Chapter Three
The morning passed slowly. Elizabeth tried to occupy herself with small tasks.
She attempted to write a letter to Jane, then abandoned it after two stilted sentences.
The books on the shelf caught her attention; she rearranged them by height, then by author, before restoring them to their original places.
She offered to help Mrs. Gardiner’s housekeeper with the linens, earning a bemused look from that good woman, who had never seen Miss Bennet volunteer for such tasks.
The clock on the mantel seemed frozen, each minute an eternity.
When Nurse announced it was time for the children to go to the park, Elizabeth seized upon the distraction gratefully.
The two girls chattered and played, and the boys chased each other around the trees, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding across town.
But Elizabeth could not shake the heavy sense of dread in her stomach.
What were they finding at that address? Was Lydia safe?
Was she even there? And Mr. Darcy—what must he think, confronting Wickham again in such sordid circumstances?
She checked the watch pinned to her gown for the twelfth time. Half-past twelve. They should have arrived by now. Perhaps they had found the place empty. Perhaps Wickham had fled again, taking Lydia with him. Perhaps—
By the time they returned to Gracechurch Street, Elizabeth’s nerves were unequal to further suspense. She stood at the window, watching the street until finally—finally—the Gardiner carriage turned the corner. The clatter of hooves on cobblestones announced their arrival.
She straightened, her whole frame tense with expectation, then immediately sank as she took in the faces of its occupants.
Her father emerged first. His countenance was grim and drawn; his movements slow and heavy. Mr. Gardiner followed, his composure frayed at the edges, his cravat askew and his expression much discomposed. Mrs. Gardiner descended with her mouth set in a tight line of dismay that spoke volumes.
And then Lydia.
She stumbled out of the carriage in a crumpled muslin gown, the hem darkened with street dirt, her hair in disarray, her face blotchy and red.
“It is too cruel!” she wailed before her feet even touched the pavement.
“I am to be married! We were to be married, only Wickham needed the money first, and that hateful Mr. Darcy refused to help us! Now everything is ruined!”
Elizabeth stared at her youngest sister, divided between pity and indignation. The girl seemed to have no comprehension of what she had done, no understanding of the ruin she had nearly brought upon them all.
“Lydia, hush,” Mrs. Gardiner said sharply, taking hold of the girl’s arm. “Inside. Now.”
Mr. Bennet caught Elizabeth’s eye and jerked his head toward the study. She followed him in silence, so agitated she could hardly draw breath.
He closed the door behind them and leant against it, looking utterly exhausted. “Darcy remained behind,” he said without preamble. “To speak with Wickham. He insisted we bring Lydia home first.”
“Is she—” Elizabeth could barely form the words. “Is she hurt?”
“Her person is not injured.” Her father’s voice was thin with fatigue.
“But it was clear Wickham had no intention of marrying her. None whatsoever. When we arrived, she was overwrought—screaming, weeping, raving about how they were to be married as soon as he had the funds. The man had filled her head with lies, and she believed every word.” He rubbed his face with both hands.
“Darcy was remarkable—calm, authoritative. Wickham tried to bluster, to make excuses, but Darcy would have none of it. He told us to take Lydia, and he would settle matters with Wickham.”
“Settle matters?” Elizabeth’s voice was faint. “What does that mean?”
Her father shook his head slowly. “I do not know. But he was very firm that we should remove Lydia from that place immediately. Your uncle and I thought it best not to argue.”
Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner guided Lydia upstairs, each holding one of her arms as she alternated between sullen silence and fresh outbursts of weeping.
“I want my things,” Lydia whimpered as Mrs. Gardiner began unlacing her gown. “My pink ribbons, my—”
“Everything will be laundered, dear,” Mrs. Gardiner said firmly, though her expression was pained. “Now, into the bath with you.”
The water had been heating since their return, and Elizabeth poured it into the hip bath whilst Mrs. Gardiner coaxed Lydia out of her soiled garments.
Steam rose from the bath, carrying the soothing scent of lavender.
The girl submitted with the docility of exhaustion, though she flinched when the warm water touched her skin.
Elizabeth gathered the discarded clothes—the stained muslin, the torn chemise, stockings that were beyond saving.
The fabric was stiff with dirt and wear, the once-fine muslin now coarse as sacking.
She carried them down to the housekeeper with quiet instructions.
