Advent Calendar Day Four: A Christmas Letter from Lydia Wickham to Elizabeth Darcy (with Annotations by Mr George Wickham)

Merry Christmas! And what is the Christmas season without a kindly word from our nearest and dearest? Today, Catherine Curzon and I bring you a sweet missive from a young couple celebrating their first Christmas together. We hope it warms your heart (but don’t try to drink your tea while you read).

-Nicole and Catherine

My dearest Lizzy, (or “Our dearest sister”? Don’t you think? Whatever you think best, darling)

You must know how delighted we both were to receive your Christmas letter last week. I beg you forgive my tardiness in replying, for as a married woman now (How delicate you are, you minx! “A tired, satisfied, eminently satiated, married woman”), I do have ever so many duties on my mind! You were so kind as to enquire about how we have been keeping ourselves, so I shall enumerate for you all our many (many!) joys and trials these three months since our marriage.

Now of course you remember that my dearest George has been in the Regulars, and so I see him but little (But when you do, by God how we make up for the time lost). He must spend most of his time with the officers, you understand, but he does return as often as he can to illuminate my quiet evenings at home (And those evenings are NEVER quiet once I am in residence. What good a girl like you if one can’t show her she is missed?). You may or may not have heard that he was grievously wounded not long ago. The rumours all had it that he had nearly perished on the field of honour due to a gun-shot (It’ll take more than that! Bring down the legions of hell and still I prevail, for my girl is waiting! Besides, honour it was, and never let it be said that george Wickham is anything BUT honourable, it is my middle name. One of them), This incident has been tragically inflated, for it was nothing of the sort–for what regiment would have kept him on after so grossly violating the law? No, my dear Lizzy, it was only a sword wound, and he received it after a minor altercation in the village with the silliest, most irresponsible shopkeeper. Imagine the nerve, to accuse my noble husband of such a deed as sneaking out of his upper windows at dawn! You will be happy to know that my dearest George has fully recovered and is in marvellous health. (And if I HAD sneaked out of the window, you can be sure he wouldn’t have seen me!)

As for myself, I have been feeling a little poorly of late, but I am sure it is nothing to alarm. My dear George is exceedingly proud, and declares that we shall have an “olive branch” bearing the Wickham name come next summer. I do snort so when he invokes Mr Collins’ tones, for I fear it is so terribly funny that I cannot do otherwise (Though never in the bedroom, my love! Just imagine…)! I do hope poor Charlotte is bearing up tolerably well. I suppose you must see her soon, for does not Mr Darcy visit his aunt whenever the old bat summons him? (He does… wringing his hands and touching his forelock…)

I cannot think how you can abide her! If I were you, Lizzy, I would drop a hot coal in her slipper (Or in her chamber pot), but I suppose that would be just the sort of thing she would think of as a compliment to her station, or something like that. On second thought, don’t warm her slippers for her, but perhaps you should bring one of Mr Darcy’s hunting dogs and let it sleep in the house (Yes! The fellow with the white muzzle, he has a most aromatic air about his hind quarters, never at a loss for a pungent, fruity mishap. I swear I have seen him extinguish a candle with it). Goodness me, but that does remind me so of the funniest thing that happened the other day! It was the day George came home, for he had been given a few days’ leave. I recall that part specifically, because they said if George had not been here, the dog would have just gone on and left me peacefully. It belonged to one of the neighbours, of course, and it was no fine hunting dog like you must have, but a regular sort of brute. I think he is usually kept out of doors, behind the house, for his master has a little shop where he sells cigars and liquor and various delicacies which satisfy mens’ vices. The dog’s duty is to guard the back windows, of course.

Anyway, he is a big bruising sort of creature, and he had got off his chain somehow. He was trotting down the street as merrily as you please, not troubling anyone in particular. I was walking home when I saw my George coming up the street. Well, the dog saw him about the same time, and seemed to think George a terrific sort of man. In this, we are perfectly agreed, but the dog was a mite more brutal in his worship of my husband than I typically am (You are lively enough, Mrs Wickham. Passionate, always. Brutal, never.). Poor George was obliged to run for our door, catching his hat as it almost fell off and bolting the door tightly behind himself! ‘Well!’ said I, ‘at least the dog knows a gentlemanly sort when he sees him!’ but the fool creature would not leave off once the door was closed! He ran round the house, leaping at the windows where our landlady Mrs C– has her quarters. The beast was barking loudly, and I heard Mrs C– crying for someone to silence him. (Why did she not ask the rather well-built fellow who flits by her quarters of a night? He looks like the sort who would wrestle a hound into submission without a moment to think. Why, if he dare take on the considerable Mrs C–, then even the most boisterous pup would be no match for him!)

