Darcy & Elizabeth (44 page)

Elizabeth's thoughts were interrupted by her mother's voice.

“'Twas a great sadness for your mama not to attend this wedding, Lydia. Married twice, and I had not the pleasure of witnessing either one!”

With unsparing precision, a tear then sprang from the corner of Mrs. Bennet's eye. With a dainty flourish, she withdrew a gauzy, lace-trimmed handkerchief from her bodice and dabbed at it without conviction.

“Oh, what does it matter?” retorted Lydia dismissively. “The flowers were unexceptional and I was forbidden to wear lace. If we had not gone into the vestry to sign the registry, I should not have thought much had come to pass at all.”

Suddenly jealous of her possessing her baby, Lydia had taken her gurgling daughter from Elizabeth, jiggling her a bit upon her shoulder. As this manoeuvre was clearly not one that Lydia regularly employed, her movements were clumsy. The baby began to fuss a bit—whereupon Lydia began to jiggle her more zealously.

“'Tis a pity,” offered Mrs. Bennet, reaching out and fluffing Lydia's bobbing tendrils, “that swaddling is no longer done.”

Mrs. Bennet and Lydia commiserated that sad fact emphatically, nodding and waggling their eyebrows in unison. It was then that Elizabeth's attention was arrested by the young nursemaid. The girl, who was no bigger than a mite, bore the precise expression of one of much longer years—one who had spent a great deal of time witnessing the many follies of her fellow man. Indeed, Elizabeth was quite certain that the girl's countenance mirrored her own contemptuous dislike of the display before them. At that very moment, the girl's gaze caught hers—and she thereupon cast her eyes deferentially to the floor. The little nurse's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as if she had been caught in some covert act. Elizabeth had wanted to speak to her, to bid her not to be afraid—for the sight of her countenance had given her stomach an added twinge. The girl, however, stepped back with head still bowed and folded her hands in front of her.

Lydia continued to jiggle the baby who then began to cry with some vehemence. Sighing with equal resolve, Lydia thrust her towards the nursemaid, who then enveloped the child in her small arms and immediately began to hum. Elizabeth looked at the girl once again, but she had turned away with the baby towards a homely wreck of woman, who sat in the corner already opening her dress-front in anticipation of the feeding. Quite involuntarily, Elizabeth grimaced. It was a trial not to snatch Lydia's baby from her, but she held her ground.

With a quick whisper, she bid, “Pray, Lydia, your wet-nurse, is she…entirely reliable?”

Lydia looked upon her as if she had run mad, impatiently replying, “Of course. Can you not see she is rich with milk?”

“You do not take my meaning…” Elizabeth began to explain, then the little nursemaid turned to her with such an expression of reassurance, she quit the subject entirely.

“Come, Lizzy,” said her mother, turning up her nose at the thought of witnessing the very act she had vociferously avoided for herself and her daughters. “We must implore the major to tell us more of his aunt.”

“She keeps a box on Drury Lane,” announced Lydia. “She is sickly and Hugh is her only relation! Can there be a happier thought?”

For some reason, Lydia's return to indecorous self-centeredness was a very present relief. It was as if Elizabeth had been waiting for the other, very large shoe to drop. She did not even bother to attempt to admonish her.

As they quit the room, she looked back upon the little nursemaid as she stood stroking the baby's head whilst the other woman nursed. Carefully and quietly she closed the door. Somehow, beyond all reason, she was comforted.

Footsteps Retraced

Since that fortuitous day on which she became employed by Lydia, what Sally knew to be true had been twirled three-hundred-and-sixty degrees and then back again. To what her family had just uncovered of the nature of Lydia's husband and marriage, Sally Frances had long been privy. She knew it all because loquacious Lydia had merrily admitted to much of her family's travails, and what she had not put forth she had hinted at broadly enough for Sally to have surmised. Lydia had not shared these private matters with Sally because she felt any kinship with her baby's nurse. Indeed, because her Aunt Gardiner did not offer her a sympathetic ear, she simply had no one else to listen to her prattle. Sally was, and always had been, a very good listener. She came, however, with a bias.

