Chapter X
Jane was the only member of the Bennet family on whom Elizabeth could rely for regular letters from home.
Mary wrote, but her letters were often dry, and she rarely bothered when Elizabeth would only be gone for a short time.
Kitty and Mrs. Bennet were a lost cause, and Mr. Bennet detested writing. The less said about Lydia, the better.
Had Elizabeth not been so distracted by meeting Mr. Darcy, she would have paid more attention to the paucity of letters from her closest sister of late.
As it was, the morning after her outing with Mr. Darcy, the maid presented her with two letters in the post, and Elizabeth realized it had been a week since she had last heard from Jane, which was most unusual.
“Letters from Jane?” asked Aunt Gardiner, showing Elizabeth a knowing expression.
“Yes, at last,” replied Elizabeth, inspecting the two envelopes. “This first was sent several days before the second.”
A moment later, Elizabeth looked up. “The letter was misdirected, as Jane did not write the directions well. That is most unlike her.”
“Unless I am mistaken,” said her uncle, “you would prefer to stay and read your letters.”
“If it is not too much trouble, Uncle,” said Elizabeth.
The Gardiners shared a look in the fashion of couples who know each other intimately.
“Of course, you wish to read your letters,” said Mrs. Gardiner. Then, projecting a show of innocence far too calculated to be real, she added: “Did you not say Mr. Darcy promised to visit this morning? The arrival of the post is most fortuitous, would you not say?”
Elizabeth opted to ignore the tease. “Then I shall remain. If you return in thirty minutes, I shall be ready to accompany you.”
“If Mr. Darcy does not arrive before then, I have misjudged the man altogether,” said Mr. Gardiner.
The teasing did not stop after that, for the Gardiners were eager to release their wit.
Elizabeth bore it with good grace before shooing them from the room.
When they were gone, she sat down at the table and examined the letters for a few more moments, trying to understand why Jane had been so careless in writing the directions.
She discovered nothing and finally opened them, knowing that was the best way to learn what she wished to know.
THE MOMENT DARCY ENTERED the room, he knew something was amiss.
Miss Bennet was sitting at the table with a letter clutched in her hand, another on the table, tears running down her cheeks as if her heart were broken.
He did not think, did not hesitate—he rushed to her side to offer what comfort he could provide.
“Miss Bennet!” exclaimed he, his usual composure deserting him. “What has happened?”
She looked up at him, not seeming to recognize him for an agonizing moment, then her vision clouded over, and she looked back down at her letters.
Every instinct told Darcy to close the gap, take her into his arms, and comfort her.
Beyond the impropriety of such an action, Darcy sensed she needed something other than physical comfort.
With some effort, he forced himself to wait.
“Mr. Darcy,” said she, her tone dull, lifeless. “I did not expect you so soon.”
“I promised to arrive early,” said Darcy, trying for a little lightness.
“So you did,” replied she, mustering a slight smile. “I apologize, sir, for I find I cannot receive you as I ought.”
“Miss Bennet, what is the matter? You look like you have seen a ghost.”
Her sigh was forlorn, heartbreaking for one he looked on with love in his heart and a wish to protect her from everything the world could throw at her. Darcy feared she would say nothing, but then she sighed again and lifted her eyes to him.
“I suppose there is no reason to keep it secret. Not from you.”
“I would hope, Miss Bennet,” replied Darcy, “that you understand you may tell me anything at all.”
She chuckled, but it was a response lacking any humor. “When you know the truth, you will not be so sanguine.”
“Miss Bennet, tell me.”
Again, he wondered if she would speak; she fell silent and did not raise her head for several moments. When she spoke, it was in a voice soft and uncertain.
“This morning, I received a letter from Jane. In it, she informed me that my youngest sister Lydia has eloped from Brighton.”
Darcy was so shocked that he blurted a response before he could form a thought. “Brighton? I thought your sister was at Longbourn.”
Miss Bennet shook her head. “When the regiment was preparing to depart, Lydia received an invitation from the colonel’s wife to accompany her to Brighton for the summer. I argued against it, but my father allowed her to go, thinking she was in no danger since she is essentially dowerless.”
Darcy could see several problems with that opinion, not the least of which was the preponderance of rakes who had more in mind than fortune.
