Page 28 of It Taught Me to Hope
N othing could have shocked Elizabeth more than for Jane to introduce her to a niece none of them had known existed. For a long moment, Elizabeth stood and stared, while the girl’s solemn eyes found her. What Elizabeth felt under the scrutiny of that quiet child she could not say, but it seemed as if Clara could see through to her heart and had judged her, though her conclusion was incomprehensible.
A cry by her side alerted Elizabeth to Kitty’s sudden distress, and she watched as Kitty darted forward, kneeling next to the child. Though Kitty did not so much as touch the girl, she peered into her face, searching for what Elizabeth could not say. After a moment of this, as Clara watched and waited for her aunt’s judgment, Kitty nodded.
“She is Lydia’s daughter,” said she, her voice shaking with emotion. “There is no question, for I can see Lydia’s features in her, and she has the same eyes.”
Released from her fetters, Elizabeth moved forward, joining her sister before their niece, witnessing what Kitty had. The shape of her chin and the prominence of her nose were different—and more like Mr. Wickham, as Elizabeth recalled—but the girl was a definite relation, which meant she must be Lydia’s daughter.
“Now that I consider it,” muttered Elizabeth, “she takes after me , for Lydia and I always had a more striking resemblance.”
“As Kitty resembles me,” agreed Jane with a nod. “Mary is a mix of us with traits of us all.”
Elizabeth nodded and offered the child a smile, hoping to put her at ease. “Hello, Clara. I am your Aunt Elizabeth, and this is my sister, Catherine. We all call her Kitty.”
Clara appeared to consider this for a long moment, her eyes darting to Jane before she ventured a response. “Aunt? I have never had an aunt.”
“You have another aunt, too,” said Elizabeth. “In time we shall call Mary, and you shall meet her.”
Again, a pause ensued before the child nodded. “I should like to have aunts.”
“And you will also have cousins,” said Kitty. “For I have three children, and Mary has one, though all are younger than you.”
This appeared agreeable to the young girl, for again she gave her assent. There was an air of gravity about her, for Elizabeth did not suppose it was typical for a girl of five to consider before she responded. It was possible meeting with three ladies she had not known before overwhelmed her, but Elizabeth suspected something else at work. Regardless of her misgivings, the child appeared intelligent. The ensuing conversation she must have with her sisters was better conducted without her there to overhear.
“It appears you traveled long to reach us, Clara,” said Elizabeth to the girl in the same kind voice she had used since entering the room. “I shall call a maid to take you above stairs for a bath and a change of dress. Then you may return, and we can talk a little more.”
“I already gave orders to Mrs. Hill for bathwater,” said Jane, proving they thought alike. “I do not know if there is any clothing that will fit Clara, but I am certain there must be frocks remaining from when we were girls.”
“Once we have settled matters,” said Elizabeth, “we can take Clara into Meryton and have some clothing made for her.”
The girl appeared to perk up a little, but she also understood they wished to speak of her if the hesitation she displayed was any sign. In the end, she left with Mrs. Hill and Sarah when Elizabeth summoned them. Once they were alone, Elizabeth turned to her sisters.
“I have no notion of what to say.” Elizabeth sank into the sofa, and Kitty settled herself next to Elizabeth. “The thought of meeting Lydia’s daughter now after all these years is nigh incomprehensible.”
“When did she arrive?”
“Not more than fifteen minutes before your return,” said Jane. “I was with Kitty’s children in the nursery when Mrs. Hill summoned me. The man who brought her was naught but a carriage driver, and she had no nurse or any other to care for her.”
Elizabeth was aghast. Though she had always known of Lydia’s selfishness and lack of sense, she could never have imagined her being this senseless.
“Lydia entrusted her precious daughter to a hired carriage driver of whom she knew nothing?”
“The man appeared a good sort,” said Jane, as usual attempting to defend the indefensible. “He dressed well for his station and spoke like a man of conscience.”
