Page 53 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
T he following morning, Charlotte sat opposite Elizabeth, her hands resting atop her gloves. The Bennet still-room was warm and faintly fragrant with dried mint and beeswax.
Elizabeth was not yet looking at her. She was removing the faded labels from a row of old tincture jars, her fingers working steadily.
“So,” Charlotte said at last, “you were defended in company last evening. Rather handsomely, in fact.”
Elizabeth glanced up. “By whom?”
“Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth said nothing.
Charlotte drew off her gloves slowly. “Miss Bingley attempted a revision of the narrative. It did not go as she planned.”
Elizabeth’s brow lifted, sceptical. “She spoke in my favour?”
Charlotte’s smile was dry. “With the warmth of a poorly banked hearth. She tried to seem generous. But when the Long cousin repeated what she had heard from a footman’s niece, Miss Bingley attempted to laugh it off—then to direct the conversation towards Darcy’s immunity from any consequence.”
Elizabeth fixed her attention. “What did he say?”
“That if his honour were engaged, the fault would lie with those who permitted the gossip—not with you.”
Elizabeth looked down at the label in her hand, now torn in two.
Charlotte added, more cautiously, “He did not name her, Eliza. But everyone knew.”
There was a long moment before Elizabeth said quietly, “She will never forgive me now.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed. “But you do not need her forgiveness. Will you reconsider your refusal?”
Elizabeth shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.
“I cannot.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam was taking his morning constitutional through Meryton when he encountered Miss Lydia Bennet emerging from the milliner’s shop, her expression thoughtful. Upon seeing him, she brightened considerably and executed what could generously be called a curtsy.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam! How fortunate to meet you. I was hoping for the opportunity to speak with you about, well, about military matters.”
“Military matters?” The Colonel raised an eyebrow, but his tone remained courteous. “I am at your service, Miss Lydia. I cannot think what aspects of military life might interest a young lady.”
Lydia glanced around the busy street, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I have been speaking with Mrs. Arthur—she is married to a lieutenant in the militia, you know—and she has told me the most interesting things about the life of an officer’s wife.”
“Has she indeed?” The Colonel’s expression grew carefully neutral. “What sort of interesting things did Mrs. Arthur share?”
“Oh, all manner of things! The society, the following the regiment from posting to posting. She made it sound rather difficult.” Lydia’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I should like to know some practical particulars from someone who knows these matters well.”
“Practical particulars?”
“Well, yes. For instance, do you have a house? I mean, where do you live?”
The Colonel paused, considering how best to answer this innocent but loaded question. “When I am on active duty, Miss Lydia, I live in whatever accommodation the military provides. Sometimes that is barracks, sometimes a tent, sometimes a billet in whatever lodging can be found or commandeered.”
“But surely when you are not actively campaigning.”
“Ah.” The Colonel smiled, though not without sympathy. “I believe you may have a somewhat romanticised notion of military life, Miss Lydia. When not actively campaigning, most officers live in barracks or shared lodgings. Very few can afford to maintain independent households.”
Lydia frowned. “But Mrs. Forster said that some officers live quite well, with servants and proper establishments.”
“Some few do,” the Colonel agreed carefully. “Those with private fortunes or very high rank. But the majority of us subsist on our pay alone, which is modest.”
“How modest?” Lydia asked with the directness that so often dismayed her elder sisters.
Colonel Fitzwilliam appreciated her frankness, even as he prepared to deliver some unwelcome truths. “A lieutenant receives approximately one hundred pounds per year. A captain perhaps one hundred fifty. From this, he must purchase his uniforms, his equipment, his food, and all other necessities.”
Lydia’s face began to show the first signs of concern. “And what provision does he receive for a wife?”
“There is no additional allowance for wives, Miss Lydia. If an officer chooses to marry, the funds to provide for his family must come from his existing pay, or his wife’s dowry.”
“But surely there are quarters provided? A house of some sort?”
“In a manner of speaking. But married quarters are limited, and junior officers receive the least desirable accommodations—when they receive any at all.” The Colonel’s tone remained gentle, but his words were uncompromising.