Many a man would think nothing of ruining a girl—Miss Lydia Bennet had always struck Darcy as a girl who would act without consideration or even comprehension of the consequences.
To allow such a child to go to Brighton with only the colonel’s wife responsible for her was madness.
Now was not the time to agree with Miss Bennet’s assessment.
“Then she ran away from Brighton intending to elope?” asked Darcy. “It is a very long way from Brighton to Gretna Green—such a journey would take a week or more to accomplish.”
Miss Bennet shook her head, misery in every movement. “You do not know the worst of it, Mr. Darcy. Whatever Lydia might have thought, I suspect the officer had no intention of marrying her. But that is something you are better positioned to judge—you know him better than I do.”
The icy hand of certainty gripped Darcy’s heart. “It was Wickham, was it not?”
She nodded, but she did not look up. “According to Jane’s letter, she left a letter for Mrs. Forster to find, and in it she announced the identity of her paramour. Colonel Forster traced them as far as the outskirts of London, but they disappeared into the depths of the city.”
“And your father?” asked Darcy, rising to pace the room.
“My father has gone to London to search for them.”
“He will not find them,” muttered Darcy, still pacing. “Wickham is as at home in the city’s underbelly as a rat is in a refuse pile. Mr. Bennet would not have the slightest notion of where to look.”
Though Darcy did not realize it, he fell silent as he paced, his mind working on the problem.
Mr. Bennet would not find them. This was not a supposition but a fact.
Mr. Bennet knew little of Wickham—perhaps he could guess some small measure of Wickham’s habits, but nothing of his life, his connections, where he might go to receive succor.
Though Darcy did not know everything about Wickham’s life after he left Pemberley for the last time, he knew enough to suspect what Wickham might do.
The question was twofold: how could Darcy involve himself, and how soon could he depart for London?
ELIZABETH’S INTERPRETATION of the gentleman’s silence differed greatly from the reality.
That her sister had been so foolish as to elope with anyone was one thing, but the identity of the man was quite another.
Any man would balk at associating with a family containing a fallen sister.
Mr. Darcy had more reason than any other man to leave and never speak of her again, given Mr. Wickham’s role in the affair.
It was a cruel irony. Elizabeth had spent the weeks of Mr. Darcy’s residence in Hertfordshire provoking him, the time in Kent disapproving of him, and now that she knew the truth, had evidence of his affection for her, this business with Lydia must ruin all.
Elizabeth could not even summon the strength to look up again.
A part of her wondered if she should not call her aunt and uncle back to the inn by the most expedient means, but she knew the difference of fifteen minutes would alter nothing.
Whether they left in thirty or forty-five minutes would not make a jot of difference.
By the time they reached Longbourn or London, the damage would be done.
It was already done. The only thing left was to endure the consequences.
“Wickham!” spat Mr. Darcy, half muttering to himself. “Would that I had dealt with you when I had the chance!”
“Why did you not, Mr. Darcy?” asked Elizabeth without thinking of how he might interpret her question.
“At first it was because my father esteemed him,” replied Mr. Darcy, though he did not stop moving.
“Then it was because I did not wish to take responsibility for him any longer. Finally, and I am loath to confess it, I simply grew too fatigued to contemplate any action against him. After Ramsgate, I warned him that the next time he crossed me would be the last, but I wanted him gone too much to plot his downfall.”
Darcy stopped in his tracks and raked a hand through his hair in agitation. “Now your sister has paid the price for my unwillingness to act as I ought.”
“Do not blame yourself, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, rousing herself to look at him.
“My father should have curbed her exuberance, denied permission for her to go. My mother should not have indulged her. Even Lydia herself must bear the greatest part of the blame for having so little sense as to run off with him.”
“Yet if I had denounced him in the streets of Meryton, he could not have eloped with her.”
It was clear he thought it was reasonable, and Elizabeth could not deny it. But there was blame enough to go around, and Elizabeth did not mean to allow him to take it all on his shoulders.
“If you wish to apportion blame,” said Elizabeth, “I should have informed my family of Mr. Wickham’s worthlessness when I returned home from Kent.”
“Would your sister have listened to you?”
It was a blunt question. Elizabeth did not blame him for saying it, though she knew he had the right of it.
“We will never know.”
“You have not called for your uncle’s return?” asked Mr. Darcy.