Middlemarch

After the meeting, Mr. Brooke, anxious to soothe his conscience for having supported Bulstrode, invited Farebrother to ride with him to the Manor to tell Dorothea Brooke the news. Brooke hoped the rumors were exaggerated, but Farebrother was grim, fearing Lydgate had succumbed to the pressure of his debts. When they arrived, Dorothea was out in the garden, and immediately asked after Lydgate, eager to consult him about the new hospital she planned to fund in Bulstrode’s place. When they told her the scandal, her face hardened with resolve: she would not believe Lydgate guilty, she would find the truth and clear his name, even if no one else would stand by him. Farebrother and her brother-in-law Sir James Chettam cautioned her to wait, to not meddle in such a delicate, dangerous matter, but Dorothea was immovable: what was the point of friendship, of goodness, if you did not stand up for someone when they were accused unfairly?

Lydgate, meanwhile, had ridden three miles out of town to escape the violent, unreasoning rage that had seized him. He felt every step of his time in Middlemarch had been a setup for this ruin, his honorable ambition blighted, his name dragged through the mud. He replayed every interaction with Bulstrode, debated exposing the banker to clear his own name, but knew no one would believe him—circumstances would always outweigh his word, and if Bulstrode wasn’t actually guilty of murder, exposing him would be a cruel injustice. He resolved he would not run from Middlemarch, would not abandon the broken Bulstrode even if the association had destroyed his own life, but the thought of going home to Rosamond, of facing her coldness and the scandal that would swallow them both, made his heart sink.

Back in Middlemarch, the gossip seeped into even the most intimate women’s circles. Mrs. Hackbutt, Mrs. Plymdale, and their friends dissected the scandal, pitying “poor Harriet” Bulstrode, who had no idea of her husband’s shame, and judging Rosamond Vincy harshly as a victim of her own vanity, married to a tainted man. Mrs. Bulstrode began to notice the strange, constrained behavior of her friends, their evasive answers, their forced pity. When she visited Mrs. Hackbutt and Mrs. Plymdale, she felt the unspoken barrier between them, and finally went to her brother Walter Vincy, who broke the news to her: Bulstrode’s past was out, he was suspected of foul play in Raffles’ death, Lydgate was implicated too. She was devastated, the twenty years of trusting her husband shattered in an instant, but when she went home, found Bulstrode waiting in agony, expecting her to reject him, she didn’t hesitate. She’d taken off all her fine clothes, put on a plain black gown and bonnet, and when she took his hand, she promised without words that she would stand by him, no matter the shame. They cried together, no recriminations, just shared grief for the life they had lost.

Rosamond, meanwhile, had been relieved at first when the bailiff left their house, but Lydgate’s distant, grim demeanor, his talk of economizing, moving to a cheaper home, left her cold. She’d been pining for Will Ladislaw, believing he admired her, and was cheered when he wrote saying he might visit Middlemarch soon—until her parents told her the full scope of the scandal. She was horrified, felt her life was ruined, resented Lydgate for not telling her the truth, for dragging her into this shame. When Lydgate finally tried to speak to her, to explain, to urge her to stand with him against the calumny, she cut him off, demanding they leave Middlemarch for London at once. He stormed out, and the two fell into a cold, unspoken silence, each blaming the other. Rosamond resolved to tell Will everything when he arrived, convinced he would understand her suffering, while Lydgate wandered the town in despair, his practice already failing as patients left him, his name blackened beyond repair, but refusing to run, determined not to give the gossips the satisfaction of seeing him retreat.