Chapter Text

Part I

Pemberley, April 1820

⭒ Elizabeth 

Mrs Lydia Wickham arrived at Pemberley the Thursday after Easter, in the middle of a thunderstorm. 

They were having a quiet night in, as most nights had been recently. Elizabeth did not see the point of wasting their time together on social gatherings: her husband had spent most of the month in London, and she wanted him there with her. So they'd gone to the required religious events that week, made a few courtesy visits, and had spent the rest of the week at Pemberley with the children. 

William, of course, had been all too happy to oblige. 

He was making a show of finishing up his work for the day now, hinting that they should retire, when their housekeeper appeared.

“Excuse me, Mr and Mrs Darcy,” Mrs Reynolds said, “I have Mrs Wickham for you.”

It took Elizabeth a moment to process that her sister, who lived in Manchester last time she checked, seemed to have found her way to Derbyshire. After 9 on a Thursday. 

Elizabeth glanced at her husband, but he looked as confused as she was. “Did she state her business?”

Mrs Reynolds wrung her hands awkwardly. “Only that she had come to visit, Mrs Darcy. I did not think it right to turn her away at this hour.”

“No, you were right, of course.”

She raised her eyebrows inquisitively at William. 

“Let her in,” he grumbled.

Lydia was led in and Elizabeth experienced another shock. 

The woman standing before her looked like Lydia. She had Lydia’s dark curls (wet though they were), her big, brown eyes. The same freckles that Lydia, ever the vain girl, had hated. But this woman was not her Lydia. Her posture, the hard look in her eyes, the muddy clothes without much fashion sense behind them, the bonnet that was falling apart… Her Lydia would not have dared to present herself like that.

“Good evening Lizzie, Mr Darcy…”  Lydia made an awkward curtsy. 

Elizabeth exchanged a quick look with her husband. It seemed that he’d let her take the lead, so she opened her mouth to say something, anything, when Lydia jumped in with faked cheerfulness: “I am so sorry, dear sister. I know I was not invited. I was going to visit Jane, you see, but…”

“The Bingleys are in Bath,” William provided, curtly.

“Yes! Which I found out once I arrived. I could not stay there, and the coach for London does not leave until Monday, so I made my way here. I hope you will let me stay. It is just for a few days…”

Elizabeth sighed. “Is Wickham with you?”

Lydia shook her head. She looked ready to excuse her husband, but closed her mouth. She shook her head again.

“What can we do for you?” William asked, breaking an awkward silence. It was only too transparent he expected a request for money, and Elizabeth gave her husband a reproachful look. But it was not an unfounded question: God knew the only communications they had received these years from the Wickhams had been in the form of money requests. 

Lydia gritted her teeth. “I am only requesting a short stay.”

Elizabeth went over the options quickly, and then gave a decisive nod. “You may stay here till Saturday, we will arrange for a room in town for the other days,” she said.

Lydia looked like she was making an effort not to roll her eyes, but that was good: exasperation looked much better on her than the grovelling had. 

“You have something planned, then?”

Only a luncheon after church on Sunday. But it was a better explanation than the one Elizabeth had: Georgiana would be home on Saturday. How to explain to her sister she was not to interact with her sister-in-law, at all costs?

“Of some sort,” she conceded. “Come, I will show you to your room. William,” she addressed her husband, “please have them take her stuff up to the yellow room, and send Beth to draw a bath.”

William, happy to have a reason to leave,  nodded and disappeared, leaving the two sisters alone. 

Lydia had always had the brazenness to feel at home wherever she was, but now she seemed drawn back. Elizabeth was unsure on how to handle this version of her sister. They had never gotten along particularly well; the difference in age and temperament always too great for that. But this, Elizabeth realised, was the first time they had been alone since their respective marriages. The few shared christmases in the eight years in between hardly counted, but all the events of the past ten years did add up to an awkward history.

“It will take some time for the bath to be ready.” 

Lydia looked around, clearly unsure of where to sit with her wet skirts.

“Let me show you the portrait gallery while we wait,” Elizabeth said, finding her footing. This she could do: hosting. The portrait gallery with its warm hearth and stone floors was not only a good place to warm up, but also provided ample topics of conversation.

“We have so much to catch up on. How have you been? Are you two still in Manchester?” She took her sister's arm, and for a moment she was thrown back to her youth: stumbling around Hertfordshire, arm in arm with her sisters. How far away those days seemed now.

