ANOTHER FIVE MINUTES FOUND them in Quiet Street again. There was no immediate sign of Alexander, and Isabella laid a table in preparation for his return with some of their morning’s purchases, bread rolls, cheese, and a plate of ham, whilst Lydia made herself useful by dressing a salad and cucumber.
“What on earth can Wickham want in Bath? You would have thought with all that has passed it would be the last place he would appear,” she said to her friend. Any nervousness she might have felt about the outcome of her married state had intensified with that gentleman’s appearance. “What can he be doing here?”
Before Isabella could give her answer, they heard the knock on the front door announcing Alexander’s return from Walcot and waited nervously as his footfall on the stairs grew louder. One look at his face was enough to stop the exchange of conversation between the girls. Isabella took his coat before he sat down at the table. He looked directly at Lydia with the same grave expression that had become very familiar to her over the past few days. “It is not good news, I am afraid.”
For a moment, she thought she might faint and steeled herself to hear the words that she was still a married woman, that her name would be Lydia Wickham forevermore. She was not feeling well; her heart was beating too fast, as though it might burst. Perhaps if she sat down for a moment to calm her nerves, she would recover. Her ears started buzzing, and as a wave of nausea overcame her, the world became as black as a night sky and quite as star filled. She heard her name being called, but she could not see. Lydia called out in blind panic before she slumped, only to be saved by Mr Fitzalan, who jumped out of his seat and caught her in his arms.
Alexander Fitzalan did not know what to do; he had not expected this. She lay in his arms; that she had fainted he was sure. He searched her face for any sign of life—she was at least still breathing. Her lips, which had taunted him so many times, pink as rosebuds, were pale and parted, her breath coming in short darts. It is a pretty face, he thought. How vulnerable she looked. He became more concerned when she did not immediately come round. “Lydia, are you quite well? Please open your eyes and tell me you are not ill.”
Lydia’s lashes fluttered open; her black eyes were startled and round. She was astonished to see him, and as she recollected the circumstances, she struggled to stand. Alexander aided her with strong arms until she was upright, keeping his hand at her elbow lest she should relapse.
I must tell you all my news. Forgive me, I did not mean to distress you so; I had not finished telling you everything. There was a robbery at the church early this morning and several important documents, including books of registers, banns, and so forth were stolen, though the poor rector cannot think why such items would be taken or how they could be of any importance to a thief.”
“So that is why he is here and dashing about so urgently upon his gig!” Lydia managed to say as she recovered her breath, still gasping for air.
Street,” declared Isabella. “He is here in Bath!”
“Good heavens, I must alert Mr Darcy at once,” cried
Alexander. “He will wish to know of it, I am sure. I will send a
letter by express. I need paper and ink.”
“I did not bring any with me,” sighed Isabella waving her
salts under Lydia’s nose. “I am sorry. We were in such a hurry,
and I did not give my writing box a minute’s thought.” “Do not worry, I will go out and get some. I will return in just
a moment! Look after her, Isabella.” He flew from the room
immediately, not stopping for bread and cheese, and the ladies
were left looking at one another.
Lydia could not eat a morsel. Though she was feeling much
better, her mind was running on other matters. “Wickham must be
married to that woman,” she said, speaking her thoughts out loud.
“Why else would he go to the trouble of stealing church records?” “That may be the case, Lydia, but I hate to raise your hopes.
We do not know that he has stolen them, though it certainly
seems likely.”
A loud report on the front door downstairs had the ladies
leaping to the window.
“I do not think it can be Alexander returned so quickly,”
said Isabella. She peered out but was not able to see the visitor
hidden by the canopy below. “I will go and see.”
Lydia heard Isabella’s light footstep on the stairs, then Mrs
Bromley the housekeeper in conversation with a man judging
from the low register of the voice. Isabella was there again
instantly. “It is Captain Wickham. He told Mrs Bromley he
desires to speak with you. Shall I send him away?”
“No,” said Lydia firmly, her eyes alert. “Send him up. I want
to hear exactly what he has to say for himself.”
“But will you be safe?”
“Isabella, George Wickham is many things, but he is not a
murderer. Besides, it will be amusing for me. Quite how he plans
to talk himself out of this pickle I cannot imagine.” Isabella showed him into the sitting room and left them
alone, retiring to her room, but with the door left slightly ajar in
case she was needed. Lydia had more trust in that wastrel than
she possessed, that was for sure!
