Lydia in Venice: Rebirth and Regeneration

Mrs. Darcy looked concerned as she seated herself at the breakfast table and sought her husband’s eyes with her own. “Mercy, what a night,” she murmured. “I am past apologizing for my sister.”

He put his hand over hers. “My only concern is that you should feel discomfited, my love. Please do not, on my behalf.”

“But breaking the bed – it was so very terrible. I had only to pull the pillow over my head, but you had to go and call out the servants to repair damages, and quiet my sister and – and brother-in-law.”

“It was short work, Elizabeth. The bed cannot be repaired, but will be replaced today; and I sent Mr. and Mrs. Wickham to sleep in the purple bird room. The servants only had to change the sheets.”

“Bad enough,” sighed Elizabeth. “I am sure there was not a servant in the house who was not talking about the matter. Both English and Italian.”

He shook his head. “It is well that the children are not down to breakfast yet. I prefer them to limit their contact with the Wickhams.”

“I daresay they are too young to be corrupted, my dear, but the real danger is in the disturbance they cause you. It is not fair, when you have done so much for them.”

The servants brought in flaky rolls and butter, apricot jam the colour of sunlight, melons, a platter of eggs, and Italian ham, just as Wickham entered the room. He looked as trim, handsome and soigne in his morning jacket as if he was a guest in the best hotel in Venice.

“Ah, good morning, sister,” he smiled, “and brother-in-law; ah melons! I do love a melon in the morning, it is the very healthiest thing for you there can possibly be.”

“Sleep is good for you too, but we were deprived of that last night,” Darcy could not help but retort tartly.

“Ah, that, yes. I am sorry that my wife’s, shall we say, passion for me, caused such an undesirable accident. But the true fault is that they do not know how to make furniture in Venice. You would think that the Italians, of all people, could design a bed that could withstand matrimonial ardours.”

“Where is my sister? It is nearly nine,” Elizabeth abruptly tried to change the subject.

“Oh, I left her dressing. She is in your chamber. Really, Mrs. Darcy, I do think you ought to buy her some clothing of her own. It is too bad to have her rig herself up in your things every day. You will soon have not a gown intact.”

“Nor you a wife in that condition,” muttered Darcy.

“What is that, Darcy? I say, do you know, I have been wondering – “

At that moment Lydia came sauntering in. Her unbrushed hair was in her eyes, and she was wearing a smart day outfit of Lizzy’s, a tight red and black striped little spencer jacket over a loose flaming red skirt. They all stared at her.

“Great heavens Lydia, if you must purloin my gowns, can you not find one that will fit? You are positively bursting out of that, and it is my favourite walking-suit.”

“Ah, you see, Mrs. Darcy, that brings me to the subject of what it is I have been wondering about. Do you not think that my little wife looks – expectant?”

Darcy’s brows contracted with displeasure. “Really, Wickham, cannot you control yourself? Kindly do not introduce indecent subjects before my wife.”

“I should say my wife is the indecent subject,” Wickham objected. “Look at the shape of her. And it is nothing new to Lizzy, who has two children herself if I am not mistaken.”

“Oh, don’t make such a pother about nothing, Wickham sweetest,” Lydia pouted. “Of course I am in pig. What of it? That is why I selected this very gown, the spencer is cut so high I can breathe wearing it.”

“On the contrary, it is not nothing, it is a very serious matter,” Wickham replied, with uncommon solemnity. “Mrs. Darcy, I appeal to you, with apology if you think it an indecent question – but your knowledge and experience are decidedly requisite here. Pray tell me, how far along do you think she is?”

“For God’s sake, Wickham, how dare you!” exclaimed Darcy, rising.

Elizabeth held up her hand to check him. “Do not mind, my dear. It is a serious subject, and I do not object to giving my opinion on the matter in the least. I should say Lydia is at least four months gone. I have been observing it myself. She has probably quickened already.”

Lydia nodded vigorously. “Oh yes,” she said cheerfully, “the little rat is kicking me violently every minute!”

Elizabeth’s eyes met her husband’s in despair, as Wickham pounded his fist on the table with such emphasis that the eggs jumped in their golden bowl. “That is my reckoning too! But you all know very well, that I left this house, and my wife – more than five months ago!”

Here Lady Catherine entered, fully costumed and corseted, with lace bonnet and parasol. “I heard that,” she announced, “and I must say it does not surprise me in the least.”

“Will you have some chocolate, Lady Catherine,” suggested Elizabeth, indicating a Capodimonte chocolate-pot, and wondering if she had heard the whole.

Lady Catherine ignored her. “What I would like to know, Mrs. Wickham,” she intoned, “is how do you mean to support this child. Do not think for a moment that you can leave it on my nephew’s doorstep. It is not his child.”

“I never implied such a thing,” answered Wickham, clearly meditating on the possibility.

“I would never,” said Lydia sulkily.

“It would be well if Wickham would support his own blood; but unfortunately we all know he is in no position to do so.”

“And know, I declare before every one of you, that I have no intention of supporting my wife’s – indiscretion! For it is not mine,” he cried, raising his voice.

Lady Catherine raised her heavy eyebrows. “Not?” she exclaimed. “Are you suggesting that your wife has been consorting with other gentlemen, during your absence? Unhappily, you would be right. She is out marauding nearly every night, and must have no idea of the identity of this unfortunate child’s father!”

“I do too!” Lydia cried, her face turning red with fury.

“Oh really, do not prevaricate. We know your ways, you – you strumpet!”

“I was not strumpeting when I fell up the pole. I was true to my only, dearest lover for a whole month then; and you can’t blame me for having such an one, either, Wickham, when you abandoned me for that common opera singer!”

“You make a point, Lydia, but all the same I will not be held responsible for the support of a child you that you acknowledge outright, is not mine.”

“So you will be landing the by-blow on my poor nephew, as I thought,” snorted Lady Catherine.

“Hardly poor, madam,” Wickham pointed out.

“Hold hard,” said Darcy. “Let us find out, for once and all, who is the man responsible, and then we can take measures to enforce what he owes.”

“Will you tell us, Lydia? Indeed you must,” urged Elizabeth.

“I have not an objection in the world,” she said, with a proud smile.

“Shameless hussy,” interposed Lady Catherine.

“I won’t tell a thing if you talk like that, you fine lady, you. And besides, you won’t like what I say. I do believe,” Lydia continued, “that I must only tell what I have to tell, if Lady Catherine steps out of the room.”

“I shall do no such thing!”

“Very well then. Oh, how I shall laugh when I see your face! For to be sure, the father is none other than – Lord Byron!”

The appalled moment of silence that followed, was broken by the entrance of the two Darcy children, with their nursemaid. Their hands were full of flowers. “Look, mamma, we have picked you some flowers in the garden,” cried little Jane. “Yes, see the tulips, and irises, and daffydowndillies,” added Charles. “Now can we have breakfast?”

“I hope you don’t mind them being late,” apologized the nurse, “but this is the first day of spring, you know, and they wanted to bring you the flowers.”

Elizabeth found her voice. “That’s very appropriate, Bridget,” she said dryly. “Spring flowers are very suitable for this season of – rebirth and rejuvenation. Thank you, my loves.”