CHAPTER XLVIII

For one day at least, the celebrations of Mrs. Bennet's half century overtook the news from Westminster for the Meryton gossips. That the lady's second daughter was the Countess of Matlock, wife of one of the King's ministers, added a delicious local element. Who would have thought, not a decade ago, that little Lizzy Bennet, who used to trapse round with her petticoats six inches deep in mud, would become an esteemed personage? Though if reports from Lady Lucas were to be believed, these days Miss Eliza had more than a little of her disagreeable husband in her. Her condition certainly pointed that way.

The lady herself climbed out of her carriage that evening with no small amount of trepidation. She had agreed to arrive early: her mother did not say, but it was obvious to all her daughters – even Jane – that there was only one of her offspring she wanted to show off to her neighbours that night. Elizabeth did not mind: playing the role of countess kept her from her own feelings.

So, Lady Matlock stood up with her mother and father as they greeted their guests, all small talk and smiles. It being the country, most of the guests had arrived by eight: she hated herself for thinking it really was quite quaint. Of course, there was only one topic of conversation anyone wished to discuss. Time and time again Lady Matlock assured her Aunt Philips, Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long, even a Mrs. Croft, whose husband had recently taken on the lease of Netherfield, that the Queen really was in the wrong, having sullied herself with a commoner – a foreigner no less – and, besides, it was well known in the ton that she had treacherously born a bastard whist married to the King, and no, it certainly was not the case that the King had denied her access to her own daughter – the Queen was simply too mad to have cared to visit poor Princess Charlotte. Of course, she was entirely behind her husband and the Government: they had the country's best interests at heart.

Around nine, and with great fanfare, pastries from London were brought out – a small gesture from the Matlocks – and presents were presented. Mrs. Bennet managed to overcome her nerves long enough to sit at the centre of attention as her daughters and friends presented her with their gifts. From Miss Bennet, a book of prayer; from the Bingleys, an exquisite silk shawl; from the Harrisons and Mrs. Wickham, a collection of ribbons; and from Lady Matlock, a small parcel, left till last. The moment her mother reached for the little box, Lady Matlock had a sudden, inexplicable sense of having made a terrible mistake. Her gift had seemed such a fine idea, back in March when she had spotted them-

"Oh!" Mrs. Bennet cried. And then, cried. Great, clumsy sobs. "Oh Lizzy! I cannot!"

"Lizzy, what did you do?" Kitty scolded.

"Nothing! Mama?"

"They are too beautiful. I can't. Oh, if my own mother could see us all now."

Mrs. Phillips knelt by her sister and pulled the box from her hand. Opening it, she caught her breath. "They are lovely sister, you should put them in."

Reaching up, she undid her younger sister's pearl studs and replaced them with the two diamond studs. Lady Matlock felt all the awkwardness of the moment. The earrings had seemed so simple when she saw them in Burlington's: if anything, a bit modest. And they had not even cost that much. They were similar to her first diamonds, the ones he had bought her for her twenty-first. They had been married just two months. She insisted they were too grand and he laughed, not understanding. He always bought her earrings for her birthday–

Her mother recovered quicker than she did. Mrs. Bennet was already back up, working the room and fishing for compliments. Lady Matlock took the opportunity to slip away, down the hall, past the door to the servants' quarters, out into the small kitchen garden and the quiet.

Sage and rosemary filled the late summer air. For once it was not raining: not even a drizzle. She dropped onto the little stone bench and let her head fall into her hands. She was not a bad daughter – just a careless one. She could not be a bad daughter, or a bad person, because he had loved her. Didn't he? He sent her Keats and Aristotle; he asked her to run away with him; he brushed a curl from her face and told her she was pretty. Surely that meant–

"I am once again sent to check that you are not dead – Lizzy, are you crying again? Tell me what is wrong."

She kept her head down. "Nothing is wrong, Lydia."

"Pish!" Lydia sat herself down. "Kitty says you have been in an odd mood since April. And I have seen you cry more in these past two days than in my whole life. Now you will tell me what your boorish husband has done to make you so miserable. Or I will march down to London and will find out for myself."

"You've no way of doing that."

"I know it was something in Papa's paper yesterday, the one with the ink all smudged. The one I have hidden in my room."

She grabbed her hand. "You have it?"

"So, there is something the matter! Now tell me."

"I cannot. But Lydia, please, that paper. I need it."

"When you tell me why."

"How much of it did you read?"

"Enough."

"And did you – did you recognise any of the names, from the circles you and Wickham kept?"

"No, Lizzy. Why?"

Her head fell into her hands again. "Mr. Weir, the prisoner. He, knew of Wickham, through his network. He–"

"Ran messages. I read. Lord, Lizzy, what is it?"

"You cannot tell Lydia, you must promise me you will not tell anyone. Even Kitty. Especially Kitty. It is too risky for her, for Harrison–"

Mrs. Wickham smiled gently and brushed aside the unruly strands that had fallen over her sister's face. "Tell me Lizzy."

