She frowned. “Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. I don’t need to marry you to love you, Eliza,” he said, squeezing her waist. “I just want to be there with you through all of it. That’s it.”
She smiled, too, so broad and unfiltered that she would probably be embarrassed if she had less to drink, but in the moment, it didn’t matter. She threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him.
“I love you,” she said against his lips.
“I love you, too,” he replied.
Then the cover band began playing a mash-up of “Waterloo” and “Detroit Rock City,” and Eliza pulled Ben to the center of the dance floor. They danced to the music, and Eliza waved at the familiar faces of the women from the bathroom, some also on the dance floor, others at the bar. Suddenly, those percentage points of her history, geographic metrics printed out on a piece of paper, didn’t feel two-dimensional anymore, but like a long thread attached to her sternum, a thousand hands pulling on it, forcing her forward. Each unique and different and none of them wrong. Just threads to hold on to, to bind together to make something so much stronger than each on its own. A happily ever after on their own terms. Because, really, what other kind was there?
Lydia’s StoryDIANA QUINCY
“Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson: 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 behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.”
“I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing….”
Jane Austen,Pride and Prejudice
It’s a treat to be celebrating Jane Austen’s 250th birthday by envisioning what happened to her most memorable secondary characters. I immediately knew that I wanted to tell Lydia’s story. Like many readers, I had always found Lizzy Bennet’s silly, spoiled younger sister to be entertainingly annoying. However, as I delved deeper into her story, I empathized with the immature teenage girl whose impulsive decision condemned her to an unhappy marriage. I conjured up “Lydia’s Story” by imagining what resentments a grown-up Lydia might harbor and how she might finally find her happily ever after. I hope you enjoy revisiting one of Austen’s indelible side characters as much as I did!
It is a widely accepted reality that society does not truly respect a woman until she is someone’s wife. In my case, however, the exact opposite was true. Marriage made me a laughingstock.
“Look! It’s the Widow Wickham,” the boy and his friend taunted as I walked across the village green after dropping off a basketful of my prized vegetables at the nearby church. “Whaddya say? Are you up for a jig at the tavern?”
“A merry widow should want to dance the night away!” his companion laughingly called out as he trotted beside me.
Ignoring them, I kept a brisk pace. Spine straight. Chin down so that the brim of my bonnet shielded my face. Petty harassment wouldn’t break me. I was a mature woman of thirty-six with four almost-grown children. I’d dealt with far worse than the jeers of schoolboys who were barely off the apron strings.
Even my own sister Elizabeth was loath to have me at her home for extended periods of time for fear my presence would stain the precious Darcy name. All of respectable society was more than eager to judge me harshlynow. Yet in the beginning, when I was a young teen, few could fault me for immediately falling for George Wickham’s considerable charms. Many others had been struck by his impressive person as well. Including my sister Lizzy.
A dashing officer who wore his red coat and military prestige with effortless charm, Wickham’s good looks and excellent manners instantly enchanted me. As a child of just fifteen, I knew nothing of men and was over the moon at the thought of becoming Mrs. George Wickham. Having grown up in a respectable family, which included a matchmaking-obsessed mama, I had no clue just how far and brutal the fall from grace could be.
But I quickly learned.
“Get away from her!” a deep voice commanded. The pestering boys immediately stilled. And no wonder, the man’s forceful voice was made for being listened to, for obeying without question, for reverberating from the rafters. And, apparently, for rumbling through a person’s insides. “How dare you insult a lady quietly going about her business?”
“She’s no lady, Vicar,” one of the boys protested. “You’re new to the village of Castleberry; otherwise, you would understand.”
Vicar? My face heated. If only the ground would swallow me whole. I’d gone to great lengths to steer clear of the new vicar, to avoid tainting him with the presence of the village’s most scandalous widow.
“There is never cause to treat a fellow human being with anything short of kindness and respect. We are all God’s children.” The vicar spoke calmly and deliberately, striking each word in a way that made even the most mundane term sound like the keynote in a symphony. “Be on your way now.”
“But, Vicar,” one boy dared to protest.
“That will be enough.” The vicar’s manner was firm. “Good day to you.”
The sounds of scuffling feet sounded against the dirt path as the boys scampered away. I finally lifted my chin, relinquishing the shield of my bonnet brim to have a look at my unlikely champion.
Kind eyes blinked back at me. He was olive-skinned, with luminous midnight eyes framed by thick, long lashes. And filled with such compassion that my chest swelled. It was rare that anyone in Castleberry looked upon me with warmth.
“Are you all right?” he asked. My cheeks were hot as I nodded. Normally, I would immediately lower my gaze. But it had been a very long time since I’d glimpsed such an arresting figure of a man.It was hard to look away from the gentle strength of his gaze. His eyes were set amidst the sharp planes of his face, including a strong nose that, on someone else, might appear a tad too prominent but, on this man, enhanced a perfectly imperfect handsomeness. It took me a moment to realize what he held in his hands.
“I thought I would return your basket, Mrs. Wickham.” His tone was both kind and respectful as he held the straw receptacle out to me. “I’m glad to have the opportunity to thank you for your generosity.”
“All of these weeks, you’ve known the offerings came from me?” I took back my basket, which was now empty of the fruits and vegetables I’d just left on the church doorstep. “And you still accepted my donation?”
“Of course. Your very fine produce is put to good use every week to feed the poor families of our parish.”
