Chapter Thirty-One
The draperies were open, admitting a pale light that gleamed on the polished wood of the escritoire and the brass fittings of Darcy’s traveling case.
Elizabeth stood near the window of the private parlour they shared, tying the ribbons of her bonnet with careful precision, while Darcy reviewed a final note on his desk, his brow faintly drawn.
“It is better that we did not decline,” he reassured his wife.
“Lady Camden was a dear friend of my mother, and she pressed the invitation with uncommon warmth. To withdraw now would invite speculation…and I am persuaded the change will do you good, Elizabeth. You have been too much indoors, too little in society since Mrs Wickham came. It is not in your nature to be so isolated.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, her expression gentle but thoughtful.
“Two weeks has not been so very long to receive fewer callers,” she said.
“I am certain that life will return to normal soon enough, once Lydia becomes accustomed to feeling safe. I do not object to the plan. It will be good for Lydia too, for she relies too much upon me, and it would help her to spend more time with Georgie and Priscilla.”
“Just so,” Darcy replied, sealing the note. “I quite agree that our absence will be beneficial.”
There was a knock at the door, quiet and hesitant.
“Come in,” Darcy called.
Richard entered, his usual bravado conspicuously absent. He paused just inside the door, as though uncertain whether to proceed.
“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said. “I wished to speak with Darcy before he departs.”
Elizabeth understood at once, and offered a small smile. “I shall speak to Mrs Reynolds,” she said, and quietly withdrew.
When the door closed, Richard exhaled and crossed the room in two long strides.
“You cannot possibly mean to leave me in sole command,” he said in a low, urgent voice, not unkind but undeniably strained. “Priscilla and Georgiana are steady enough…but Mrs Wickham…”
Darcy stood and clapped him upon the shoulder. “You will not be alone,” he said evenly. “Mrs Reynolds is watchful, the servants have accepted Mrs Wickham, and although Mrs. Annesley will be absent–”
“Which is precisely the problem,” Richard interrupted. “Forgive me. I do not mean she is troublesome. God knows, she is the opposite. Mrs Wickham is…” he faltered. “She scarcely speaks. She startles at the sound of a door. And when she does look at you…”
“I know,” Darcy said quietly.
Richard looked up, searching his cousin’s face.
“She is so young, Darcy. And I am—” He gave a short, humorless laugh.
“I am accustomed to managing soldiers and hard men, not ghosts. Collins and his wife are not even at the parsonage. It was a damned inconvenient time for him to travel to Lichfield to see his bishop.”
Darcy regarded him for a long moment, then spoke with deliberate calm. “You are not being asked to cure her, Richard. Only to be present. To ensure the ladies are safe. To let her see, if only by degrees, that men are not entirely villainous. She is technically a matron, there is no impropriety.”
“And if she breaks while you’re away?” Richard asked. “If she cannot bear even this small separation from Elizabeth?”
“I do not believe that will happen.” Darcy’s voice softened. “But if it does, then you send for us and we return at once. Lady Camden will understand.”
That finally seemed to steady Richard. He nodded. “I will do my utmost. Though I confess, the responsibility weighs heavier than any battlefield has ever done.”
Darcy closed the escritoire. “That is because this responsibility requires kindness rather than courage. Do not worry, Richard. You possess more kindness than you credit yourself with.”
Fitzwilliam managed a faint smile. “I pray that you are right, Darcy.”
The second day without her brother and his wife had stretched itself thin.
Georgiana sat by the small worktable near the south window. She had carefully chosen her situation; neither Lydia’s room nor her own. Neutral ground, as though that might make the invitation easier to accept.
“I made this a fortnight ago,” she said gently, holding up the little gown. “For Mrs Turner’s baby. She is expecting in perhaps a month. Lizzy will deliver it with the next basket.”
The stitching was neat, the embroidery modest but precise. Simple, tiny green leaves curled around the hem of the garment. Georgiana watched Lydia’s face as she spoke, searching for even the faintest spark of interest.