Sally's penurious perspective gifted her little respect for well-born folks who by accident crossed her path prior to her turning up on Gracechurch St. That point of view had not been challenged during the days she had lain in wait for an excuse to make her way to the Gardiners' home. In that her first glimpse of that breed up close had been Lydia, her regard did not immediately improve for that specimen. After a very few weeks under her supervision, Sally held out little hope for the English race in general if Mrs. Wickham represented the ruling class. Had the Gardiners not arrived home and proved Lydia was not, as a rule, typical of her society, Sally might have been so dejected as to give up her project to search out her brother's history altogether. Although Sally thought Mrs. Gardiner was a fine woman, she was well aware that she was disapproving of Lydia bringing someone into their home without references (and, truth be known, with a street address that would have struck fear in her heart). Lydia asked nothing of her except was she capable of caring for a baby. Mr. Gardiner was in trade, and from what little she saw of him, he was as kind as his wife. Their children were so well behaved that whilst Lydia complained endlessly about them behind her aunt's back, Sally seldom was aware they were there. If there was any one indicator of Lydia's being a societal aberrance, it was the Gardiners' barely concealed dislike of her character. (In time Sally would learn that Lydia may not have been the most admired lady of her class, but neither was she a compleat peculiarity.)

It had quickly fallen apparent to Sally that Lydia was nothing if not an immodest strumpet who used her wiles far more ruthlessly than any woman of the street. Yet her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, was the finest lady Sally's eyes had ever beheld. True, her home was not one-tenth as fine as the Darcys' house in Mayfair, but it was still grand by any standard Sally had ever had. Lydia had been little bother to her, as she only paid a visit to her daughter once a day. Indeed, Mrs. Gardiner peeked in on the baby with far more regularity than Lydia.

Sally's opinion of Major Kneebone was not quite so mean as her regard for Lydia. Despite his uniform, he was basically a man of books and quiet pursuits, which was not the worst sort—although clearly, he was a dunce when it came to women. As Sally had witnessed the whole of their courtship, she was well aware that Lydia had seduced the major as surely as if she had sat in a cheap dressing-gown in a window in Seven Dials. (Indeed, she thought those tarts a tad less devious.) So eagre had Lydia been to escape the quiet gentility of the Gardiners' house, he might as well have had a bull's-eye painted upon his forehead.

They made quite an odd pair, which only disposed Sally to believe that there was no accounting for some people's taste. Although she initially disliked the notion of that kind Major Kneebone taking conniving Lydia as a wife, their nuptials proved altogether serendipitous in that they had attracted an invitation for the couple to visit Pemberley. Sally had been saving her pennies to sit aboard a post-chaise,
only to end up travelling all the way to Derbyshire accompanied by the finest livery in three counties.

Having never gone beyond the city of London, it was a trip fraught with uneasiness for her. She had not slept a wink the night before and as she stood waiting her turn to climb onto the coach, she could feel her knees trembling. Seeing her thusly, Mrs. Gardiner drew a loosely woven aubergine shawl from about her own shoulders and gave it to Sally for the trip.

“Here, my dear,” she had said, “you must not catch your death.”

Sally was taken so unawares that she could hardly croak out proper thanks. But she had taken it from her with such reverence it was unlikely that Mrs. Gardiner thought it unappreciated. Indeed, Sally felt the sting of tears at her generosity. (Lydia had given her a chintz gown and a used pair of high-low boots, but that had been more to please Lydia's sensibilities over the austerity of Sally's coarse, fustian costume than as an act of generosity.) The shawl played no part in Sally's elevated regard of Mrs. Gardiner as a lady, but it certainly solidified it. Surprisingly, the esteem she held for the Gardiners did not translate into the same for the rest of Lydia's relations. As the Gardiners held all of Sally's admiration, she had little in reserve for anyone else. She believed it quite impossible that the whole of Lydia's family could be half as good as they.

Because Sally held the baby, she had ridden all the way from London inside the coach and upon the seat opposite the Major and Mrs. Kneebone. The aging wet-nurse, Malmsy, had ridden upon the boot with a footman. Hence, despite her apprehension of riding knee-to-knee with her employer halfway across England, Sally had felt fortunate to have been out of the rain. Major Kneebone was clearly a gentleman in having offered his seat inside to Malmsy. Lydia had said, “Pish-tosh—do not be a fool!” and he had wordlessly betaken himself inside the coach.

With every mile that drew her closer to Pemberley, ever greater was her disconcertion. Despite her brother's high regard, she vowed to herself that she would despise them all. Indeed, even the estimable approach to Pemberley House as it came into view through the winding avenue of tulip trees could not beguile her admiration. By the time, however, they drew to a stop beneath the portico, though she still clung dearly to her disapproval, it had begun to waver.