Lydia had already decided that she would find the whole episode
far more diverting if she were to keep her counsel and let him run on
in his own particular way. She offered him a seat and waited. “Listen, my love,” he started, “I know how it must all appear,
but believe me when I say that my feelings towards your very
excellent person are never varying; you are the love of my life
and ever will be. When I quitted Netherfield, I had very good
reasons for leaving when I did and I think if you allow me to
explain, we can resolve it all.”
Lydia sat in silence and waited for him to continue. “Of one thing in this life we can be sure: that it is a trial and
that few manage to travel seamlessly through its passage is undeniable. I admit I have committed a few errors along the way.” “Get to the point, George!”
“Yes, of course, dear. I must ask you to think back. You recall,
my dear, that period of my life when Mr Darcy refused to give me
the living he owed me.”
“Yes,” Lydia answered. “I recall that particular tale
distinctly.”
“Indeed, you know I was at a low ebb. I had been dropped
and snubbed by a man who was as good as my brother, and I
knew not which way to turn. I made a mistake; I see that now.
You can imagine how it all was: a lady seduces a young fellow,
hard on his luck, into thinking she has a high regard for him,
plying him with drink and the promise of fortune. Next, before
he knows what is happening, she has marched him up the aisle
and then abandons him as quickly as she debauches him.” “To what do you refer, sir?”
“You do not know?”
“I do, but I wish you to tell me.”
“Why I was married, my dear, but let me assure you, it was a
marriage of convenience, it meant nothing; it’s not worth the
paper that declares its truth.”
“Tell me,” asked Lydia, “was that before or after you tried to
seduce Miss Darcy?”
Wickham was discomfited by her remark, but as a gambling
man knows when his luck has run out but persists in one last go,
so did Captain Wickham entreat his former lady with one last attempt to bring her round. “My love, no one need ever know anything about my previous alliance, which is a marriage on paper alone. I swear on my life that I have never lived with her
nor ever seen her again.”
“I see,” said Lydia, “so we will just continue living the lie
that has become as natural as breathing: that we are happily
married, that I turn a blind eye to your amorous encounters and
imagine that they do not mean anything. We will continue to
pretend that, since the day we met, you have not lied, cheated,
or mistreated me in any way.”
“I have the book, the record of this most unfortunate ceremony in my possession. No one shall be any the wiser. Listen to
me; you and I will start afresh. I promise from this day forward to
be the most faithful husband a girl ever wished, the most ardent
lover. And look how well I am doing. With our dear brother
Darcy’s help, I will rise again in my profession, I know it. We will
have a grand house, Lydia, as many servants as you wish,
carriages, clothes, even a little pug if you desire it!” “Captain Wickham, please stop this instant.”
“As many bonnets as can fill up a smart barouche, as many . . .” You are wasting your time and your breath. I will not listen,
George.”
“ . . . diamonds, cameos—you know how you adore jewellery.
I will cover you in precious gems!”
“Are you not attending or are you simply stupid? I am not
interested.”
“But you should be, damn you, Lydia. If I don’t have you,
whom do you think will? A girl willing to run away and live with
a chap in sin, a girl past her bloom, a girl sullied as a streetwalker will find no suitors willing to call. You’ll have no chance of
marrying again, mark my words.”
“No chance of marrying again, whatever do you mean? As
well you know, I have never been married! I should like to say I
am sorry to disappoint you, but frankly, I am not. You have no
claim on me, which I celebrate more than you can imagine. I
would not live with you again, even if you could rustle up
Pemberley itself nor if I were to discover that you had married me
honestly. And despite the scandal that will inevitably result, I am
delighted with the outcome of this highly fortunate discovery. If I
possessed the funds, I would reward Mrs Molly Wickham with an
annuity for her generous and timely intelligence!”
Lydia hesitated. She could hear voices outside the door.
Alexander burst through, demanding to know if she was quite
well. She could have hugged him, for the expression on
Wickham’s face was a picture.
“Lydia, I am sorry I was away so long. I should never have
left you.”
“And who are you, sir?” Wickham demanded, as Alexander
moved swiftly to Lydia’s side. “Who are you to address my wife
with such familiarity.”
“My name is Alexander Fitzalan. I must presume you are
George Wickham. And this lady, sir, is most emphatically not
your wife.”
