u/WiganGirl-2523

Sad to say, this has worrited me for decades. It doesn't make sense.

First off: why Liverpool? A West Riding farmer would sell his perishable produce - dairy, meat - in the local area, while wool would go to Halifax or Bradford, both about 10 miles away, or less than four hours walk. Yet he chooses to walk 60 miles to Liverpool, conduct his business, shop, and walk 60 miles back, in three days.

We are given exact details of his setting off as the family are at breakfast and returning at 11.00 at night on the third day. Not possible. The internet informs me that the maximum distance a person can walk in a day is 30 miles. Emily, who walked everywhere, would have had a verygood idea of times and distances.

So what's going on? Are we supposed to view this with suspicion? Some readers have concluded that the old man had a second family walking distance away, and that Heathcliff was his natural child. Two factors against that: Mr Earnshaw leaving WH is depicted as highly unusual, and the child he brings back speaks a foreign language. Also - he goes shopping! Everything points to Mr Earnshaw finding a lost child on a one-off visit to Liverpool. Except for the 120 miles in three days.

Any theories? I have one...

The main considerations for such a match being money and status. Of course. Any possibility of domestic happiness is minor.

What says reddit to Colonel Fitzwilliam? He made it very clear the importance of fortune in his choice of a wife. Would £20k be enough to tempt him? Caroline would be over the moon, and "my father Lord Blankety Blank" would forever be dropped into conversations.

Expanding the search into wider Austenverse, what of Tom Bertram? The future baronet and master of Mansfield Park (and slave plantations in Antigua) would be a fine catch. And if the father can be caught by a numpty with £7k, why not the son with £20k?

My third suggestion is Mr Elliot. Another future baronet, though of dubious character and with a mistress to boot. I actually think Mrs Clay would prove more cunning than Caroline.

First, the placing of this. So many, many years since I first read S&S but I surely thought - any reader would - that Mrs Dashwood had arrived. And then: Willoughby!

Secondly, the language. Wishing someone at the devil is what a Wuthering Heights character would spit out. Not Miss Austen! There are fervent references to God too: quite unusual. And Willoughby's language is so disjointed, so wild. It is very well done.

The confession itself is passionate. He dwells at length on his feelings of shock, grief, regret, and we believe him, as Elinor does, but the account of his conduct remains odious.

This fellow really does have a selfish disdain for the feelings of others, starting with his least offence, using Mrs Smith to provide bed and board and a base for his shenanigans in the West Country, and then ignoring her.

His trifling with Marianne's feelings - at the very least it exposed her to local gossip, not a minor matter when reputation was so important. But he must have been aware of the intensity of Marianne's feelings from an early stage, and yet he continued his addresses, regardless of how she would suffer when he chose to move on. He led her and her family, indeed the whole neighbourhood to believe that marriage was on the cards. At least he does not try to shift the blame to Marianne, as he does with his wife.

We only have Willoughby's word that Sophie is "as jealous as the devil" and that she wrote the odious letter. She might have heard a different tale from him, about a country girl who tried to snare him, and who pursued him to London. Miss Grey makes a convenient villain, when his behaviour is at its most reprehensible.

Hus victim blaming reaches a pitch with Eliza Williams. It's largely her fault, due to the "violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding". This is the sort of language Rochester would use to describe Bertha. He accepts no responsibility for leaving her, a teenage girl, pregnant and alone. The child doesn't rate a mention.

And then the cherry on top - he more than hints that he wishes his wife dead.

It is incredibly unusual for Austen to allow a villain to explain themselves. Mary Crawford is the nearest other instance, and her words are filtered through letters and reported speech via Edmund.

Willoughby's confession is very much from-the-heart, and although it is passionate and powerful, with strong immediate impact, it also bears reflecting on and dissecting.

Thoughts?

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Following on from the Brenda Blethyn thread, I speed read P&P, looking for Mrs Bennet references, but found myself sidetracked by Lydia.

Her mother calls her "good-natured", but... she isn't. Even making allowances for teenage wildness and immaturity, she is a horrible person. I can find no evidence of her saying or doing a single decent thing. Apart from the officers after whom she thirsts, she is insulting to everyone. Constantly jeering and sneering. A waiter is "ugly"; Mary King is "a nasty little freckled thing"; Jane is mocked for being single at twenty two. The Gardiners are "horrid unpleasant" for not throwing parties for the niece who nearly ruined the whole family.

Given money to treat her sisters to a meal at the inn on their return to Hertfordshire, she spends it on ugly tat and then sponges off J and E. A sign of her future life!

She brags and boasts in the face of Kitty's disappointment at not going to Brighton, and won't even promise to write to her mother from Newcastle.

She manages to be both frivolous and stubborn. When Darcy sees her in London:

"She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham."

Lydia was very, very lucky, which is a helluva thing to say about the girl who marries one of the most worthless young men in England. Wickham would have dumped her in a heartbeat if he had found another sucker. She might indeed have come upon the town!

I cannot find a single redeeming quality in her.

I'm not the greatest fan of the 1980 adaptation, but there is one (invented) line that rings so true. When news of Lydia's flight from Brighton reaches Longbourn, Mr B angrily states: "She is like her mother!"

Mrs Bennet's redeeming qualities are thin on the ground. An affection for her daughters that doesn't add up to much (Lydia and Jane are forgotten when she hears of Elizabeth's great match). But Lydia - nada.