Chapter Text
One should keep in mind that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable, that one false step involves her in endless ruin, that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behavior towards the undeserving of the other sex.
It had been universally acknowledged, however, that Lydia Wickham, formerly Bennet, had not kept that lesson in mind. This truth was so well fixed in the minds of the people at Pemberley that Lydia doubted it would ever go away, nor would there ever be a place for her there. She found this belief confirmed when she entered the ballroom, and though the dance did not stop dramatically like she was expecting it to, there was a lull in the festivities as every head in the room turned to look towards her. Lydia was quite sure word had traveled quickly that the disgraced sister of Mrs. Darcy was currently in residence at Pemberley; she felt an anxious shiver run through her, but kept her head high as she entered the room at the side of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. She took care to look at nothing and no one so no one could take offense at her turning her gaze towards them.
The Darcys took a standing position at the end of the ballroom, and Elizabeth turned her head to speak into Lydia’s ear.
“I hope you understand, of course, that you may not have many dances. As a married woman, different rules exist—”
“I understand,” Lydia said shortly . She had learned that all too well. Life in Brighton had been fun—for a while, that was, until she became aware that impropriety lost some of its appeal when you were old and married.
“In that case, then—oh! Let me introduce you to some of the people here. They’re all such fun.” Elizabeth, if not physically, swept Lydia further into the ballroom, with no means of escape available to her. Over Elizabeth’s shoulder, she could see the face of Mr. Darcy, who had an expression of such understanding that Lydia had no doubt he was often victim to such behavior. Of everything she’d seen at Pemberley thus far, this was the thing that most astounded her. There was a degree of affection between her sister and Darcy that Lydia could have never imagined in the brief time she’d made his unpleasant acquaintance back in Hertfordshire.
Lydia was pulled along by the force of her sister’s personality until she stood in front of a small party. They all regarded her coolly, and she did not do them the favor of a smile.
“Mr. —,” Elizabeth said, curtsying slightly. Lydia followed suit, though she still did not smile. “This is my sister, Mrs. Lydia Wickham.”
Lydia’s mouth turned downwards slightly. She really would prefer not to be introduced that way, but supposed it was inevitable. She was certainly not a Bennet anymore, and a lady could not simply not have a last name. The look in these peoples’ eyes told her that they recognized the name of her husband. She kept her shoulders straight back, standing tall in the face of their disdain.
“So you married Wickham,” The eldest man among them said. The omission of the title, as well as his tone, made it clear that he did not regard Wickham with much good opinion. Lydia had heard from Mr. Darcy that Wickham’s reputation in this country was quite poor, but she was still surprised to hear him spoken of so derogatorily, as for most of her acquaintance with him he had been well-liked.
“I did,” Lydia said, deciding to defend it with pride, if for nothing else than to provoke the man in front of her. She already disliked him.
He looked around. “Is he here?”
Lydia’s mouth turned downwards again. The last thing she wanted to do was to explain the details of her situation to people she hardly knew in a neighborhood that was not her home. She trusted her sister’s discretion in keeping things secret, if only because Elizabeth thought too little of other people to participate in gossip, and for all the unfavorable things she could say about Mr. Darcy, being overly chatty was not one of his flaws — but she was aware that if anyone else were to find out that Wickham had abandoned her, the whole neighborhood would know sooner or later, and most likely sooner.
But thankfully, before Lydia had time to gather her words, Elizabeth unexpectedly stepped in, an amused smile on her face. “Not at this moment. After many years away, Lydia has come to visit me and get better acquainted with my husband,” she said gracefully. In one deft stroke, she had provided both an excuse for Lydia’s presence and an out to the conversation.
“What do you think of the country?” the man in front of her asked.
“It’s gorgeous,” Lydia said. “The grounds at Pemberley are well-maintained, and I’m grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy for lodging me here.” That, at the very least, was true.
The man did not take that with the cordiality Lydia thought it deserved. In fact, his face only got more disagreeable at the comment. “How benevolent of you,” he said to Elizabeth.
In that moment, Lydia felt the weight of her past as harshly as a blow. The man’s words themselves had not been unkind, but they needn't have been to say what he felt. The way he spoke communicated perfectly well that allowing Lydia in, or rather, treating her with any kindness at all, would always and forever be disallowed.
Lydia turned to her sister. “If you’ll excuse me—” she said. She wasn’t sure what to follow that with, but figured, as the people of Pemberley already thought so badly of her, there was no harm in adding one more incivility . She turned her back on Elizabeth and made her way through the room.
