Chapter Text
The Way She Should Go
"Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it." - Proverbs 22:6
"A daughter needs a dad to be the standard against which she will judge all men." —Unknown
She is nineteen and entirely too livid.
The dishes bear the brunt of her fury. Mucky water slops from side to side and up her elbows as she rubs the sand across slime and ceramic. She should have the money, at least, for the maid to do this much, but Wickham took it all on his last gamble.
Last gamble indeed, for her dear George. It was Friday; he sauntered out, all anger and false confidence. She stormed to her room, simmering from their row. He wasn’t back by the next morning; she huffed and said he could cavort with the barmaids for all she cared. But he didn't come back all day or even the next and —
She breaks down into sobs.
They wrack her body. Tears and snot roll wretchedly down her cheeks and chin to dribble on the cracked tile. She wipes them away; the mess spreads and her eyes burn with the muck on her hands. With a renewed wail and gasping whimpers, she throws herself down on the floor.
That is how they find her, later. Lydia Wickham, unconscious and prone. She has long ceased to rely on her husband, but his presence offered her some protection.
Of course, this is all still his fault.
They take her, there on the floor. It's how she wakes; air whispering on her thighs and an erect prick shoved painfully up her backside. There is laughter and jeers and ribald taunts of hurrying up; his creditors, possibly, or his gambling partners. Idly, she decides they were too indiscreet to be his undiscovered murderers.
The man inside her roughly pulls back; bile rises in her throat, a heady, all-consuming, revolting sensation. But Lydia is still Lydia, and she will not take this lying down. She waits and shoves herself up to her knees and hands precisely as he thrusts into her — hears a satisfying scream of pain — before she gets to her feet, whirls around, and kicks him right in the raging phallus, and feistily orders them all out.
They flee in a rampage, shoving each other out the door to free themselves of the she-devil who dared violate a man's most sensitive privates. The swine scrabbles backward on his elbows before crawling his way out on the floorboards.
Well, almost the whole way. She gives him one last kick of encouragement.
In seconds, she finds herself alone in the kitchen. Her dress is torn, her legs are sore, and she does vomit. Bends over the dishes — almost collapses — retches stomach acid and spit. Gulps down air greedily and listens to the surroundings. It isn’t quite silent — footsteps above or shouts next door. But one noise calls out to her.
Wailing.
Tiredly, she slogs into the next room.
The maid helps her sort through the debris. There isn't much left, but what those bastards did leave is an absolute mess.
Lydia has always been a heavy sleeper, but this is a new low. They raided well; everything of value is gone, from her ugliest bonnet to George’s coat. The only thing they didn't manage to take is her locket, the one Wickham would have pawned off if she hadn't hidden it carefully in the cracked wall.
A gurgle interrupts her gloom. Ellie is on the bed, teething on the bedpost. She sighs, pulls her gently from the wood, and thanks God they didn't take her most prized possession.
Loneliness. All at once, it assaults her senses. Shadows of despondence grasp their tenuous crawl on Lydia; to ward them off, she holds Ellie to her breast. She breathes in her baby’s downy scent and hums, rocking and murmuring low soothing noises, all the while knowing perfectly well that it is she who needs the soothing more.
It strikes Lydia then that they can’t stay here. The money is gone; they are surrounded by Wickham’s vengeful associates. If yesterday is anything to go by, they will get their recompense in other ways...
She shivers, and not from the cold. Her feet stagger to the chair at the desk where she pulls out a single, poorly mended quill and a ragged piece of paper — an old fashion plate, she thinks.
Lydia has scratched down their her address (just one in the many) before she realizes she doesn't know the addressee. She thinks of Mama, but she — can't — no. Not her Mama, not that house of old friends, of ignorance and gossip and — and — no.
She thinks of Jane. She would never say a word against her. But — the kindness. Pity. Jane would never understand what occurred. She wouldn't be willing to believe it.
Mary, obviously, would look at her disgustedly and moralize. Kitty — she will not be disgraced in front of Kitty.
Elizabeth.
She pens the letter in a shaky hand and half-hearted flourishes, doing her best not to blotch the ink. It's halfway readable when she's done, but it is enough.
She braves the cold in a threadbare shawl and spencer to post it express. Elizabeth, rich husband that she snared, cannot possibly mind the expense.
