall.”

“And Lizzy is so above herself that she'll not let dear Wickham take her into dinner! She is become as proud as her husband.”

“I cannot agree with you, Lydia. Sir William is a knight of the realm! It is his due to lead Lizzy into dinner. He would have been disappointed and perhaps a little angry to be denied precedence. I'm sure that Mr. Darcy would never dream of offending a lady by refusing to partner her because he has a fancy to partner someone of less consequence.”

“I did not expect you to side against my husband, Mama.”

“I am excessively fond of Wickham, as you know,” said her mother. “None the less, we must remember what is due to Mr. Darcy.”

Lydia threw down her mother's lace cap, with which she had been fidgeting.

“Come, Mama, you detest him! I know you do.”

Mrs. Bennet looked at her in amazement. “What put such a thought in your head, Lydia? When I see Lizzy stepping out of her fine carriage in her beautiful clothes, and when I read her name in the newspaper, you can hardly expect me to dislike her husband.”

There can be no reply to an argument such as this, so Lydia changed the subject.

“I must say Mr. Turner is as plain as a pike but I suppose he will do for Kitty.”

“Your sister likes him well enough. Mr. Darcy holds him in high esteem also, which will no doubt prove very useful.”

“What use will Mr. Darcy ever be, pray?” asked Lydia, somewhat forgetfully.

“He is on friendly terms with the Bishop of Derby for one thing and with the Archbishop too, I shouldn't wonder. I may live to see Kitty installed in a bishop's palace.”

Lydia scowled. “What fun would a bishop's wife have in society?”

“I know not, but she would have a deal of consequence.”

Lydia stared gloomily at her reflection. In the silence, Mrs. Bennet's imagination carried her into a rosy future, in which Kitty was married to a bishop, Lydia's husband promoted to general, and even Mary married well (perhaps to a baronet—stranger things have happened). At that moment Mary came in, wearing a wrap most middle-aged ladies would disdain, her mouth twisted up primly.

“Mama!” she whined. “Wickham is smoking cigars! I did not give up my room to have it polluted.”

“My husband would never smoke in a lady's bedroom, you … ugly old maid,” cried Lydia.

Mary bristled up. “Did you hear what she called me, Mama?”

“Yes, yes, and it was foolish of you, Lydia. Mary is hardly an old maid at twenty.”

Mrs. Bennet picked up her cap and was straightening the ribbons, when Lydia took advantage of her inattention to poke out her tongue at her sister. Mary said piously: “I forgive you, Lydia. There were worse epithets applied to you in the district when you ran away with Wickham. However, I shall remember my Christian duty and not sully my lips by repeating them. Goodnight, dear Sister.”

Lydia shrieked and leapt up.

“Goodnight, Mama,” said Mary, and slipped out of the door, before Lydia could reach her.

 

In the morning, Kitty recalled that she had meant to marry Edward, and owned that she did look well in her gown. As she came out of the little church, even Lydia admitted to herself that the groom had a nice face, especially when he looked tenderly down at his bride.

At the wedding breakfast she suffered a stab of envy at the array of gifts.

“We might have received all this, Lydia,” whispered Wickham, sourly, “if we had not run away.”

“Yet how romantic it was, Wickham!” sighed his wife, putting her arm through his. He suffered it to remain there.

“Kitty,” said Aunt Gardiner, “this Wedgwood dinner setting is lovely, and very like the one you admired at Pemberley.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “Mr. Darcy first thought it might please Kitty last July.”

“Last July!” said Kitty.

“Certainly,” said Darcy. “That was when we breakfasted at Kympton and Mr. Turner was so very thorough in explaining his affairs to me.”

The bride and groom looked at each other and blushed.

 

Another triumphal day ended for Mrs. Bennet. Having disposed, in matrimony, of four of her five all but portionless daughters in eighteen months, she had every reason to congratulate herself.

At noon, Kitty and Edward departed for Derbyshire.

The Darcys returned to London, where many commitments awaited them. Mr. Bennet regretted the shortness of their stay. For his good lady, however, the actual presence of Elizabeth and her husband brought little pleasure in itself: she felt uncomfortable with Darcy, and valued Elizabeth the least of all her children. Their existence, somewhere in the world, was gratification enough for her vanity.

Mrs. Turner senior was so taken with the charm of Mr. Wickham that she made room for him in her carriage, as she was going to London. Wickham said he would be back in a few days to collect his wife and return to his duties in the north.

Jane and Charles stayed with her family a week longer, before returning to the vicinity of tiny Elizabeth Angelina. After a few days, a letter from Wickham informed Lydia of his continuing “difficulties with business matters”, and suggested she travel with her sister as far as Yorkshire. Thus he was able to give Bingley the trouble of conveying her northwards and of any expenses along the way.

Wickham finally returned to Newcastle, completely out of funds, to stay in the officers' quarters. He never did call at Rushly Manor for Lydia, and she did not seem surprised. They had, in fact, let their lodgings for four months, intending that Bingley would support her for that time before sending her home in his carriage. By then, Lydia's annuity was due, and they could take up their lodgings again.

The novelty of Rushly Manor wore off quickly. In no time at all, Lydia was complaining bitterly about the dullness of Yorkshire and muttering about Elizabeth's meanness in not taking her to London. The next summer she would go to Pemberley, whether Elizabeth invited her or not.

Jane was too kind to say outright that her sister's presence in her home was a trial, but some discontent slipped between the lines of her letters.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Elizabeth. “Poor Jane's patience has been found to have its limits at last. She very nearly says, in this letter, that she almost wishes Lydia were gone.”