Chapter 34

"Well Mama, and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, Mama, we did not all go."

Only in the parlour were Mrs. Bennet and her dearest child safe from storm clouds, like Mr. Bennet looking disagreeable or Mary playing her music too loudly. Dinner had not been the only place. Everywhere, on any occasion, now graced with the title of married woman, there were no bounds to foolish attitude and conversation. Her matronly airs became as much of an annoyance to her sisters and father than any of her childish tantrums had ever done.

"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"

"Oh, lord! yes—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and Papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."

"I should like it beyond anything!"

"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over."

"I thank you for my share of the favour," replied Elizabeth coolly, "but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands."

"Now that we've visited our neighbours," added Mrs. Bennet, "we ought to have a few little parties to celebrate you and dear Wickham. We must make merry while you both are still here. Such a short visit, we'll make the most of it!"

Lizzy and Kitty watched Mr. Wickham lounged on the divan, between the scheming two before the hearth. His back was against the cushion, legs crossed, sipping tea in perfect composure. One mirror on the wall lend them at the window, a glimpse of his features. A more uncomfortable position he could not find himself, and he was not insensible of it. He smiled, charmed their mother, playfully teased Lydia when the conversation was natural for it, and addressed the rest of the Miss Bennets as 'dear sister.' He played the part gracefully.

Later, when out in the roses, in isolation did Lizzy express to Jane and Kitty, her feelings which lacked of astonishment. Mr. Wickham was everything he should be, and to be expected of so awkward a family circle. It seemed worse when he and Elizabeth were in the same room. For Kitty, her feelings were hers alone. She had done nothing to incite awkwardness from her brother-in-law. For it hardly seemed like the old Wickham she knew and fancied, when he first donned the regimentals of the –shire. It was a handsome dark blue coat, new, tailored; with his hat and riding crop in hand, he was a model out of a catalogue in the mercantile.

"I wish he might converse more, if only to keep Lydia from babbling on," complained Kitty.

"He seems to feel the sense of shame that she lacks," remarked Jane. "I credit him for that."

"I'm sorry, Jane, but you're mistaken," laughed Lizzy, dryly. "He feels no such thing."

"He must; he seems to be aware that their homecoming is not so happy an occasion. If he cannot be humbled, I am satisfied that he is civil and dignified with the family."

"It's everything I expected to see in Wickham."

Lizzy couldn't speak much on the subject. It was best not to revisit old wounds. The mind saw plainly enough without observation being necessary; that Wickham's affection for Lydia was not equal to Lydia's for him. Their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his, evidence from the incriminating conversation recorded by her own hand. It was to be wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had his flight not been rendered necessary by distress of circumstances. He was not the young man to resist, in such case, of having a companion. Though perhaps, he wouldn't have been tempted if Lydia had not dropped hints, baiting a fish, with an imaginary dowry.

"Do you suppose she really deceived him?" asked Kitty. "Did he really believe she was going to be a wealthy heiress one day, like she said?"

Both her sisters pondered it long, until Lizzy answered in lower tones. "The fact that Wickham changed his plans, from Scotland to London, and Denny was aware of the matter, suggests that he acted on his own. I don't think he was the least bit deceived."

"I've been so worried that he was deceived by her lies, and what would happen once he found out she lied to him about Mr. Gardiner and her fortune."

"Ironically enough, Lydia managed to contrive the same outcome. We are too much indebted to our uncle."

"Hopefully, having come as close as she has to complete ruin," added Jane, "she will not be tempted and continue this habit of lying. I fear very much how our mother has turned a blind eye entirely. Now, she's a wife. How is she to manage a household, their finances? Whatever our uncle has paid to bring about the marriage, it's not going to last them long."

The bride was not to be bothered by such practical things. Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was, as ever, her dear Wickham on every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did everything best in the world, and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of September than anybody else in the country. The mother of the bride likewise could care less what should become of her child after the first month or the first year. Marriage was just as much a happy state of mind. Having had her fill of joy with her dear mama, Lydia found them in the roses, all three on the two stone benches. She had been seeking out Kitty, but instead, cornered all three of them.