Back in the shabby apartment, she lies down and waits.
The sun is high in the sky when she is awoken by insistent knocks.
They rap through her empty dreams and broken life. Her head lifts sluggishly from the shadow of her arms. Her backside aches from the rickety kitchen chair. Elle is here, playing on the table. Lydia rubs the bleariness from her eyes and yells a loud "Coming!" before George can start shouting his impatience. The screech of the chair legs accompanies her stand.
Wait. George is dead.
Her grip on the table tightens.
She shakes the sleepiness from her arms and picks up Elle. The corner, there — well-hidden. She kisses her baby and grabs a pot to defend herself. George always laughed at her — said a knife made more dents — but she is used to the pot. Blunt force suits her better than sharp edges.
Her footsteps are inaudible as she creeps to the hinge side of the door. She turns the knob — the lock had broken weeks ago — and swings it open.
A tall, robust — oddly impeccable — man steps forward. "Hello?"
Slam!
"Ow!"
"Sir!"
"Who are you and what are you — " She gasps and lowers the pot. "Mr. Darcy?!"
"The one and only," he says drily, or as drily as he can manage through the tears triggered by a winded stomach. The man behind him hovers agitatedly before his employer waves him off. "You could have asked before you attacked."
"That would have given away the element of surprise."
"I shall be sure to declare myself next time."
She slips past him to peer into the hallway, left and right, but the only other soul she sees is the glaring footman. "Where's Lizzy?" she asks.
"At Pemberley. The fault is mine; she wished to come, but I would not allow her. For her health — it is a delicate time."
"Oh." — and shoves aside the feeling of abandonment. — "Well. Come inside."
That is a superfluous instruction, seeing as she is the only one not now inside the apartment, but they obey her meaning.
As they seat themselves on the threadbare sofa, she rattles and clatters around the kitchen to prepare the overused tea. "I daresay 'tis not up to your usual standards" — a hand waves airily — "to deserve even the phrase 'charming'. But it has been home ever since George sold his commission, which was a six-month or so ago, meaning Elle has grown — Elle!" She abandons the tea set and strides over to the corner. They eye her warily as she does this, as if she’s about to bring out a weapon more nefarious than the pot, which almost makes her laugh. "Mr. Darcy," she says formally — how long has it been since she last gave an introduction? — and turns around to astonished faces. "This is Lydia Elizabeth Wickham. Ellie, this is your godfather, Mr. Darcy. Do you remember? Aunt Elizabeth's husband."
Mr. Darcy stands and bows to the quiet babe. "Hello, Elle," he says softly. His tone formalizes as he addresses Lydia, "This is my man, Evans."
"It is nice to meet you," said Lydia politely. Elle hides her face in her bosom, showing only light curls. "To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"We have come to take you to Pemberley."
It is what she has, in the depths of her soul, been hoping for, but would not allow herself to believe until it happened. She gasps and feels the a lump in her throat rise, even as anxiety prickles. "You hear that, Ellie?” She bounces her. "You're going to see Pemberley! The grandest estate in Derbyshire, and they say, all of England!"
"I am prejudiced," said Darcy, with a tender look at the babe, "but I agree."
Lydia beams at him delightedly.
Her brother-in-law settles the long overdue bills with the landlord as Lydia and the maid pack up what little she has left. Abby works silently, allowing Lydia's chatter to fill the space. It soothes her, this endless monologue. Wickham had often told her to be quiet; when she ignored him and chatted even louder, he shot her a nasty look and left.
They put Elle in a wicker basket lined with blankets and load themselves into the carriage. It is fine, much too fine for a soiled dress like hers. She is almost afraid to sit on the lush velvet for fear that it would reject her. But she does, and for all her agitation, before the hour is up, she is asleep once more.
Ellie cries once or twice. The maid inside the carriage shakes her awake to feed her. Thankfully, Darcy is riding alongside, so she doesn't have to worry about modesty.
Then — almost too quickly — Pemberley is looming.
Looming isn’t the right term, exactly. It’s grand, and intimidating, but less for how it looks and more for what it represents. It screams: Wealth! Status! I am richer, hold more power than you will ever have!
It suits Darcy.
She watches him, riding on his chestnut horse. Pemberley is more interesting, but there will be time to observe that. Darcy is more urgent.
