Chapter Two
The ordinary activities of arrival filled the next hours—the children to be fed and readied for bed, bags to be unpacked, the household staff to be greeted.
Mrs. Gardiner insisted Elizabeth borrow a fresh gown and whatever else she might need, since her small bundle had been packed only for a brief journey to Barnet and back.
“We are of a similar size, though you are rather slighter,” Mrs. Gardiner said, pulling a simple muslin from her wardrobe. “This should do well enough for the evening.”
Elizabeth gratefully donned the fresh gown. The muslin was softer than her own gowns, well-made and smooth against her skin.
By the time Elizabeth had returned downstairs, the children were all abed, and a cold supper had been laid out in the dining room. The two women sat down together, but neither had much appetite.
“Whatever keeps them so late?” Mrs. Gardiner said, glancing toward the window for perhaps the tenth time. “It is nearly nine o’clock.”
“Perhaps the matter is more complicated than Uncle’s letter suggested,” Elizabeth offered, though her own anxiety was mounting with each passing hour. What if something had gone wrong? What if Lydia had disappeared again, or Wickham had proven unwilling to be brought to reason?
They retired to the drawing room. Mrs. Gardiner took up some needlework, the soft rasp of thread through linen the only sound besides the ticking clock.
Elizabeth sat with a book in her lap, though the words might as well have been written in Greek.
The coals shifted in the grate with a soft hiss.
The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter-hours with maddening regularity. Half-past nine. A quarter to ten.
Then, at last, the silence broke. The sound of voices drifted up from the entrance hall. The front door opening. Footsteps on the stairs—the deliberate, heavy tread of exhausted men.
Elizabeth closed her book and stood. Every nerve was alert. Mrs. Gardiner put down her work and rose as well.
The drawing-room door opened.
Mr. Gardiner entered first, his face showing the strain of the day but softening immediately when he saw his wife. “My dear Madeline,” he said, crossing to take her hands in his. “Forgive us for being so late. The business has been—complex.”
Behind him came Mr. Bennet, looking more weary than Elizabeth had ever seen him. His eyes widened in surprise when they fell upon her. “Lizzy! What on earth are you doing in London?”
“I accompanied Aunt Gardiner and the children this morning, Papa. We thought you would meet us at Barnet on your way home, but when Uncle’s letter arrived saying you did not leave town, well, Aunt would not leave me there alone, so I came on to Gracechurch Street.”
Mr. Bennet shook his head. “I had no notion you were even travelling today.”
“It was arranged only this morning to help with—”
But her explanation died on her lips as a third figure stepped through the doorway.
Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth blanched. Of all the gentlemen of their acquaintance she had imagined might have brought intelligence to her uncle—never, ever had she conceived it might be him.
He stopped just inside the room, and their eyes met.
Elizabeth stilled. The world narrowed to this moment—the firelight casting shadows across his face, the faint scent of night air and horses that clung to his coat, the way he looked at her as though no one else existed.
Every detail of the moment swam into sharp relief.
The last time he had seen her, she had been in tears at the inn at Lambton, overcome by her family’s disgrace.
He had witnessed her at her most wretched.
Yet here he stood in her aunt’s drawing room, somehow involved in the search for Lydia, and he was looking at her with an expression she desperately wished to understand—something tender, uncertain.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, with a bow.
“Mr. Darcy,” she managed, sinking into a curtsy. Her legs trembled, but she rose again without betraying it.
“Will you all sit down?” Mrs. Gardiner said, ever practical. “You must be exhausted. Shall I ring for tea? Or something stronger, perhaps?”
“Tea would be most welcome,” Mr. Gardiner said, guiding his wife back to her seat with an affectionate hand on her elbow.
As they arranged themselves—Mr. Bennet sinking into a chair with a heavy sigh, Mr. Gardiner standing by the fireplace, Mr. Darcy taking a seat across from where Elizabeth remained—Mrs. Gardiner rang for tea.
The scent of coal smoke from the grate mingled with the aroma of the tea when it arrived.
She poured with grace despite the tension in the room, offering brandy as well to the gentlemen, which both Mr. Bennet and Mr. Gardiner accepted gratefully. Mr. Darcy declined with quiet thanks.
“Have you eaten?” Mrs. Gardiner asked. “I can have a meal brought up if you require it.”