"Ah, there you are!" cried Lydia. "I wonder where you were all hiding. I should've known better."

Kitty noted another new frock had been added to the collection. Lydia's new favourite colour seemed to be different shades of red, this one burgundy. Her sandy ringlets were spilling from a charming little purple beret. She seated herself beside Kitty, and even grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Lizzy, I never gave you an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by; when I told Mama and the others all about it. Are you not curious to hear how it was managed?"

"No really. I think there cannot be too little said on the subject."

"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat."

As Kitty and all the rest had heard it all before, her mind wandered miles off. Even when Lydia mentioned something about Mr. Darcy being present at the ceremony, though it quite captured the attention of Lizzy, it was all above her notice. It was a slip, which Jane urged Lydia to cease talking about if it was meant to be secret.

"Kitty, will you take a stroll with me?"

It was less to be considered a question, than it was a suggestion. Lydia looped her arm through Kitty's, setting off for the little walk and the copses. At first, they maintained a silence that lasted until they were hidden in the hedgerows, away from sight of anyone at the house. So much had changed in the last three months. Now, it was almost uncomfortable to be alone with her sister. How was it that they had gone from having everything in common, to almost nothing in common? It seemed only days ago they'd been fighting over that silly bonnet with the faux flowers and cherries. She was so used to being dragged about, by the arm or hand, wherever be Lydia's whim. Now, they strolled together with a subdued pace and placid manner. It seemed no different than if Elizabeth and Caroline Bingley walked side by side.

"I haven't had a chance to be alone a moment with you since I've come home," Lydia began. "Oh Kitty, how I've missed you. I've been so longing to talk to you."

"Have you?"

"It seems like time has gone by so quickly. Only days ago, I was Lydia Bennet, and now I'm Mrs. George Wickham. That's going to take some getting used to, for as much I like it by sound. Lord! Anyhow, I've been anxious to talk to you. I bought you this while I was still in town."

A tiny jewelry box was put into Kitty's hand. Under the lid, a tiny gold locket stared back at the receiver. Faint etchings of a flower of some kind on its front.

"Thank you, Lydia. It's lovely," Kitty said graciously.

"It opens up so you may put a silhouette or a lock of hair from your sweetheart inside."

"Ah, so it does; how charming."

"… Please don't be angry with me, Kitty. I couldn't bear it."

This snapped her to attention. "Angry?"

"It was all quite sudden and unexpected… Well, everybody in our family thinks I was monstrous by running off from Brighton. Truly, I did not just run off. I left Mrs. Forster a note, and I meant for her to keep it secret. I wanted so dearly to surprise all of you. For though it's nothing, so trifling, there's nothing to forgive her for; but I cannot believe it. I wrote a letter to her and Colonel Forster but a few days before the wedding. And what do you think? Colonel Forster wrote back a few short lines of congratulations. Rather formal for such good friends we are; yet, not a word from Harriet. Nothing except that both he and Mrs. Forster wished us joy."

"Lydia, you gave the colonel and Mrs. Forster a terrible fright when they received word of your disappearance. I cannot say I blame them."

"It's not even just them. Our uncle and aunt Gardiner, Papa, Jane, Lizzy, and Mary. I couldn't bear it if you don't forgive me. You are the best friend I've ever had all my life."

"… My best friend caused a lot me a good deal of trouble. The things you wrote to me in your letters, Lydia—had I known what it would lead to, I would not have kept your secret either."

"Oh Kitty dear, please, don't be hateful. I didn't wish to cause you trouble—"

"Well, you have done. We all have a right to be angry with you, and Wickham."

"I knew you'd be jealous," giggled Lydia.

"No!"

