Chapter 18
Eighteen
The Gardiners’ townhouse on Gracechurch Street was just as Elizabeth remembered: cheerful, comfortable, and alive with activity.
The scent of lemon polish and fresh bread hung in the air as the maid ushered them inside, and within moments her aunt appeared, exclaiming over their arrival with every affectionate endearment.
“My dears! At last! We have been watching the road this past hour. Come in, come in. Your uncle will be home soon. He is most eager to see you.”
Elizabeth laughed at her aunt’s exuberance, but before she could reply, another voice rang out across the hall.
“Lizzy!”
She turned, and her breath left her in a rush.
Jane moved in her direction, looking radiant.
Her eyes were bright, her cheeks delicately flushed, her usual serenity transformed into something lighter, livelier.
She almost glowed. But there was scarcely time to remark upon it before her sister drew her into a fierce embrace, arms tight in joyful reunion.
“Oh, Lizzy, I am so happy you are here at last! We were terribly anxious after Charlotte’s letter arrived. She wrote that you had taken a fall!”
“I am quite recovered, I promise,” Elizabeth said through her laughter. “Pray forgive me for not writing myself, but my head is much better now.” She drew back, searching her sister’s face. “But you—Jane, you look…different.”
Jane’s smile deepened. “Go upstairs and refresh yourself, then come to the parlour. I have something to tell you.”
A short while later, the sisters were settled in the Gardiners’ sunny sitting room. But before Elizabeth could so much as speak of Rosings or the Collinses, Jane clasped her hand, her eyes alight.
“Lizzy, you will never believe it. Something extraordinary has happened. Mr Bingley came to call.”
Elizabeth blinked back at her. “He—what?”
“Last Tuesday,” Jane continued eagerly. “He arrived quite without warning and was, I believe, more nervous than I have ever seen him. I confess I was shocked—but oh, Lizzy, I was so very pleased.”
Elizabeth could only gape, but Jane pressed on.
“He said he had no idea I was in town until that very week. Mr Darcy came to visit and told him everything. That I had been here for months. That I had called upon his sisters, though they never passed on the message.”
At Jane’s words, Elizabeth’s heart gave a sharp twist.
“He was quite agitated at first,” Jane went on, a faint blush colouring her features. “He asked many questions, some of which I scarcely knew how to answer. But Lizzy, he has been here three times since! He dined with us twice, and he has sent word to begin preparations at Netherfield.”
Elizabeth’s lips parted, her thoughts reeling. “He is reopening the house?”
Jane nodded. “He means to return soon. Aunt and Uncle believe—well, they suspect…” She lowered her lashes, her smile blooming once more.
Elizabeth gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Oh, Jane! I am so glad. You deserve every bit of this happiness.”
And although her smile was warm, her thoughts turned inwards. This was Mr Darcy’s doing. He had been the one to confess, to make things right. He had taken Elizabeth’s accusations, thrown at him in anger, and acted upon them. He had returned to town, sought out his friend, and told him the truth.
Yet, even as she rejoiced for her sister, a small voice within wondered whether, perhaps, he had done it for her.
The days that followed passed in quiet contentment.
Elizabeth and Maria remained in Gracechurch Street, enjoying the Gardiners’ easy hospitality.
Mr Bingley called twice more during their stay, each time as cheerful and amiable as Elizabeth had ever known him to be.
Yet it was the way he looked at Jane—tender, hopeful, and unmistakably adoring—that left Elizabeth in no doubt: a wedding was imminent.
Of Mr Darcy, little was said. Jane mentioned him only in passing, as the precursor to Mr Bingley’s reappearance, but Elizabeth, though she asked no questions, cherished a private hope: If Mr Bingley returned to Hertfordshire, might not Mr Darcy soon follow?
And if a wedding were to take place, surely he would attend.
The thought made her heart quicken, but it was one she dared not linger on.
It was the morning before their departure for Longbourn when the post arrived, bringing with it an unexpected surprise. Elizabeth watched as Jane accepted the letter with a slight frown.
“It is from Lydia,” she announced, studying the penmanship. “That is unusual.”
“Highly unusual,” Elizabeth agreed. “She never troubles herself to write, except when there is something to be gained.”
Jane unfolded the single sheet and bent over its contents. “Oh dear,” she murmured before passing it into Elizabeth’s hands.
The letter was, as expected, a breathless entreaty. Lydia wrote to beg her sisters to intercede on her behalf, for it seemed the militia regiment was to decamp for Brighton, and Mrs Forster, the colonel’s young wife, had invited her to spend the summer there.
Imagine it! Lydia had scrawled. An entire summer in Brighton! Balls, officers, and sea-bathing! I shall simply die if I am not allowed to go.
She handed the letter back, her expression grave. “She cannot go.”
“No,” Jane agreed. “Certainly not with only Mrs Forster as chaperon.”
Images from Elizabeth’s time in Hunsford flashed through her mind, but one stood out with painful clarity—the truth about Mr Wickham. His debts. His seductions. His near-elopement with Mr Darcy’s young sister. Elizabeth’s stomach twisted, and she turned to Jane, revealing it all.
By the time she was finished speaking, Jane’s face had paled, and her eyes were wide with shock.
“I must speak to Papa the moment we return,” Elizabeth said at last.
Jane nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose you must. It is just… I cannot get over it. Mr Wickham so very bad! But, do you think it necessary to expose him so dreadfully?”
“I do.”
No matter how many of her memories had faded, the knowledge of Mr Wickham’s true character had not. And she had Mr Darcy’s letter to prove it. If she could prevent Lydia from making a mistake that might destroy her future, she would. Even if it meant divulging more than she had ever intended.
The White Hart, the inn where they were to meet Mr Bennet’s carriage, was bustling with midday activity as their coach rolled into the yard.