“Lydia?” Elizabeth called, but Lydia didn’t turn back. Walking through the crowd was easy, because people shifted out of her way as she passed, as if she was a dust mote in danger of attaching herself to their clothes. She ended up by the side of the room where women were chatting, and took deep breaths to try to calm herself. She moved her hands downwards, as if she could press down the emotions that were welling up inside her.
It did not take long, however, before another woman had moved up beside her. Lydia took a deep breath as she prepared for the confrontation. She had learned, over the past few years, that as much as the condemnation of men stung, the judgment of women was a thousand times more potent and bitter.
Against her expectations, the woman nodded her head respectfully, with not a trace of veiled dislike that Lydia could see. “Pardon me, but I saw you talking to my family and Mrs. Darcy earlier.”
“Uh, yes,” Lydia said, unsure what else to say.
The woman tilted her head, eyes running over Lydia curiously. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Something within Lydia, deep, hidden, and barely acknowledged, gave a small thrill. This woman did not know who she was. She wondered if she should introduce herself as Elizabeth’s sister, or if that would give her away, ruining the first moment of anonymity she’d had in years. To stall time, she bowed deeply, tilting her head in her direction.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said as she rose.
It seemed, for once, that luck was on Lydia’s side. The woman didn’t notice or care that she hadn’t given her name, instead beginning to ramble excitedly about the state of the ballroom, how gorgeous it was, and how packed to the brim it was with people. Lydia nodded along, interjecting small agreements where she could, but remained mostly silent. She had been staying here these past two weeks, and so was already familiar with the size of the house, and the ballroom, and the gorgeous art, and so forth, and found it hard to appreciate all the aforementioned considering she’d only ended up here because her husband had left her on the streets. But, strange as it was to think, this was the first time in ages that she was having a truly amicable conversation with another woman. The military wives at Brighton were, on the whole, older than her, and did not like her much, and the ones her age had long since gotten married themselves, and grown tired of her, and so Lydia was finding it surprisingly gratifying to listen to this woman speak, despite the tedious nature of the conversation itself.
That was, of course, until Elizabeth swept in, gliding across the ballroom with a refined elegance that communicated clearly that, despite her familial background, she was perfectly at home in noble circles, perhaps more so than some who came into wealth by birthright.
“Lydia, there you are. I was just looking for you,” she said.
Lydia grimaced, although she tried not to make it too noticeable. The woman held a hand up to her mouth in shock.
“My sincerest apologies. I didn’t even ask for your name! I can be so air-headed, you know.”
Lydia curtsyed again, casting her eyes downwards. “Lydia Wickham.”
She stood up, expecting to see recognition light up the woman’s eyes, but it never did. Relief washed over her, stronger than the ocean waves at Brighton. A curious feeling, for when she was living with Wickham, she had never felt the desire to be away from him; in fact, she had always felt a strong compulsion to keep him with her. Now, at Pemberley, she wished not to be associated with him.
“I’ve not met you before. What a shame. Mrs. Darcy’s other sisters are always around,” the woman said conspiratorially.
“I- I know,” Lydia said. She had not known, but she would have guessed as much, if she had given it much thought. That was something else to dread, she supposed. She did not know what she would do if her other sisters came by. She really didn’t think she could face them.
“Lydia is staying with us for now,” Elizabeth elaborated, thankfully having the grace not to reveal more .
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” the woman said. “Oh, but it seems my husband is beckoning me. Forgive me, but I must finish making your acquaintance later.”
The woman curtseyed then left, leaving Elizabeth and Lydia alone. As soon as she got to her husband, he took her by the arm and pulled her aside, whispering into her ear. Lydia found that, unexpectedly, she wanted to cry.
It wasn’t fair. It simply was not fair. Lydia had never cared what others thought about her and had not been shy about showing it. Why did it matter to her now?
“Lydia. Lydia, is something the matter?” Elizabeth demanded.
Lydia shook her head derisively. “They’re talking about me,” she said, still watching the couple.
Elizabeth followed Lydia’s gaze. “We don’t know that for sure,” she said, as insensitive as she’d always been. Though it was doubtless meant to be comforting, Lydia only felt her frustration rising.
“What else would they be talking about? Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy’s long-estranged, disgraced sister comes to stay at Pemberley; you think I wouldn’t be the subject of gossip for the entire town?”
Elizabeth looked at her cryptically, with a face that said she was up to no good. Then she took Lydia by the elbow. “Come on, then. I have an idea.”
Lydia nearly sighed as she was dragged along. From the time she ’ d spent at Pemberley, she could tell that Elizabeth had changed tremendously from the arrogant, judgemental woman Lydia had known her to be in her youth—but at the same time, she hadn’t changed a bit.