"It's plain as the nose on your face… Oh Kitty, please let's not quarrel. I want our homecoming to be peaceable and pleasant, especially since we won't see each other for some time. We're not likely to leave Newcastle for these two or three years, unless the war office says differently. For who knows what the future will bring, and it wouldn't do to quarrel with my best friend in all the world."

"We have quarreled a good deal in our life together," Kitty reminded her. "I don't know if we have always been the best of friends."

"Really, how many sisters don't, Kitty? So, we have quarreled," she shrugged, "and been hateful, naughty, silly girls together. I shall look back on my sixteen years here with fondness. Do you remember my first public assembly? Lord, what clumsy girls we both were, when we were first learning to dance! Remember when men like William Goulding or Adam Sloper were the great catch of all Meryton? What a long way we've both come, haven't we?"

"Oh yes!"

"And do you remember that time Lady Lucas' carriage lost a wheel? Remember how Mama could barely extricate herself from it, the way the door and the carriage were pinned?"

Kitty finally was capable of laughing along with her. "I don't believe any of us could forget that. Or do you remember when Papa and the old groom took all us girls to the creek, teach us to swim?"

"That was no fond memory. I nearly drowned!"

"You were perfectly fine, though very out of humour after your petticoat got lost downstream."

"Oh, Lord! I forgot!" Both sisters began to laugh once again. "Oh, and do you remember when one of the cows got loose during that blizzard some five years ago? Papa and all the men went chasing after that cow, practically cursing the poor beast. They searched three or four hours. Lizzy and Jane go out, catch it by its rope, and walk it back to the farm, when it was not even a mile from the house!"

"Papa was so furious," giggled Kitty. "After all that trouble, he and Mr. Hodges were ready to shoot that cow. And Mary was standing in the window, shaking her head, quoting something about vengeance or calling down evil on an ignorant beast of the field, or something." The memory produced a couple snorts from Lydia.

"And I shall never forget, as long as I live, Mr. Collins proposing to Lizzy in the parlour. Perhaps that wasn't so diverting for her, but it was better than anything I ever saw at the Little Theater in town!"

"It's true that we've all had a lot of fun all these years."

"Oh yes! So much fun... Well... That is all past now."

"Yes."

"Let us forget the unpleasant things. Only remember the good," admonished Lydia. "You know, in all the upheaval and fuss and joy of the wedding, I completely forgot to ask about Denny! How is dear Denny? And Pratt, Carter, all our old friends?"

Kitty suddenly froze in dread. She would ask! Her head felt full of air and her tongue turned to clay. She must not know!

"They're all well."

"Has there been any progress about Denny? He was quite mad about you, when I last spoke to him. I'm sure he'll write and propose to you any day now. I just know it!"

Laughter and tender memories, all that had softened injuries were swallowed up in a black hole. It was worse than pity, worse than insult. Sooner or later, Lydia would write to Kitty, wanting to hear more and know why Denny did not write in return. Then, the truth would be out. In this instance, delaying the truth, seemed an absolute essential. If it was to be painful and humiliating, so be it, but not in her sister's presence. Jane knew what she was about, expressing no feelings towards Lydia. Even while she was planning on playing matchmaker for Jane in Newcastle, as all the rest of them sat seething at the table, she still maintained dignity.

"I so wish you had come with me to Brighton. We'd have had a wild, merry time, Kitty! There were plenty of times I turned to the chair next to me, whether at dinner or cards, assuming you were right there. You've always been right there beside me. That's what makes this so hard, saying goodbye, leaving you behind." Lydia took hold of both her hands. "Please promise me, Kitty, that you'll come and stay with us in Newcastle. I'll throw you a party, all in your honour, and invite only the handsome, most charming officers of the –shire."

Though she gritted her teeth, she civilly managed to reply: "You know how I adore a party."

"And once we get orders from the war office, once peace has been declared, Wickham and I will take a house of our own. We'll invite you every year. We'll invite all of you! Each of you will marry… And when the happy day comes for you, Kitty, you and your dear Denny must take a house in the same neighbourhood as us."