Lydia evaded the question and inquired after Elizabeth’s children instead. “How old are they now?” 

“Lewis is six, Richie is almost four,” Elizabeth replied. She felt her face soften with fondness. “You will see them tomorrow.”

“And you’re reading them A Midsummer Night’s Dream, are you?” Lydia gestured towards a table filled with open books and colourful prints. It had clearly been used by children.

Elizabeth smiled. “They love that book, it has beautiful etchings. As for the story, I do not claim they understand everything, but Lewis does love Puck.”

Lydia laughed. “Oh, he would. You did too, I remember.” 

Elizabeth smiled. Maybe this would be alright, after all. Maybe this Lydia and she could go back to the way things were, but better. 

And then her eyes caught on a bruise creeping out under Lydia’s sleeve. She froze, unable to process what she was seeing. Lydia did not notice: she was distracted by a bust of William’s father. 

“How…” Elizabeth swallowed. “How was the journey? How did you travel?” 

Lydia studied the bust with feigned interest. She seemed to be considering a lie, but there was little use: no reputable carriages found their way to Pemberley at this hour. “Various post carriages from Manchester, but by the time I reached Jane there was little available. A farmer gave me a ride.”

Elizabeth felt sick to her stomach. “Lydia! All alone?” Why had Wickham let her go like that? Where was the cursed man? What had happened to her?

Lydia huffed and wrenched herself free. “I am a grown woman, Lizzie. I know how to handle myself.”

She was getting agitated, and Elizabeth knew it would only get worse if she matched her energy. So Elizabeth remained calm and folded her hands.. “Of course. I apologize.” 

Lydia stared at her. For a moment it looked like she was about to start a fight, but then she deflated. “Who is that man?” she asked instead, pointing at the painting behind her without turning. 

“That is…”, Elizabeth peered over Lydia’s shoulder, “that is Lord Fitzwilliam. Mr Darcy’s uncle on his mother’s side.” 

Lydia turned to look at the stern man and raised her eyebrows. “Ah, of course, ‘The Lord’! Mother said Darcy had some noble blood in there.” 

Lydia giggled and Elizabeth almost let out a sigh of relief. It was not until that careless giggle, bordering on mean, that the Lydia she remembered broke through the mask of the woman in front of her. This, finally, was her Lydia. She smiled back. “We’re taking the boys out to pick flowers,” she told her, switching gears. “Tomorrow, if the weather lets up. We used to do that as girls, remember?” 

“Oh, yes! I always made flower crowns out of just buttercups. God, they were beautiful. None of you had my vision.” 

“Only because Jane would let you have them all,” Elizabeth laughed. They continued walking, and Elizabeth began stirring them in the direction of Lydia’s room. “The bath must be almost ready.” 

Elizabeth forgot, sometimes, how impressive her home was. She had grown used to the wide corridors, the baroque stairs, the marble floors. But as they walked in the direction of the East Wing Lydia slowly turned into herself again, eyes wide and distrustful. 

“Have you eaten?”

Lydia nodded, but did not elaborate. They were quiet again, until they reached the corridor that Lydia's room was on.

“Will you allow me to participate?” Lydia asked suddenly, eyeing the pastoral tapestries that decorated the wall of the corridor. “With the flower picking, I mean.” She wrung her hands. “It is only, I know you’d rather not have me here. I can hide in my room, if needed.”

Elizabeth stopped in front of the magnificent, oak door to the yellow room. “Lydia,” she sighed. “Sister. You must have realised it is not you we want to keep away from our family.” 

Lydia’s shoulders fell. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and turned away. Elizabeth did not know what more to say. The sudden appearance of Beth and two footmen carrying buckets of water came as a relief. 

“Ah, there you are, Mrs Darcy!” Beth laughed. “I was about to go looking for you, the bath is ready.” 

Elizabeth bowed her head in thanks. “Beth, this is Mrs Wickham. She will be staying with us for a few days.” She squeezed her sister’s arm affectionately. “I will see you tomorrow.”

𖤓 Lydia 

Lydia took her time to study the room she was to stay in. It had taken them quite long to get here, and Lydia was not sure whether Pemberley was that big or Lizzie just wanted to hide her away somewhere. At least the room looked the part of a guest room in an estate like Pemberley, if more in the obvious quality of the furniture than any real luxury. In the light of the small hearth and two candles she caught a glimpse of two trunks and a wardrobe, a copper bathtub behind a beautiful oriental screen, and a wall decorated with elegant yellow swirls (if a bit faded.) 