“More often, a young officer’s wife lives in a single room above a tavern, or shares cramped quarters with several other families, or follows the regiment on foot from one uncomfortable billet to another. ”
Lydia had grown very quiet. “Mrs. Arthur did not mention these inconveniences.”
“Mrs. Arthur,” the Colonel observed diplomatically, “may have been circumspect in describing her circumstances. Or perhaps she did not discuss certain hardships.”
“What sort of hardships?”
The Colonel looked at her earnest young face and decided that honesty, however brutal, was kinder than allowing her illusions to persist. “Imagine, if you will, living in a single room with no privacy, cooking your meals over a shared fire, washing your clothes in whatever stream or basin you can find. Imagine spending months without proper shelter, following the regiment on foot through mud and rain, sleeping in whatever protection you can contrive.”
Lydia’s reticule had begun to slip from her suddenly slack grip. “Surely not all military wives—”
“All military wives who marry men without independent fortunes,” the Colonel confirmed. “That, Miss Lydia, includes the vast majority of officers below the rank of major.”
“But the excitement, the travel—”
“The travel involves walking twenty miles a day carrying all your possessions. The excitement often means wondering whether your husband will return from his next engagement, or whether you will have enough food to last until the next supply arrives.”
Lydia stared at him with growing dismay. “You make it sound perfectly dreadful.”
“I make it sound realistic,” the Colonel replied, though not unkindly. “Military life can be rewarding for those suited to it, but it demands considerable sacrifice—particularly from wives who have been raised to expect comfort and security.”
“What of the society? Mrs. Forster speaks of interesting people, such sophisticated company, parties, and balls.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam almost smiled at her persistence.
“The society consists largely of other military wives in similar circumstances, along with whatever local inhabitants can be persuaded to tolerate the presence of soldiers. It is not, generally speaking, the sort of refined company you would encounter in drawing-rooms such as those you are accustomed to.”
Lydia clutched her reticule more tightly, as though it represented some connexion to her familiar world. “But surely there are balls, assemblies, social gatherings.”
“Occasionally. A regiment stationed in a fine community like Meryton would receive some invitations. Otherwise, dancing in a garrison mess hall with a fiddler borrowed from the local tavern bears little resemblance to the assemblies at Meryton.”
The silence that followed this observation stretched uncomfortably long. When Lydia finally spoke, her voice was smaller than her typical animated chatter.
“Are you trying to discourage me from considering a military husband?”
“I am trying,” the Colonel said mildly, “to ensure that if you do consider such a course, you do so with a clear understanding of what it would entail. Too many young ladies marry officers with romantic notions that bear no relation to reality. The result is misery for both parties.”
“But some military marriages are happy, surely?”
“Certainly. Those where both parties understand and accept the realities of military life, where the wife possesses sufficient strength and adaptability to thrive under difficult circumstances, and where genuine affection exists to sustain them through inevitable hardships. And most importantly, where there are funds.”
The Colonel studied her carefully, noting the vulnerability beneath her bold manner.
“Miss Lydia, you are young, and youth often brings resources that experience cannot predict. But I would counsel you to consider seriously whether you are prepared to give up comfort, security, social position, and proximity to your family in exchange for an uncertain life dependent entirely upon your husband’s modest income and dangerous profession. ”
“But Mrs. Forster.”
“Mrs. Forster is an exception. She came to her marriage with her own fortune and connexions. For the rest, what I describe is the reality,” the Colonel said firmly but kindly.
“Military wives often live in poverty, isolation, and constant anxiety. They bear children in unsuitable circumstances, raise them without stability or proper education, and frequently find themselves widowed young with no resources and little prospect of remarriage.”
Lydia’s face had gone quite pale. They did not speak for a moment, Lydia struggling to reconcile her romantic dreams with the harsh realities the Colonel had presented.
“Then I should look elsewhere for happiness,” Lydia said quietly.
“I think that would be wise.”
Lydia’s expression was thoughtful in a way that was quite unlike her. “Thank you, Colonel. I am not certain I wanted to hear these things, but I believe I needed to.”
The Colonel agreed. “But better to face reality whilst you still have the freedom to choose your path.”