Jane Austen’s Advent – Day 21 – A Most Respectable Elopement – With bonus Christmas Recipes!

All is safe and comfortable for our couple in the home of Mrs Younge… or is it? George Wickham is still running from something mysterious, and even a couple of days in hiding, recovering from his wounds and being nursed by the tender Lydia, are not enough to guarantee that he will not be found.

Sounds like a recipe for a bumpy morning, does it not? And speaking of recipes, we have shared some of our favorite Christmas dessert recipes at the bottom of the post. We’re quite certain that if things ever settle down for Wickham and his lady, they will enjoy these tasty treats as much as we do.

Merry Christmas from Catherine and Nicole!

Catch up on previous adventures here:
One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven,  Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen Eighteen.

BBC

“This ridiculous bed is fit only for a stable hand– a small one,” Lydia mumbled into the crook of George’s elbow. His knee was poking her in the back, and her own legs were perilously close to falling over the edge, but they had valiantly squeezed both their bodies onto the narrow board– mostly because it was the cleanest surface to be found, and Lydia had her standards, after all.

She wriggled uncomfortably, trying to shift her weight to a more stable position, but George was already squeezed against the far wall as tightly as she dared press him. With her every move, he winced, and occasionally emitted a soft groan.

“Small beds can have their uses, my love,” he assured her. Indeed, their two nights in Mrs Younge’s home had been spent, as far as Wickham’s beaten body allowed, in the pursuit of ever more adventurous embraces. “My bruises are almost mended, and you might read into that whatever meaning you wish!”

Lydia arched, pressing her shoulders into his and giggling when his fingers tickled over her ribs. He had the most delicious hands, and they explored the dip in her waist, the swell of her hips, and the softness of her stomach so masterfully that she wondered how she had lived so long without a man’s touch. She shivered in delight again when his rough lips grazed the back of her neck. To be sure, he was recovering his strength, and whatever yet remained a mystery to her would soon become as familiar as her own heartbeat.

“My love,” she moaned breathily, “you are not hungry?” Even as she offered, she knew he would reject the bread and cheese. She rather hoped he would not feel the need to stir from that bed for at least another hour.

“I certainly have an appetite.” His hand slipped a little higher, caressing very gently, if a little opportunely. Yet she had no complaints to voice, and instead pressed her body more closely to his, if such a thing were even possible in this tiny bed. “But I find it is not for food.”

“Then I may perhaps have something to satisfy your cravings.” She curled her fingers over his, but did not pull them from their object. Rather, she reveled in the feel of him, in his warmth and desire, and meant to learn all there was to know about pleasing him. “Shall I turn?”

“Miss Bennet, I rather think you should.”

Such an undertaking, on this bed, was no simple matter of twisting one’s body until a comfortable position was discovered. Lydia was obliged to resort to a rather ungraceful dismount, with her knees dropping to the floor and her arms still entangled in his. “Could you– ouch! Oh, that is much better.” She stood above him, smiling down at him in all her glorious disarray and revealing to him, from his lowered posture on the bed, a rather disheveled sensuality which she imagined he must find irresistible. “Now, how did you wish me to–”

Wickham settled on the mattress on his back, leaving no space for Lydia at all. He pillowed one hand behind his head and threw back the blankets to his waist and the place where his breeches met his naked torso, those angry purple bruises fading to grey shadows now.

“This bed is so small, my darling,” he pouted. “Perhaps we should see how we get on with trying a different arrangement.”

Wickham lifted the covers for Lydia and suggested with rather a saucy gleam in his eye, “If you were to lay on top of your wounded soldier, we would likewise have twice the fun in half the space?”

She was grinning like a fool, and she knew it, but she did not care. George, the handsomest, dearest man, was lying helplessly on his back and begging for her. How could she not immediately grant his request? She began to bend down, her thoughts full of warm hands, ticklish chest hair, and virile–

A crash sounded from the street, followed by shouts and the tinkling of glass. Curiosity troubled her for scarcely an instant, as she peered up and out the window, which from this angle revealed only the neighbouring rooftop. Such sounds were not uncommon on this block, and she had learned not to allow them to cost her any sleep. The voices were different, but the rough manners the same. She decided it mattered little, and smiled down again on her naked soldier.

