CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
They left Westminster initially in the direction of Belgravia where they searched a succession of inns and pubs, questioning patrons and proprietors alike, in hopes of procuring any hint as to the whereabouts of the couple. From there they rode on to Chelsea where they continued, with no success, to make inquiries after the youngest Miss Bennet and her beau. That evening, they came back up the riverfront through Pimlico, where they hoped to have the good fortune to stumble upon the man himself—perhaps even, though they prayed that God might forbid it, in the act of discarding her. As the sun rose meekly through a dense haze in the east, the party returned to Darcy’s home, only to learn that Maitland had slipped out just hours after they left to resume his own search. Bingley, Darcy, and Mr. Wilshere supped on a small repast of cake and fruit before heading their separate ways within the house to sleep. Just after noon, they were fed and departed once more. To their astonishment, there still had been no sighting of Maitland at the house.
For another six hours they scoured the most disreputable parts of town to no avail. When they returned again to the house that evening, they were greeted with the news that Maitland had returned and, without eating went directly to bed. The two gentlemen dined on lamb and roasted vegetables, while Wilshere resolved to eat in the servants’ hall. After a couple glasses of brandy, Clinton, one of Mr. Darcy’s footmen, entered the room with a letter from Caroline Bingley. After her brother read it, he excused himself from the study and went to his room to compose a response. It seemed that she, as well as the rest of their party, had learned just hours after the sudden departure of the master of Pemberley and her own sibling, about the circumstance involving Miss Lydia Bennet and George Wickham. Fortunately for Bingley, she gave no indication as to her connecting the gentlemen’s departure with the ill-conceived elopement. In fact, her language was nothing but scornful and filled with boasting over what she certainly believed was the final schism which would forever separate her brother from the disreputable Bennet family. To that end she then boasted of the perpetual refinements of Miss Darcy, of her ever-increasing handsomeness, her proper upbringing, and the air with which she carried herself, which so keenly befitted a young lady of her consequence.
Sitting down, and in a furore, he began to craft a response, endeavouring not to divulge neither his personal nor professional interest in the development, nor admit its being the cause of his hasty departure from Derbyshire. He did manage, however, a rebuttal to his sister’s haughty condescension, then stopped after having penned nearly a page in even more erratic and feverish hand than was typical of him.
Why on God’s good earth am I even deigning to reply? he thought. I shall not alter her opinions, as they are the product of wilful hubris. More pressing matters demand my attention.
With that, he crumpled the paper and returned downstairs to his friend. He summoned Clinton, who was passing through the hall, and solicited him to dispose of it in the fire in the kitchen which, due to the summer temperatures, was the only one in the house kept stoked. When he appeared again in the study, he found it empty. He rang for Wilshere, but his man did not appear for a full ten minutes, having been indisposed at the time. After enquiring as to Darcy’s whereabouts, Bingley’s man returned downstairs. Upon returning once more, Wilshere informed his master that Mr. Darcy had thought that Mr. Bingley was retiring for some time, so he took it upon himself to begin their quest unaccompanied. Darcy had left the grounds nearly a half hour prior.
“What on earth is he on to?” Bingley demanded. “Of all people he should not be singly roaming the most perilous parts of town at this hour.”
“The stableboy gave no indication to which direction he had gone,” Wilshere answered.
“Insufferable pride,” muttered Bingley.
“I prefer to view it through the lens of reckless devotion.”
Bingley nodded, and after a moment, ordered their horses to be ready. To their mutual surprise, they were joined by a haggard, but resolute, Maitland upon their departure. Once more, the three men combed through every possible alley, inn, and brothel; and once more their efforts were met with futility. They settled back at the house after eight the next morning, leaving their horses with the stable keepers just as Darcy returned. After declarations of the mutual happiness they felt at the safe sight of each other, the men divulged that neither one had accomplished anything toward furthering their search. It was also learned on entering the house, that Mr. Gallagher had arrived from Grantley Village with much eagerness to be of service.
Three more nights were spent in much the same fashion, though the party did venture to stay together during their raids of London’s most loathsome establishments. On the second night, their luck appeared to turn on a word from a tanner in Bermondsey. The man, whose name escaped them all, told them that he had met a George Wickham who was accompanied by a rather handsome, rather young lady in a pub on George Row, by the river wall. Their stated plan was to leave for Scotland in the morning—this had been three nights earlier. The worried party searched not only the pub, but also the bank of the Thames for the duration of that evening, finding no evidence of either Lydia or Wickham. When after sleeping a few hours, they reconvened that afternoon it was decided that, whilst the tanner’s story was probably reliable, Wickham’s word to him was most certainly not so. Particularly because the couple had not been seen on any of the roads traveling north, it was safe to assume that they were still in town. Wilshere even made the suggestion that their sighting was good news, as it was proof that she had not been summarily dispatched, as so many others had been, but was alive and ostensibly well, just three nights prior.