Elizabeth took Lydia to where Darcy was standing, separated by an empty space of several feet from the rest of the party. Though the man had the same morose face Lydia remembered, his expression brightened significantly as Elizabeth approached, in a subtle way that indicated the change was so natural and immutable as to be rendered invisible to both him and Mrs. Darcy.
“Having fun?” he asked in a grave voice .
Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “Fitzwilliam, I think you should dance with Lydia.”
“What?” Darcy asked, a sentiment that was echoed inside Lydia’s head.
“Come on, she’s your sister-in-law, it’s more than appropriate,” Elizabeth said, peering up at Darcy with an earnest expression . Darcy looked down at her.
“Any particular reason why I should?”
Elizabeth glanced at Lydia, then took Darcy’s arm and pulled him aside. There followed a hushed conversation, from which Lydia could only make out the words “—fitting in.” Then it ended, and Darcy came back over.
“Mrs. Wickham,” he said, bowing and extending his hand. “May I have this dance?”
His change was remarkable, Lydia marveled as she let Darcy lead her to the dance floor. The man she had known at Hertfordshire refused to dance with any lady, never mind a disgraced one—but now, it seemed, all Elizabeth had to do was ask. Love does change people, Lydia thought, but she did not want to consider that too deeply , as Wickham had never truly changed in their five years of marriage.
Darcy took Lydia by the hands and guided her through the simple two-step. A sweeping, solemn song was playing, the perfect tune for the siblings-in-law to follow the steps of the dance without speaking to each other. Lydia felt horribly awkward, especially as it was apparent that Darcy did not want to be dancing with her. As an added insult, Darcy’s height ensured that he towered over her. But worst of all was the way everyone was staring, as if Lydia had stripped to her undergarments and began doing a German waltz.
Gathering her courage, though she knew it would make her feel worse, Lydia gazed up at Darcy. His eyes were dark, peering down at her with something akin to pity, though with his height and his haughty air, it felt more condescending than kind. This was nothing like dancing with Wickham or the other officers; she kept waiting for Darcy to broach the silence with some kind of pleasant conversation, and she remained waiting until, with a dramatic orchestral flourish, the song ended.
Despite the fact that the dance was barely more exerting than walking from the bedroom to the sitting room, Lydia realized she was breathing heavily . S he looked desperately around the room, searching for anything but derision aimed at her and finding nothing. Then, as a pre-emptive protection from the possibility that Mr. Darcy or Mrs. Darcy proposed another dance, she gripped her skirts and rushed out of the room, pushing past the other dancers and audience of ball-goers. A single glance behind her showed Mr. Darcy standing lost and undoubtedly confused, hands raised slightly like a child who had lost his mother and was too fearful to ask for help.
Lydia made it fully through the ballroom without confrontation, and through the door into the sitting room, where the atmosphere was more hushed. Men and women either read or played cards, arranged into tight-knit groups—and that only made it worse, as there was no revelry to keep everyone from staring at her. Lydia reflected for a moment on how she must look, skin hot and breathing erratic, and a smile worked its way up her face. She must truly look the part of the whore everyone thought her to be. She turned on her heel and stomped her way out of the room, pushing past people until she could reach the large staircase in the center of the house. She swept upwards dramatically until she was away from every body and all their eyes.
Lydia sat on the sill of a large window and leaned against the pane, which was cool against her heated face. She took deep breaths, letting the bunched up fabric of her dress fall from her hands, and listened to the muted sounds of the ball from the floor below.
That strange feeling came back to her . She wanted to cry, which was strange, because in all the time she’d been married to Wickham, through the debt and the way he looked at other women and the way he spoke to her when he was angry, she had never cried, nor felt the compulsion too. She simply woke up each day and soldiered through.
She was so caught up in her thoughts that she almost didn’t notice a faint sound, barely distinguishable over the noise of the ball. She paused, straining her ear to determine if it was real or if she was simply imagining things. After a moment, she decided that she really was hearing the sound of faint singing coming from this floor, which was strange, as Lydia had supposed most people in the house would be below, at the ball. She was unsure if she even wanted to investigate, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she ended up following the sound, down the hall until she eventually reached a door, where the singing was much stronger, intertwined in her ears with the faint music from the ballroom below. Lydia reached a hand out, then paused. After the indignities of tonight, did she really want to face another person?
The singing, though, intrigued her. Lydia twisted the handle to find herself in a child’s bedroom, a room in the house she had never been in before, nor thought much about. There was a cradle, and adornments, and really, this room for a child was nicer than any place Lydia had ever been, but the more intriguing sight was a toddler sitting in the lap of a woman, who was singing softly along to the song that was being played below. The woman was Georgiana Darcy, Mr. Darcy’s often-reserved sister, dressed in a casual dress that indicated no plans of being seen by anyone but her family. The sight, actually, made Lydia blush.
