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Her family has its imperfections, which may require some intercession. I am not quite certain how it will be accomplished, although I feel sure that exposure to their betters can only be beneficial.
But my bride, of all of them, is witty and charming. I am unconcerned regarding her ability to navigate the society of her betters.
Blast it, could he have thrown in the word ‘betters’ more often? As if Elizabeth, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, had any betters! Were her ‘betters’ Lady Catherine and Lord and Lady Matlock, all determined to see him put away or dead, even? Was his own sister, who had fallen victim to the seductions of a rogue, a ‘better’? Yes, Lizzy was witty and charming—but she was so much more.
Again and again, I reassure you: I have considered Georgiana’s welfare. My bride is a good influence, although from a regrettable family. I know I sacrifice in this marriage. Her family’s insufficiency of income and conduct are difficult to accept. Do not think me mad.
There was nothing more. Evidently, this was the point at which she had finally realised he was not speaking of marriage to Miss Bingley. He dared not try to recall what other words he might have blathered, making certain she comprehended just how far beneath him she and her family stood.
There was nothing in it of what he ought to have said. How could he have omitted her bravery in seeing him through his escape from the quack who had nearly killed him? Where were the words explaining that she had willingly risked everything, her very reputation, in order to nurse him back to health? In fact, in those feverish days of illness, it was the promise of her, the scent of her, the sweetness of her voice, the softness of her hands giving him courage, incentive to return to the land of the living. For days, she had barely slept. Even when he’d unknowingly hurt her, her only aim had been to do all she could for his recovery.
If she had never come, he would have died in the nursery of his own townhouse. His fragile sister, most likely, would have preceded him in death. The vaunted Darcy line—of which he was so proud and protective—would even now be extinct.
This, this was what he had offered her in return for her selfless care. Degradation. Humiliation.
He had made her cry.
Crumpling the paper in his fist, he loosed a string of expletives such as he had not uttered since that day months past, finding himself tied to a bed, a prisoner of his mind and of his family.
* * *
Wherever Lizzy went, talk centred around the upcoming ball to be hosted at Netherfield Park. Lizzy felt she would be heartily glad when the thing was over and done with, but of course, she did not blame her neighbours for their enthusiasm. Lydia and Kitty never ceased arguing about who would dance with whom, but when they began bickering over Wickham’s affections, she could not remain silent.
“He is very poor. Would not you find it annoying if your husband could not spend upon you a tenth of what your father does? But of course, I shall not warn you against him, lest it only encourage you to pursue him more blatantly.”
“He would be nicely set up if only Mr Darcy had not cheated him of his inheritance,” Lydia sniffed.
“That horrible Mr Darcy,” Mrs Bennet agreed.
“You have only Wickham’s word on that,” Lizzy argued. “Miss Darcy told me that the truth was quite the opposite and he was paid out many thousands—which he has obviously wasted—after refusing the living. I believe her.”
“You would,” Lydia argued. “He says she is the dullest creature on earth and believes everything her brother utters without question.”
“Please, Lydia,” Jane pleaded, trying half-heartedly to intervene. “Miss Darcy is our houseguest and deserving of our esteem. I would be mortified if she heard you say any of this.”
Lydia only rolled her eyes. “Most days she is too busy practising her music to even notice that we have arrived! How boring it would be to do nothing except pound the keys, day after day, like Mary.”
“There is no comparison between Mary’s playing and Miss Darcy’s,” Lizzy interjected dryly.
“Her brother was so disagreeable, Lizzy! How can you take his part?” Kitty cried.
“Oh, of course, why believe in a man of well-known, upright, respectable character, whose dearest friend is your brother, Mr Bingley? Any girl with a grain of sense in her upper storey would fall in love with the impoverished soldier instead, for it is a good deal more romantic.”
“Pooh, Lizzy, you are becoming as dull as Miss Darcy. I am not in love with Mr Wickham. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw, and Papa is partial to him too.”
Thankfully, Mrs Nicholls brought in the tea at that moment, or Lizzy might have expressed her thoughts upon her father’s ineptitude. Why did Mr Bennet do absolutely nothing to prevent Lydia and Kitty from behaving so poorly? She understood Jane’s fears for them, for they went into Meryton every day that it did not rain and traipsed after the officers, flirting outrageously, making fools of themselves over the men everywhere they went.
Mr Bennet had apparently given up any idea of preventing Mrs Bennet and Lizzy’s sisters from visiting Netherfield, for now they came three or four days a week; only Mary had followed his original edict to stay away but only because the time, she had relayed, could not be spared from her studies. And while Lizzy appreciated the contact with her sisters, it had been a good deal easier not to worry about them when they were beyond her reach. At least her anxieties about Lydia and Kitty kept her from dwelling upon her own losses; she thought she defended Mr Darcy very well and coolly now, with no one possibly the wiser that she had been in love with him, once.
Jane presided over the tea tray, looking very pale. She had been far quieter than usual recently, was arising much later in the day, and retiring early. Although she had shared nothing with Lizzy as yet, her complaint was obvious—but of course, Mama, being Mama, noticed nothing. Probably, Jane was worried that she would, else she would likely be napping right now.
But as Lizzy listened to her mother laugh uproariously at Lydia’s story of some prank she and Wickham had played upon another officer—instead of helping her younger sister understand that she was making herself ridiculous in the eyes of anyone respectable—a new thought occurred to her.
Mama, never one for contemplation, lived with a husband who mocked and belittled her and whom she probably hated. Instead of becoming morose, she sought diversion. She might love her other daughters more than Lizzy, but she did not mother them—she wanted their company, wanted them to provide her with amusement, as if she were of an age with them.
We, all my sisters, are starved for true parental affection, she realised. But what can I do?
* * *