Indeed, forthwith of their arrival her opinion wavered wildly from disgust to awe. That first was occasioned by encountering Mrs. Bennet. For the first to greet them was a lady of middle years and shrill voice entirely unknown to her. She greeted Lydia Bennet Wickham Kneebone with excessive determination. Sally stood dutifully by whilst both ladies cooed and kissed, professing undying affection. Major Kneebone was then introduced and the older woman declared herself to be excessively happy to make his acquaintance. Although Kneebone seemed pleased enough, Sally found the trilling voices unappealing. She loosened the blanket about the baby for proper inspection of her—one that did not then come about.

Sally meant to follow them through the huge entryway, but a servant caught her attention and directed her to wait. Malmsy was just then climbing from atop the carriage and bags were being unloaded from the boot. Without fanfare, they were herded towards a curved staircase. As she ascended it, she overlooked the huge black and white diamond pattern upon the floor, the statuary, and the gilded mirrors, and checked herself from gasping in awe. Overhead the entire ceiling was a brilliantly painted mural of winged angels, infants, naked women, and beasts. She had never imagined such magnificence, but feared that the scenes depicted might invade her dreams. She also wondered if the shrill woman who had met them outside was the beautiful mistress who had engendered her brother's loyalty and devotion. She shook her head free of such a notion and endeavoured with great concentration to take the stairs without a misstep.

***

The nursery room that awaited them at Pemberley was as fine as anything Sally had ever imagined. She walked about eyeing the place in wonder and explaining it all to the silent newborn. Without instruction or much consideration, Malmsy took her seat in a nursing chair in the corner. Overtaken by sheer glee at the notion of such fine surroundings, Sally giggled and shrugged her shoulders at Malmsy, whose face cracked oddly, exposing two bottom teeth. It was the first smile she had witnessed from the woman, and that it took the form of a leering jack-o-lantern did nothing to ruin the moment of jubilation for Sally. Even in so small a position as a baby-nurse, the opulence of her surroundings persuaded her to pretend she was no less than a princess. She had thought the Gardiners' fine home in Cheapside to have been the apex of all that was grand. She had no words for a castle such as Pemberley. She could not make herself put the baby in a crib, but walked about the room as if in a daze, by turns looking out of the window upon a lawn adorned with white marble statuary. Sally paced the room once again, altogether stunned at this fortunate turn of events.

Her reverie was forestalled by the intrusion of an unknown personage into the room. It was a lady—a most handsome lady who walked directly to her. Sally was so taken by the exquisite visage that she did not immediately notice that fast upon the heels of the fine lady was Lydia and the woman who had greeted them upon their arrival.

The lady spoke to her but looked at the baby's face, saying, “Good day, miss. Pray, may I take her?”

Sally nodded dumbly and handed her off. The baby stirred and the lady began to shush her and sing. Sally knew she was not to look at the lady—from Lydia she had already learnt that would be unseemly of a mere nurse. Rather, she should cast her eyes upon the floor. But she felt as if her eyes were beguiled from their duty and took another peek. Suddenly, she felt self-conscious and tugged a bit at her cap.

Lydia called the lady “Lizzy.”

The lady called Lizzy said, “She is a sweet baby, Lydia. She favours you.”

Just who the baby did and did not favour seemed not a subject that was favourable and was awkwardly abandoned. Slowly, perceptively, Sally began to determine the relationship between each of these gentlefolk. They were mother and daughters. Raucous Lydia was sister to the divine lady called Lizzy? Heresy. She squinted her eyes, taking it all in.

Perhaps her eyes betrayed this knowingness, for when the lady called Lizzy returned infant Sue to her open arms, she peered curiously at her. Lydia, however, curled her nose. She was tempted to sneer back at her, but dared not. Quickly, furtively, Sally cast her eyes away, feeling as if she was in possession of some guilty knowledge. Before she had courage enough to look up again, both the lady and Lydia were gone. In that void, Sally was unsettled.

***

The single drawback to her entire undertaking was that she would be hard-pressed to steal away to talk to the stable-folk about her brother. It would be risky, but she was determined to do it. She could not come in all this stead and learn nothing. 'Twas imperative.