“That is not the point, Jane,” said Elizabeth, exasperation welling up within her. “Unless Lydia counted this man an intimate acquaintance—and it seems unlikely, given his profession—to entrust the care of a child to such a man was beyond unconscionable. He might have done anything at all with her and no one would be the wiser.”
Kitty gasped and Jane sighed, but neither could summon an answer, for Elizabeth was correct and they could not deny it. With an effort, Elizabeth held back several other choice remarks about her indifferent youngest sister and focused on the matter at hand; there was little reason to belabor the point.
“What did the carriage driver say?”
“Little enough,” said Jane. “He informed me that a lady had hired him to bring the child to us and nothing more. Clara had few effects with her, little more than her person. The carriage driver handed me a letter, then appeared eager to depart as soon as possible. He left only three minutes after he arrived.”
“A letter?” asked Kitty.
With a nod, Jane retrieved a folded paper Elizabeth had not noticed from a side table. “Please read it, for I am uncertain what to make of it.
The letter was a single piece of plain paper, folded and sealed with wax, though Jane had already broken the seal. Upon opening it, Elizabeth discovered a short missive that was not dated or addressed, nor was there a signature on the bottom. Uncertain though she was, Elizabeth read what was written, Kitty looking over her shoulder.
To my family. This is my daughter, Clara Margaret Wickham. I am sending her to you, hoping you will provide her with the care she requires. Clara is five years old. Her birthday is April 16.
As I know you do not wish to see me in person, I ask only this of you, that you care for my daughter. In the five years since her birth, I have done the best I can, but I now find myself in a position that does not allow me to raise her. Please take her in and provide her with the home she requires, and the status she deserves as the granddaughter of a gentleman. I hope you can see me in her and accept her as your grandchild.
Short as it was, Elizabeth completed the letter in a moment, then handed it to Kitty, who held out her hand. Kitty inspected the missive for several more moments and then sighed, laying it down on the table.
“That is Lydia’s hand, though I suppose there was no doubt remaining about the author of the letter. I would know her hand anywhere.”
Elizabeth nodded, though she had not considered the letter anything other than authentic, given everything else they knew. The wording contained a hint of Lydia’s old heedlessness, what she might have expected had she conceived of the notion that her sister would write to them.
“It suggests that Lydia knows nothing of what has happened these past years,” said Jane. “Her comment about Clara being a grandchild and reference to seeing the child in her is a plea that Mama would love Clara for her resemblance to Lydia. Perhaps giving the child Mama’s name was intended to strengthen Lydia’s assertions about the bonds of family.”
“Margaret Bennet,” murmured Kitty, her thoughts on their departed mother. “Lydia always was Mama’s favorite.”
“That she was,” agreed Elizabeth, “which in part led to her downfall.”
Jane did not like this talk, but she did not speak, for it was nothing less than the truth. Again, Elizabeth reined in her temper, for there was little to be gained from speaking of such things now.
“What do you think?” asked Elizabeth.
“Perhaps we should speak to Clara after her bath,” said Kitty.
“I agree with Kitty,” said Jane. “Until we know if she can tell us anything, there appears to be little to discuss.”
Elizabeth thought there was much to discuss, for if nothing else they must decide how to proceed with this unexpected addition to their family. However, Elizabeth did not object, knowing that speaking to Clara was only sensible.
That decided, Elizabeth and Kitty went above stairs to see how matters were progressing with Clara, while Jane wrote a note to Mary, asking her to come to Longbourn when she could. In the bathing room, John was filling the bathtub with water, the steam from the heated buckets eddying in the air, filling the room with mist and the sweet scent of flowers added to the water. Sarah, their maid, was preparing the girl for her bath, speaking softly to her while Clara listened with somber interest.
“Lizzy,” said Kitty, drawing close to her, “I believe it would be best if we stepped in. Clara needs to trust us—bathing her will go a long way to laying the foundation.”
Seeing sense in Kitty’s argument, Elizabeth nodded, and they stepped forward.
