Page 10 of Wickham Likes 'Em Young
Elizabeth looked up at him just as he was looking down at her. She blushed; he did the same. They were both silent as they looped around the path, heading back to the house.
That is when Miss Bingley reached them—when they looked far more entwined than at any other time during the walk. She screeched, “Mr Darcy!”
He merely stared at her while Elizabeth subdued the urge to smile. She nodded her head towards Mr Bingley’s supercilious sister. That lady walked to Longbourn with them, remaining assilent as the others. Elizabeth and Mr Darcy moderated their pace so the woman would not struggle to keep up.
Elizabeth’s mind raced. Mr Darcy’s touch, even through layers of clothing, affected her deeply. His request that she correspond with his sister caused her to hope—but there was a part of her that did not wish to hope, that assumed hope was destined to be crushed and that internally screamed that she must do everything in her power to avoid that fate. His intense look straight into her eyes just after speaking of potential future children made her feel squirmy and uncomfortable at the same time that it made her feel warm and comforted. It was impossible to feel all of those things at the same time, but…she did.
That evening, Elizabeth wished to call on every facility she had to write a charming letter to a stranger. As she got out pen, ink, and paper, she remembered that Mr Darcy had said that his sister was very shy. Earlier in their acquaintance, he had informed her that, despite his attempts to protect his sister, he had “almost lost” her. At the time, Elizabeth had barely known him at all, and it had seemed important to let him tell her what he wished, without judgment or questions or even interruption.
But now she rather wished she knew what “almost lost” meant. Had Miss Georgiana Darcy had a riding accident and almost died? Had she fallen desperately ill? Had she almost been kidnapped in a bid for a sizeable ransom? Had she been attacked by a man who wished to?—
Suddenly, several thoughts clicked into place, as if they were tumblers of a lock responding to the correct key.Wickham likes ‘em young, according to Mr Darcy’s cousin. Mr Wickhamdeflowersyoung ladies, according to Mr Darcy. Combining those two thoughts with the concept that Miss Darcy had almost been lost made her wonder if Mr Wickham had imposed himself on the much younger girl. Or come close to doing so?
She felt sick to her stomach at the thought.
But she reminded herself that there were scores of possibilities of things that could have happened to Miss Darcy, from scarlet fever to falling down a stairway, from falling through the ice in winter to almost drowning in spring floods.
Elizabeth shook her head to rid herself of all of those negative speculations, and she determinedly set her pen to paper:
21 October 1811
Longbourn, near Meryton, Hertfordshire
Dear Miss Darcy,
Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Elizabeth Bennet, and I live on my father’s estate, Longbourn. It is only a medium sized estate, not a grand one as I suspect yours to be, but we grow a wide variety of vegetables and grains; we raise rabbits, chickens, and a few goats, pigs, and cows. It is not nearly as cold and snowy here in Hertfordshire as it is, my father tells me, in Derbyshire.
I do hope you like your brother’s idea that we write to one another. If you do not, please tell me so gently because I will be very disappointed, as I was so counting on having a new friend. However, if you do write to me to tell me that you do not wish to write to me, I will feel extremely puzzled. What am I to make of someone doing something at the exact time she is telling me that she will not do that very thing? I am afraid that this conundrum locks you into writing at least a little! However, if you feel extremely upset about being forced by conundrum rules to do something you do not wish to do, I give you leave to scold your brother most sternly.
Assuming that we are to be friends, I will tell you all about me. I am twenty years old—which I am certain you think is quite ancient (but, on the other hand, given that your brother is much older than I, perhaps you will not use such a harsh word). I have four sisters—one older than me, the other three younger. One of my sisters, Lydia, is almost your exact age. She is 15 and will turn 16 in February.
We Bennet girls are a varied bunch. Kitty is 17 and pretty (because it rhymes, so she endeavoured to make it so!); she likes to draw and to do all manner of things with Lydia. Lydia is louder than most of us would wish, but a happy form of loud for the most part. I must clarify that her behaviour makes her happy; many times it makes the rest of us decidedly unhappy. However, Lydia is also the best fashion adviser in Longbourn, and she can trim bonnets like an expert.
Mary is 19; she loves to play the pianoforte and to speak of religious philosophy to an untoward degree. Jane is two and twenty and the gentlest soul in the world. She is quite capable in the still room and with her needle, and everyone—by which I mean my mother—considers her the most beautiful lady in all of Hertfordshire.
I love to walk, read, and indulge in the practice of rhetoric and the sport of climbing. No, I did not have a young man’s education; instead, I am attempting to make you think well of me, but I suspect I am doing it too much brown. When I say I love to practice rhetoric, I do not mean formal debating, I mean that I love to argue. (I am smiling, and I hope you are, too.) And when I say that I love the sport of climbing, I regretfully do not mean mountaineering, à la Coleridge; instead, I mean that I still occasionally like to climb trees! (Please keep my secret, unless your brother insists on reading my letters so he can prevent anydeleterious influence stealing over you from my lighthearted jests.)
I hope you write back and tell me all about your life. Do you like drawing, music, fashion, reading, or needlework? Do you split your time between Pemberley and London? I will love to read anything you are inclined to write,
Your new friend, I dearly hope,
Elizabeth Bennet
Elizabeth sanded the letter and folded it for delivery. When she sent it to Netherfield, she instructed James that he was to give it to Mr Darcy only. She did not trust Miss Bingley to allow her letter to reach him, and therefore she was not certain she trusted any of Netherfield’s servants, either.
When James returned, he not only confirmed that he had put the letter for Miss Darcy directly into Mr Darcy’s hand, he said, “He was…quite grateful. He told me to be certain to thank you. But…. Well, he looked… as though he really meant it.”
“Thank you, James,” Elizabeth said.
She felt quite odd the rest of the night, as if she was unmoored from her normal routines and conversations and pastimes. Even one of her favourite activities, reading, could not distract her; somehow books could not hold her interest. She found it hard to get to sleep, and even the peaceful sounds of Jane’s deep breathing did not help her relax.
Apparently, she did finally drop off to sleep, because she woke with a start, remembering a disturbing dream. A very beautiful young man with a halo of blond curls and strangely bright blue eyes approached Elizabeth, who was with Lydia and a young girl with dark, curly hair and deep brown eyes. Lydia was so caught up in the young man’s angelic appearance, that she insisted on flirting with him, despite the fact that the dark-haired girl was panicking, shouting warnings, screaming “no!"Elizabeth recognised the young man, and she knew he was no angel—he was Mr Wickham, the man she had seen nine years ago. The man Mr Darcy had warned her about.
The dream-Elizabeth did not panic, but she kept trying to warn Lydia and to comfort the dark haired girl, who of course must have been Georgiana Darcy, and she held on to each girl’s wrist as she continually dragged them to safety.
But every time she thought they were safe, Mr Wickham would appear again. Despite the usual illogic that characterises nightmares, dream-Elizabeth felt as if being hunted by Mr Wickham was reality, and that it was a life-and-death matter. It was very stressful.
Even now, awake and aware that it was “just a dream,” Elizabeth felt upset. Jane was still sweetly smiling in her sleep, but Elizabeth had no desire to lay down again, let alone to close her eyes. She slipped into clothes and went downstairs to her father’s bookroom to try one more time to lose herself in an interesting book.
