The blessed day has finally arrived, and all Lydia Bennet’s hopes and dreams are coming true. By the end of the day, she will be able to sign her name “Lydia Wickham,” but the wedding does not seem to attract all the notice that she might have hoped for.
Catherine Curzon and Nicole Clarkston
Catch up on previous adventures here! One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve,Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty One, Twenty Two,Twenty Three, Twenty Four, Twenty Five, Twenty Six, Twenty Seven, Twenty Eight
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Lydia had heard enough. All week and yet again this morning, her aunt had innocently, and with the very best of intentions, laid out for Lydia her duties and the expectations of her family. Good Aunt Madeline, convinced of all the dubious “facts” she had heard, was certain that Lydia was beyond salvation and that her last few words of advice would one day be taken to heart. Lydia had at last rolled her eyes and finished her breakfast, careful not to besmirch the lovely new gown she wore.
At last, they were in the carriage, and her aunt had fallen silent and grave. Her uncle sat opposite them both, nursing something of a headache, it seemed, but he smiled at her a little more freely than Aunt Madeline. Lydia was not watching either of them, however, for her eyes were all for the church. This. This was the day, when she would belong at last to George Wickham!
She could scarcely wait long enough for Uncle Edward to step down and hand her to the ground. He would be inside somewhere, waiting for her in his fine new suit and his gallant smile. She surveyed the outside of the church in some little disappointment, for though she knew that theirs would not be a formal military ceremony, good sense whispered to her that there ought to be some presence by those brave men. She sighed, gave her arm to Uncle Edward, and walked up to the church steps. The whole affair seemed unremarkable to the outside world, as if no one else cared that today, everything was different!
And then, it was. The door swung before her, and she saw him.
No more than a moment passed before George Wickham turned in that maddening, wonderful casual manner of his and met Lydia’s gaze along the whole length of the aisle. His eyes were sparkling and his face, already lit with happiness, now broke into a beaming smile. He blinked then let his gaze sweep over Lydia before, with a quirk of one eyebrow, her husband to be silently promised her a day to remember.
Feeling as if she were floating above the earth, Lydia walked. That long, fateful mile to the altar, each step tumbling more joyously than the last, she could scarcely have known her uncle was even present. The only man she had eyes for was that one, in the very centre of the room, who was even now welcoming her with an outstretched hand and that secret smile he reserved only for her. Uncle Edward pronounced the words which gave her into her Wickham’s keeping and offered his blessing, and then he stepped back… and she stood beside him.
Her groom dipped his head and she felt his breath against her ear before he whispered, very softly, “I love you, Miss Bennet.”
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It was they two, alone now, save for the stalwart witnesses a pace behind them.
She was all attention now for the words she had already vowed in her heart, during that fateful night in Brighton when she had left all behind for him. She knew each so intimately, for this was not the first time she had renewed those vows, all this torrid fortnight of intrigue and desire. Oh, how she had longed to hear them spoken aloud, to know that this was the ultimate moment of her young life which would define all the rest. She looked up, to the man who was almost her own, and he gazed back down with a kindred delight. His fingers brushed hers, very faintly, and then Lydia noticed a stirring to his right.
She almost roared in laughter, for how could she have missed that bear of a man standing beside her Wickham? Mr Darcy, who never walked into a room but a dozen eyes followed after him, stood stoically at attention and ignored by everyone. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, but when the rector made some demand of the groom, whose eyes were only for herself, Mr Darcy cleared his throat. This failing to produce the desired result, he nudged his charge until George at last tore his gaze away from her.
Wickham took something from Darcy and turned back to Lydia, the gold band in his fingers almost a flame for a moment as it caught a shaft of sunlight that poured through the stained glass window above the altar. Then he took Lydia’s hand in his and gave her a look that was at once the Puckish fellow who had caught her eye across a ballroom and the man she had fallen in love with, who had kept her safe for these weeks that fate had happily thrown them together.
“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship.” Wickham paused here, pointed comical, marvellous Wickham, then continued as though all were innocence. His voice had changed though, the lightness gone and replaced with something that touched her very heart, for she knew that every word of it was meant. “And with my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
The rector nodded in satisfaction and returned to his prayer book, but Lydia interrupted. To her left, she saw her uncle’s alarm, but she smiled assurance, then looked up to her love’s face. He knew what was coming, for that roguish light twinkled in his eye as she slipped a small gold band of her own from a secret place within her glove. She looked pointedly toward the rector, and announced, “I have vows to repeat as well.”
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The holy man looked as if he were about to faint, as though her disruption would crumble all the sacraments of the church, but she proceeded without his blessing. Beyond George’s shoulder, she could see Mr Darcy almost smiling, and then her eyes were all for George as she repeated the same words back to him. Did he not deserve her faith as surely as she deserved his? And why would a man not wear a ring, as a symbol to all others that he had been claimed? Byron had the right of it, they had decided between themselves, and a bit of flair, a declaration of their union, was perfectly natural.
The ring slipped to his fourth finger, and he clutched her hand in wordless pleasure as they both turned their attention back to the rector.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Wickham whispered to the clergyman. Then he stood straighter once more, and waited for the ceremony – uniquely a Wickham and Lydia sort of affair – to continue. There was but one more formality, and the new couple were led aside to complete it. Lydia took the quill into her eager fingers, and wrote, for the very last time, Lydia Bennet in her proud, flowing script. There. It was done, and she could call herself Lydia Wickham for the remainder of her days!
“Lydia Bennet,” Wickham read aloud. “A treasure amongst treasures. Might you accompany me to our transport, Mrs Wickham?”
She returned his simple smile with a wicked grin of her own. “Try to keep up,” she mouthed silently and for his benefit alone. Aloud, she accepted in a gracious voice with words which could not even offend her aunt or Mr Darcy. “Of course, my husband.”