He doesn’t gallop off like she expects him to. Eager to be in his seat of power — maybe the grounds are enough. He has a smile playing about his face, breeze blowing his curls. Contentment, Lydia realizes. That is what it looks like.
They stop alongside, carriage and horse, at the foot of the manor. Lydia hands down Elle in her basket first before allowing the footman to assist her down the carriage. Just as she is regaining her footing, Elizabeth is running down the grand stone steps to greet them.
Warmth. That is what Lydia feels when she gets her hug. She hasn’t — it’s been so long — she nearly sobs.
The pressure in her throat is building. When she feels like she really will cry, in front of the servants no less, Lizzy releases her. She turns to face her husband.
The kiss Darcy gives her is as soft as his words.
Seeing it sends Lydia reeling. George never kissed her like that. It was always harder, more open-mouthed, more passion than softness. What is this? Is this what they call affection? Lydia doesn’t miss the hand Darcy caresses to Lizzy’s abdomen, either. It takes a few more hints over the next two days and some whispers from the maids for her to realize that they are having a child; their first.
Elle stares at everything, wide-eyed, from the chandelier to the balustrade to the butler's powdered wig. She isn’t used to this. The cleanliness, the shine. The attention. So many people. Uncountable footmen and maids give her smiles. Mrs. Reynolds takes to her like a mother.
But Lydia won’t have that. Nor will Ellie, either. She clings to her Mama, the only familiar beacon in this new world, and cries when anyone else tries to take her. But, she is okay with the maid in the carriage. And Evans. And Darcy, for that matter.
It’s odd. Men don’t do children. But Darcy submits to carrying Elle with dignity, even skill. She discovered Ellie gnawing at his finger once, as he sat comfortably in his great big armchair. Darcy admonished the child, pulling the finger away from her grabbing, and telling her that no, no, fingers for breakfast was not healthy — and he was smiling.
"I am sorry."
She stops pulling the needle through the fabric to stare at her brother-in-law. It’s been a while since she had the leisure (and the allowance) to remake her dresses, and it’s not going as well as it should have; her fingers shake violently. He is sitting on the divan opposite, appearing lost among ribbons and cloth, staring down at his clasped hands. "Why?"
There are many people Lydia blames for her predicament, but she has ceased to count Darcy one of them. He tried to convince her to leave Wickham in the first place. While Lydia is not sure she should have even knowing what she knows now — the shame of ruin is an unwashable stain, and she did enjoy claiming the first marriage among her sisters — it is the thought that counts.
"I tied you to him. I could have convinced you — should have found a better alternative."
Lydia knows it's her fault, but she doesn't contradict him. It's relieving to share the blame.
Elle is laughing now.
It’s been a while, Lydia thinks, not since George grew bored of her and stopped playing. She warmed to her Aunt Lizzy, giggling at her tickling and clapping her hands to the songs she sings. She likes Mrs. Reynolds and accepts the kisses and the fussing. The maid — Martha — is a blessing. But Ellie’s favorite person, apart from Lydia, is Darcy.
Yes. Darcy.
To someone who has never seen a him with kids before, it is mystifying.
Ellie wriggles and waves her pudgy arms for him. He takes her into his arms with nary a word. She pats his face, and Darcy pats her back. She gurgles, and Darcy hums.
"Papa?" Lydia catches her baby say, once.
"No," says the deep voice of Darcy. "Uncle."
"Ung..."
"Uncle."
"Ung. Papa."
With infinite patience, "Uncle."
"Ungggg. Da."
"Da?” There is a pause. “Darcy. Uncle Darcy."
"Daaaaaaaa~"
"Dar-cy," he says slowly.
"Daaa."
Darcy waits.
Ellie shrieks and claps.
"Dada!"
Wickham used to play peek-a-boo with Ellie, but she started scrunching up and bawling at some of his more extreme faces. It's a startling, small indicator of how they grew up together— Darcy takes up the mantle. For having such a frozen face, he's surprisingly adept at the game. Everyone, absolutely everyone, is diverted.
Squeal! Giggle. "Dadadadadaaaaaa~"
One of the first things Lydia did upon coming to Pemberley is to learn to read the Master of the house's moods. It was a trick that served her delightfully when she was a girl flirting with the officers and a necessary in her life as Wickham's helpmeet. Most important to watch for are the signs of irritation, of satisfaction. They're very subtle in this man.
