CHAPTER XXXIX

Her father had advised her to think better of it. He had offered her a way out. She was three months shy of her majority; if he had said no, at her behest, she would never have been Mrs. Darcy. 'I know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband.' Her lively talents would place her in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. Unless she looked up to her husband as a superior, she could scarcely escape discredit and misery. But she had wanted it. At least, she thought she had–

Lady Hastings dealt her a hand. Lady Matlock realised she was losing. Swigging her wine, she tried to focus on her cards: all hearts and diamonds–

Mrs. Long thought she married for the money; Elizabeth overheard her say as much during their hastily organised engagement ball. She suspected most of Meryton thought the same, they were just more careful about not saying so aloud–

She lost another hand. Fifty pounds. Her annual allowance – though it was not her money she was gambling with, of course. Jane asked her, on the night of her engagement, how long she had loved him? She answered truthfully: from her first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley. She was not mercenary, but nor was she stupid. To be mistress of such a place and to have affection built on gratitude and esteem. What woman could want for more? But esteem could be worn down. And gratitude – was gratitude ever a good foundation? Mutual respect; common purpose; friendship, yes. But gratitude? Gratitude could wane.

Lady Matlock made her excuses to her hostess and left.

When she arrived back Lord Matlock was there in the entrance hall, returned earlier from White's than expected. Ten days had passed since Thistlewood's execution and he wore each one of them on his face.

As he had suspected events had not quieted. The day after the execution Alderman Wood had stood before the House of Commons and demanded that the villain Edwards be tried. That same villain was now somewhere off the coast of the Isle of Wight, making for France; supported by some powerful, unnamed benefactor. That is what the papers said. Matlock had dismissed the reporting as nonsense, which made his wife believe it all the more.

"Do you fancy a nightcap?" He asked, quite unexpectedly. "I find I am not ready to retire yet."

She agreed. He would have occupied her thoughts regardless, at least this way she might learn something of his mind.

They retired to the sitting room where she confessed to her great loss. Handing her a brandy, he assured her they could weather a missing hundred. Walking to the window she peaked through the curtains and looked up: plough; sisters; home. Behind her, her husband cleared his throat.

"I've had word from the Manchester justices. Wickham will be tried sometime late summer. What would you prefer for him?"

Stunned, she spun round to face him. "What?"

He was staring into his glass. "If they have reason to transport him, should they? What would you prefer for Lydia?"

She wanted rid of him. Lydia wanted rid of him. And yet– "She would want justice to be done fairly and free from interference."

"That does not sound like Mrs. Wickham."

"She has grown."

He grunted. She turned back to the window. Had she just condemned Lydia to further misery? She thought of Sarah Davidson; was it wrong to wish justice done fairly for one and not the other?

"What happens," she asked, "if they do transport him?"

"I suspect he would get around fifteen years. They would probably assign him servant duties; he has education enough to escape the chain gangs. Goulburn's brother is one of the Governors in New South Wales; he says it can be quite pleasant, actually, once the prisoners adjust."

"Assuming they survive the typhoid in the prison ships, and the voyage."

"Well yes," he muttered, "there is that. If he behaves though, within a few years he could apply for his wife to join him."

She stared at him. "I will not let my sister be packaged off to the other side of the world, especially if she has managed to rid herself of that man."

"I thought you would favour the idea."

"Why in heaven's name would you think that?"

Her eyes matched his stare, forcing his to flicker away. "It does not much matter. I was obviously mistaken." He stood and said with more firmness in his voice: "She cannot remain at the Harrisons' indefinitely. Mrs. Harrison may wish to show charity to her sister, but she would do well to remember her role in our parish. Remind her of that next time you write."

She had not written to Kitty or Jane since the executions: she no longer knew what to say. "Of course, my lord."

He gave her such a peculiar look. If she did not know his character so well, she might have expected him to cry. Unnerved and with a tenderness she did not realise she still held, she told him he looked tired and should retire.

Once he had left, she sat herself down in the window seat, drawing the curtain tight to block out the candles. Her finger traced the familiar constellations. What would have happened if Lydia was not discovered in time? If she and her aunt and uncle had travelled to the Lakes, or if he had not returned home a day early? If they had never met at Pemberley? If she had not been so lucky?

A story began to weave itself together in her mind. The beginning she knew well. Wickham would have abandoned Lydia, Elizabeth was certain of that. How long would she have been alone for? Weeks? Months? The rest of the Bennet girls were left in shame; Kitty would have cried every day. She heard her mother's laments and saw her father's decline. It was awful. Whenever her mind toyed with this dark alternative, she always supposed that eventually she would have gone to stay with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, partly to help the search, mostly to escape Meryton and Longbourn. Sometimes they found Lydia, sometimes they did not. When they did, it was rarely a happy reunion.

But now there was a new thread. Lydia, heavy with child, but still just sixteen, would find herself somehow at the Foundlings. Even in that state her speech and manner would mark her out as a well-bred girl. The hospital send word to her father promising to care for her until she was well and take in her child – for a generous donation, of course. Mr. Bennet would write to the Gardiners, and she and her aunt would visit Lydia the very same day. She would hold her little sister's hand and tell her she was loved, even if she was the stupidest girl in all of England. And maybe there was a young, apprentice physician there, with kind eyes. He would spot her and tell her she would make a good nurse. And once Lydia and little George were safe, he would call on her in Cheapside and think her very fancy because her aunt and uncle had a maid who sometimes managed to open the door before anyone else. They would go for walks in the Temple grounds and laugh, and everything would be easy and comfortable. He would get his licence and they would settle down, in Marylebone. Sarah Davidson might actually be her friend. She would teach the local girls their letters. Her children would be there, with the same faces, just different names: Robert, Thomas and Lydia. She would have to learn to cook and clean, but with his encouragement she would also read and write her ideas, maybe even those stories about her friends and sisters; about society and marriage. She would think sometimes, maybe when it was cold in winter, of that proposal she had turned down – and then she would remember herself. And she would be happy.