"That sounds a delightful plan," she replied, with a mild blush. "But we shall see what the future holds for us all. For perhaps, it might be Denny… or some other gentleman may come along."

"Will you put it on? I'd like to see how the locket looks on you."

It was removed from the box and assisted onto Kitty's neck. A simple chain and pendent to be sure, and tasteful. A token of her sister's affection. A peace offering, and a consolation for having not been invited to Brighton earlier in the summer.

Of all the Bennet daughters, Mary was perhaps the least sorry to see the Wickhams go; though she could admit that Lizzy had more reason to be resentful. Still, Lizzy tolerated the presence of both impressively. Towards the end of their stay, their dynamic had reversed. Whereas Wickham had entered the house with smiling countenance, and equanimity, now he stood and walked about properly humbled. At some point during the visit, the facade or pretense, whatever remainder of friendship that still existed in his mind, met a swift and concise execution. Lizzy, now, was equal to meeting him at meal times, in the parlour, with the family, in the garden. It was amusing to observe a strong and cunning man put in his place, with a new, healthy fear, like a singing bird that went silent at the approach of a cat.

However, of all the sisters, Mary probably pitied her the most of all. She joined her voice to Jane in expressing hopes for a better life and wisdom with time; yet, agreed with Lizzy's perspective of their married life. It is doomed to be an unhappy one. Their youngest sister will never feel the full extent of the selfish actions that precipitated these events, until she feels real misery. Even then, likely, she will turn and blame the closest, convenient person. Of course, she will blame her worthless husband, then her parents who allowed her to go to Brighton, and the Forsters who did not inform her of his character, and all the parties involved in bringing about their union. No amount of money will ever be enough. All Mrs. Bennet's expectations for fine housekeeping, servants, a carriage, and so forth will be disappointed for want of economy.

Their mother kept the coach waiting for half an hour before the Wickhams were finally allowed to depart for the north. She wailed against Mr. Bennet's cruelty for refusing to take the family into the north country, as though it were surprising. All four of them watched their mother's favourite child repay so little thanks for sixteen years of doting love.

"Write to me often, my dear."

"As often as I can. But you know married women never have much time for writing. My sisters may write to me. They will have nothing else to do."

Why did Newcastle have to be so far? Why did they have to go there? It was no concern at all in Lydia's head. She longed for it, and will enjoy the new adventure. No different an attitude than when she left for Brighton, wishing with all her heart that the family had gone with her while secretly glad she alone could boast of the pleasures to be had there. Mary also surmised, one day eventually, that Lydia would be writing her mother with more urgent frequency. She had no need of a mother now, but when she found herself unhappy, in want of comfort or funds, she would find the time to write, and go to great trouble to be a regular correspondent.

Mr. Wickham did not escape Mrs. Bennet's tears and affectionate embraces, with promises to take care of her dear girl. All his early years of education in good manners, by the good grace of the Darcys of Derbyshire, were duly tested. Lizzy later confessed to Mary, of having discovered his one good, only admirable quality, patience. He borne with the pathetic parting, with pretty speeches to his new mother and father, and new sisters-in-law, as dear to him as sisters could ever be.

"He's as fine a fellow as ever I saw," remarked Mr. Bennet, as the carriage rolled down the road. Not just Lydia, both of them, were waving goodbye. "He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law."

Mrs. Bennet retreated to her parlour, with half her face smothered by a handkerchief. Kitty was bid to ring the bell for tea. The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet dull and depressed for days, by turns. In a way, this mood was almost as bad as she had ever been upstairs. At least, she had hope of a resolution to anxiety, in that her daughter would be married and return to her. No such relief existed in this case.

"I often think," she lamented, "that there is nothing so bad as parting with one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them."

"She's your daughter, Mama," Kitty replied most naturally. Friend and child were never associated as one and the same.

"This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter," said Elizabeth. "It must make you better satisfied that your other four are single."