She wonders — does he not feel much? He never raises his voice, never curses the air. Never calls her silly or a waste of money. Nor throws invectives, behind anyone's back or to their face, from the neighbouring lords to his scullery maid.
There's no charm, but there's no vitriol, either.
That is, when he isn't with Elizabeth. When they argue, everyone feels it. It's as if the very stones of Pemberley reverberate with their relationship. Other times, Lydia hears the rumbling laughter, the murmurs, the kisses. She wonders how Lizzy manages it, if Lydia can inspire devotion like Darcy's for her.
Georgiana is home. Seeing her lights a dormant fury inside Lydia's soul.
She thinks it's because Georgiana is Lydia’s age and has everything Lydia doesn't. A bevy of servants, expensive dresses, feminine accomplishments, a load of money, and no dead, deadbeat husband.
Why should she have everything, just because she was born into the right family?
She snaps at Georgiana and all her friendly overtures. She becomes a brat with the servants, gleefully delights in ordering them around as she hasn't since Longbourn. She splurges her allowance. She slams the door in Lizzy’s face. She turns her nose up at Mrs. Reynolds. The only one safe from her wrath is Mr. Darcy himself.
He calls her into his study.
"Lydia," he says sternly over the mahogany desk. This is after she reduces Georgiana to tears. It’s not the first time, but possibly, the first time her brother has heard of it. "This behavior is unconscionable."
She knows. That's the point.
"This is untenable, Lydia! You are hurting Georgiana, who has only ever been good to you, and terrorizing the servants. Will you not speak? Have you no reason, no defense?"
The door is closed. He’s very capable of boxing her, she’s sure. And he speaks about defense?
She saunters up and plops herself on the desk.
"Lydia..." he says warningly.
"Oh, do not look at me like that," she says, squeezing an arm to her supple breasts and batting her eyelashes. This is a practiced move, one she's used a thousand times over, ever since she realized from where true power came. "I know you’re frustrated, but why take it out on me? Poor, defenseless me. Or, maybe, you should take it out." At this, she leans into his ear and whispers breathily, "You know I’m willing to give."
Darcy is very, very still.
She leans back and gives him that sultry gaze, satisfied with her choice of a dress this morning. It is low cut, almost indecent for the daylight. Lizzy cannot hold a candle to this.
"Lydia," he says, voice hoarse. "Stop."
It is just the encouragement she needs. She runs a finger up his arm. "You have been very good to me, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Why not let me be good to you?"
He stands abruptly and stalks all the way to the other side of the room. His chest heaves.
"Lydia. I am in earnest. Stop."
"Oh, do not play coy with me," she says, slipping off the table and swinging her hips as she walks towards him. "I know you want it. It is what all men want."
At this moment, she is reaching out to touch him. He whirls, looking so fierce that fright spikes within her chest. "No," he says imperiously. "It is not what all men want, and certainly not me."
He locks her extended wrists in a throbbingly harsh grip mid-air. Panic starts to set in.
"It is. It is. George told me. George showed me! I know it is— It’s true!" His face is livid. She is hyperventilating now, tears filling her vision with blurry spots. "You are pretending. You are lying. You want it! You want it! I know you do!"
"No — Mrs. Wickham — Lydia. Listen to me. I do not."
"I am beautiful!"
"And I am faithful to your sister."
"She is pregnant!"
"That changes nothing."
"You are not faithful! No man is!"
"I assure you, we may be a rarity, but we exist. Myself, Bingley, your father..."
With unprecedented strength, she wrenches her hands from his and slams them against his chest. "Do not speak to me of him!"
Shame at herself, fury at him, and the sudden terror that her unthinking spat of violence would bring upon her more violence claw for dominance inside her. She must derail him, he must utterly forget what is on his mind, she must prove herself right, and so with vice-grip hands, she drags him down by the collar to make him forget, and once she is done with him, she will have some power—
Then air, then the floor. He shoves her off before she can do so much as brush his lips. It is powerful, blunt, terrifying. She cries out and throws her arms up in shield, awaiting the retribution that is coming.
Stupid, stupid, what had she been thinking, a bit of control was not worth this —
"Lydia," he says. "Mrs. Wickham."
