Page 82 of Resilience

Lydia did not argue, and Elizabeth thought to herself that perhaps that was the greatest sign of how much her youngest sister had changed.

Their visit to Meryton lasted perhaps a fortnight, there was no point in remaining very long when Mr Bennet was finally recovering, and Mrs Bennet was so displeased to see them all. Only Mr Collins and Mr Darcy had visited Mr Bennet, though Darcy had summoned his physician from London to satisfy himself that all that could be done for the man was attended to.

Mr Bennet declined to see his daughters, and Elizabeth decided that Lydia’s continued recovery would be best contrived away from her disapproving mother and the matrons and old friends of her youth, and so the family departed to London while Mr and Mrs Collins travelled south to Hunsford.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Wednesday 4 November 1812

London suited Lydia far less than she thought it would and even less than she pretended it did. London was like a prison. To walk out, and actually enjoy it, one must go to the park where one was on parade. And who wished to promenade when one was dressed like a crow?

She hated the black gowns of her widowhood with a passion that bordered on grievance and regarded them as though they were a personal punishment rather than the required uniform of her situation. Each morning she examined herself critically, tugging at crepe sleeves and mourning ribbons as though they might relent under sufficient resentment.

“I shall never survive a full year of this,” she declared, as Elizabeth looked up from her occupation. “Widowhood is dreadfully depressing.”

“It is only four more months until you can wear grey and lavender.” Elizabeth raised a brow. “Widowhood is not meant to be becoming.”

“Then it ought not to be required,” Lydia returned. “Allow me to visit Cheapside and browse the shops? If I must wear black, I may at least imagine colours.”

With the well-meaning kindness of friends like Maria and Charlotte Lucas, Lydia had come to accept while in Meryton that she had not fallen so far as to be unworthy of respect. Slowly, she came out of herself, though her old liveliness never returned completely. She was grateful that the visit had not been prolonged, however. She was not at peace in Meryton. She did not know if she would ever be at peace again.

With Elizabeth’s permission, Lydia took the carriage whenever it could be spared, attended by a sensible maid, to haunt the modistes of Bond Street and Cheapside. She did not make purchases; she only imagined. She read history, poetry, and literature with Miss Darcy, allowed her friend to teach her how to play the harp, and meanwhile imagined lilac muslins, pale pink sarsnets, and a new bonnet trimmed with pink and green ribbon once her mourning was properly laid aside.

It was on such an expedition that the carriage was brought to a sudden halt at a narrow crossing, hemmed in by carts and foot traffic. The maid had just leaned forward to peer out when the door was opened from without, and a man slipped inside and ducked under the window.

The maid gasped. Lydia prepared to scream at the top of her lungs.

“Pray do not scream,” the stranger said quickly, pulling the door shut again in haste and pulling the shade over the window. “I beg you, just a moment.”

Lydia stared at him, heart leaping wildly, but his tone was not violent. His clothes, though dusty, were gentlemanly. His expression was harried rather than threatening.

“There is a man behind us,” he continued in a low, exhausted voice, glancing toward the window as the carriage began to move again. “One who would do me harm for an offense I did not commit. If I am discovered, he will destroy me.”

The maid looked at Lydia, pale with alarm.

Lydia hesitated only a moment.

“You may stay, for only a few moments, long enough to travel a block or two,” she said. “But if you attempt anything improper, I shall scream loud enough to bring half of London upon you.”

“Madam, you do me a kindness I shall never forget.” He inclined his head slightly from his odd situation. “John Willoughby.”

Lydia’s curiosity overcame her fear almost at once. “You look remarkably composed for a fugitive from justice.”

“One improves with practice,” he said lightly, then winced. “That was poorly phrased. I assure you, I am no habitual criminal.”

“All habitual criminals say that,” Lydia replied. “Even my late husband.”

Willoughby looked at her more closely, the black gown, her youthful appearance.

“You are very young to be out with only a maid,” he observed.

“I am a widow,” Lydia said, with a firmness that surprised even herself. “My name is Mrs Wickham.”

His expression changed; not to sympathy, but recognition. “George Wickham?” he asked.

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “You knew him?”

Willoughby barked a short, humorless laugh. “All scoundrels are acquainted, madam. If not by name, then at least by reputation. We’ve met.”