Lydia sat opposite her, hands folded, eyes upon the floor.
“Yes,” Lydia murmured, after a moment too long. Or perhaps she had not murmured at all, and Georgiana imagined it.
Georgiana pressed her lips together and took a breath.
“If you like,” she continued, a touch more brightly than before. “We might make something similar. Just something small. It helps to have one’s hands occupied, to pass the time.”
She reached for the basket of linen squares and set it between them. Lydia did not move.
A flicker of frustration–sharp and unwelcome–rose in Georgiana’s chest before she could prevent it. She felt ashamed at once, but the feeling lingered nonetheless.
“I only thought…” Georgiana softened her tone. “It need not be for anyone in particular. Or perhaps you would like to knit mittens for the tenants? We can never begin to prepare for the festive boxes too early.”
Lydia’s gaze settled upon the basket, and she trembled, as though even the thought of choosing a piece of cloth was beyond her strength. “I am tired,” she said faintly.
“Of course,” Georgiana replied at once, mortified. She should have waited for Elizabeth, but she felt compelled to help Lydia find something to do. “I am sorry. We need not–”
But Lydia was already rising, moving slowly, carefully, arms wrapped tightly around herself as though she was cold. She left the room without another word.
Georgiana sat alone with the sewing in her hands, her frustration dissolving into worry. She told herself–firmly–that Lydia would be well in her own time. Elizabeth had said as much. Even Georgiana’s brother agreed with his wife that they must trust time to do what reason could not.
Still, as night fell, Georgiana could not shake the sense that something was amiss.
Lydia did not join them for dinner, sending for a tray in her room.
Georgiana, Priscilla, and Fitzwilliam spoke little during the meal.
The three of them were counting the minutes until Elizabeth and Darcy returned, praying that the young woman in their care did not break down before her sister’s return.
It was well past midnight when she heard it. A cry; thin, pained, unmistakably human.
Georgiana sat bolt upright in bed, heart hammering. For one dreadful moment she wondered if she had dreamed it. Then it came again; a broken cry, choked off almost as soon as it escaped. It came from across the hall.
“Lydia,” she whispered, already out of bed.
She crossed the corridor barefoot, her candle shaking in her hand, and pushed open Lydia Wickham’s door.
The smell of blood reached her before she could see Lydia curled in the bedclothes, her face white, her hair plastered damply to her temples.
Her shaking hands were clenched tightly in the sheets, her body drawn inward as though trying to fold itself away.
Then Lydia cried out again, and as she contorted, she kicked the bedsheets away.
That is when Georgiana saw the blood. There was more than she had ever seen when she had her monthlies.
Every lady woke with blood upon her sheets occasionally when she was unprepared, but she had never seen this much at once.
“Miss Darcy!” Lydia sobbed, panic flaring in her eyes. “I do not know what to do.”
Georgiana put the candle on the table and rushed to her side. “I am here,” she said, though the words felt terribly insufficient. “I am here.”
“I did not mean for this,” Lydia whispered, her voice breaking. “Just because I wished it away…I did not mean–ah!”
Understanding struck Georgiana with such force she nearly fainted. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to think.
“I must fetch my cousin. I will not leave you alone. I promise!”
Lydia’s grip tightened painfully on her wrist. “Do not leave me,” she begged. “Please, Miss Darcy!”
“I will be back in a moment,” Georgiana said. “I swear it.”
She ran. Priscilla Fitzwilliam answered her door in her nightgown, eyes already alert before Georgiana could explain.
“I can hear her,” Priscilla said quietly, pulling on her shawl. “I am coming.”
Another ear-splitting cry emanated from Lydia’s bedchamber. Louder now, and easier to hear, since Georgiana had left the door open.
Richard appeared in the corridor seconds later, wearing an expression of alarm.
“I was going to the bachelor’s corridor from the billiards room when I heard her,” he said. “What is happening?”
“You must send for the midwife,” Priscilla said. “And Mrs Reynolds.”