“Thank you, Sarah,” said Elizabeth to her long-time maid. “Kitty and I will take it from here.”
The maid curtseyed and moved away, busying herself about the bathing chamber while Elizabeth approached the girl with Kitty, noting how she continued to watch them with a hint of wariness about her. Elizabeth took a seat on a nearby stool, bringing her eyes down to Clara’s level, and she offered the girl a warm smile to put her at ease.
“Your Aunt Catherine and I are pleased to bathe you, Clara, for we are your family.”
The child perked up at that last word. “Family?”
“Yes,” said Kitty. “Your mother sent you to us, asking us to care for you.”
Clara considered this. “I will stay here?”
Elizabeth looked at Kitty who shrugged. “We are not yet certain where you shall live. But you will remain with us, and we shall care for you. In time, you may visit us all at our homes, where you shall be one of the family.”
It was nigh imperceptible, but Elizabeth could see the child relax a little all the same. The sight made her wonder how Lydia had treated her. As they disrobed her from the dirty dress, consigning it to Mrs. Hill’s care for the still serviceable gown to be laundered, they could note no signs of mistreatment on her small body. However Lydia had fulfilled her duties as a parent, she did not appear to have used physical force, for all that her wellbeing in other respects was yet uncertain. In short order, they settled her in the bathtub and Jane soon joined them.
What followed was nothing less than a bit of bonding, for the three sisters congregated around the bath, washing Clara’s long chocolate hair until it shined in the light coming through the window. With playful swipes, Elizabeth washed the smudges from her nose and cheek, playing a little game with her in which she blew suds at the girl, who cupped her hand in the water, raising bubbles to her lips and blowing them back. They even provoked a giggle or two from her lips, though she remained serious otherwise.
When she was clean, they drew her from the water and wrapped her in towels, patting her dry and tousling her hair, then leaving it flowing down her back so that it would dry. It was, Elizabeth noted, the same shade as Lydia’s, reaching several inches past her shoulders, long for such a young child. Mrs. Hill produced an old dress Lydia had worn when she was Clara’s age, and the three ladies helped to dress the girl; if the pattern and cut of the gown were not in the newest fashions, at least she was now clean and presentable.
With that completed, the ladies then took the girl to meet her cousins in the nursery, and what they found surprised them, for Clara appeared in awe of the other children. Kitty’s youngest was still a babe wrapped in a blanket, but her older children were two and three years of age, the eldest was a girl who greeted Clara with eagerness, chattering in her girlish tones, sometimes incomprehensible, but clearly expressing her eagerness to have a playmate—Kitty’s middle child was a boy, and her eldest, Cassandra, did not think he was much fun to play with.
“Are you hungry, Clara?” asked Elizabeth as the girl was settling into the nursery with her cousins.
“Yes, Aunt Lizzy,” said she, the first time she had called any of them by name.
“I shall call for a few biscuits and milk for the children,” said Mrs. Hill.
Soon thereafter, the children were munching on their treat, the three sisters watching to see how they got on together. Clara, Elizabeth noted, was still quiet, but she listened intently to Cassandra, who more than made up for the elder girl’s reticence. Then Kitty distracted her eldest while Elizabeth and Jane took Clara back down the stairs to speak with her.
“Clara,” said Elizabeth when they had seated her between them, “can you tell me where you lived before you came to us?”
By this time, Clara’s hair was almost dry, which allowed Jane to gather it up, brushing it with long strokes and then braiding it and tying it into a neat bun on the back of her head. Clara appeared to enjoy Jane’s gentle ministrations, though she again turned serious at Elizabeth’s question.
“I do not know.”
Elizabeth looked to Jane, noting her sister’s concern.
“Did your Mama never tell you much about your home?”
The girl gave a solemn shake of her head. “Mama never said much to me. When Mama went out, I was to stay in our rooms and not make trouble. Sometimes Hattie would look after me.”
“Who is Hattie?”
“Mama’s friend.”
