I laughed at the absurdity of that observation. “You are too kind.”
“Would a vicar lie to you?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. At the age of thirty-six, I no longer had the patience to temper my words. “Anyhow, thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“It was the least I could do.” And then he added, “I was happy to return the favor.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You came to my rescue once.”
“I did?”
“It was after church. I was new to the neighborhood. I had no friends and was feeling very left out. You were among the children playing cricket on the green. The other children would not let me play. But you insisted that I be included. You said you would quit the game if I could not play.”
“Did I?”
“I believe you said something to the effect of, ‘The more, the merrier.’?”
“That does sound like me.” Well, it was what the original Lydia would have uttered. The one full of joy and laughter, who was always up for a bit of fun. A child who had no idea what the world did to silly girls who made rash decisions.
“I was instantly smitten,” he told me.
All of a sudden, a memory floated back to me. Of a short, scrawny, dark-haired child who’d followed me around for a bit.Michael. “Goodness,” I said. “I believe that I do remember. But you were such a small boy.”
He laughed. “As you can see, I have grown a little since then.”
He certainly had. I could never have imagined that slight, narrow-faced boy I’d barely noticed could transform into the fine model of a man before me.
“May I see you home safely?” he asked.
He wanted to walk me to my cottage? “I appreciate your gallantry, but I am not in need of protection.”
“Are you often accosted by Peter and Matthew?” he asked, referring to the young tormentors he’d just run off.
Pride kept me from detailing how most of my neighbors shunned me and instructed their children to do the same.
“I can take care of myself.” Tucking my basket firmly in the crook of my arm, I resumed walking across the green, heading in the direction of my cottage. “Thank you for returning my basket. Good day to you.”
“Good day, Mrs. Wickham,” he called after me.
I was surprised to find my second-oldest sister waiting for me when I arrived home.
“There you are.” Lizzy greeted me with a kiss on each cheek. “I was wondering where you were.”
“Don’t worry,” I responded. “I wasn’t out doing something scandalous.”
“I never thought you were,” she protested.
Lizzy was the sister who’d married most advantageously. Our eldest sister, Jane, was happily wed to Charles Bingley, but his wealth did not compare to Darcy’s. I liked Charles, who was friendly and good-natured. Darcy was the opposite—aloof, judgmental, and arrogant. His union with my sister was supposedly a love match, which I would never understand. But it was obvious that Lizzy was smitten.
I put the tea on. “What brings you to Castleberry?”
She settled at my small kitchen worktable. “Can I not visit my sister?”
“You didn’t bring the children?” I had four in all. Three sons and a daughter. The boys, George, Edward, and James, would be fine under Darcy’s tutelage. He paid the tuition at Oxford for George and Edward, as well as the fees at Harrow, the exclusive boarding school James attended along with Darcy and Lizzy’s own son.
It was my daughter, Georgina (my husband insisted on naming both our eldest son and our only daughter after himself), who I fretted would be the most negatively affected by her parents’ dubious reputation. Girls always bore the brunt of society’s judgment. But Darcy intended to settle a generous dowry on her, and I trusted he and Lizzy would see that she married well.