Her eyes fly open — when had they closed? — and see no one.
She looks around.
He is kneeling at her feet.
"I am sorry," his large, powerful hands are up in supplication, "if I have hurt you. You need have no fear of coming to harm at my hands. But you must understand that I refuse to tolerate advances. I neither need nor want nor have in any way asked for" — he grimaces at the term — "favors. Indeed, Lydia, be so kind as to act like the sister you are to me and nothing more."
"I do not understand," she whispers. "You — you are — "
"Your brother,” he says sharply. Then he sighs, and more softly, “You have never had a brother.”
She is quiet for a long moment. “You really don’t want anything?”
”Other than your respect for me and mine, no.”
She stares. The air that cloaks them is thick, like a fog, with shafts of light shining through it.
He returns to behind his desk, the warm sun glowing through the window and hitting him just so. "Everything I have offered you — protection, allowance, a home — I do because you are family. And perhaps because I feel guilty about what has happened to you through Wickham. There are no illicit motivations to my actions, and frankly, I am offended that you seem to believe there are."
Wonder and irritation both bloom at this speech, but she only gives voice to one. “Well I am sorry my life experiences have not matched with your behavior!”
Against her expectations, his face lightens from his anger into rue. "As am I. Please, do not ever interpret my interactions with you as..." he grimaces, "flirtation."
"But you smile and tease so rarely, and you used to do so only with Lizzy, and then you started smiling at me and teased me and then—" She turns up her nose at his incredulous look. “Well! I have always been so good at telling these things you know, and it is not my fault you are fit and, er, handsome—"
His shoulders shake, and she is more pleased than indignant to realize he laughed.
It’s cathartic. Releasing everything she had been turning over and over in her head. In the end, Darcy is stern but accepting. There is punishment. An apology, to Georgiana, Mrs. Reynolds, the servants. Withheld allowance and trips to the village. But nothing, nothing beyond that discussion for her indiscretion. Darcy effectively buries it and throws away the shovel.
She doesn’t feel like she’s walking on eggshells, anymore. Maybe dusty wood; more stable.
The shaking in her hands subsides.
Georgiana is a good friend, when Lydia lets her be.
She likes the way she listens to her, patiently, quietly, giving her her full attention even when she talks for very long. And she talks, a lot.
It's the same way Darcy listens to her, when he is free.
She wants his approval.
She realizes that when he tells her to clear up the lace and pins and ribbons she left scattered around the drawing room. She does, instantly. The last time her Papa told her to do the same, she ordered around the maid.
Lydia never really had a Papa, one that cared enough to acknowledge her, teach her her mistakes, and guide her through the rough patches. Lizzy has a Papa — Lizzy has all their Papas — because she is so smart and witty and sparkling and can get into his head, so he gave all his heart to Lizzy and has no space left for anyone else.
Lydia has a Mama, but everyone has a Mama. Lydia merely got more of the attention.
But Darcy. Darcy is not Papa or Mama. Darcy is clever and quiet like Papa, and involved and demanding like Mama, but that is where the similarities end. Unlike Mama, Darcy is consistent. He does not ask for salts, does not complain about his health, does not need attending. He gives orders and does not flutter back and forth about them.
Unlike Papa, Darcy is concerned. He asks her how she’s doing, if her room is to her liking, if there is something he can do to make her comfortable or to improve things. Darcy makes decisions and does not bend or succumb to wheedling. He weathers out disturbances to his peace. He enlarges his heart to fit everyone who needs it.
And Darcy is not George.
Lydia never cared about this before. She never cared about what she thought of Darcy except to put him down and so she could relish the superiority of her situation. But now, she understands that many things — everything? — Wickham said were false.
Pemberley is hosting a private ball. Because Lydia has been good, Lizzy and Darcy let her come out of mourning early. She wears a gorgeous gown which she improved herself, with some help from a proper seamstress. On the glittering ballroom floor and the light of a thousand candles, she is transported to her old world, of flirting and twirling and punch. She's a little more self-conscious now, conscious of Ellie and the consequences and her mistakes. But she doesn't let that stop her from enjoying herself and the attention.
She laughs with abandon and dances around. She even thinks that Lizzy is happier to see her this way, like her old self. It's a skin that doesn't quite fit, but familiar things are easy to fake.