“We took supper earlier,” Mr. Gardiner assured her. “Do not trouble yourself.”
When everyone was settled with a cup or glass in hand, Mrs. Gardiner looked to her husband. “Perhaps now you might tell us what you have discovered?”
Elizabeth strove to compose her thoughts. She had so many questions, but in her current state of shock and confusion, she could not have articulated a single one coherently.
Mr. Darcy was here. In her aunt’s drawing room. After everything. And he had been searching for Lydia.
She raised her eyes to find him watching her, and in his look she saw concern, perhaps, or uncertainty. It was so unlike his customary assurance that it steadied her somehow. Whatever his reasons… he seemed no more assured of his welcome than she was of her own composure.
Mr. Gardiner exchanged a glance with Mr. Bennet before beginning.
“It has been a long and, until today, largely fruitless search. When I found your brother on Saturday, he had already been to Epsom and Clapham, following what intelligence he could gather from Colonel Forster about their route from Brighton.”
“They were traced nearly to London,” Mr. Bennet added, his voice heavy with fatigue. “But once in town, the trail went cold. Two people among thousands—it might as well have been two needles in a haystack.”
“We spent Sunday and Monday inquiring at every principal hotel and inn we could think of,” Mr. Gardiner continued.
“The larger coaching inns, the posting houses—anywhere a couple arriving from Brighton might have sought lodging. We found nothing. No one matching their description, no record of their names.”
Elizabeth listened with growing distress. She had known the search was difficult, but hearing the full account of their efforts made the situation feel more hopeless than ever.
“By this morning,” Mr. Bennet said, “I had given up hope of finding them in London at all. I thought perhaps they had gone north, or taken ship somewhere. I determined to return home—there seemed little point in remaining when we had exhausted every reasonable avenue of inquiry.”
“That is when I sent you the message to meet in Barnet,” Mr. Gardiner said to his wife. “I had convinced him to go, though I meant to continue the search myself.”
“And then, shortly after you sent the message,” Mr. Bennet said, gesturing toward Mr. Gardiner, “Mr. Darcy arrived.”
All eyes turned to Mr. Darcy, who had been sitting still, his teacup untouched on the table beside him. Elizabeth saw a muscle tighten in his jaw before he spoke.
“I learnt of Miss Lydia’s elopement at Lambton,” he said, his voice low and carefully controlled.
“Miss Bennet was good enough to inform me of the circumstances when the letter arrived. I thought—” He paused and seemed to struggle for words.
“I thought that my prior acquaintance with Wickham might prove useful. I have some knowledge of his character, his habits, his associates.”
“More than some knowledge,” Mr. Gardiner interjected. “Mr. Darcy knew exactly where to look.”
Mr. Darcy’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair.
“Wickham has a history of... of running up debts and fleeing creditors. When he was in—when he was a younger man, there were certain establishments, certain persons he frequented. I thought it possible he might return to old haunts, seek out old acquaintances who might offer him temporary shelter.”
He fell silent for a moment, and Elizabeth silently urged him to continue.
“There is a woman,” Mr. Darcy said at last, as though each word were an effort.
“Mrs. Younge. She was once employed in my household as a companion to my sister. She was dismissed when I discovered she had—when her character proved to be not what I had believed. Wickham was acquainted with her. I thought he might seek her out if he required discreet lodging in town.”
“And you were right,” Mr. Gardiner said. “Mrs. Younge keeps a boarding house in Edward Street, near Portman Square. Mr. Darcy made inquiries there this morning and discovered that Wickham and Miss Lydia have indeed been lodging there since their arrival in London.”
The room seemed to sway. They had been found. After all the searching, all the anguish and uncertainty—they had been found.
“Have you seen her?” Mrs. Gardiner asked. “Have you spoken with Lydia?”
Elizabeth watched as a dull flush crept up Mr. Darcy’s neck. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I have not, ma’am. That is—we thought it best—” He glanced at Mr. Gardiner as if seeking assistance.
“We thought it best not to approach Miss Lydia directly until we had made some arrangement for her removal from that place,” Mr. Gardiner said.
“The circumstances are... delicate. Mrs. Younge’s establishment, whilst outwardly respectable, is not a place where any young lady of good family should reside. ”