Chapter Four
When Elizabeth descended the stairs after summoning Mrs. Gardiner, she stepped toward the library.
Mr. Darcy was there—she had heard his voice, low and measured, speaking with her father and uncle.
She told herself she wished only to inform them of Lydia’s state, but she knew it was not entirely true.
His presence exerted a pull upon her, like a lodestone.
The door stood ajar. She hesitated on the threshold until Mr. Gardiner noticed her and gestured her inside.
“Come, Lizzy. Join us for tea.”
The gentlemen rose as she entered. A tea tray sat on the table, largely untouched. The company was subdued, everyone drained by the day’s revelations.
Elizabeth poured each of them a cup and took her own seat. For a time, conversation was desultory—observations about the weather, a comment on the quality of the tea, nothing of substance. They were all too exhausted for more.
Finally, Elizabeth set down her cup. “Lydia is beginning to comprehend that she has been deceived. She asked me directly whether Wickham was truly a worthless rake.”
“And what did you tell her?” her father asked.
“The truth. That he is.”
Mr. Bennet nodded slowly. “Well. At least the girl has some sense left in her, however belatedly acquired.” He took his spectacles off, then replaced them. “But what is there to do? We cannot undo what has been done.”
Mr. Darcy had been silent, his gaze fixed on his tea. Now he looked up, his eyes meeting Elizabeth’s for a brief moment before turning to her father.
“If I may,” he said carefully, “I stand ready to assist in whatever manner you judge best. However, I would propose a third course—one that does not involve marriage to Wickham or the ruin of Miss Lydia’s reputation.”
Mr. Bennet cocked his head. “I am listening.”
“I would offer Wickham passage from England to the port of his choice with a small sum to set himself up there. I would settle his debts here in England. For less than eight thousand pounds, we would be wholly quit of him.”
He paused, allowing this to settle, then continued.
“As for Miss Lydia, a story could be put about that she left Brighton to stay with the Gardiners here in town. She might be seen in the shops, provided with new dresses, perhaps taken to a concert or two. It would establish her presence in London during this time and forestall any rumour of elopement.”
“And meanwhile?” Mr. Gardiner asked.
“Meanwhile, we would determine whether there are to be any consequences from her seduction.” Mr. Darcy’s voice remained even, matter-of-fact.
“If there are, it could be given out that she and my sister had become friends. They are of an age, after all—and that Miss Lydia was invited to Derbyshire for an extended visit. She would be cared for there, as have other young women in delicate circumstances.”
Elizabeth went still, shocked. He was offering to shelter Lydia at Pemberley, to protect her as he had protected those other girls Wickham had ruined.
“If there is no child,” Mr. Darcy continued, “Miss Lydia would be free to return to Longbourn, remain in London with the Gardiners, or perhaps attend a ladies’ academy where she might receive instruction suited to improving her conduct.
” He looked at Mr. Bennet. “The cost of any such course would be mine to bear.”
The room fell silent. Elizabeth stared at him, unable to form words. The generosity of what he offered—not just the money, but the protection of his own name and reputation, the use of his home, the preservation of Lydia’s future—it was more than she could comprehend at once.
“You would do all this?” Mr. Bennet’s voice was hoarse. “For a foolish girl who brought shame upon herself and disgrace upon her family?”
“I would do it,” Mr. Darcy said, his gaze returning briefly to Elizabeth, “because it is the right course. And because Miss Lydia deserves a chance to redeem herself, if she will take it.” He paused, his jaw tightening.
“I should have warned your family—warned all of Meryton—of Wickham’s true character when he first arrived with the militia.
My silence allowed him to move without hindrance among you, to gain the trust of young ladies who had no reason to suspect his intentions. That failure is mine.”
“That is absurd,” Mr. Bennet said sharply. “You cannot be held accountable for the actions of a scoundrel. The fault is Wickham’s alone—and perhaps mine, for raising a daughter so foolish as to be taken in by him.”
“I knew what he was,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice low but unwavering. “I had the power to expose him, to protect others from his schemes, and I chose silence. That was my decision, and I must answer for its consequences.”
Mr. Bennet opened his mouth to argue further, but Mr. Darcy raised a hand. “I will hear no more on the matter, sir. My mind is quite decided.”