I walked up to the door, just as smartly as you please (I really have become rather a fine lady, Lizzy, you truly must see me to appreciate how much I have grown!) (In every sense of the word. Blossoming, one might say, and bringing my blossoms out in turn.) and set my hand upon the latch. When the dog saw me at the very same door through which my husband had entered, he bounded in my direction. I do not think he meant any harm–you remember how Papa’s old dog would bark and wag his tail whenever Hill would walk outside with the scraps? That was precisely this dog’s manner. He seemed to think he was to receive some treat from me (a hound after my own heart), but how he would think so, I cannot imagine. Well, he did not quite knock me down, but it was a near thing! As it was, my bonnet was askew and my little basket of… well, let me simply say that I had some sewing items that I had picked up as a service for one of my neighbours. Anyway, that basket was all soiled with muddy dog prints, then the items were scattered all over the street as he sniffed through them.

I cried out for George, for you must understand that I was petrified! The dog then pinned me to my door, licking my face most revoltingly (I have told you, my love, that you do wear the most… unique scents. I fancy the pup was simply intrigued as to this exotic new flavour.)! I could not find the latch with my hand, but fortunately my dear George heard me cry out and a moment later he rescued me. He very gallantly shooed the dog away and then so gently–oh, Lizzy, it is a pity you will never understand how gentle such a gallant man can be when he wishes to comfort his bride!–he carried me up the stairs. (Let us draw a delicate veil over what came next, eh? I’m sure we don’t want your sister fanning herself and reaching for her salts!)

Now, I did say that it was a funny incident, and you must now be asking why I thought so. Well, the boon was in the shopkeeper’s profound apology for his dog’s offences against my person. I was not knocked about so terribly, but the shopkeeper felt so badly on my account that he gave us a fine box of cigars and two beautiful bottles of… well, it is not legal to say what precisely was in those bottles, but I assure you, it was magnificent. Although, sadly, George tells me I should not drink very much of it in my present condition. (WHY are you writing a letter? WHY am I annotating a letter? All of this is a mere trifle when there are Lydias in delicate conditions to carry up to bed and ply with the finest truffles and a little taste of the strong stuff. A pox on letters! A pox on sisters, even fine ones!)

As for the rest of our adventures, I will only say that our life contains scarcely a dull moment. Never shall I complain, for I cannot fathom the dullness of life with a placid, boring man such as Jane’s Mr Bingley or… well, do not tell her that I said anything against Mr Bingley, will you? He did send us such a nice ham for Christmas (Don’t tell her that we named it Bingley!) . It is a rather convenient thing to know such a generous gentleman, is it not? (It is, for we shall never want for ham again) And now, I expect you think we must be looking for something more, but I can assure you, such is not the case. We are to journey to the Continent soon, so of course, I could not carry a thing with me, and what is more, my George has taken a bit of savings we had conveniently put by and done exceedingly well at the track. How many soldiers do you know who could afford a golden-hilted sword? Now, I did not say that he purchased such a foolish thing, but he could, if he wanted to. (Indeed I could, but such sums are better spent on comforts for my girl. You shall have all the ribbons and pillows your heart desires.)

Oh, Lizzy, I know that I shall be far too busy to write next week when I ought, so I shall tell you now, well in advance. George says to tell Mr Darcy that if he would like to go to the track in a fortnight to put half a crown on Rudolph’s nose (such a silly name for a race horse!) he would be eternally grateful. We shall forward you the half crown, of course, but Mr Darcy may think of putting some money of his own on the same horse, for the favourite, Blitzen, is sure to suffer a sudden lameness the day before the race. Or so my George informs me, and his information is never wrong. (It comes from the very finest sources, as we shall not tell young Mrs D and her good husband. I have left a half crown on the bureau, so long as no questing hounds have made away with it.)

Do write me soon, my dearest sister! I shall be tremendously busy, but I will send you our new address as soon as ever I know it. I do dote so on your letters, for you speak of such gentle, mundane matters, it quite makes me giggle.

Yours,

Lydia Wickham

P.S. Please tell Mama when next you write that she ought to stop sending me so many fashion plates, for hers are terribly out of date.

Lyd

P.P.S. I do wish I could see Mr Darcy’s face when George’s tip makes him a wealthy man!

L

P.P.P.S Mrs Darcy, your sister shall not be writing for a good while for she and I have some serious marital business to conduct. Three months we have been wed and three months we must celebrate this very eve! Letters might satisfy the intellectual appetites, but they are little match for action, don’t you think?

P.P.P.P.S I suspect that you shall redraft this letter, Mrs Wickham, and remove my carefully thought-out and well-argued additional comments. I wish that you wouldn’t, for who wouldn’t enjoy such an honest and carefree note? You are adorable, Mrs W, and I shall scribble all over every letter I find, just to see the flush in your cheeks and you shall forgive me because you know that I love you and your letters. Three months – here’s to many more!