And it's great, it really is, until the whispers break out. She is the wife of Wickham — the Wickham. George Wickham? Yes. Is? No, was. Wickham is dead. Really? How? Was he hanged? Was it one of his creditors? Good riddance.
Poor thing, to have been married to Wickham.
Better for her that he's dead; she's free now.
She wants to scream at them, claw at them, tell them her George was a good husband, a wonderful husband, a perfect perfect husband until, until...
He wasn't.
She holds his example up to Darcy's and she realizes, he really wasn't.
She cries in her room later that evening, but they are tears of humiliation and pain and sadness as much as relief.
"You are much changed," Kitty breathes.
Mary is another matter. She doesn’t volunteer any remarks to Lydia. Lydia knows it’s because she used to insult her every time she did.
She’d be lying if she said that the instinct isn't still there.
They are sitting among the empty church pews, dusty sunbeams filtering through the paneled glass, when Lydia asks quietly, "Is there redemption for me?"
Mary considers her solemnly through her spectacles.
"The Lord is willing to forgive all those who repent."
Some things can only be hidden for so long before they come out.
"Lydia!" Darcy stares at her abdomen in horror before lifting his eyes to lock with hers. For months, she had been altering dresses, layering shawls — but the game is up. "You are increasing."
The anguish in his face is something she never wished to see.
"No," she stutters. Lizzy is not in the room; she is too far along to easily join them wherever they are. "No, it is not — it is not what you are thinking."
"Whose is it?" says Darcy desperately, angrily, as he advances.
She takes a step back. "It is — no one's — "
He barks a laugh.
It sounds so mocking, so sarcastic, that visions of her father, the witty, dismissive, scathing Mr. Bennet, loom before Lydia. Tears flood her eyes and she runs blindly to the staircase. She hikes her skirts and takes the steps two at a time, hears him thundering after her.
He has longer legs, but Lydia has always been the tallest of her sisters and has no sense of decorum to slow her pace. She flees to the first open door and slams it behind her, not a moment too soon.
The knob rattles viciously. She hears a muffled curse.
She screams at the carved wood, throat burning raw. "I won't tell you! I'm not saying anything! You have no right to know!"
"LYDIA BENNET," he roars; she almost collapses in fright. "YOU TELL ME NOW!"
"NO!"
The door gives one last mighty shudder before another curse is made and he storms off. Lydia leans her trembling cheek against the cool wood, tears streaming with renewed fervor down her pinched eyes. She has disappointed him. She has disappointed Darcy. She knew it would come, but it hurts, oh, it hurts —
Pain blooms searingly within her chest like oil on fire. She clutches one hand to the neck of her dress and bites the other. There is a wail. High, keening. She has been angry before, at other people. Anger at others has never felt like this.
Self-recrimination burns.
She stands there for she knows not how long, sobbing against the hardwood door, willing herself to feel all the pain and unwilling to do the least thing that would secure her comfort, when a soft knock breaks the isolation.
"Lydia?"
She staggers blindly back. There is a click and the door swings wide.
Elizabeth waddles in, and Lydia throws herself into her sister's arms.
"Lydia," he says brokenly, "Why did you not simply tell me?"
His hands went out tentatively but stopped shy of landing. She spits at his forlorn face, "Why, so you can hate it as much as you hate him? Oh, I know, you have been kind to Elle, but she is a girl. You have pity for all of Wickham’s girls."
His eyes tighten in anguish but he does not refute her claim.
"Which is all well and good, Lord knows Ellie and I have benefited from that pity — but this one — this new little one"— she whips around —"is a boy."
The silence rings around them, dense and damning. "You cannot know that."
She whispers harshly, "I do."
Some people mistake Ellie for Darcy's own child. It's in the way he hugs her to his chest and sings in her ear. The way she squeals and cries for him and calls him "Dada." Friends have gone as far as to accuse Darcy of not informing them of the happy news. He just smiles and introduces her as his niece, Elle for Lydia Elizabeth.
One caller, an old friend of his father, has the audacity to ask if Elle is to be given a dowry. Darcy does not deign to answer this with a straight response, but Lydia knows in her heart that the answer is yes.
She wonders if Darcy would give her a dowry again, should she hope to marry a second time. She realizes that the notion disgusts her, and she doesn't want to find out.