Georgiana looked up at her. “Ah, I’m sorry. Did my singing disturb you?”
“Um. No,” Lydia said, surprised.
“You see, I didn’t think anyone would be up here, and so I didn’t think anyone would hear me. I really didn’t mean to bother you,” she continued. Her voice was soft and melodic and felt too young for her face. Lydia had not heard it much over the past few weeks.
Lydia looked aside, then back at Georgiana, who had not taken her eyes off her. The child was nearly asleep in her lap. “I really don’t think I’m supposed to be here, so don’t feel sorry.”
“If that’s the case, what are you doing here?” Georgiana asked. Lydia was surprised at the frankness of her question, or at least, startled enough that she gave an honest answer without thinking much about it.
“Avoiding the ball.”
Georgiana sighed and bounced the child in her lap. “I suppose, in that case, that I am too, under the guise of babysitting. Being an aunt can get you out of an awful lot, you know.”
“I see,” Lydia said.
“I would ask you why you’re avoiding the ball, but I suppose the answer is too obvious, and it would be insulting if I asked, wouldn’t it?” Georgiana said. Lydia’s surprise did not abate. In the two weeks she had been at Pemberley, she had barely heard more than a word from the woman . She was beginning to think that was for the best, as it was apparent her shyness hid a terribly presumptuous personality.
“I suppose it would be,” Lydia replied, although she was still somewhat taken aback that the night had led her to this moment, standing in the doorway of a child’s room, having such a candid conversation with a woman she barely knew.
“Then I won’t ask,” Georgiana resolved. She sighed, setting her head on her hand, her other arm balancing the sleepy toddler in her lap. “I’m just lucky that Fitzwilliam was able to keep the details of my situation hidden, or else I would be in your same boat—oh, but I’m sorry. That was much worse, wasn’t it?”
“It’s—fine. I know what you meant,” Lydia said, still too much in a state of disbelief to feel much offense. “Although…I must admit, I can’t feel the same way. If you were in this boat, perhaps I would have never boarded. Or, regardless, I imagine being on a sinking ship doubtless feels more comforting when there’s someone else on board.”
Georgiana, surprisingly, chuckled, lifting a hand to hide her mouth. “Oh, you have your sister’s wit.”
“And you’re as pretentious as your brother,” Lydia replied, before she had time to think about it. Georgiana laughed again, but it wasn’t quite as genuine as before, and her posture seemed to slump as she lowered her hand to wrap around her nephew.
“I am, aren’t I?” she said softly, looking at the ground in front of her. Soon, though, she raised her eyes back up to meet Lydia’s. “I’m really sorry I’ve been so distant since you got here. It’s been difficult for me—well, not as difficult as it has been for you, I’m sure, so perhaps I shouldn’t be saying that. I’m sorry. It’s just- well, I presume you know about my past with Wickham—you do, don’t you?”
“Ah,” Lydia said. “I do.” There were some things that shouldn’t be spoken of in the presence of a child, or rather, perhaps shouldn’t be spoken of at all, but she understood quite well. “Then I’m the one who should be sorry, Miss Darcy. I didn't mean to dredge up unpleasant memories by coming here.”
Georgiana sighed. “There’s really no use for apologies. I know my sister-in-law is married to Mr. Wickham, so I thought we might meet each other.” She then uncrossed her legs and rose gracefully to her feet. She walked over to the crib at the side of the room and carefully set the child within it, stroking his head one more time before taking a step back. Then she looked at Lydia again and smiled, prior bad sentiment seemingly gone.
“May we step into another room so we can speak freely? I want to know how you ended up here.”
“Well, sure,” Lydia said. She figured they might as well. They had already spoken freely enough to each other.
Once they had left the child’s room, and retired to the sitting room upstairs, Georgiana looked at Lydia with a face of great curiosity. “Please, tell me your story. Did Mr. Wickham leave you for someone else? I find it hard to imagine he wouldn’t.”
Lydia intertwined her fingers as she sat at the card table with Georgiana, both of them positioned adjacently. So far, Lydia had actually not told the tale of how she ended up at Pemberley to anyone, even Elizabeth, as it just felt too humiliating to breach. Elizabeth, Lydia knew, had assumed the worst, and although Lydia felt it an insult to Wickham’s character not to correct it, found that whenever she got the mind to, the words stuck in her throat. But she found unexpectedly, there was a sense of relief in the idea of conveying the story to someone who was not her sister, who had not known her before she was Mrs. Wickham, and who, in fact, had been courted by Wickham before. With the promise of soothing just over the horizon, Lydia began her story .