Elizabeth, seated beside Jane, pressed a gloved hand to the window, peering through the rain-specked glass.
The familiar gables of the inn brought a strange flutter to her chest; home was now only an hour’s journey away.
Across the compartment, Maria let out a sigh of relief as the coach rumbled to a stop, saying breathlessly, “Thank goodness. I do not believe I could have endured another mile of those roads.”
Elizabeth managed a faint smile, though her thoughts had already flown ahead to what awaited her at Longbourn, and to the absence she most dreaded.
Within, the common room hummed with warmth and commotion. As they paused in the entry, removing bonnets and gloves, a familiar voice rang out above the din.
“Jane! Lizzy! Over here!”
Elizabeth turned to see Lydia waving enthusiastically from a table near the hearth, Kitty seated across from her. Before them lay a spread of cold meats, bread, pies, and a steaming pot of tea.
“We ordered everything already,” Lydia declared as they approached. “I hope you do not mind, but we were simply famished and could not wait!”
“Indeed,” Kitty added, reaching for a slice of ham. “We have been here nearly an hour. It is dreadfully dull waiting about with nothing to do.”
Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a knowing glance before greeting their younger sisters. Lydia, already halfway through a generous portion of pigeon pie, immediately launched into a breathless monologue as they took their seats.
“You must tell us everything! How was Hunsford? I cannot imagine how you bore six whole weeks in Mr Collins’s company. Did he lecture you at every meal? Maria, you poor thing. Were you not simply dying with nothing better to occupy your time?”
“It was not so bad as that,” Maria replied mildly, though her smile wavered.
Elizabeth cast her youngest sister a wry glance. “We managed to find ways to amuse ourselves, despite the many sermons.”
“Well, I should have gone mad,” Lydia said with a dramatic wave of her fork.
“And Charlotte—how does she bear him? I suppose she’s always finding excuses to leave the house.
And what of you, Jane?” she continued, turning now to her eldest sister.
“Did you go to any balls in London? You must have had dozens of invitations!”
“I attended only one,” Jane replied with her usual composure, “though we did go to the theatre on several occasions. But most of my time was spent at Gracechurch Street with Aunt and Uncle.”
At this, Lydia heaved an exaggerated sigh. “How dull! I should have liked to go to town for the entire Season. But now, I shall not have to, as I have a far better prospect.” Her eyes sparkled as she leaned across the table. “Did you get my letter?”
Elizabeth glanced at Jane, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “We did.”
“Well?” Lydia beamed. “What do you think? Is it not the most delicious scheme? And Mrs Forster says it will hardly cost anything at all. Just imagine—the beach, the sea, and a whole camp full of soldiers! You will speak with Papa, will you not?”
Elizabeth’s lips tightened. “Lydia, I do not think it a very good idea.”
“It is not a proper arrangement, dearest,” Jane added gently. “We cannot encourage Papa to allow it.”
Lydia’s smile slipped into a pout. “But why ever not? I have so many friends amongst the officers, and Mrs Forster is terribly fond of me. Think how lonely she will be if I do not accompany her.”
Elizabeth set down her teacup with a quiet clink. “I am afraid she must learn to endure it. A camp full of officers is no place for a young girl without proper supervision.”
“Oh, do not be so priggish,” Lydia huffed. “It is only a bit of fun!”
“You may think so,” Elizabeth replied, “but not all the officers are as agreeable as they appear. In fact, there are some who are not to be trusted.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
Elizabeth hesitated before saying carefully, “I speak of Mr Wickham in particular. I shall take it up with Papa, but I do not want either of you”—she turned, to include Kitty—“spending any more time in his company.”
There was a moment’s pause before Lydia gave a startled laugh. “Well, you needn’t be concerned about that! Oh, but of course, you have not heard! Mr Wickham is no longer with the regiment.”
Elizabeth started. “He is not?”
“No,” Lydia replied, clearly delighted to hold knowledge her sisters did not. “He left quite suddenly, about a week ago. No one knows where he went, though I heard he had debts, and that there was a dreadful row with Colonel Forster.”
Elizabeth shot a sharp look at Jane, who appeared equally alarmed. “Did he say nothing of his plans?”
Lydia shrugged. “Denny said he mentioned something about Newcastle. Or perhaps it was Nottingham? In any case, he was very secretive. And Mrs Forster says she will not miss him. Nor shall I. I never liked him half so well as the others.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. “You said there was a quarrel with Colonel Forster. Does anyone know what it concerned?”
“Oh! Well, it might have had something to do with Mr Darcy,” Lydia replied airily, lifting a meat pie from the platter.
Elizabeth froze. “Mr Darcy?”
“Yes, you know, the tall, proud gentleman who was with Mr Bingley at Netherfield in the autumn. He came to Meryton last week. Everyone was in quite an uproar. He stayed only one night at the Red Lion and visited no one except Colonel Forster. Denny said he called there at once and stayed more than an hour. The next morning, Wickham was gone, and so was Mr Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s thoughts reeled. Mr Darcy had travelled all the way to Meryton only to meet Colonel Forster? And then Mr Wickham had disappeared?
Could it be? Had he once again gone out of his way to make things right, to see that Mr Wickham, with all his charm and deceit, could harm no one else within the neighbourhood?
“Nobody knows why Mr Darcy bothered,” Lydia prattled on. “Apparently he was as dull as ever. He barely conversed with anyone while he was there.”
“Do you know where he went?” Elizabeth asked, striving for composure.
Once again, Lydia shrugged. “Back where he came from, I suppose.”
Elizabeth fell silent, her gaze drifting to the rain-slicked window where the clouds were beginning to break.
Would Mr Darcy return? Or were these quiet acts of honour his last, before vanishing from her life forever?