This was a line of questioning that was not bearing fruit, though Elizabeth knew they must persist to learn what they could. At that moment, Kitty entered the room, having settled her children, no doubt with the promise that Clara would join them again soon. Elizabeth nodded to her sister and turned her attention back to Clara.
“Can you tell us about your life in your previous home?”
As Elizabeth expected, Clara spoke of her few possessions, a doll that she had brought with her that was now in the nursery waiting for her return, along with a few other sundry matters of interest to a girl of five. Notably absent from her account was much mention of Lydia, of activities in which mother and daughter engaged together, outings for picnics or to play, or any other such pursuits in which a child of five might find exhilarating. Though they persuaded her to speak for some few moments, they learned little other than what they already knew, for Clara could tell them nothing about her mother’s current state, where she had lived, or anything else that would assist them in learning more of their wayward sister.
“Thank you, Clara,” said Elizabeth at length, deciding there was little more to be gained from pressing her for information she did not possess. “Would you like to return to the nursery until dinner?”
The relief with which the girl nodded her head suggested their questions had worried her. Elizabeth drew her in for an embrace, and even that appeared foreign to the girl, for she stiffened as if not understanding what was happening. Jane and Kitty each took turns drawing the girl in close, and she seemed to relax a little, even if she still appeared confused. Then they consigned her to Sarah’s care, and the maid took her to the nursery and the other children. When she was gone, Elizabeth turned to her sisters, raising an eyebrow in question.
“That was... unexpected,” said Jane, a classic understatement.
“Did Lydia neglect her?” asked Kitty, a plaintive note in her voice.
As a mother herself, one who doted on her children, ignoring a child as Lydia seemed to have done with her daughter was beyond her comprehension. Elizabeth had no children of her own, yet she could not understand it either.
“It appears she did,” said Elizabeth with a sigh. “Even though she is but five years of age, I would expect Clara to know the name of the town in which she lived if nothing else. She is a bright child, I think, but she has learned to watch and be wary to protect herself. It seems clear she has had no one on whom to rely unless it is this Hattie of whom she speaks.”
“It is distressing that anyone would treat a child so,” cried Kitty, wringing her hands in agitation. Given Kitty’s love of children and her situation with her three, her upset was natural.
“Yet, it is not so surprising,” said Elizabeth. “I would not speak to excess about Lydia’s failings, but it is clear she has neglected her responsibilities to her daughter and continued in her heedless way. Clara knows nothing of where she lived, appears far too suspicious for any child, and I dare say possesses little knowledge of social graces. I wonder if she has even had any of the initial instruction in reading or numbers.
“If Lydia cared for her daughter, she should have sent her to us before. Then she might have been a happy, laughing child, rather than one who watches and waits, assessing everything for hidden danger.”
“You do not know that, Lizzy,” chided Jane. “If Lydia wished to raise Clara herself, it is not unreasonable, for who would wish to give their child away?”
“If what you are saying is true,” refuted Elizabeth, “then why did she not care for her as she ought? Clara is not a normal child, Jane. I apologize for insisting on this point, but I believe it is nothing less than Lydia’s usual thoughtless selfishness.”
Even Jane could not refute Elizabeth’s conclusion. The sisters remained in their thoughts for some time after, Kitty appearing to be agonized and sympathetic and Jane contemplative, unreadable as usual. As for Elizabeth, she was considering what was best to be done. The girl needed caring adults to take her in hand and love her, and she needed them at once before age and experience set her character in stone and she looked at the world with suspicion. Elizabeth was yet of two minds about how to go about accomplishing this, but there was no question about taking the girl in—regardless of who provided Clara’s primary care, she was a member of the family and must consider herself one as soon as they could help her understand her position with them.
The greater question in her mind was what Mr. Darcy would think of this. Welcome his presence and his ever more ardent attentions though she did, Elizabeth had not yet considered herself any closer to a decision about his suit, which she knew he would press again when he felt confident enough. Did this indicate a more positive reception than even she had considered? Of perhaps supreme importance, what would the sudden appearance of Lydia’s child—a child she was convinced was also George Wickham’s—do to his pursuit of Elizabeth?
