Page 5 of A Mismatched Compromise

This man, whoever he was, seemed quite confident that, though he was leaving her hanging, Lydia would grant him another “opportunity.” Who was he? How long had this been going on? The phrasing of the note suggested that… Elizabeth did not want to even think about what that phrasing suggested. Lydia was just fifteen. She was loud and silly and irrepressible and didn’t have sense enough to fill a thimble, and whoever this man was knew it, and was taking advantage of her naivete to…

Elizabeth stiffened as the sound of hurrying footsteps echoed from the hallway.

She stuffed the letter back into her reticule as she moved toward the door, the beginnings of her speech already beginning to form on her lips.

The door opened fast, and the person who hurried through was not Lydia.

She had a brief impression of height, of rapid movement, of someone bursting through the door at a speed that indicated that they were in no way expecting to find anyone on the other side of it. That impression, though, quickly became a collision, sudden and total. She was knocked backwards, and the floor came up to meet her with a speed and force that knocked the breath clean out of her.

For a moment, she simply lay there. The ceiling of the library was very far away, and there were stars around the edges of it that she was fairly certain didn’t belong there. She blinked, and her head throbbed. The stars receded, then crept back. How curious.

“Good God.” She knew that voice. That was Mr Bingley’s voice. It sounded like he was to the side of her, but also above her, and from the tone of the words, he too must have recently sustained a significant shock. “Miss Elizabeth, are you…are you all right? I cannot… the servant said… I was looking for….”

He sounded quite confused. Perhaps he had hit his head as well. She should call for help.

But Mr Bingley was pulling himself upright as he spoke, and his kind, worried face appeared above her as he leaned over her, one hand moving to her shoulder. He wore an expression of exaggerated alarm that she would have found quite funny in different circumstances. At the moment, she was quite unable to appreciate the humour.

“Miss Elizabeth? Can you hear me? Say something — please, say something.”

“I can hear you,” she said. Strange. Her voice sounded rather far away, yet she was right here. “You are quite loud, in fact.”

“Oh, thank God.” The expression of exaggerated alarm melted into one of intense relief, a movement of lines and circles that almost made her giggle. “I am so sorry. I did not know you were here. I was looking for Jane — for Miss Bennet — and the servant said… I’m sorry — are you hurt? You hit your head quite hard — I heard it, it was a most horrible sound. I thought…”

Elizabeth was perfectly all right. “I am perfectly all right,” she told him solemnly. “I just —” She stopped, because the door was opening again. A figure filled the opening, but she couldn’t make out who it was in the moonlight.

There was a profound silence for about two seconds. Then the figure screamed.

Oh. Lydia. Elizabeth closed her eyes against the shrill, piercing sound.

Though she was not in a position to analyse it at the time, Elizabeth would later reflect that the scream her sister let forth was not that of a girl who was frightened by witnessing something terrible. It had entirely the wrong quality for that. It was louder than terror, with the note in it that one heard in the shrill screams of young girls sharing news or love letters or tidings of a ball. The high, bright, almost giddy quality belonged to someone who had just been presented with the most spectacular piece of news of her entire life, who was quite unable to contain the knowledge for a single second, and who therefore let the excitement expel from her being via sound. It was the sound of a girl who, beneath a proper layer of shock, was in fact quite delighted. It was loud. And it carried.

Of course it carried. The library was quiet, the halls of the wing beyond were quiet, and while Lydia could be described in many ways, quietness was the one quality of which she had never been accused. The door was open, and within seconds the first servant appeared in the doorway, followed close by another. From somewhere nearby came the sound of rapid footsteps, and Mrs Bennet’s voice demanding what in heaven’s name that silly girl was about now.

Jane was the first through the door, gently pushing the servants aside. She stopped short and took in the scene — Elizabeth on the floor, Mr Bingley on his knees beside her, Lydia with her back against the now wide-open door, still screaming, her eyes enormous. She stood in that shocked stillness for only a second, then crossed the room directly to her sister, dropping to her knees on Elizabeth’s other side.

“Lizzy.” Her voice was quiet, but heavy with concern. “Lizzy, are you hurt?”

“I hit my head,” Elizabeth said, blinking up at her sister. “I’m all right.”

Jane’s hand found hers in the dark and held it. Elizabeth held on, and neither of them said anything else, both because there was nothing to say and because the room was suddenly becoming quite full.

Mrs Bennet hurried in next, Kitty just behind her, with two more servants behind them and a pouting Mary bringing up the rear. Then, a scatter of guests who had heard the commotion peeked in, having been drawn by the irresistible urge that powers people who know something interesting is happening and don’t intend to let it continue to happen without being there to bear witness. Mr Bingley had got to his feet by this point, but the damage was done. He had been seen kneeling beside her in a dark room with a door that had been closed, and Lydia was busy ensuring that anyone who hadn’t seen it heard about it immediately.

“— I couldn’t find my shawl — you know, Mother, the one with the new lace — and I thought perhaps the servants had put the wraps somewhere.” Her voice held a note of frenzied excitement that made Elizabeth want to shake her. She closed her eyes instead. “When I opened the door they were there, both of them, on the floor with Mr Bingley above Lizzy, and I don’t know what they were —”

“Miss Lydia.” Mr Darcy’s voice, clipped and cold, broke into the excited stream of words. “That is quite enough.”

There was a brief, startled silence. It was, Elizabeth thought distractedly, quite possibly the first time in her life Lydia had stopped talking after a single command. The girl blinked, then turned her head and continued her story in a lower voice, directly to Kitty.

It was too late, and already had been when Mr Darcy spoke. It had been too late, Elizabeth expected, from the moment Lydia let out that foolish, excited scream. Because it had brought the servants, and they were watching, and the guests crowded into the doorway were watching, and her mother was watching, and behind all those watching eyes, the story was being written as stories written in rooms full of witnesses always were: quickly, brutally, and with no opportunity for appeal.

Mr Bingley was speaking, his words clear and direct. He was explaining to no one in particular and to everyone and most especially to Jane that it had been a mistake. He had entered the room too quickly, not knowing Miss Elizabeth was there, and he had accidentally knocked her to the ground, and was trying to ascertain if she needed help. His voice was earnest, and his face was open and honest, and none of that made the slightest bit of difference, because Mrs Bennet was not listening to him.

Instead, her dark, shrewd eyes swept over the room, turning all the pieces of the scene into figures of evidence: a daughter on the floor, Mr Bingley leaning over her, the darkness, the closed door, another daughter screaming, the interested servants and guests. Elizabeth watched her mother’s face perform calculations with these figures before her and, with an awful clarity, knew the conclusion before Mrs Bennet herself even arrived at it.

“Of course, Mr Bingley,” her mother said warmly, as though they were in a perfectly normal drawing room and he had suggested they take tea. “You are always so concerned.”

“Mama,” Elizabeth managed, forcing herself to a sitting position, though Jane tried to keep her lying down. “It was an accident. I fell, and —”