Page 85 of A Question of Character

Lydia flung herself back upon the bed with such vigor that the ribbons laid there jumped. She was still bright, impatient, and easily diverted by the promise of pleasure, but there was less recklessness in her than Elizabeth remembered. The change did not make her sedate. Nothing short of a miracle could have made Lydia sedate. Instead, her liveliness had found an object that required her to be better than she had been. She took greater pains with her reading because Mr. Wickham had recommended one of Mr. Philips’s old histories of English law in a manner that made her determined to discover whether any history of law could be endured. She spoke less cruelly of Mary because Mr. Wickham had once said that seriousness, though sometimes inconvenient at breakfast, deserved respect. She even mended a torn glove rather than demanding a new pair, which astonished Mrs. Bennet so much that she mentioned it at dinner and thereby destroyed much of Lydia’s satisfaction.

All this recommended Mr. Wickham more than compliments could have done.

He did not flatten Lydia’s exuberance. He guided it. There was a difference, and Elizabeth valued him for knowing it.

One afternoon, when the heat lay heavily over the fields and Mrs. Bennet had declared it impossible for anyone to walk farther than the shrubbery without expiring, Mr. Wickham came to Longbourn with Mr. Philips on a matter of business for Mr. Bennet. The gentlemen disappeared into the library, and the ladies were left to endure Mrs. Bennet’s anticipation of their reappearance.

“I do hope your father will not keep Mr. Wickham too long,” she said, arranging and rearranging the tea tray though Hill had already done everything necessary. “Young men must eat. It is a very bad thing for them to be kept from tea when they have been working. Law must be very exhausting, all those papers and arguments. Lydia, do not sit so near the window. You will freckle.”

“Mama, I already have freckles.”

“Then do not acquire more.”

Kitty giggled. Lydia tossed a cushion at her, then stopped when Jane gave her a mild look. She collected the cushion from the carpet, restored it to the chair, and sat upon her hands as if she might otherwise commit further crimes.

Elizabeth, who had observed the whole operation, hid her amusement behind a book.

When Mr. Wickham entered at last, Lydia’s hands emerged from beneath her and instantly began to fuss with her ribbon. Mr. Philips followed, praising Mr. Bennet’s judgment in three separate phrases and Mr. Wickham’s neat summary of the matter in four.

“Your father is satisfied,” Mr. Philips said, taking the chair Mrs. Bennet offered him. “And if Bennet is satisfied with any document set before him, you may know it has been made very plain indeed.”

Mr. Bennet, entering behind him, gave Elizabeth a look of long suffering. “I am slandered in my own house, Lizzy.”

“Only by relations, Papa. That scarcely counts.”

“On the contrary, relations do it with the most confidence.”

Mr. Wickham accepted tea from Jane and then crossed to offer Mrs. Bennet a packet. “Mrs. Philips asked me to bring this. She said the pattern came from London and that you would know whether it is worth copying.”

Mrs. Bennet opened it with a gasp of delight. “Oh! A cap! How thoughtful. Lydia, see how becoming the lace is. Mr. Wickham, you must tell my sister she has chosen very well.”

“I shall tell her she has pleased a lady of excellent taste,” he replied.

Mrs. Bennet flushed with pleasure. Lydia looked as proud as if she had selected the lace herself.

Elizabeth watched him move through the room with practiced ease, neither too familiar nor stiff, adjusting himself to each person without seeming to perform. He listened when Mary attempted to explain why legal order reflected moral order. He allowed Kitty to describe a new trimming she had seen at the milliner’s and did not once let his eyes drift toward Lydia while Kitty spoke. When Lydia interrupted anyway, he said, “Miss Lydia, your sister had reached the best part,” and Lydia subsided, astonished at herself but not offended.

That was perhaps his greatest talent. He corrected without making correction feel like shame.

After tea, the heat lessened enough for Mrs. Bennet to allow a walk into the lane, provided no one ventured too far and no one returned with damp feet, though how one might obtain damp feet on a dry August road she did not explain. Lydia and Kitty clamored to go. Jane excused herself to write a letter. Mary observed that walking might assist digestion and then remained at the pianoforte. Mr. Wickham offered his arm to Lydia, and Elizabeth, required by propriety and curiosity, went with them.

“I do not need a chaperone,” Lydia whispered as they passed through the gate.

“You do,” Elizabeth replied.

“I am nearly sixteen.”

Lydia had just turned fifteen in June, but Elizabeth did not remark on that. “That is precisely the difficulty.”

Mr. Wickham’s mouth twitched, but he was wise enough not to enter the dispute.

Kitty soon found reason to fall behind in pursuit of a wildflower growing near the hedge, and Elizabeth slowed with her, allowing Lydia and Mr. Wickham to walk several paces ahead. The lane was familiar beneath her feet, bordered by late summer grass and hedges dusty from the road. A cart passed, its driver touching his hat. Mr. Wickham returned the greeting with easy civility.

Mrs. Bennet’s assumptions had already directed his attentions into a settled matter, but Elizabeth wanted to hear how he managed those assumptions when not surrounded by teacups and maternal exclamations.

She did not have long to wait.

“Mama told Mrs. Long yesterday that I shall have a blue gown for my wedding,” Lydia said, with the abruptness of a girl who had been holding the subject in for nearly five minutes and could bear no more.