Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The hour was late and Darcy sank into the armchair, a cloud of dust bursting from the cushions.
Great waves of rain beat against the windowpanes.
The room was abysmal, the food even worse.
He had hoped to already be in London, but his objective had been thwarted by the infernal weather, and now he was obliged to wait out the storm in the last available inn in Edgware.
His body ached. Darcy had chosen not to travel in the carriage, for he had needed a hard, fast ride to release him from this terrible state of agitation.
It was not like him to push his horse, but a desperate urgency had consumed him ever since he received that second damnable letter.
He must talk to Georgiana in person. The conversation would be uncomfortable, but he must know what threat they were facing.
How many letters had she written to Wickham and what precisely were their contents?
In the second note, his sister’s words of love and desire were expressed more plainly, and there was an allusion to at least one private encounter.
Darcy did not doubt his sister’s virtue, but all this threw a shadow over her reputation, nonetheless.
He clenched his fist. She would need protection from public shame.
Stronger women than Georgiana had suffered immeasurably when their indiscretions were made common knowledge.
And what of her heart? Hard as it was for him to admit, Georgiana had believed herself to be in an attachment based on mutual affection.
The tears she had sobbed when she had learnt how quickly Wickham abandoned her!
This fresh betrayal would be the death of her.
She would not bear the pain. If need be, he would pay the wastrel to leave her alone.
But first he required a private conference with Georgiana.
He would not throw away a thousand pounds without knowing precisely what weapons lay in Wickham’s arsenal.
Darcy stood quickly and moved restlessly about the room.
A man of action, he detested having to wait.
The fire glowed in the hearth and he drew closer to it, remembering his meeting with Miss Elizabeth that morning.
To see her cry was like a knife to his heart.
The presumption of Mr Lucas—as though he would ever be worthy of a woman of her beauty and charm.
And the insult to Miss Elizabeth! To disparage her family and insinuate that she should be grateful for his consideration!
He slammed his fist against the mantlepiece.
The man deserved a resounding thrashing.
But have you not thought the same? A voice inside him whispered. What difference is there between yourself and Mr Lucas? You have not always held the Bennets in high esteem, and at one point you did consider her family circumstances to be decidedly beneath your own.
Darcy turned from the fire, unwilling to confront these unwelcome truths.
Desperate for a distraction, his mind returned to Wickham’s threat and its accompanying love letter.
He looked about the room. His valet had brought up his writing desk from the carriage.
Extracting the key from his possessions, Darcy opened the compartment where he kept his most pressing items of correspondence.
Georgiana’s letter was there, but Wickham’s was not.
He rummaged through the various sheets of paper, attempting to keep his rising sense of panic at bay.
Where the devil was it? He closed his eyes, attempting to recall the last time it had been in his possession.
His pocket. He had been so angry that he stuffed it into the pocket of his tailcoat and then left to make arrangements for a swift departure.
He had then read it once more, shortly before he arrived at Longbourn, to reassure himself that he was making the right decision to leave so abruptly.
And with all that happened afterwards, he had not had the chance to look at it again until now.
Had he lost the letter at Longbourn? What would happen if it fell into Mrs Bennet’s possession? Or worse still, what if it had fallen from his person as he departed Netherfield? He had no doubt that Miss Bingley would use it to her advantage. He swore loudly. He would have to return to Meryton.
Having two younger sisters that knew the routines of all the young men in the militia finally proved useful. With discreet questioning, Elizabeth discovered that Mr Wickham walked from his lodgings to Meryton every morning.
“And he is quite often alone.” Lydia giggled, filling Elizabeth with alarm at how her fifteen-year-old sister came to be in possession of this knowledge. Elizabeth turned the subject away from Wickham, commenting on how much rain there had been in the night.
“Goodness, yes! I never heard such a din! I would have struggled to sleep if I were not so tired from all our celebrations yesterday.”
“You must come to Meryton with me. I shall need some help carrying my baskets over the puddles.”
“I shall do no such thing! My shoes would be ruined! Tell her, Mama, that I do not have to go!”
Mrs Bennet looked up from a fashion plate of bridal dresses, her expression much distracted. “Why of course not dearest. You are far too young to be lifting baskets. Kitty may go instead.”
“But that is not fair! I am only older by two years and Lydia is much stronger. I do not wish to go either. Mary should help Lizzy.”
Mary looked over her glasses at her younger sisters. “My morning will be occupied with knitting clothes for the poorest families in our parish. You cannot expect me to neglect my Christian duties.”
“You simply do not want to dirty your boots—hardly very Christian of you.”
“Lizzy may go on her own.” Mrs Bennet tossed her head impatiently. “I daresay she has much to think about, now that Mr Darcy has seen fit to leave Hertfordshire in such a hurry.”
Jane looked up from her place next to their mother. “I shall accompany you.”
“No, you must stay and assist Mama with your wedding preparations.” Elizabeth stood quickly, grateful that her family had for once behaved predictably.
It suited her well to be on her own. All night her mind had been consumed with the evidence of Mr Wickham’s depravity and the question of what action she ought to take.
Her first thought was to hand over the letter to her father and ask for its safe return to Mr Darcy, but even then, she did not trust her father to be entirely discreet.
It was precisely the sort of information he might allude to if he wanted to illustrate the hypocrisy demonstrated by the wealthiest members of society.
Her next option was to confide in Mr Bingley, but she felt a reluctance to divulge such a personal matter.
Mr Darcy might not wish for his close friends to know.
Did I not promise Mr Darcy to be the very soul of discretion?
She pulled on her cloak, its hem still a little damp from yesterday, despite Hill’s attempts to dry it by the kitchen fire.
If she were quick, she might encounter Mr Wickham and with any luck he might be alone.
Her pulse quickened. Mr Darcy had come to her aid before, now was her chance to repay him for his consideration. She could not forget the indignant look in his eyes when she told him of Mr Lucas’s proposal. It was a risk, but one worth taking.