"It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married, but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon."

When she would not be humoured, Lizzy prepared to don her apron, fetch Jane, and repair to the copses for watering and pruning of the hedges. If they teased their father with an invitation, though he might refuse at first, he would join them shortly. Mary was found in her usual place, back at the piano forte. No music played, however. Her eyes scanned pages of previous submissions and scribbled rough drafts, looking for a single bar to be proud of; nothing in hand seemed to give her any satisfaction.

"Do you think you'll try again?" asked Lizzy, standing over the instrument.

"I have not done so in months now," replied Mary. "I feel like all motivation for publication and prestige has proven to be vanity. I think I am done with it."

"No! You mustn't!"

"I'll just wait for the next letter of rejection, and the next, and the next. Until I've exhausted the list of all publishers and printing presses in the country."

"It might do well," considered Lizzy, "to think of looking out for a benefactor. That may just make all the difference. If you can get just one important person's attention, they can be the voice to get you into the London drawing rooms or the symphony hall… Our original plan was lost in the madness of this last month, but I intend to write to Aunt Gardiner again shortly, to reinstate our plans to take you to London."

"Under what pretext?"

"Mary, do you need a pretext? Are you afraid of Mama?"

"No indeed, but—"

"If we have to wait for an available appointment for any doctor, then it's essential that we make the request as soon as possible."

"That is true."

Lacking in visible enthusiasm, her sister paused and settled herself on the bench beside her. "Please tell me, Mary. What's the matter?"

"I hardly know, Lizzy… There's a part of me that wishes to forget everything that happened this last year, mainly being the arrival of the –shire regiment. I wish they had never come. If they hadn't, we would've been spared this grief in our family. However, I cannot disparage the memory altogether."

"May I ask, why don't you wish to write to Captain Carter?"

"Because I'm so ashamed." Mary laboured, giving no room for that treacherous sadness to wrench her lungs and throat. "I'm not so foolish to believe anything I say capable of mending what is broken. I don't wish to write. I don't wish to cause him further pain that I have already."

"That's a rather severe judgment of his character, don't you think? How do you know what he wants? Maybe he wants very much to hear from you! An insightful man will not hold words, spoken rashly in a moment, against you." It caused some doubt, some turmoil, but not enough. "Well, think of it this way; does it not merit an apology?"

"Of course."

"Then if it's on your conscience, relieve yourself, and Captain Carter. An apology is worth more than all your shame. If Lydia had been even half as contrite as yourself…"

"Do you forgive her?"

"If had she asked it, perhaps... As things are, I think I need more time before I can receive her presence with any tolerance."

"I'd be demanding a good deal to ask forgiveness... I don't know what I would say."

"You'll know what to say." An arm went around the shoulder, with Lizzy's cheek pressed against Mary's. "If Lydia had asked, I'd most definitely be affected, enough to consider forgiveness. Maybe that doesn't sound hopeful for you. But at the very least, I'd say that is very fair response to expect of Captain Carter."

Hours of reflection had not yet produced words. The mind was too full of musical notes than the English language, for several days to come. Instead of revising the current pieces, blank sheets were filled, with entirely new stanzas, new tempo, everything new. By the end of the week, Mary had a complete sonata in C minor.

Dear Captain Carter,

An apology is long overdue, and I'll lose no time now by telling you, I am sorry from the bottom of my heart. My choice of words and the manner in which they were expressed was undeserved. I look back on our parting with the deepest shame. Ever since then, I cannot go one day without thinking about it, without thinking of you. If you were within the distance of calling, I would bring you roses from our gardens. In place of them, I enclose a new draft of my own creation. It's not even been sent to London yet. I composed it, remembering our last party here at Longbourn, when you and your fellow officers sang for the company. It's not as merry or allegro as that performance. It's everything I wished to say to you, everything that I regretfully said to you, and what I wish had happened instead. I can say all of that in words, but I can say it better in music.

Sincerely,

Mary Bennet