Yet the smile had left Wickham’s face to be replaced by a pallor the color of sour milk. He sat bolt upright, his arm reaching to seek out his discarded shirt. At the same time he pressed his finger to his lips to shush Lydia and whispered, “Get dressed, quickly!”
Then Wickham was out of bed and dragging his shirt over his head at the same time as trying to bring their bags up onto the mattress, ready for what looked to her to be a quick getaway. He bundled Lydia’s clothes towards her then rushed to the window and pushed it open, peering out this way and that.

Lydia was glaring at him. Oh, she did as he bade, and silently too, for she had learned something of this mood of his when it came upon him, but she did not obey without question. She stared as he tossed her garments, responding only when directly told what to do. The remaining seconds before he reached for her, she employed herself by crossing her arms perfecting an icy look of annoyance such as would have made the finest lady in Grosvenor proud.

When he opened the window and began gesturing toward it, her cool demeanor melted. “You want me to go out there?” she hissed.

Wickham turned back to Lydia. His eyes were wide but determined, his face no longer possessed of that irresistible mischief. Then he put his hands on her arms and held them there as he pressed a long and lingering kiss to her pouting lips.

“I want you to be alive and in my arms until the day I breathe my last.” He touched his forehead to Lydia’s. “But if we don’t go through that window, that day will dawn sooner than I hoped. I love you, Lydia, and the time has come to fly.”

The urgency in his voice, coupled with feminine screams and the shattering of door frames from below, at last broke through her resolve. Very well, she would be angry with him later. She nodded quickly, accepted the small bundle he tucked into her arms as he scavenged their remaining belongings from the room, and turned to the window. “George!” she whispered. “I have no shoes on! How am I to walk on the roof?”

“I will kiss them better when we are safe,” he grabbed up the rest of their luggage. “And anywhere else you might request!”

Lydia grumbled something about her stockings and how she would require new ones, then allowed him to hand her out the window. She found herself on the roof, looking down on the street. Two men were running back and forth into the house, shouting in at the windows, and occasionally dragging some helpless fellow– or dame– out into the street with them. Once the faces were seen in the light, the captives were invariably set free. Lydia drew back behind an eave of the house. “Whom are they looking for?” she whispered, although she dreaded the answer.

“Need you even ask?” As the words left his mouth, the sound of the door to their own humble quarters being thrown open with a splintering of wood filled the air. Wickham seized Lydia’s arm and tugged her with no small force away from the window. Together they threw themselves around the corner and against the rough surface of the bricks, morning dew clinging to her thin gown.

She held her breath and knew that he was doing the same as, just feet from their hiding place, an unseen man called from the window, “Nobody in the attic neither!”

Lydia bit down on her lip, determined that no sound should escape her. He was tugging at her elbow again, tipping his head toward the neighbouring house where an unlatched window beckoned like a ray of hope. Nodding her understanding, she clutched her bundle to her chest, as if it would cushion her if she should slip from that rooftop. Her eyes were on her toes as they carefully picked their way over the crumbling tile of the rooftop. One step, then another… and then George was pulling her hand away from her middle, clasping it tightly, and pointing to a catwalk spanning the alley below.

Together they made their perilous escape, her beloved holding her hand even as she silently cursed him for putting them in such a situation. Could they not simply elope? Was that too much to ask, that she be allowed to do what countless other young ladies did every single day? Apparently it was, an the elopement of George Wickham and Lydia Bennet must be the sort of affair that one might write a novel about, of all things!

He pushed the window open for her, and she ducked her head to nearly tumble inside. The room was poorly lit, but rather spacious. Even so, she was scarcely able to scramble from his path quickly enough before George fell in after her.

“Well now!” Wickham turned on the spot to survey their new billet. It was quite unlike anything Lydia had seen before; a vast bed festooned with silken hangings and scarves, piled high with bright cushions and– Lydia peered closer at the cushions which she had taken to be of eastern influence. Eastern they may be, but the scenes depicted on them were anything but pastoral. Instead they depicted scenes of what she could only imagine were the most wanton carnality one might hope to conceive of, tangled limbs and naked flesh and–

“I like these cushions,” Wickham declared, chancing his luck to charm her no doubt. “What say you, Miss Lydia, shan’t we have such decorous items in our own home one day?”

