Elizabeth sat down and poured them both a cup of tea. “Then I am pleased, but you must promise not to overexert yourself. You gave us all such a fright.”
“Yes, yes, you are quite right. I must do as little as possible. And really, given how much I have achieved thus far without lifting a finger—nurturing my youngest children into the most senseless, selfish creatures ever to walk the earth, consenting to a marriage I knew nothing about, allowing my youngest daughter to disgrace herself and all her sisters, acquiring a morally corrupt libertine as a son, and managing my estate in such a way as to ensure there is not a penny spare to help Lydia put food on her table—I can see that the very best thing to do now is even less than before.”
Elizabeth regarded him pityingly. He had lost weight, and possibly hair, and all the sport had gone out of his reflections, leaving only bitter sarcasm. “You were not to know—”
“You warned me though, did you not? You could not have said more plainly that Lydia’s behaviour would get her into trouble. Would that I had listened.”
Elizabeth felt again the regret that beset her upon first hearing of the elopement. Yes, she had warned her father, but only about Lydia’s wild conduct. She had said nothing against Wickham. How she regretted that decision! Had she only told her father some part of his history with Darcy, or perhaps named Colonel Fitzwilliam as a second authority on the evils of his character, then Lydia might have been kept safely at Longbourn.
Time had tempered her regret with a little perspective, however. She was of the opinion now that, if the disaster in Brighton had been averted, Lydia would only have found another, somewhere else, before long. The only benefit to delaying the inevitable was that a different man would be Elizabeth’s brother, and her hopes might not have perished along with her sister’s virtue.
“None of us forced her into that carriage, Papa. Not even Wickham. The blame for that is Lydia’s alone.”
“Not so, though I thank you for trying to absolve me. But you said it yourself—I did not check Lydia’s behaviour. I did not provide her with the information or understanding that would have prevented her from climbing into that carriage. What came next, I blame wholly on Wickham. Everything that came before, I must own to myself.”
Elizabeth knew not how to respond, for she did not entirely disagree, but there was no point in worsening her father’s shame by saying so. They ate their breakfasts without any more discussion until Mr Bennet asked a question that made it clear her silence was as strong an indictment as if she had simply concurred.
“Did your uncle think the same as you?”
“Pardon?”
“Come, Lizzy, I would think you a simpleton if you did not agree that I have let you and your sisters down. I would know what your uncle Gardiner had to say on the matter that he would not say to my face.”
“He was only concerned with assisting in the search,” she assured him. “If he was displeased with any party, he was too kind to say so. Unlike my aunt Wallis.”
Her father let out a bark of laughter. “I can well imagine! And pray, what has she to say on the matter?”
“Nothing that I think you would consider useful,” Elizabeth admitted.
“No, let me hear it. She no doubt thinks I ought to disown your sister, or something equally severe.”
“Actually, she suggested that you disown Mama. She said you could send her to keep house for Lydia and install Jane as mistress of Longbourn.”
“And what are her plans for you?”
“She wants me to go and stay with her.” Her father seemed to think this a hollow threat, and Elizabeth judged it the wrong time to inform him she was seriously considering accepting the invitation. “I am sorry for Lydia,” she said instead. “She has no idea how wretched her life will be.”
“Your sister is so utterly devoid of rational thought that I think her quite capable of blundering through every tribulation in complete ignorance.” He paused when Kitty came into the room, continuing once she had taken her seat at the table. “Wickham seems an equal stranger to common sense. With any luck they may not notice each other’s deficiencies at all.”
“They will notice when they cannot afford coal to burn.”
“If you are talking about Lydia and Wickham, they have money enough for all the coal they need now,” Kitty said.
Elizabeth exchanged a puzzled look with her father. “What do you mean?”
“Wickham has a new commission in the regulars. His cousin paid for it.”
It was swiftly established that Kitty had received correspondence from Lydia that morning, which she reluctantly handed over for Elizabeth to read the pertinent parts aloud to her father.
A cousin of Wickham’s has bought him an ensigncy. It means we must move to Newcastle, but I do not mind, for I am grown tired of London. It is full of foul-smelling smoke and half-finished buildings, and at night, people shout and fight in the streets and keep me awake. Mrs Younge has refunded our rent—most of it, anyway—so we have plenty of money to spend. We celebrated no longer being poor by drinking two bottles of fine wine. The whole business has put Wickham in a better humour than he has been in since we left Longbourn. I do not know why everyone had to be so horrid to him while we were there, it was quite unfair, but he is happier now, and he only got a bit cross that I have bought myself a new coat. I hope you are not too fed up being stuck there with nothing to do.
Elizabeth let out an angry breath and handed the note back to Kitty. “Well, we can safely say she listened to none of our lessons about economy.”
“We can also safely say that Wickham has more relations on hand to bail him out than any man as despicable as he has a right to,” Mr Bennet added. “I am only vexed that I have ended up among their number.”
“I never heard of his having any relations except a father and mother, both of whom he told me had been dead many years.”
“I thought you would both be happy that Lydia’s prospects have improved,” Kitty said in a bewildered tone.