He rose from his chair. “I expect you will need time to consider these alternatives and to consult with Miss Lydia on her wishes. I am staying at my house in town—” He withdrew a card and placed it on the table. “Send word when you are ready to proceed, and I shall make the necessary arrangements.”
Elizabeth rose as well, compelled by an impulse beyond her command. “Shall I see Mr. Darcy out?”
Mr. Gardiner stood as well. “I shall do so as well. Mr. Darcy, I must express my profound gratitude for your intervention in this matter, and my admiration for the course you propose. It is more than generous.”
They walked together to the entrance hall. Mr. Darcy retrieved his hat and gloves. As Mr. Gardiner stepped aside to speak to a servant, Mr. Darcy turned to Elizabeth. His eyes met hers, and she saw tenderness in them that stirred in her a longing for more time in his company.
“Please give my regards to Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her voice quieter than she intended.
“She remains at Pemberley,” Mr. Darcy replied. “But I intend to invite her to town shortly. She will travel with the Bingleys, who are returning early to London.” He paused, then added, “Mr. Bingley has spoken of reopening Netherfield.”
Elizabeth drew in a breath in surprise. “Has he indeed?”
“He has.” Mr. Darcy’s expression altered with hope, perhaps, or determination. “I believe he regrets his departure of last autumn.”
“Mr. Darcy, I must again thank you,” Elizabeth said. “For everything, for what you have offered to do for Lydia. I owe you more than I can express—”
“Please,” he interrupted gently. “Do not thank me, Miss Bennet. I do not wish—” He stopped, choosing his words carefully. “I would not have you feel any obligation on this account. What I do, I do because it ought to be done, not because I seek gratitude.”
His eyes held hers for a moment longer, and she understood what he could not say—that he did not want her thanks, nor did he want her to feel herself in his debt. He wanted something that could not be asked for or given under such circumstances.
“I understand,” she said.
She glanced toward him as she spoke. His colour rose. He inclined his head, then turned to take his leave. She watched him descend the steps to the street, and walk away until he entered his carriage and was gone from sight.
She stood there a moment longer, her hand still on the door frame.
The feelings that rose in her chest were many and difficult to name.
Gratitude, yes, but a far warmer sentiment.
A sentiment that had grown since that morning at Pemberley, when she had first seen him as he truly was.
If gratitude and esteem could form the foundation of deeper regard, then surely she was now moving beyond mere thankfulness.
She had tried the other way, had allowed herself to be dazzled by Wickham’s agreeable manners and ready address, and look where that had led—to mortification and shame, to the realisation that she had been deceived as thoroughly as poor Lydia.
She saw Mr. Darcy go with regret. In this early glimpse of what Lydia’s ruin would mean for all of them—the worry, the shame, the unceasing attention required to preserve what could yet be saved of her sister’s prospects—fresh anguish arose as she dwelt on that wretched business.
Elizabeth returned to the drawing room late that evening when Mr. Bennet entered, looking tired but composed after the day’s distress.
“Darcy is gone, then,” Mr. Bennet observed, settling into his customary chair near the fireplace.
“I must own, Lizzy, I still find it difficult to reconcile his present conduct with his former arrogance. He is a marvel of competence, to be sure, but this exertion... It is merely a rich man indulging his sense of aristocratic duty to clean up a messy affair, would you not say?”
“Is it?” Elizabeth straightened, a prickle of defence rising within her. “You speak as if he were merely tending a distant vineyard, Papa. I believe he acts to protect us from public shame, and he is willing to spend a considerable sum doing so.”
Mr. Bennet sighed, adjusting his spectacles. “He is paying the price of association, Lizzy. He did this for his own pride, to ensure that he and his friend Bingley are not tarnished by our family’s scandal. The payment is to keep the matter quiet, nothing more.”
Elizabeth rose and walked to the window, gazing at the quiet street.
“No. I see his conduct differently. He has borne a thousand annoyances without complaint. He risked his person confronting Wickham. He sat with Lydia for hours, explaining everything with such patience. If it were merely pride, he could have paid the money and disappeared.”
She turned back to her father, her cheeks flushed, her voice firm. “He has treated us not as a family deserving of scorn, but with the utmost respect and aid. He is the most generous, the most honourable man I know.”
She had defended him with passion, realising the depth of her own feeling only in the moment she articulated it. She was no longer grateful for a benefactor. She was defending the man she loved.