Some might be salvaged with washing. Most would need to be burned.
When she returned, Lydia was wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping, looking very young. Mrs. Gardiner dressed her in a clean shift, soft and loose, and settled her into the bed. The linen was freshly laundered, still warm from the press, and smelling faintly of lavender.
“I did not think—” Lydia’s voice cracked. “He said we would marry. He promised.”
“Hush now,” Mrs. Gardiner murmured, smoothing the coverlet. “Rest.”
Within minutes, Lydia’s breathing had deepened into sleep, her face lax and tear-stained against the pillow.
Mrs. Gardiner motioned Elizabeth into the hallway and closed the door softly behind them. For a long moment, she said nothing, simply stood with her hand over her mouth.
“She had no idea,” she said finally, with feeling rendering her voice uneven.
“No idea what she was about. The things she said—” She broke off, shaking her head.
“She spoke of matters that—” Another pause.
“She does not understand what happened to her, Lizzy. Not truly. She thought it was all romance and adventure. She thought he loved her.”
Elizabeth’s chest tightened. “Is she—”
“Ruined, yes. In every particular that matters.” Mrs. Gardiner’s voice was flat. “And she did not even comprehend it until today, when he made it plain he would not marry her. Even now, I am not certain she understands the whole of it.”
Elizabeth, returning from settling Lydia with her aunt, paused in the doorway. Mr. Bennet was sunk into a chair in the study, looking as though he had aged ten years in a single morning. “Papa? Are you well?”
He looked up, his expression drawn. “Well enough, Lizzy. Come in, if you wish. You should know what transpired.”
She entered and closed the door softly behind her.
“Mrs. Younge was... uncooperative,” Mr. Gardiner said carefully. “When we arrived and Mr. Darcy requested to see Miss Lydia, she claimed the girl was not there. Said she had departed with Wickham, and she knew not where they had gone.”
“A blatant falsehood,” Mr. Bennet added. “We could hear movement upstairs—footsteps, a door closing. But the woman stood in the entrance hall, arms crossed and insisted we had been misinformed.”
“Mr. Darcy did not raise his voice,” Mr. Gardiner continued. “He simply looked at her and said, ‘Mrs. Younge, you forget that I know a great deal about your establishment. Shall I enumerate those details here in the street, or shall we conduct this business privately?”
Elizabeth watched her uncle take a swallow of brandy before continuing.
“The woman paled but held her ground. Said she owed him nothing, that he had dismissed her without a character and she had no reason to accommodate him. Mr. Darcy replied that she was correct—he owed her nothing, and she owed him less. But she did owe a considerable sum to various tradesmen in the neighbourhood, and he happened to have records of those debts in his possession.”
“He had come prepared,” Mr. Bennet said with grudging admiration.
“Had his man of business compile a list of her creditors—a grocer, a coal merchant, a landlord with whom she had some dispute. He told her that he had purchased those debts and would pursue them to the fullest extent of the law, unless she chose to be reasonable.”
“She tried bluster,” Mr. Gardiner said. “Claimed he could not prove anything, that his word meant nothing. But Mr. Darcy simply withdrew the documents from his coat and asked if she would like to review them. Said his man was waiting in a carriage around the corner with writs prepared, should she require further persuasion.”
Mr. Bennet shook his head slowly. “The woman crumbled like a sandcastle in the tide. Suddenly Lydia was upstairs after all, and we were welcome to take her. But then she had the gall to demand payment for the girl’s lodging and meals.”
“What did Mr. Darcy say?” Elizabeth asked.
“He told her she would receive nothing,” Mr. Gardiner said flatly. “Pointed out that she had knowingly harboured a man who had absconded with a minor, and that she was fortunate he did not report her establishment to the magistrates. That silenced her demands quickly enough.”
Despite everything, Elizabeth felt a flicker of grim satisfaction.
“She agreed?” Elizabeth asked.
“She had little choice,” Mr. Gardiner said. “Mr. Darcy is not a man to make empty threats. She knew it, and so did we.”
Mr. Bennet drained his glass and set it down heavily. “I have never seen a man dismantle another person’s defences with such economy of effort and so little emotion. It was rather like watching a master barrister at the assizes—methodical, relentless, and utterly without mercy.”
Elizabeth left her father and uncle to their brandy, the weight of what they had described pressing heavily upon her.