My cup slips, splashing tea onto the saucer. I reach for a serviette so I can look away and hide my face. My cheeks are burning.
“Mrs. Wickham isnotmy sister,” I manage to say.
“Do you not call Elizabeth Darcy sister?”
“Of course. She is my brother’s wife.”
“And is Mrs. Wickham not Elizabeth Darcy’s sister, as she told me?”
“She is.”
“Then I am correct. Your sister’s sister isyoursister. Therefore, Mrs. Wickham is your sister.”
This is ridiculous. Lydia Wickham is nothing to me. She is never spoken of to me. My brother has not uttered George Wickham’s name in my presence since the day he came to London to inform me that George had married. I remember not knowing how to interpret the racing of my heart.
“To someone with a great fortune?” I’d asked.
“On the contrary, she has practically nothing.”
“He married for love?” It came out more plaintively than I wished.
“Do not trouble yourself on that account,” my brother said gently. “George Wickham is incapable of loving anyone but himself. I cannot reveal how the union came to be. But trust me when I tell you that Wickham’s aims were base and that my involvement in the matter was solely to protect the reputation of the young woman as well as that of her family.”
He seemed embarrassed. When I asked about the bride, he said it was Lydia Bennet, the younger sister of Elizabeth Bennet, to whom he’d recently introduced me. I understood that my brother had been involved in making this marriage happen and that he had done so on Elizabeth Bennet’s behalf. It was my first inkling that my brother hadn’t just taken a fancy to Elizabeth but had found love at last.
“Georgiana, are you listening?” Aunt Alice says. “You must be more attentive. Isaidthat Mrs. Wickham addressed me in an unforgivably familiar manner. She called herself a distant relation of mine—because ofyou. Can you imagine? Me, Lady Atherton, a relation of Mrs. Wickham’s? Elizabeth Darcy must tell her sister to have greater deference for her superiors. You must tell Elizabeth to do so.”
Lydia Wickham’s behavior is my responsibility? This is unbearable.
“Would you like to see the children?” I ask.
“Whatever for?”
“They’ve grown since you last saw them. Anne is becoming proficient on the piano.”
“I expect nothing less.”
“Thomas is nearly as tall as his sister.”
“Hmm.” She squints at the sun as if it’s chosen to shine through the window at this particular angle specifically to vex her.
“They’re both very imaginative,” I say.
“You speak with unfortunate pride,” Aunt Alice says. “You must disabuse yourself of the notion that imagination will serve them well.”
“They’re children.” I know I shouldn’t provoke Lady Atherton, but I am unable to defer to her today. “They like to pretend. Their latest game was playing at getting married.”
“Such nonsense.” Aunt Alice picks up a sugar biscuit.
I tell myself not to speak but disregard my own counsel.
“Thomas played the part of the bride.”
Aunt Alice freezes, biscuit halfway to her mouth.
“I trust you put a stop to that immediately.”
“He’s five years old, Aunt. I don’t see the harm in his playing make believe. He does it all the time.”