"We – I–" she began. "It has all gone so wrong Lydia. And I am so sorry, truly sorry, that I ever judged you. I've treated you so appallingly. I should never have told Jane to keep George and Fanny away from you. I know – I understand now how much heartbreak it is to be without them – It was only an affair of the heart, that is what he does not understand. I never, though I wish we had, we never – and now he is gone. I'll never see him again. I never even got to say goodbye–" She covered her face in her hands and burst into tears. They sat that way, with Lydia stroking her back for several minutes.

"You and this Mr. Weir?" Elizabeth nodded. "Oh Lizzy. And Lord Matlock, he discovered you?"

"Yes. I don't know how, but yes."

"That is why you are not at Pemberley."

"Yes," she whispered. "I have nothing, Lydia. Not even my fifty pounds. And it is not just me. Harrison's living; our uncle's business; Mama and Mary when Papa is gone. All of our security. I have been so foolish. I somehow thought, no matter how badly we fought, that it would never come to this. But now, if the King gets his divorce – which Fitzwilliam is helping him to do – I cannot see, I do not think – I am ruined Lydia. I will never see my children again."

Mrs. Wickham sat in thought for a moment. "Whenever I miss George and Fanny, I tell myself they have a better life with Jane. Better than any life I could have given them. She's so pure. She puts us all to shame. I miss them dearly, but – it was my choice, so they could have a better future." She turned to her sister and tried to coax a smile. "You should come live with me, if he kicks you out. We two may be disgraced together. I think you would like Manchester, now you are a Radical. Or maybe we should take you to Liverpool, if it is a blue coat you like. Lord, Lizzy, you must admit, it is a bit rich – after all the times you scolded Kitty and me for chasing after red coats. La! It is a good job Meryton is so far from the sea!"

Elizabeth managed a small laugh, before her sorrow returned. "The last time we met, he asked me to go to Boston with him. I keep thinking–"

"No, no you will stop that now," Lydia cried. "Thinking is almost certainly what got you into this mess. They do not like it, when we start thinking. That is what turned George off me: apparently I started making too many demands."

"I was reading too much."

"La! Now that is rich! Your husband is the most tedious book-hoarder. What on earth where you reading to get that response?"

"Wollstonecraft."

"Lord, Lizzy, you do not do things by half, I will grant you that. And so, this babe is–?"

"My husband's. There is no doubt of that. He – he was quite determined."

"Your Mr. Weir sounds nice, if he was willing to run off with you like this. I've always found it the surest way of keeping attention away. It was eight months when I could be certain George would take himself off elsewhere."

"Did that not bother you?"

"It did, at first, when I still fancied that I loved him. But men are arses, in general, and hypocrites. Once I realised that, I found I did not care so much."

"It is odd, of all of this wretchedness, I find the knowledge of his infidelity bothers me least."

Mrs. Wickham raised a brow at this. "Can I speak plainly Lizzy? I never thought you would be happy with Mr. Darcy. Yes, you had all that grandeur, but you are too much your own person to be someone's wife. And gentlemen need wives, even when they think they don't. You'd have done well as a mistress – but neither of us was ever going to be any good at obeying. Lord, but, we were both so young! I really did believe myself in love. Now it is only the law and God's will that keeps me bound to George. And – la! God willing – the law will soon send him halfway around the world – Oh! Sorry."

"No, no I am perfectly happy for you. Truly Lydia, I am. To have this second chance. I understand I should come to you for all my hats in future?"

"You will not! You will go somewhere very grand and stay away from my shop or you will scare my ladies away. They will not wish to shop with a countess, no matter how much of a Radical she may secretly be."

"I do not think she can be a Radical and a countess."

"No, not in such circumstances. Come, look at me Lizzy. So, your heart is broken. So what? So, your husband is an arse? So what? So, we will probably never get to speak like this again? So what? You must dry your eyes and go back in there and be Mama's most celebrated daughter and outshine us all. And then, you must go home and sit and grow this baby and pray for a boy. And if you have a girl, you will try again. And if you have a son, you will probably try again anyway – because your husband obviously still fancies you; he would not be so angry if he did not. And you'll do that, not because you're a good and dutiful wife, but because not one of those grand lords or ladies wants you in this position. Because you being there, you surviving, that discredits everything they think about the world and their place in it. That is your Radicalism, Lizzy. Survive them. Survive him. And then, eventually, I promise you things will be lighter again."

"I do not think I can," Elizabeth sighed.

"What other choice do you have? We have to get through the heartbreak, Lizzy, all of us who want something better. It's why we struggle, so those who come next do not have to. Whether it's Reform or just surviving to tomorrow. You have to struggle on, Lizzy. You have to survive."

Lady Matlock looked at her little sister. "When did you become so wise?"

"It's not wisdom Lizzy, it's just – experience. Now come on, or Mama shall send Mary after us again."

The two sisters stood and embraced, then returned arm-in-arm, savouring the small intimacy years and marriage had robbed from them.