She tore her eyes from the wall hangings and narrowed them at him. All her gentility was gone, and she felt like she could spit– or at least swear. “Our home? We shall have no home at all, the way matters stand. Let us get something clear right now, George Wickham. I love you and would face the canon for you, but I must know why. I’ll not run from bed to rooftop every time someone happens to discover our lodgings. I’ll not nurse you day and night only to allow some cad another chance to kill you. I cannot live like that, expecting to lose you every day! You will give me a straight answer this minute, or so help me, I shall walk downstairs and ask them myself. Who are these men, and what the devil do they want?”

BBC

“They want me, my darling, for doesn’t everyone?” He smiled but she saw the change in his eyes, the shift from his usual roguish mischief to something more grave. “I confess I had hoped to shield you but– For better or worse, Miss Bennet, you are right as ever. Settle, my love, and I will tell you the whole sorry story.”

To be continued in 2018!

And now for something a little more cheerful!

Alas, I am no Regency chef, and if you care to venture into the traditional Regency Christmas specialties, I am certain that better spatulas than mine have the information you seek. However, we need not all eat like Jane Austen to enjoy her wisdom. I speak of course, of her infamous quote, “There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.”

In that spirit, I am sharing two of our family’s favorite home-made Christmas recipes. We make these for special occasions and nibble on them for days (or until they are gone). By chance, one comes from my own mother, and the other from my mother-in-law. As you will see, they are fabulous cooks, and these are just two recipes!

Cinnamon Twists

This is such a perennial favorite that it is the dish most requested for potlucks– ANY potluck.  It is simple, addicting, and not at all healthy. Sorry-not-sorry.

1. 1 Dozen Frozen Dinner Rolls (uncooked- I use Rhodes Rolls, but get what’s available)
2. 1 cube of butter (4 oz or approx. 113 g)
3. 1 cup (236 mL) of white sugar
4. 1 cup (236 mL) of brown sugar
5. 1 TB (or 15 mL/g) of ground cinnamon
6. 1 package of Jello Butterscotch Pudding mix (the secret ingredient, if you can get it)

Grease baking dish and allow frozen dough balls to rise until they have doubled in size (About 4 hours, depending on room temperature)

Melt the butter cube

Mix all dry ingredients.

Drop the rising dough balls into the butter, one at a time. Gently flatten and stretch them, then fold them into the sugar mixture. Coat both sides well, twist, and place in the baking dish. Complete each twist, then sprinkle leftover butter and sugar on top of the twists.

Allow to rise a second time, until light and fluffy.

Bake at 375F (or 190C) about 17 minutes

Make sure to lick the pan when they’re gone.

Carmel Corn

This American “delicacy” is always a crowd pleaser. If you live somewhere where popcorn kernels are not sitting on the store shelves, order them! Bribe someone! Everyone should try this at least once in their lives, and my mother-in-law’s recipe is one of the best I’ve ever tasted. Oh… and it’s not healthy either.

1. 7-8 qts (approx. 6.6 L) of popped popcorn (Start with 1 1/2  cups or 354 mL un-popped popcorn)
2. 2 cups (478 mL) salted peanuts (optional)
3. 1 cup (236 mL) brown sugar
4. 1 cup (236 mL) butter
5. 1 cup (236 mL) white sugar
6. 1/2 cup (118 mL) white corn syrup
7. 1 tsp (or 5 mL) salt
8. 1 tsp (or 5 mL) butter flavoring (found in the baking items with the vanilla)
9. 1 tsp (or 5 mL) maple flavoring
10. 1 tsp (or 5 mL) vanilla
11. 1 tsp (or 5 mL) baking soda

In a heavy saucepan, combine sugars, butter, salt, syrup, and flavorings. Bring to a boil. Boil 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Remove from heat and add soda. Stir quickly, because it foams instantly!

Pour over the popped popcorn (and peanuts, if desired), and mix.

Spread coated popcorn on two cookie sheets, and bake at 250F (120C) for 1 hour, stirring several times.

Remove from oven and stir immediately so it doesn’t stick together. Good carmel corn is crunchy, not chewy.

When cool, store in an airtight container to keep it crisp for days… if it lives that long.

Well, I have done my part to ensure that you will be hitting the gym in January. May I suggest some audiobooks to accompany you?

Merry Christmas, everyone!

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