Chapter 24 #2
On the second day after Elizabeth received her first kiss and third marriage proposal, she sat alone in the waning light of day, wondering whether she had, in fact, dreamt both.
Mr Darcy was an honourable man—this, she had thought she knew.
Yet, no matter which way she turned it in her mind, she could not reconcile that knowledge with the pain that bloomed behind her sternum every time she pictured him smiling down at Miss Larkin as she very publicly pressed her lips to his cheek.
Mr Hartham had proposed to her and then told half of Brighton that they were engaged without waiting for her reply.
This knowledge was irreconcilable with the fact that he had subsequently disappeared.
For a man who believed himself betrothed to her, he seemed remarkably reluctant to spend any time in her company.
She had waited at home all day, desperately hoping Mr Darcy would call. Lest he came while she was out, she had forgone another walk to Marine Parade to speak to Mr Hartham, assuming that he would call here at some point. Neither gentleman had come.
She had resolved to go to Mr Hartham in the morning.
She had been anxious about refusing him, reluctant to hurt his feelings and embarrassed at having misunderstood another man’s intentions.
Now she was simply vexed and eager to put an end to the misunderstanding.
She had no idea what she would do about Mr Darcy, or her feelings for him, which were a muddle of hurt, mortification, affront, and a stubborn affection that she dearly wished she had not spent the last month nurturing.
Indeed, she dearly wished she could stop thinking about him at all.
She especially wished that the memory of his kiss would not keep sneaking up on her at the most inopportune moments, rendering her hot and distracted.
She regretted having cried off going with the others to Mrs Englebert’s dinner.
She had thought herself too heartsick to feign good spirits all evening at the house of someone she did not know, but a few hours of small talk and false smiles would, at least, have taken her mind off things.
As it was, the children were asleep in the nursery, and she sat in the silent drawing room, alone with her thoughts.
It was so pitiful, she considered sending for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s fiddler to come and play a lament.
“Excuse me, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth looked up at the housekeeper, who had entered without a sound. Or perhaps, just not loudly enough to be heard over the incessant whir in her mind. “Yes?”
“A messenger’s just come, with a letter for you.”
She frowned, worried, and took the proffered note. “Thank you. Does he require payment?”
“He says not, ma’am. It was not an express rider. He was a soldier. I think he’s come from the barracks.”
Elizabeth’s worry bloomed into alarm, concern for her sister at the forefront of her mind as she dismissed the housekeeper and tore open the letter.
To Miss Bennet
Forgive my contacting you in this manner.
It is most irregular, I know, but it is a matter of the utmost urgency.
I am at the party of one Colonel Sullivan.
There are two young ‘men’ here who have caused quite a ruckus and riled several of the officers with their impertinence.
I do not know whether you have heard the reports of young ladies infiltrating parties in the town dressed as men, but I can now vouch for this being more than a rumour, because I recognise one of them as your sister, Miss Lydia Bennet.
Both girls are well disguised—it was only your sister’s familiar voice which first gave her away—and I do not recognise her friend.
She is of a height with your sister, which is notable, given Miss Lydia’s taller than average stature.
She has brown eyes, a small mole beneath her right eye, and brown hair (although I know not whether it is her own, for it is cut short).
In common with Miss Lydia, she seems to know Mr Wickham, for both have spoken of him with the other men.
Her acquaintance, however, seems to be of longer standing than Miss Lydia’s—I heard her relate a childhood mishap.
I cannot confront the pair, for they are engaged in a card game—of exceedingly high stakes—and to interrupt would risk exposing them.
I fear, however, that exposure is inevitable.
It is vastly unlikely that this game will go their way, and there are parties involved who will not accept a debt in lieu of immediate payment.
There are a large number of people in the house who would witness any unpleasant scenes.
Escape without detection is improbable. Your sister and her friend may have had fun these last weeks, but they are out of their depth at this gathering.
Miss Lydia spoke up for me once in Meryton, clearing my name of an accusation of larceny of which I was not guilty.
I consider her a friend and would not willingly expose her, which is why I have not sent for Colonel Forster or your uncle.
I am, however, unsure how to extricate her discreetly.
I shall continue to watch for any opportunity to get them out of the house.
If, in the meantime, you can find a way, that might be for the best.
Yours,
Lt Denny
Elizabeth read the letter twice more before allowing herself to admit that she knew the truth of it.
Guilt drove its icy fingers into her heart as she remembered her cowardly decision not to confront Lydia about the letter in her bedchamber—about how little thought she had given to the matter in the days since.
Too consumed with her own troubles, she had left her youngest, silliest, least worldly sister to become embroiled in goodness only knew what schemes!
Worse—much, much worse—was that she appeared to have dragged Miss Darcy into it with her.
Elizabeth thought she might actually vomit at the prospect, but Lieutenant Denny’s description of Lydia’s friend was so accurate, from the connexion with Mr Wickham to the mole beneath her eye, that she could not shake the certainty.
Particularly not when she recalled Lydia’s excitement about her new friend, the very wealthy ‘Miss George’.
She groaned, remembering the censure Mr Darcy had heaped on her family in his letter at Easter: The total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by your mother, your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father.
Her father, who had done nothing to rein in her sisters’ wildest impulses.
Was it any wonder Mr Darcy did not want to marry her, or that he thought he could kiss her without any ramifications?
Lydia was on the verge of scandal, she herself had willingly, enthusiastically succumbed to a lustful clandestine tryst, and now Miss Darcy had been brought low through the connexion.
What man in his right mind would want anything to do with her?
She began to pace, her heart racing as she tried to think sensibly about the wisdom of sending for her uncle.
Of course she should, and in any other circumstances absolutely would, but exposing Lydia to him risked exposing Miss Darcy also.
Which would be grossly unfair, given that the whole world thought she was the sweetest girl, whereas nobody who had met Lydia thought there was anything sweet about her. Particularly not Mr Darcy.
And with that thought, she knew what she must do, despite the fact that she was fairly certain she would die of mortification in the process.