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It was Lydia’s firm belief that no one ever looked quite so fetching in red velvet as she did. The new gown was trimmed with fur at the cuffs and neckline, though not so much as to seem vulgar, and she imagined how her sisters must envy her when she swept into Netherfield’s drawing room on Christmas Eve. Wickham had grumbled at the expense, but Lydia thought it only right she should appear splendid at her eldest sister’s table. Jane was mistress of this grand house, with its glittering chandeliers and footmen in neat livery; Lydia would not arrive looking dowdy, even if Wickham insisted they must “cut corners” after their last move from Bath.
Netherfield at Christmastide was a marvel. Garlands of evergreen draped the banisters, the hearth was piled with logs that blazed and crackled merrily, and the scent of roasted chestnuts hung in the air. The Bingley children—four in number, fair-haired and rosy-cheeked—came rushing to their Aunt Lydia with shrieks of delight, though Lydia could not help noticing that they quickly turned to chatter with their more dignified Aunt Elizabeth once she entered the room.
Jane greeted Lydia with her usual warmth, kissing her cheeks and clasping her hands with such genuine affection that Lydia almost forgot the little stab of envy the house inspired. “You look beautiful, Lydia. That gown suits you so well.”
Of course it did, Lydia thought, and preened a little. Still, she detected no envy in Jane’s tone—only that serene kindness Jane seemed never to lose. Lydia wondered what it was to live always so gently, with no need to scrape or flatter or cajole. Jane’s smile had secured her everything—house, husband, children—without the least effort.
Wickham bowed to Jane and offered his compliments with practiced ease, though Lydia noticed he was stiff beside Bingley, who bounded in all cheer and clasped Wickham’s hand heartily. Lydia braced herself; she knew Wickham disliked appearing diminished beside men who had risen higher than he, and Bingley’s prosperity was impossible to ignore.
At dinner, the company was large: Lizzie and Mr. Darcy had arrived from Pemberley with their little boy and girl, Kitty had come from her new home in Sussex, and even Mary was there, grown more serious than ever. Lydia laughed loudly at Mr. Bingley’s jokes, chattered of Bath acquaintances, and described the balls she had attended that autumn, though the stories did not produce quite the admiration she had anticipated. Kitty listened politely, Darcy coolly, and Lizzie—oh, Lizzie—smiled that small, knowing smile of hers, as if Lydia were still sixteen and thoughtless.
The meal itself was dazzling: goose, venison, puddings, and jellies that trembled like jewels. Lydia ate heartily, though she could not help glancing at Jane’s children, seated neatly and praised for their good manners. What would she and Wickham have done with children of their own? Sometimes she fancied herself wheeling a pram along Bath’s promenades, all eyes turning to admire the lively Mrs. Wickham and her brood. But Wickham always said children were a burden they could not afford, and Lydia, with a toss of her head, declared she had plenty of amusements without them.
After dinner came music and games. Mary played the pianoforte, and the Bingley girls sang with sweet though timid voices. Lydia joined in, louder than the rest, and received a hush from Darcy when she laughed in the wrong place. She pouted but soon recovered. When the company arranged themselves for charades, Lydia was eager, but Wickham excused himself early, pleading fatigue from travel. She caught the faint lift of Darcy’s brow and burned with resentment.
Why must Wickham always retreat just when she wished him to shine? He was handsome still—no man in the room could boast finer looks—but he seemed determined to fade into the background. Lydia carried on without him, making her charades wild and extravagant, to the children’s delight. Yet when she caught Lizzie’s gaze again, she saw not amusement but pity, and that stung worse than anything.
By the end of the night Lydia was flushed, tipsy with wine and laughter, and determined to think herself the most delightful presence of the evening. But as she climbed into the carriage beside Wickham, who sat silent and weary, she felt the glow dim. Jane had her house, Lizzie her Pemberley, Kitty her modest but respectable home, even Mary her solemn contentment. And she—Lydia—had her gowns, her chatter, and Wickham, who was asleep before they had quitted the gates.