While she wanted to push any notion of Mr. Darcy’s negative reaction away, she could not quite do so. Mr. Darcy had proven himself to be the very best of men, a man she had misjudged with horrible effect half a decade before. A man who had pined after her for that long, then appearing without warning and presenting himself as a suitor could not withdraw because of such news. Yet Elizabeth had to acknowledge it was because Clara was Mr. Wickham’s child that she became uncertain. The history between Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy was so fraught that it would not surprise Elizabeth, nor would she blame him if Mr. Darcy withdrew his attention now. What man would wish to take such a child, who was undoubtedly the product of a birth out of wedlock, into his home, or even tolerate her as a member of his extended family?
Part of Elizabeth told her that she was silly to even consider his withdrawal possible, but she could not shake the concern away. Mr. Darcy would need to be told, and it must be soon. When he knew, he could decide, and Elizabeth could not blame him, regardless of how her heart would ache if he left now. There was no possibility of reproach, so she decided not to dwell on it.
“I suppose we shall never see Lydia again,” said Kitty, drawing Elizabeth from her ruminations. “It is now quite impossible.”
Elizabeth regarded her. “I cannot disagree, Kitty, but I do not understand why it is now impossible.”
“Do you not suppose some calamity has befallen Lydia?” asked Kitty. “She speaks of no longer possessing the ability to care for Clara.”
“Which is akin to hyperbole,” said Elizabeth. “There is no evidence she cared for Clara at all.”
“Yes, I suppose you are correct,” replied Kitty. “Given what she said, I suspect Lydia has become ill; perhaps she suspects her imminent demise.”
“It does no good to fret about such things, Kitty,” said Jane.
“I do not fret, Jane,” retorted Kitty. “It has long been obvious that any reunion between us was doubtful, and I have become accustomed to the notion that I shall never see her again. I do not speak so of any lingering desire for Lydia’s return, though I would not be opposed to it. But Jane, can you say that you find the notion of Lydia’s illness implausible? Why would she send her child to us if she could still care for her?”
“For many reasons,” said Elizabeth. “Whatever Lydia’s situation, I cannot suppose she lives in circumstances that compare to Longbourn, and she mentions Clara’s status as the granddaughter of a gentleman. Lydia has long been careless, but even she must understand that we can give her a better life than she can.”
“I do not disagree. Yet I hold to my opinion—all hope of seeing Lydia is now lost, for I suspect my sister is not long for the world.”
Elizabeth sighed, not wishing to think about such matters. “We must inform Uncle Gardiner. I shall also ask if he ever came across any whisper of Lydia bearing a child.”
“That is unlikely, Lizzy,” said Jane. “To the best of my recollection, there was no word at all of either Mr. Wickham or Lydia.”
“That may be so, Jane,” said Elizabeth. “It is only prudent to ask. Uncle employed men to continue searching for Lydia long after Papa abandoned any hope of finding her. He may have learned something he did not pass on, not wishing to further burden us.”
“Then you will write to him today?” asked Kitty.
“That would be for the best,” said Elizabeth. “Regardless of everything else, he needs to know.”
At her sister’s nod, Elizabeth retrieved some paper and a pen, writing a brief letter to her uncle with the details of what had happened that day. When completed, she put the letter in the hands of Mrs. Hill, instructing her to send it to her uncle in London at once. When Mrs. Hill left to see to her task, Elizabeth turned back to her sisters.
“We must discuss what we are to do now, though I suppose we must wait until Mary arrives.”
Jane regarded Elizabeth for a moment, then offered a curt nod. “Yes, Mary must be involved in our deliberations. I hope she will come soon.”
They all hoped for the same. While they waited for Mary’s arrival they continued to talk, but there was little heart in them for levity, and they did not wish to discuss the more momentous decisions yet.