“He has the books that were reported as stolen, Alexander,”
Lydia cried, fearful that Wickham, whose countenance looked
thunderous, might step up and challenge Mr Fitzalan to a duel,
or hit him at the very least. “I have told him that I am not to
return with him. I know I am not his wife nor do I wish to be.” Alexander suddenly took charge, gently ushering Lydia out
of the room and telling her he would have a private audience
with Captain Wickham. He told her that she was not to worry
about the books or anything else; he was there to help sort her
problems out.
Once out in the corridor, she felt duty bound to warn him.
“But Alexander, do not believe a word he says and please be
careful.” She touched his arm, and he smiled reassuringly,
patting her hand as he spoke.
“Leave it with me, Lydia. I know what kind of man he is,
believe me. I am now fully acquainted with his crimes against
you. I will be careful. Sit with Isabella. Five minutes and it will
be done, I promise.”
Lydia joined Isabella in her room. They sat quietly, listening
to the exchange of words, Wickham’s angry voice, and Mr
Fitzalan’s calm, deep tones. They heard a door slam, a heavy
tread on the stairs, and the front door bang shut.
It was all Lydia could do to stop herself from running up and
throwing her arms around Alexander, but she knew she could
not. He would hate such a display of emotion, and she felt they
were getting on so well now that she didn’t want to spoil their
newfound amity.
“He has one hour to return the books to me and leave Bath,
though I did inform him that Mr Darcy is on his tail,” pronounced
Alexander. “I suspect the books may be returned sooner.” “I know him,” cried Lydia, “that will not be enough to deter
him. There is sure to be another scheme.”
“Let us wait and see. I am certain he will honour his promise;
he has no choice.”
Within the half hour, there came a loud knock on the door.
Alexander anticipated Mrs Bromley before she managed to
descend the stairs, and he returned in a moment bearing the
promised books.
“I did not hear Wickham,” Lydia cried. “Has he been and
gone already?”
“Oh no; he is far too shame-faced to show himself here
again, and if I am not mistaken, I guess he has left Bath already,
taking the London Road where he imagines he will be able to
lose himself easily. I should not boast of it as a man of the cloth,
but I think Mr Wickham was more than a little afraid to see me
again and sent a body in his place!”
“Mr Fitzalan!” exclaimed Lydia. “Did you threaten Captain
Wickham with violence?”
“Not in so many words,” he laughed.
The tension was broken for a moment as they all burst out
laughing before Lydia plucked up the courage to see the entry
that officially recognised her own marriage as null and void. It
proclaimed for all the world to see that George Wickham of
Walcot Street, Bath, and Pemberley House, Derbyshire, together
with Molly Spratt of Walcot Street, Bath, were married in
Walcot Church by license on 10 June, in the year One
Thousand, Eight Hundred and One. Their signatures were there,
George’s unmistakable scrawl looking very much as it had done
on their marriage certificate. So it was official: her husband was
a bigamist; she was unmarried, now unmarriageable, a single
woman with no fortune and with no prospects of acquiring any. All of a sudden her problems weighed heavily on her shoulders; her thoughts and the small room crowded in on her, and she knew she had to get out. The day looked to be as miserable as she felt—huge dark clouds were rolling slowly over the grey skies—but though the prospect of getting wet was not a happy one, she knew she had to breathe fresh air. Lydia excused herself, saying she was to go for a walk, quickly donning her cloak and bonnet, and setting forth before she could be talked out of it. Without knowing where she was going, she just knew that she had to go and be alone with her thoughts. Heading firstly for Gay Street, she then turned off, finding her way to the Gravel Walk, and as she started to stride along the path, climbing higher past the backs of houses whose windows seemed to watch her every step, she felt the first speck of rain. Looking up, Lydia felt furious that she had not brought an umbrella for it was clear she was going to be completely soaked. Far from being a sharp shower, the clouds were as gloomy as one ever saw them in Bath, and before long, the heavens opened and there was a deluge. She ran under the cover of the trees, which only afforded partial shelter. Lydia was starting to feel extremely cross with herself and wondered what could have possessed her to have such a silly notion. This was not her favourite pastime. A walk in the sunshine was one thing, but standing in the rain with wet feet and water trickling down inside one’s bonnet was not the sublime experience she craved. Searching the skies for a break in the clouds, she was just contemplating running to the next set of trees when she saw the figure of a gentleman she recognised running towards her, umbrella in hand, with an air of great urgency.