The following spring, Lydia found herself at Pemberley. She had dreamt of it often, ever since Lizzie’s marriage: the famous estate, admired in every county, whispered of with awe. Now, stepping into the grand hall for the ball Darcy and Lizzie hosted, Lydia’s breath caught despite herself. The scale of the place was astonishing—marble floors, towering ceilings, walls hung with paintings more costly than all her possessions together.
Her gown, pale blue silk with a daring neckline, seemed suddenly too simple. She lifted her chin, determined to act as though she belonged. Wickham had not come; “urgent business” had detained him in London, he said, though Lydia suspected the truth was more to do with debts or quarrels. She declared herself relieved—she could dance as she pleased without his sour looks—but inwardly she dreaded the whispers.
Lizzie, now Mrs. Darcy, was resplendent in ivory satin, her hair adorned with pearls. How strange it was that Lizzie—once so quick to mock, so careless of fashion—should look every inch a great lady. Darcy hovered near, attentive but never overbearing, and when he looked at Lizzie, Lydia caught that soft, intent expression she had glimpsed once before, years ago at Pemberley, before Lizzie had even accepted him. It made Lydia uncomfortable, though she could not say why.
The ball was magnificent: music by professional musicians, tables laden with delicacies Lydia could scarce name, and a crowd of the finest families. Lydia flung herself into dancing, determined to charm. She laughed, she sparkled, she twirled; young men smiled, older women frowned, and Lydia basked in the attention. For a few hours she felt once more like the youngest Bennet girl at Meryton, adored by every officer.
But fatigue crept in. The silk slippers pinched her toes, the jewels she had borrowed from a friend seemed gaudy amid such refined company, and she noticed that the gentlemen who danced with her seldom returned for a second set. She saw Darcy watching once or twice, his expression unreadable. Lizzie, too, kept glancing her way, as though to assure herself Lydia was not misbehaving.
At supper, Lydia found herself seated far from her sisters, beside a solemn baronet who spoke only of sheep. She longed for Wickham’s easy wit—though of late his wit had turned to bitterness. She drank too much champagne to compensate and grew louder than she intended. Across the table, she saw Kitty, modest and content with her husband, speaking sensibly to a neighboring lady. Mary sat composed, offering calm remarks. Even Jane, though absent this evening, would never have looked so restless as Lydia felt.
The music resumed, and Lydia sought a partner, but many had already engaged themselves. She wandered toward the gallery, gazing at portraits of Darcys long dead. What would it be, she wondered, to be mistress here? To be secure, admired, envied? Lizzie had never seemed to want such things—yet she possessed them. Lydia wanted them desperately, yet all she had was Wickham’s uncertain affection and the endless worry of bills unpaid.
A voice startled her. “Lydia,” said Lizzie softly, coming to her side. “Are you enjoying the evening?”
“Oh, vastly!” Lydia cried, too loudly. “The finest ball I ever attended. Everyone admires me, I am sure.”
Lizzie smiled, a little sadly. “I am glad you came. It is not the same without all my sisters.”
For a moment, Lydia thought she might confess—her weariness, her envy, her longing for something better. But pride held her tongue. Instead she laughed, tossed her head, and declared she must return to the dancing before all the partners were snatched away.
Later, as she lay awake in the grand guest chamber, Lydia listened to the silence of Pemberley. It pressed upon her, vast and serene, unlike the noisy lodgings she and Wickham so often inhabited. She thought of Jane’s happy brood at Netherfield, of Lizzie’s grandeur here, of Kitty’s quiet respectability. Even Mary, dull Mary, seemed settled. Only she remained adrift, chasing laughter, fearing stillness.
Yet by morning she was bright again, chattering at breakfast, praising the ball, teasing Kitty, and assuring Darcy she would quite die unless he promised another such gathering next year. And if Lizzie looked at her with mingled affection and worry, Lydia pretended not to see. For Lydia Wickham must always be lively, must always be admired, must never let the world know she was tired.