It's late in the evening one day when she catches him by himself in the library. Lydia has been secretly going lately when everyone else is asleep, trying to figure out what all the fuss on books was about. He is the picture of dishevelment in his shirtsleeves. With the dark circles under his eyes, he looks so tired.
She tries to make a silent escape, but he looks up and says her name.
She has no choice. She pads forward quietly, nervously, wishing she had come out in more than just her dressing gown so he wouldn't think this was another attempt to seduce him. But, he saw her leaving and called her back, so — he can't pin the blame on her.
It's a tense standstill. He, slouched in the armchair, she, before him and awaiting judgment. Then, something — she doesn't even know what — breaks. The next thing she knows, she's crushed in his strong arms, sobbing into his shirt, making a mess. She's babbling, incoherent words, begging his forgiveness for — for everything, for all of it, and he clings to her nightdress — the wetness isn't only from her eyes — swearing never to doubt her like that again.
After that incident (some days it still feels like a fantastic out-of-body experience, and yes, she thinks of it often), Lydia can't bring herself to hide anything from Elizabeth. She clambers onto Lizzy's bed and confesses.
"I know," she says calmly.
"You — know?"
Lizzy laughs lightly and swats her with a pillow. "Did you suppose he hasn't told me? He might have attempted to hide it for an afternoon so as not to upset my" — she mimed air quotations — "delicate constitution, but it only took one of my own kisses for him to grow unbearably guilty and confess all."
Lydia feels ill, feels shame. "You've known. All this time."
"And I waited for you to tell me yourself. I am glad, Lyddie, that you finally did."
"You are not angry? I abhorred whenever George flirted with this or that trollop. It was most despicable! I cannot imagine you took the news calmly."
"I was furious," she admits. "And I will be unforgivingly so should you remake the attempt. However, I do not believe you shall."
"And if I should?" Lydia challenges.
Lizzy sighs. "Then William shall fend you off with a poker stick and lock himself away in his rooms where you cannot importune."
Lydia gasps and — she can’t help it — falls into giggles. Between chortles and gasps for breath, she says, "And his footmen shall guard the entrance like knights to the castle of a fair maiden! La! How droll!"
The sisters laugh together, dreaming up more and more outrageous scenarios. It comes to the point where they discuss the defensive powers of Lady Catherine — whom Lydia has never met, but has heard enough stories of to laugh unabashedly at her expense — before Lizzy sobers and tells her, "Seriously, Lydia, however droll a picture it makes, you must respect him enough as to not even joke to him about these matters — and respect me."
There is no more seduction, no more tiptoeing around the issue. Lydia finds Darcy dull, anyway, so Lizzy can have him. Instead, she throws herself into being useful. She gets into quarrels like an actual sister. She asks questions. She learns day by day that tantrums don’t get her anywhere, so she uses reason.
It is one boring afternoon when she finds herself exploring his books.
"What is this?"
Darcy shoots a quizzical look at where she is fingering pages of numbers and ink. "The estate ledgers. Did your father not show you?"
She shook her head. "Papa did his business... Actually, I do not know when he did his business. I assume it was early in the morning. We were not supposed to disturb his bookroom, in any case."
He flips through the book she is perusing. He points out the tables and the rows and the digits and explains what they signify.
She huffs. "I do not see why you must go through all this trouble. You have money enough. Why can you not pay a steward to see to it? You have a steward, do not you? Do not tell me that Mr. Marley is being lazy. If it is too much for him, I am sure you can afford another one or two or twenty."
He should spend less time buried in his business. Ellie wants him often, after all.
"I can," he agrees, "but it would not be prudent. There is little for twenty stewards to do, even on an estate as grand as Pemberley."
He is half-smiling, and it irks as much as it elates her. "La! You are teasing! You know my meaning."
His smile fades. She mourns its loss. "All the stewards in the world cannot replace the estate owner's supervision. I may delegate, but I must oversee. People have their own motivations and they are not necessarily aligned to mine."
She thinks of George and how he complained of the living of the church, never mind that he didn't care about God.
"Money is a powerful motivator," he continues. "It builds alliances up and tears families apart. Money worked for is of great value, of real worth. Money stolen, or coerced, is dangerous."
There is a lump in her throat. "And money gambled?"
He sighs. "Useless."