The canopy might be the most luxurious thing there, she considered, as her eyes caught on the bed. Sheets, soft linen. The bed seemed unimaginably soft and comfortable. 

The maid (Beth, Lizzie had called her), sent the footmen away and Lydia snapped out of her musings. 

“Do my other sisters stay here as well, when they visit?” she asked Beth, while she started unbuttoning her wet traveling cape. Beth made a move as if to help her, but Lydia shook her off and moved behind the screen. “Thank you, but I’d prefer some privacy.” 

It was not as if she needed help: it’d been some time since she’d had dresses that required outside assistance. And besides, she was in no state to be seen by others.

“Your sisters, Mrs. Wickham?” Beth inquired, uncertain. 

“My sisters, yes. Liz… Mrs Darcy’s sisters: Mrs Bingley, Mrs Henry and Miss Kitty Bennett.”

“You are Mrs Darcy’s sister?” Beth exclaimed. “Oh but of course, I forgot! My my, what a coincidence! Her marrying Mr Darcy, and you marrying young Wickham!” Beth was clearly trying to remember what she knew of Mr Wickham; Lydia prayed she would not remember too much. “I knew your husband, you know,” Beth continued, worryingly. “I was just a child when he left the estate, but he was terribly charming.”

Lydia sighed. “That he is.” She draped her clothes over the screen and stepped into the bath without thinking. Immediately the heat burned her feet and calves to the point of excruciating pain. For a moment, Lydia did not know whether to scream or cry. Then she bit her lip, and sank into the water. 

"But you asked where your sisters stayed!” Beth prattled on from behind the screen. “In the West Wing, mostly. Mr and Mrs Bingley have their own room by now. Mrs Mary has not been by since her marriage, so I don't know where she’d stay now. And Miss Katherine Bennett, she stays in the room next to Miss Darcy.”

“Kitty? Kitty stays with Miss Darcy?”

“That she does! Close as sisters, those two are!”

As the heat of the water became bearable, Lydia felt the tension in her body slowly ease. “I have not met Miss Darcy yet.”

“Oh! Do you and Mr Wickham live very far away, then? Miss Georgiana is Mr Darcy’s sister, such a sweet girl.”

“She’s not here?”

“Visiting her aunt, Lady Catherine De Bourgh.” The clothes disappeared from over the screen and Lydia could hear her moving around in the room. 

“Could you leave the stays here?” Lydia mumbled. She was glad to be out of sight, so her reddening cheeks were not visible. 

The movement in the room stilled. “I’m afraid it is rather dirty, Mrs Wickham. I could have it cleaned and ready by tomorrow afternoon, if you want.”

Lydia thought, rather unkindly, that Beth would not have dared object had Lydia looked the part of Mrs Darcy's sister. But there was simply no way her unsupported bosom would go undetected if her only corset was taken to be cleaned, so she forced herself to provide an excuse.

“I was going to visit the Bingleys but they were gone,” she said cheerfully. “I have some clothes stored there, you see, so I am afraid I brought only a few pieces of clothing.”

Beth went quiet again. Lydia wondered what she thought: it was a ridiculous lie. Very few women owned just one pair of stays, especially in her supposed social class, and especially not one falling apart at the seams like hers. But she had not been in a practical state of mind while packing: she’d been screaming while throwing items into the travelling bag at random. Lydia was not even sure what she had brought, unwilling to check during the long journey here. But there were two things she did know: there were no stays in there, and chances were there was no petticoat either. 

“I will arrange for stays to be brought in the morning,” Beth said, after a long silence. 

“Thank you so kindly!” Lydia chirped awkwardly, and let herself sink back into the bath water.

When the water had cooled, Lydia used her last remaining strength to drag herself to the bed and dive under the sheets. The long journey and emotional turmoil had caught up with her: she was utterly exhausted. And yet, despite her exhaustion, it took Lydia a long time to fall asleep that night. The bed was too soft, too big, the room too empty. She could not remember the last time it had been so quiet: she felt as if in a dream. Was she truly the same Lydia that escaped her groggy lodgings in Manchester two days ago? 

Two days ago a bath, let alone a warm one, had seemed like an unnecessary luxury. Today she was given one without even asking for it. She felt angry and frustrated, and more than a little bit jealous, but as she grew accustomed to the fine linen, her tired mind decided to enjoy it while it lasted. 

In a few days time, she’d be back in the real world.