Eventually, both Bingley and Darcy replied to concerned letters from their respective sisters, requesting the ladies to remain at Pemberley, and advising that their own return to Derbyshire would be imminent once their business had been concluded satisfactorily. All five men were, by this point, utterly fatigued and frustrated, though they dared not consider abandoning their quest. The physical toll was certainly daunting, but the emotional expenditure was far vaster an obstacle. Each one of the men, Gallagher aside, had a personal connection with the Bennet family of some kind, all of them having, at the very least, met the sisters, and at the very most, loved one of them. Yet even the Constable had daughters of his own, and after learning of the evils wrought on defenceless maidens in much the same situation as his own children, he was full of zeal on their behalf.
At dinner that evening, Bingley found it difficult to eat. He sipped his wine and asked, “What are we missing , Darcy?”
“I do not understand your meaning,” replied Mr. Darcy after wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “They have not left town—it is only a matter of time before they are found.”
“I am not so sure as you.”
“That they are still in town? Your own men are posted at all the thoroughfares, and there has not been a single sighting of them.”
“No, I believe they are still in London, but there seems to me to be a piece of information, one solitary connection, that must be painfully obvious, yet has alluded us all.”
“I cannot fathom any connection between our world and that man’s, Bennet sisters aside,” rejoined Darcy with a dash of venom. “Though George Wickham and I grew up as children together, once we parted ways after he left Cambridge, our sphere of relations and friendships wholly and incurably diverged.”
“That is perfectly clear, Darcy,” Bingley answered. “And all as it should be, but I still cannot accept the idea that we have not overlooked the very thing that would lead us directly to them.”
“Do not torment yourself, Bingley. George Wickham is not so bright that it could be imagined he might outwit the likes of us in perpetuity.”
“On that account you will hear no dissent from me,” replied Bingley. “Which is precisely why it confounds me so acutely—he must be under some person’s guidance, someone’s protection. That is the only theory by which I can explain his current level of success in evading detection.”
“The remaining members of the plot, then?” Darcy asked.
“Perhaps if we spent our vigour seeking them out—”
“It is an admirable thought, but not prudent at this late stage,” interjected Darcy. “I am afraid the hours are against us and running critically low. We must find Wickham and discover him soon. Once we do, he will divulge what information he possesses, that we might eliminate the men to whom he reports.”
“Yes, I concur, we should remain resolute and unwavering,” said Bingley.
Darcy nodded slowly, then drank what remained of his wine. “I must have you eat, Charles—you are no good to anyone if you are vitiated by malnourishment.”
At this word, Bingley’s face narrowed in diffident acquiescence, and he raised his fork to his mouth and sombrely chewed what in other circumstances would have been a delectable cut of pork. At that moment, however, he ate only out of obligation to his own body, his thoughts racked by the distress under which his dearest Jane, together with the remainder of the Bennet family, was most assuredly toiling, and the earnest wish to see her suffering alleviated. Several moments passed in relative silence between the two masters before Darcy spoke again: “I do confess, there is one detail that has continued to cause me great vexation these last several days.”
“And that is?” posed Bingley between bites.
“Why Lydia Bennet?” Darcy mused.
“I have pondered the same question with much dissatisfaction. She does not fit the mould of the other young ladies to meet similar ends.”
“She is an irrational choice, indeed, for she certainly does not lack for protection.”
“Quite true,” Bingley responded. “All of the others were nearly destitute and without significant cover from their relations. Miss Lydia Bennet has a degree of connections in society, not to mention being in the charge of Colonel Forster.”
“She is not in possession of any kind of fortune, either as was the case not only with my own sister, but also Miss Mary King.”
“It seems Miss Lydia Bennet falls somewhere in between, then. Very peculiar, indeed. Would you believe that, perhaps, beauty alone has recommended her for such selection?”
“I would not presume that to be the primary reason for her abduction, as she not half as handsome as her two eldest sisters,” Darcy stated bluntly.
“Neither would I,” answered Bingley with a wrinkled brow. “Though I might venture to state that it is obvious from the infatuation under many of the officers in the regiment found themselves, that to a particular sort of man, perhaps her… vivacity might increase her attractiveness.”
“And what sort of men would be seduced by such juvenility and gammon?”
Bingley looked across the table sternly. “Exactly the type of men I have hunted these last two years at least.”
Darcy tapped his glass and at once a footman came scurrying with wine to refill his master’s goblet. After taking an ungentlemanly gulp he stated arduously, “It is quite the unhappy business which you administer.”
“It is indeed,” came the reply.
“And to consider after that horrible occurrence involving my sister, I considered George Wickham to be evil then—ha!” Darcy’s laugh was then followed by a leaden silence. “With what I know of him now, it seems silly to recall the anger and loathing in which I held that man… that man along with Mrs. Younge who helped him nearly abscond with my dear sister and her fortune.”
“What name did you say?” demanded Bingley.
“Mrs. Younge!”