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She felt his arm checking her strides more than once as they retraced the long march back to the church doors. At first, she did not understand his stately, unhurried manner, but when she glanced up in faint annoyance, his eyes flicked about the room. And then, she understood. This day was to see the fulfillment of more than her romantic– and perhaps carnal– desires. They had one last thread to cut, and her gallant soldier knew his business.
At the door of the carriage, she bade her aunt and uncle a pragmatic farewell, with far more emotion on their side than hers. Mr Darcy bowed stiffly, but was that a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he wished her well? Surely not, for the man did not know how to laugh… unless perhaps he had learned more from Lizzy even than she had credited. She shrugged it off, for a moment later the only man she cared about mounted the coach with her.
Wickham paused, one hand on the door, and looked out at the happy faces gathered to celebrate their union. Among them it seemed that there was no Lieutenant Bell, no man with vengeance and murder on his mind, but she saw her husband’s dark eyes scan the horizon one last time before he closed the door.
“I do not understand,” she crossed her arms in frustration. “I thought the idea was to create a public spectacle, draw the man out! Yet I saw not one of the officers you said were to be there for our protection. Where is everyone?”
“Officers don’t always wear uniform.” The words were innocent, the flash in his eyes rather less so. “Sometimes they wear wonderful wedding suits. Sometimes, Mrs Wickham, they wear considerably less.”
This took her interest, and in moments, all thought of dashing uniforms was entirely forgotten, and remained so for a full forty-five minutes as their carriage rolled its meandering way toward Hertfordshire. Her Wickham remained frustratingly gentlemanly, reminding her frequently that he wished to taste her in all her glory, all at once, rather than rumbling about the confines of a carriage in a state of half-undress. Nevertheless, she made short work of his cravat and the stifling new coat he wore, for it was a hot day.
“I have a mind to take to my bed,” he told her, murmuring the words into the kisses he was dotting softly against her neck. “For days. Are you amenable to the scheme?”
“If only we could have brought it in the carriage! Look, my love, it will be some hours before we stop, but it is not so very difficult to enjoy ourselves a little.” She pressed her warm hand to a particularly sensitive part of his body for emphasis, and was rewarded by a new flush to his cheeks and a pleased little growl from his throat.
“This far and no further,” he laughed, breathless. “So we might look back on the night of our wedding and recall its magnificence. One should hardly eat a picnic in the coach on the way to a state banquet, should one?”
Lydia sighed flamboyantly. “If you insist. I think I shall die of impatience if you do nothing else to divert me. Tell me something of our destination, if I am to wait so long. What is Newcastle like?”
“Full of soft beds,” Wickham teased. “And no distractions.”
“Excellent! For heaven knows, we can bear nothing of that for at least a fortnight. I do hope my mama has not placed us in separate rooms at Longbourn for tonight. I think I shall simply die if I am forced to sleep apart from you a single night more!”
“I am known as something of a rogue. I might follow your siren song along the hallways if she has!”
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Lydia purred in pleasure as his hands began to make their own explorations. She arched seductively against him, permitting him whatever liberties he might wish, but then a sudden bark of laughter escaped her. “Only think if you should encounter Mary or my papa in your midnight wanderings! Papa would simply summon you to his book room, and never fear that, for he does not share that room for more than a few minutes at a time. But Mary might well sit you down for a good long lecture!”
“On the duties of a good husband?” He blinked, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “I believe I am well prepared for–”
Wickham fell silent and sat up a little straighter, peering from the window. “What the devil?”
“Hmm?” Lydia looked about as well, trusting his awareness, but seeing nothing amiss. “Are you simply trying to divert me, my love?”
“This isn’t the road to Longbourn,” Wickham murmured. “We may be in a little bind, Mrs W.”
Lydia pressed her nose to the glass on her side. “Where are those soldiers who were to watch our carriage?”
“Stationed on the road to Longbourn, so our villain didn’t catch sight of anyone following us.” He reached down beneath the seat and withdrew a plain wooden box. “But worry not, for they did have the forethought to arm us just in case we met a problem. And we have certainly done that.”
Wickham opened the box and took out the small pistol that it contained. “Our Lieutenant has chosen the wrong man to abduct today, Mrs Wickham, for I will not be kept from my marriage bed. Not after two weeks of behaving like a very well-dressed monk!”
Lydia bent to ruffle through her skirts and petticoats, and withdrew a small blade of her own. “Let him lay a hand on my husband, and I will have my own revenge. I also am in no humour to wait!”
“Use it sparingly, my love.” He kissed her nose. “That gown is far too pretty to bear a bloodstain, even his.”
She kissed him fully on the mouth, with a little encouragement and a great deal of daring. “What do we do now, my love?”
“Follow my lead and be as fierce as you like,” Wickham told her as the carriage began to slow. “And remember, you’re a Wickham now. We always live to fight another day.”
To be continued….
6 comments
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Oh good lord, they are actually married! And kidnapped! Lucky they won’t give in without a fight 😊.
I hope they do manage to get to Longbourn so they can praise Darcy to Elizabeth (and of course celebrate their marriage 😉.)
I believe I shall never get to my wedding night at this rate; an outrage!
Their superiors have seriously let them down if they couldnt even secure their coachman was one of their own people! What use to secure the road if the coach was not secure?!
As I can tell you from personal experience, the best laid plans of rogues and men might often encounter the most unexpected of obstacles!
Finally!! But of course, all couldn’t go smoothly! So now Mr. & Mrs. Wickham must stand fast and go into the breach themselves! I can see a whole series just based on their adventures thwarting spies!
We’re certainly dashing enough!