Chapter 3
Elizabeth Bennet watched her sister Mary sit down at the pianoforte, knowing nothing good would come of it. Nothing could repair the day. Not the fine summer afternoon. Not the scent of roses wafting inside from the garden. And certainly not Mary’s musical attempts.
Lydia was to marry—had doubtlessly already exchanged vows by now—that scoundrel Wickham. Uncle’s message had reached them the evening prior, and nobody besides their mother spoke openly about it.
Mary played a dirge. Of the four Bennet daughters remaining at Longbourn, Lydia’s sin fell heaviest on Mary, who seemed to think the other members of her family ought to atone for her errant sister’s poor choices by afflicting their ears with mournful hymns.
Mama groaned. “Please, Mary, could you not play a happier tune? It is, after all, the day of Lydia’s wedding. Oh, how I wish they could have delayed a day or two so we could join them in London for the festivities.”
Elizabeth exchanged a look with Jane, her eldest sister. While she was relieved to have their reputations spared, Elizabeth could not celebrate Lydia’s union to such a man.
Mary obliged Mama with a heavy sigh, making it plain that she did so against her better judgment and only to appease the mother she was Scripture-bound to respect.
By now, Lydia was Mrs. Wickham. There would be no wedding feast. No cause for rejoicing, contrary to what Mama thought. And although Lydia was too foolish to know it, her happiness was certain to be short-lived.
Kitty pouted on the settee she usually sat on with Lydia, whose empty space Jane attempted to fill with her soft encouragement and gentle attentiveness. “Papa will not let me do anything or go anywhere,” Kitty complained.
Jane smoothed Kitty’s hair away from her face. “You can hardly blame him after what has happened. He loves you a great deal and seeks to protect you.”
“But it is not fair! Lydia got to do everything, and now I am stuck here.”
Mary stopped playing and turned to Kitty, showing more emotion than usual.
“How do you not see how close Lydia came to ruining us all? She shall reap what she has sown, and the fruit shall be bitter. Do not wish the same for yourself, Kitty, when it is only thanks to Uncle’s generosity that we have the chance, no matter how slight, of marrying men less self-serving than Mr. Wickham. ”
Mama snapped her fan open. “Mary! I will not have you speaking so poorly of your brother; such a fine, dashing soldier! You would do well to make such a catch.”
Elizabeth could not think of a more depressing prospect, and she could not excuse her mother’s willful blindness no matter how well-meant her motive.
Mama did not see—or she refused to acknowledge—how the connection to such a man, as well as the circumstances forcing his union to Lydia, would affect her unmarried daughters.
Mama resumed her speech, extolling Lydia’s good fortune. Before she could expound on Mr. Wickham’s merits, Elizabeth stood to leave. She could hear no more.
Mary resumed her dirge, and Elizabeth did her best to ignore her surroundings until she closed herself behind the solid oak door of her father’s book room. It was quieter in there—the quietest room in the house due to its location behind the stairs.
She sat on her usual perch by the window overlooking the rose garden, doing her best to be quiet lest she disturb her father’s reading. She did her best to ignore Mary’s playing, Mama’s voice, and Kitty’s complaining, but the soft rustle of her father turning pages could hardly compete.
Eventually, her mind did wander, and she was back at Hunsford Cottage.
Mr. Darcy stood before her, his heart exposed.
In these dreams, she always answered more kindly.
She would not have accepted him—she could not accept the offer of a man who had interfered with the happiness of her most beloved sister—but she might have asked for an explanation.
He might have recognized his error and made amends.
Understanding his character as she did now, she suspected he would own to his misunderstanding and make the necessary reparations.
Mr. Darcy was everything dutiful and responsible.
And Elizabeth loved him for it.
Leaning her forehead against the cool glass, she squeezed her burning eyes shut.
Not only had she spitefully refused the only man she could ever love, thus severing all hope of reconciliation, but her sister was now married to Mr. Wickham.
Mr. Darcy would never agree to attach himself to the vile man who had abused his friendship and that of his innocent sister.
Elizabeth would not receive another offer from him.
She did not know how long she had been woolgathering, but she noticed when the papers at her father’s desk ceased to rustle. He watched her, a pensive look on his face.
“What is it, Papa?” she asked.
He bunched his lips as though he had something unpleasant to say. “You were right, Lizzy. I would have been wise to heed your warning.”
She shook her head. “I take no pleasure in it when I would rather have Lydia home with us, protected from the likes of Mr. Wickham.”
“As would I,” he mumbled, clasping his hands together on top of his desk and leaning against his forearms. “I hate to think how much your uncle must have laid on that wretch. I shall never be able to repay him, nor do I consider myself worthy of his kindness.” His voice trembled with shame.
“Mama and Kitty do not understand how fortunate we are that Uncle found them and arranged for them to marry.” Elizabeth watched her father’s reaction, praying he would continue to withstand their complaints when they threatened his cherished peace and time dimmed his regret.
He took off his spectacles, wiping them slowly and meticulously with his handkerchief.
“Your mother is of a mind that marriage rights all wrongs—a view I might have helped dispel had I not been too indolent to correct her. Kitty knows no better.” Settling his spectacles on his nose, he tucked the handkerchief into his pocket.
