That it could be done at all, that a girl could vanish in the night and be home within the fortnight with her name nearly whole, was a matter of discretion, speed, and money. There were whispers, of course. But they were quieter than they might have been, and fewer than he had feared. The elopement had been hushed up before the world could hear of it, and the Bennets, whatever their other failings, closed ranks like a regiment.
Mrs. Bennet had been herself, but she had been herself in her chambers. This had proved a mercy of some consequence. What might have become town gossip remained, for the most part, within Longbourn’s walls, where it did no greater injury than the peace of everyone obliged to live there.
In addition to the regiment for Wickham, Richard had found a husband for Miss Lydia. He had identified, with a swiftness that Darcy did not care to examine too closely, a lieutenant of decent family, good temper, and little fortune, who was willing to take a wife, provided that wife came with three thousand pounds.
Darcy was prepared to supply it. He would have paid Wickham as much to marry her, and Lieutenant John Wilson was a far more deserving object.
Miss Lydia objected violently when the plan was first presented to her. She had no wish to be married off like aparcel, she said, and no intention of being tied to some dreary officer who had lost half his teeth in Spain and meant to lecture her on economy. She held this position for ten minutes, which was as long as it took for the lieutenant to be brought into the room.
He was not old or ugly, he had all his teeth, and he was wearing an expression of quiet amusement. Darcy appreciated that the man was only twenty-two—old enough to understand responsibility, but far nearer Miss Lydia’s age than Wickham had been.
“So,” said Miss Lydia, looking him over, “you are Lieutenant Wilson.”
“I am.”
“And you have come to marry me?”
“If I am so fortunate.”
Lydia laughed. “Oh! You say that because you have been told to do so.”
“No,” said he. “I say it because you are very pretty, and because I am not such a fool as to begin by contradicting you.”
This delighted her. Darcy could not imagine why.
“Are you very poor?” Miss Lydia asked.
“Very.”
“Then you want my money.”
“I want your money extremely,” said Wilson, without embarrassment. “But if I dislike the person attached to it I shall decline it all the same.”
Miss Lydia peered up at him. “Do you dance well?”
“I dance with confidence, which I am assured is nearly the same thing.”
She laughed, and then, with no warning at all, stepped forward and turned him slightly by the sleeve. “Stand there.The light is better.” She studied him. “Yes, you will do very well. Red suits you.”
Darcy was mortified.
Wilson looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then back at her face, and smiled—not foolishly, not triumphantly, but with real amusement and, Darcy thought, actual pleasure.
“You have a decisive manner, Miss Lydia.”
“Of course I have. How else is anything to be settled?”
“I begin to see the advantage.”
“You must not be dull,” she warned him.
He tipped his head thoughtfully. “I shall attempt not to be.”
“And you must not order me about.”
“No,” said Wilson. “Not unless you require it.”
Miss Lydia folded her arms over her chest. “I shall never require it.”