Richard’s face turned white as his sister turned and crossed the hall, entering Lydia’s bedroom, Georgiana following close behind.
Just over an hour later, Fitzwilliam knocked on the door. Georgiana and Priscilla left Lydia with Mrs Reynolds, crossed the room, and opened the door a crack.
“It is impossible,” Fitzwilliam said hoarsely. “The midwife is with another labour. They say she cannot come until–”
Priscilla did not let him finish. “Then we shall manage.”
The hours that followed blurred into something unreal.
Mrs Reynolds did her best to keep Lydia calm, her composure steady but grave.
Warm water was fetched. Sheets were changed.
Lydia cried out from terrible, body racking cramps until her voice gave way, sobbing and clutching Georgiana’s hand as though it were the only thing tethering her to the world. Georgiana did not let go.
Priscilla assisted Mrs Reynolds with grim competence, her face pale but determined. When Lydia was quiet at last, she turned away and pressed a hand to her mouth, steadying herself.
“I have been here,” Priscilla whispered to Lydia when she returned to the bed a moment later when she was again composed. “Long ago. You will be alright. You will live again.”
Lydia lay exhausted, hollow-eyed, her hand still tangled in Georgiana’s sleeve.
“Do not tell George yet,” she whispered. “Please.”
“Do not worry. He is not here, and he is so far away that his feelings do not matter,” Priscilla reassured her. “Darcy can write to him when he returns from Derby, if you choose. You only need to ask your sister and it will be done.”
“Rest, Lydia.” Georgiana whispered softly. “You are going to be well again. Nothing else matters tonight.”
As dawn crept in through the windows, Georgiana sat unmoving beside the bed, the book she planned to read before sleeping forgotten on the table by the bed in her own room.
She thought of Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam.
Of how easily they had gone, believing their absence would be harmless.
It ought to have been harmless. As she watched Lydia sleep, she realised–with sudden, painful clarity–that some sorrows wait for no one’s return.
Friday 4 September 1812
Newcastle
Mr Darcy,
I regret to inform you that Lieutenant Wickham died of typhus on the sea voyage to the peninsula.
He never made it to the battlefield, and was given a burial at sea.
I include the wages that were owed to Lieutenant Wickham, and the value of his commission.
Will you please forward it, and this news, to his wife? My sincerest condolences upon her loss.
Your servant,
Colonel Paget
Darcy read the news and passed the letter across his desk to his younger cousin. Priscilla took the missive and skimmed it, then handed it to her brother, who was sitting beside her.
“You might as well know now. There is no point in keeping it secret any longer now that he is dead and it is entirely over. You finally have the name you seek, Brother. Much comfort may it bring you.”
Richard read the letter in confusion, then looked up uncertainly at his sister and Darcy. “You mean, all this time, it was…”
“It was Wickham.” Priscilla rose. “It is over. Mr Wickham is dead. Mrs Younge is dead, and I have no fear that anyone else will come forward. I am safe from any complications they might cause me now, and it no longer matters if you know, for now you cannot make matters any worse.”
She stood and spoke as she left the room. “Thank you, Darcy. You were more loyal than a thousand knights, and I will never forget how you protected me when I needed you.”
Richard looked abashed as his sister left them. “I feel rather stupid for not suspecting him in the first place.”
“You ought to, since he has been the thorn in our side at every turn since he started school,” Darcy acknowledged. “Who else might it have been? What matters is that Priscilla had our support when she needed it.”
“Your support, you mean,” Richard grumbled.
“Your sister knows you well. You should thank her, for you would have become a murderer the very same day that you learned of it.” Darcy was firm.
“There is a difference between what happens on the battlefield and what you would have done if you knew. Your sister was determined to save you from such a stain upon your soul. She is a brave woman. Standing up to you was harder than anyone else, she told me so herself, but she also considered it worth the trouble. Now, excuse me; I must speak to Elizabeth, and she must decide the best way to break this news to Mrs Wickham.”
The two men parted, one to beg his sister’s pardon…again. Darcy went to find his wife to discuss these new developments.