Rebellion at Longbourn

She nodded warily and admitted him into the room, which was as tiny and shabby as he expected. Lydia, wearing a shapeless and none-too-clean gray dress, flopped onto a narrow bed before waving him toward the only chair.

After he settled himself, he scrutinized the young woman’s appearance. She seemed healthy enough, but Timson was correct in his guess that she was with child. Darcy estimated she was still some two or three months from her confinement. This limited her options, Darcy realized sadly. Although her return to Longbourn had never been likely, it would be unthinkable under the current circumstances. The Bennets had endured enough scorn over their wayward daughter.

Lydia shifted to prop her back against the headboard. “Well, why are you here?”

Darcy cleared his throat. “I would like to provide assistance to you, Miss Lydia.”

She could not have been more astonished if he had offered to fly her to the moon. “Assistance? Why?”

“I feel somewhat responsible for Wickham’s misdeeds. I knew he was a blackguard and did not warn your family about him. That allowed him to do you grievous wrong.”

Lydia’s lips flattened into a tense line. “I believed he loved me,” she said after a long pause.

How could Darcy respond to that? Would it help to know she was not his first victim? Or did she already suspect that?

Finally, Darcy settled for asking the obvious question. “Is the child his?”

She nodded, biting her lip. “I haven’t lain with anyone else. We would fight and he would leave for months at a time, but he always returned. Then four months ago, he learned about the babe. He was so agitated. He said he wouldn’t be back.” She recited these facts in a flat, unemotional voice, but tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. If Wickham had been present at that moment, Darcy would not have hesitated to strike him.

He took a deep breath. “My agent—the same man who located you—has discovered Wickham’s whereabouts. If you would like, I could…encourage him to marry you.”

Lydia’s eyes sparkled, but her voice was steady. “You mean…pay him?”

Whatever she had believed before, she certainly had no illusions about Wickham’s character now. “Yes.”

She gave a little laugh. “It’s funny. Four months ago, I would have leapt at that opportunity. I didn’t desire anything more from life than for George to be my husband. But I’ve been alone now longer than I’ve been with him. It hasn’t been good, but I have survived. And I wonder…why I would want a husband who must be paid. If George doesn’t care enough about me and the child to stay with us for our own sakes, a pot of money from you isn’t going to make him care, is it?” She stroked her swollen belly.

Darcy barely recognized the flighty girl he had known two years ago. Life—and Wickham—had shaped her into a world-weary woman. But I have changed as well, he realized. Even a few weeks ago, Darcy would have assumed that marrying Lydia to Wickham, the father of her child, was the proper—indeed the only—course. After glimpsing the world through Elizabeth’s and Georgiana’s eyes, however, he wondered if marriage through coercion would be in Lydia’s best interests.

“Is there someone else you prefer to marry?” he asked gently.

She snorted. “No. The whole sex can go hang as far as I’m concerned.”

Darcy took no offense; she had good reason for her distrust. “Unfortunately, I do not believe that you would be welcome at Longbourn.”

“No.” She rested her head wearily against the headboard.

“But I would be pleased to carry a message to your family.”

She sat bolt upright. “You are in contact with Longbourn?”

Darcy cursed himself; he should have mentioned that first. “I am. I hope to visit tomorrow.”

“Have you seen Mama and my sisters? Are they well?”

“They are all enjoying excellent health, although they worry about you.”

Lydia stared down at her hands. “That is very good of them. I should have written, but then I would have had to explain about George… And I just couldn’t.” She dabbed her eyes with a ratty handkerchief.

“I am certain they will understand.”

“Is that nasty Mr. Collins causing them any trouble?”

The old Lydia Bennet would not have given so much thought to her family’s well-being; adversity had matured her. “Some trouble, yes, but they are managing. I could carry letters if you would like to write them.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “That would be marvelous—and if they could write back…but I would not want them to know I am living here.”

“I would prefer to find you more…congenial lodgings,” Darcy said carefully.