Chapter Six
I Have Found Her
The Colonel found Darcy at the Red Lion at Ware, bent over a map with the innkeeper, his face drawn by want of sleep and food. Darcy looked up at his approach. The expression in his cousin’s eyes checked whatever impatient question had risen to his lips.
“Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said quietly. “A word, if you please.”
“You have intelligence,” Darcy said. It was not a question.
“I have. Perhaps, if we might speak apart—”
“The private parlour is engaged, sir,” the innkeeper put in apologetically. “The taproom is quiet at present, if that would answer.”
“It will do,” Darcy said. He had already moved towards the door.
They took a table in a corner of the low, smoky room. A few travellers bent over their own cups and platters. No one appeared to attend to them, yet Fitzwilliam lowered his voice all the same.
“I have found her,” he said.
Darcy’s hands flattened on the rough boards.
“Where?”
“At a house called Longbourn, near Meryton. She is safe there. She is unhurt.”
For a few moments he could not command his tongue. His chest rose and fell with slow, breaths. At last he closed his eyes briefly.
“Thank God,” he said, in a tone that made the simple phrase a confession.
“She escaped him,” Fitzwilliam went on. “Wickham took her from London under false pretences, but she got away from him before—” He broke off, even here unwilling to trust the words to indifferent ears. “She has been at Longbourn these two weeks. Hidden and protected.”
The words came out hoarse. “She has been less than a mile from me whilst I—” His jaw shut upon the rest. The muscles worked in his cheek. “I must go to her immediately.”
“No.”
Darcy’s head snapped up.
“No?”
“Not in the manner you intend.” Fitzwilliam met his look steadily.
“The family who received her knew nothing at first but that a terrified girl required help. No one in Meryton at large is acquainted with more. No one knows they harbour a guest who is the sister you are seeking. If you ride into the neighbourhood in your present state and demand your sister from their keeping, the story will be in every parlour within twenty-four hours—that Miss Darcy of Pemberley was found in concealment after fleeing from—” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “From him.”
“I am indifferent to the neighbourhood,” Darcy said, his tone dangerous. “I am not indifferent to my sister.”
“Nor to her reputation, I trust. Nor to her chance of peace hereafter.”
“Her reputation—” His hands closed into fists. “She is fifteen years old. She has been missing from her guardians for a fortnight. You know as well as I what conclusions people draw.”
“Which is why we must guide them,” Fitzwilliam said. “Her reputation is exactly what we will preserve, if we act with a little prudence.”
A serving girl appeared with ale. Neither man spoke until she had set the tankards down and withdrawn again.
Darcy looked at him narrowly.
“What would you have me do?”
“Adopt a fiction that may be supported by the facts,” Fitzwilliam replied.
“We say that Georgiana has been travelling with me to Matlock, and was taken ill on the road. I sought assistance from an old acquaintance—Mr. Bennet of Longbourn. She is at present recovering there as an invalid guest. Nothing more.”
Darcy repeated the word without expression.
“A fiction.”
“A necessary one,” Fitzwilliam said. “It allows her to remain where she is, in safety, whilst we put other arrangements in train. It gives her time to recover her spirits before she is required to meet society again.”
“Before she is required to meet me,” Darcy said, in a low voice.
Fitzwilliam hesitated a moment.
“She is quite distraught,” he said at last. “She blames herself—for trusting Wickham, for believing Mrs. Younge. She needs time.”
Darcy rose so abruptly that his chair grated upon the floor.
“I need air.”
The Colonel followed him out into the yard. An ostler led a horse across the cobbles. Otherwise the place stood empty. Darcy walked on into the lane until the inn lay behind them and the hedges on either side shut them from view. There he stopped.
“My God,” he said. His voice shook, though he had his back turned. “She has been so near all this time, whilst I have been scouring half the county—whilst I have imagined—” He broke off. His hands rose to cover his face. “I thought he had her. I thought—”
“I know,” Fitzwilliam said simply. He set a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “She is not in his power. She is whole. She fought him, Darcy. She bit his hand hard enough that he still bears the marks, and she climbed from a window and ran through the snow until she found shelter. She saved herself.”
Darcy turned his head sharply.
“She did what to him?”
“Bit him,” Fitzwilliam said, with a grim satisfaction that sat oddly upon his even features. “Left him bleeding and then ran. Our Georgiana is not quite the meek child Wickham supposed. He appeared around town with his right hand bandaged.”