They have a moment of silence. It does not do to disparage the dead.
"But Pemberley is so rich? A few shillings cannot possibly make a dent."
"Stewards are paid in pounds, and every servant has their wages. Gambling has the potential to take it all away in an instant. Pemberley is solvent and wealthy because I make prudent decisions over time. Where one can economize, one ought to. With practice and good regulation, it is not a difficult task."
"But... do not they call you a generous master?"
He smiles. "You have been listening to Mrs. Reynolds overmuch. I am considered a generous master, not for my spending, but because I do not extort my tenants. In other words, I do not raise their rent unfairly. It would be wrong. They work hard, and have more need for the money than I."
Somehow she does not think that that is all of it, but Darcy has always been strangely reluctant to boast about himself.
"I am privileged," he acknowledges with a bow of the head, "as few are. It takes effort and wisdom to maintain what I have been blessed with."
"How did you learn all this?" she asks abruptly.
His eyes drift to the side, to the portrait of a stern man that has his nose and jaw. "I have been given good principles."
Once he explains to her the basics of economics and business concepts, she gets it. She's intrigued—her worldview has shifted—and helps with the numbers, which she has always been good at before she stopped caring for anything but fun and finding a husband. (That feels so long ago, a different Lydia, a different world.) He nods approvingly, gives her a full smile, and makes her feel like she is worth more than her looks and liveliness.
She gets good at this. Why didn't she moved to Pemberley before?
He's wearing a hole in the floor with his pacing. The only person who could possibly calm him is Lizzy, but Lizzy is in another room, screaming.
Lydia steps out of the birthing chamber for a breather. It doesn't help that she knows it'll be her turn in a few months. Upon spotting her, her harried brother pivots on his heel, crowds her space, and demands answers.
"How is she? Is she well? Tell me that she is well!"
It shakes her, seeing her staid, self-commanding brother-in-law so shaken like this, but she pulls on her bravado and pretends she is unimpressed. "As well as she can be while popping out a baby. She will not be better by your harassing the other pregnant woman in this house!" She diatribes in this vein until he falls backward onto his seat and is cowed into good behavior and speechlessness.
Later, after hours and sweat and bloody bodily fluids, Jane gives him the news. He bounds up the stairs, bursts into the chamber, and falls to his knees at the seat of his wife as he looks with awe and wonder and trembling hands at his very own daughter.
He's going to be a wonderful father.
Lydia's labor is another matter, but his fear is just as real. Though that same anxiety stresses her out enormously now that she is the recipient, she feels touched.
He grips her arm as she turns about the room, holding her up when her knees buckle with contractions. She knows George hadn't bothered to do the like.
Eventually, the midwife shoos out of the chamber. With one last, lingering look, he goes.
When it is at last, at last over, he is the first visitor. She's tired, he's relieved, her sisters are beaming, and she's happy enough that she doesn't find his worrywart queries annoying (at first). She distracts him by offering to introduce him to the baby. He gives her a panicked look that shows he doesn't really want to, not yet, but he peers at the bundle apprehensively in acquiesce.
It is, indeed, a boy.
A grim sort of determination overcomes him, stealing over his face and form. It's more serious than she hoped for, but she knows that with Lizzy at his side, she can trust Darcy to do right by her son.
There's a fine line between youthful folly and earth-shattering mistakes. Lydia discovered that the hard way.
There's a big difference between the appearance of goodness and the substance of it. Lydia discovers this, also, the hard way.
Yet, in the end, through the pain and humiliation, there was good. She got to have Ellie and her Jeremiah. She grew closer to Lizzy. She gained Darcy as... a brother? a guardian?
Darcy. Wickham always swore he was selfish and cruel. Elizabeth insists he is proud but the best of men. Lydia never really cared to form her own opinion, always agreed with whatever seemed most popular or convenient.
Now, she can't.
It's not that she disagrees with Elizabeth, or Mrs. Reynolds, or all of Pemberley. They are right. Darcy is the best of men. But Lydia is no longer satisfied with that. Her best of men was George, and before that, they told her it was her father. Darcy is not just the best of men. Darcy is the example of men. He is consistent, dependable, righteous. He cares. He is not perfect, but he is near it, or as near Lydia thinks is possible for a man.
She loves him for that, and she knows he'll always love her back.