“I shall not fail my other daughters as I failed Lydia. Do not fear that their demands will be met, no matter how tiring they become.”
Elizabeth hoped with all of her heart that he meant it.
Galloping hooves and flying gravel interrupted their conversation, followed shortly by a knock on the door.
Mary ceased playing, and even Mama went quiet.
Mr. Hill’s heavy footsteps grew louder as he traveled from the entrance to the book room door.
Holding out an envelope, he said, “Brought by messenger.”
Papa stood. “I shall see to him immediately.”
Mr. Hill shook his head. “He has already gone.”
Elizabeth glanced at the envelope as it passed between Mr. Hill and her father. It was Uncle’s handwriting. Furthermore, Uncle had seen to the expense of sending a message. This was not good news. Had the wedding not taken place after all his trouble?
Panic whipped her heartbeat into a frantic pace, echoing in her ears. Ruin ruin ruin.
Papa opened the letter, his eyes fixed on the page as he groped for his chair. Pale, he fell into it.
It was true, then. Their worst fear. They were ruined.
The door behind them creaked open, and Elizabeth looked to see Jane standing in the doorway, her features etched with concern.
The page slipped from Papa’s fingers to his desk. With teary eyes, he pushed the letter to Elizabeth and dropped his head into his hands. “I am so sorry. Oh, my poor, dear girls.” His voice cracked. “The fault is mine to bear, and yet you shall be the ones to pay.”
Elizabeth took the letter, her eyes catching on the last name she had expected to see her uncle pen.
Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy? She devoured the contents of the page, her heart plummeting and her stomach churning as she read how Mr. Darcy had been the one to find Mr. Wickham and Lydia, how he had arranged for the wedding, paying for Wickham’s commission and settling an additional enticement of one thousand pounds on Lydia.
All of it had been arranged, not by Uncle, but by Mr. Darcy.
And now, Mr. Darcy had gone missing and Wickham would not marry Lydia without promise of full payment.
The next paragraph was devoted to Uncle’s concern at this sudden turn of events.
Never a steadier gentleman had he known than Mr. Darcy.
He had managed the affair with a thoroughness and expediency Uncle praised enthusiastically.
Mr. Darcy had even seen to the detail of Lydia’s trousseau, small though it must be, thus adding to the image of a planned union rather than the forced one it was.
That he should fail to appear at the wedding was inconceivable.
Uncle ended with some assurance, though it did little to minimize the disaster such a delay created.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was doing everything he could to step into his cousin’s place, but Lydia was inconsolable and swore she would rather die than marry a man who had to be paid to marry her.
Uncle did not say as much directly, but Elizabeth knew Lydia was too much for him and Aunt Gardiner to manage when they had their own children and obligations.
He begged Father’s immediate presence in London, whereupon he hoped Papa might persuade Lydia beyond her histrionics to see reason.
Elizabeth’s throat was too tight to read aloud or give a summary to Jane. She handed the letter to her sister.
Papa raised his head. “I trust both of you to keep the details to yourself. Mr. Darcy has shown me more consideration and respect than I deserve, and I shall not be the one to make known what he took great pains to conceal. Your uncle’s concern must be grave, indeed, for him to write as he did.”
Why did Mr. Darcy do it? A small part of Elizabeth dearly wanted to believe he had done it for her, but that was a vain delusion.
She had made her opinion of him clear—painfully and articulately clear.
Not even the pleasant time she had briefly spent in his company at Pemberley with her aunt and uncle could erase that.
Jane handed the letter back to Papa, her eyes wide, one hand covering her mouth. Tucking it inside his pocket, he said, “I shall have to tell your mother that the wedding did not occur. Otherwise, she shall spread the news all over Meryton.”
Elizabeth groaned. It had taken all of her ingenuity and Jane’s persuasion to keep their mother from calling on Lady Lucas that same day so that she might brag of her success.
If Papa left so suddenly for London, Mama would not understand why they could not accompany him in the hope of seeing the newly wed couple.
Uncle and Aunt had already done much more than any relative should be asked to do. They did not need another fitful female given to vexation and nerves to add to their burden.
Elizabeth caught her sister’s eye, and she saw her own concerns mirrored in her gaze. Jane held her look for a moment, then nodded. Good. They were in agreement.
Taking a deep breath, Jane smoothed her skirts and clasped her hands together. “I shall stay with Mama.”
Elizabeth added for their father’s benefit, “And I shall go with you to London.”
He nodded.
They departed from Longbourn one hour later, leaving Kitty stunned, Mary more self-righteous than ever, and Mama wailing. Jane and Mrs. Hill had their hands full, and Elizabeth knew her turn was soon to come with Lydia.
However, the farther away they drove from Longbourn, the less Elizabeth dwelt on her family’s concerns and the more her worry for Mr. Darcy grew. A man like him would not disappear without finishing what he had started.
Where had he gone?
She held on to the expectation that he would resurface by the time they arrived at Gracechurch Street, and that all would be settled before she and her father reached the outskirts of London.
Wickham and Lydia would marry on the morrow, and Elizabeth would properly express her gratitude to Mr. Darcy for salvaging her family’s reputation.
They arrived at nightfall. And still, Mr. Darcy was gone.