A sound escaped Darcy that might have been a laugh, and might not. He turned away again, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes until he could master himself.
“I must see her,” he said at length, more composed in tone, though his voice was strained. “I must see with my own eyes that she is—” He could not complete the sentence. “I must see her.”
“To-morrow,” Fitzwilliam answered. “We go to-morrow morning. To-night we make ourselves ready. Send a note to town at once for her trunk. She will require her own clothes if we are to maintain the story. You must write to London about a maid. The household, whilst respectable, does not extend to a surfeit of servants.”
“Yes. A maid, a manservant or two to attend her.” Darcy said. “A companion of sense and character, if such a person may be found.”
“Very well. We set those wheels in motion to-night,” Fitzwilliam said. “To-morrow we ride to Longbourn at a respectable hour, present ourselves as any visitors might, and enquire for your sister after her illness. Nothing more.”
“You ask a great deal,” Darcy said slowly. “I am to walk into a house that has sheltered Georgiana when I could not, and pretend that nothing extraordinary has occurred.”
“I ask you to do what is necessary for her good,” Fitzwilliam replied. “Can you bear it?”
Darcy was silent for several moments, the winter air reddening his cheeks, his hands still unsteady at his sides.
“If it shields her,” he said at last, “I can bear anything.”
“Good.” Fitzwilliam studied him, his expression softening. “You must sleep, or something like it. You look half-killed.”
“I cannot sleep whilst she—”
“She is safe,” Fitzwilliam said, with emphasis. “She is under a decent roof, with good people about her. She is neither cold, nor hungry, nor alone. Let that suffice for one night, if you can.”
Darcy drew a long breath.
“To-morrow, then.”
“To-morrow,” his cousin agreed.
Reunion
The next morning broke raw and grey, with a low sky and a faint rim of frost along the hedges. Longbourn, however, was unusually animated. Hill and the maids hurrying briskly to and fro. The sound of polishing, pokers, and pans carried even to the upper floor.
Mrs. Bennet had scarcely slept. She appeared in the breakfast parlour before the urn had finished steaming, talking of little but joints, sauces, and whether two puddings would be sufficient when one of the guests was worth ten thousand a year.
Hill was sent back to the kitchen twice in ten minutes with fresh instructions.
Cook, long accustomed to these alarms, bore it with stoicism.
By half past ten, the house was in as much order as Mrs. Bennet’s nerves would permit.
The best china was set out. The parlour fire burnt high.
Mary’s music was laid open on the stand in case any one should request it.
Mrs. Bennet stationed herself at the morning room window, watching the lane with an intensity that made further conversation impossible.
The carriage arrived at last.
Mrs. Bennet, who had been at the window since breakfast, let out a cry of triumph.
“They are here! Girls, they are here! Jane, is your hair properly dressed? Lizzy, straighten your fichu. Mary, put that book away at once. Kitty, Lydia, stand up properly. We must make the best impression.”
She swept into the hall, calling for Hill, adjusting her cap, smoothing her gown.
“Mr. Bennet! Mr. Bennet, our guests have arrived!”
Mr. Bennet emerged from his library in an unhurried pace.
“My dear, I am aware. The entire household is aware. I believe even the servants in the village are aware.”
“Do not be provoking. This is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Ten thousand a year! We must receive him properly.”
The knock came. Hill opened the door.
Colonel Fitzwilliam entered first and bowed.
“Mrs. Bennet, Mr. Bennet. Thank you for receiving us.”
Behind him came Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth was standing with her sisters near the stairs.
The room's attention shifted when he stepped inside.
He was tall, dark-haired, immaculately dressed despite the marks of travel.
His countenance was composed, but his pallor and the shadows under his eyes betrayed several sleepless nights.
He moved with the contained energy of a man kept upright by resolve alone.
She knew him at once: the rider from the snowy lane, whose fear for his sister had made him all but ruthless.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, sinking into a deep curtsey. “What an honour, sir. What an honour indeed. We are so pleased to welcome you to Longbourn. Your dear sister has been resting comfortably upstairs. We have attended to her every need, I assure you.”
“You are very kind, madam,” Darcy said. His voice, deeper than she remembered, and controlled. “I am most grateful for your care of my sister.”
“Oh, it has been no trouble at all. Such a sweet, gentle girl. We have grown quite fond of her already. Have we not, girls?”
Jane curtseyed.
“Miss Darcy is a most agreeable guest, sir.”