Chapter 13
“I—” Elizabeth meant to hand Mr. Darcy the letters. Instead, the papers bent in her hand, and the room moved a little sideways.
He was with her before she could pretend there was nothing the matter.
“Elizabeth.” His hand closed around her elbow while the other wound around her back, not drawing her in this time but holding her upright, steady and strong.
A good thing, too, for her knees were unreliable beneath her, and if he had not been there, she might have made a very poor business of remaining on her feet.
“I am well,” she said, though it was plainly not true.
“No,” he said. “You are not.”
He guided her back into the chair by the table and knelt beside it, one hand still at her arm, not trusting her to remain upright. His face had changed entirely. The softness of a moment before was gone, but not the tenderness. It had hardened into attention.
“Breathe,” he said. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, slow and steady. For some reason, it helped. After a moment she gave him the letters, because she had no words of her own that could convey her dismay.
He read it beside her. She watched his face. She saw the moment he reached the name Wickham.
The name did not surprise him. His jaw set and his eyes narrowed. The hand that held the paper went still, and his countenance became dark and grim.
He folded the letter with care. “How long have they been gone?”
“Some days, I think. I cannot tell exactly. They are in London, or were.”
“Then there is time. Wickham will not have the funds to travel to Scotland, and he will think himself well concealed in London.” He said it as a fact, not a comfort.
He rose to speak briefly to Hannah, then returned and drew up another chair facing her. He sat in it and leaned forward to take her hands.
“I know the people he will go to for funds and the woman who will hide him. I will find your sister.”
Elizabeth looked up sharply. She had seen Mr. Darcy proud. She had seen him mortified, uncertain, tender, almost undone. She had not seen this. It was anger without heat, anger so completely disciplined that it had distilled itself into cold decision.
It frightened her a little.
Not because she thought he would be cruel, but because she could not tell, in that first terrible moment, precisely what he had decided.
Perhaps he was thinking of Mr. Wickham. Perhaps he was thinking of Miss Darcy and what that man had nearly done once before.
She could not blame him if he was.
Then he looked back at her, his expression fixed, determined. “I can find him inside a week,” he said. “I shall go today.”
Before Elizabeth could answer, there was noise in the hall and her aunt and uncle entered.
They were comfortable and unhurried, Uncle Gardiner in the middle of a sentence about the church bell.
He took three steps into the parlour, saw Elizabeth’s face, saw Darcy sitting very close to her, and stopped like a man who had walked into a wall.
Aunt Gardiner shut the door behind them both.
There was no exclaiming, no scene. With Elizabeth’s permission, Mr. Darcy explained everything: the letters, Mr. Wickham, what was known, what could be done.
Uncle Gardiner listened for several minutes with an expression Elizabeth had never seen upon his face before. It was not anger, precisely, nor even alarm, but sober calculation. He had been handed a disaster and was already considering what the first remedy must be.
At last he looked directly at Mr. Darcy.
“Sir,” he said, with great civility, “forgive me. I do not question your honour, nor your ability to be of service. But I must ask why you are taking so much upon yourself in what is, you must admit, my family’s business.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened in her lap.
Mr. Darcy did not answer at once. He stood very still, his face grave, his colour a little heightened, as though the question had struck him somewhere deep.
Then he said, quietly, “Miss Lydia is my sister now too.”
Aunt Gardiner drew in a small breath.
Her uncle’s eyes moved from Darcy to Elizabeth, then back again. Relief showed plainly in his face, but it was quickly overtaken by a more serious comprehension.
“Ah,” he said. He sat down rather suddenly in the nearest chair. “Then I am to understand that this morning has brought more than one change.”
Darcy inclined his head. “This morning your niece did me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage. And moments later . . . Well. Her acceptance is the only piece of news in this room that is wholly good.”
Uncle Gardiner looked at him for a long moment. Then he rose, crossed the room, and shook Darcy’s hand with both of his own.
Mr. Gardiner was silent a moment. Then he rose, crossed to the sideboard, and took down a glass.
“I shall escort my wife and Elizabeth south myself,” he said. “After that, I shall continue on to London to join Bennet.” He glanced at Darcy, then at the decanter. “And if no one objects, I should like to make that resolution with a little assistance.”
“It is barely noon, my dear,” said Aunt Gardiner.
“It is the most extraordinary noon of my life,” said Uncle Gardiner, “and I shall mark it. Will you not join me?”
This time Mr. Darcy accepted. The glasses were small, but when Elizabeth still hesitated, Mr. Darcy encouraged her to take one.
They drank a quiet toast to the engagement, but the moment passed almost as soon as it had begun.
Mr. Darcy’s travelling carriage had already been sent for; their trunks must be packed; fresh horses must be arranged.
Uncle Gardiner, still talking of London, Colonel Forster, and the fastest way of getting news along the road, went out with Aunt Gardiner to speak to the innkeeper.
For one moment, Elizabeth and Darcy were alone again.
Only then did the full weight of everything come down upon her once more.
“My family will be ruined,” she said.
“No,” said Darcy.
“You cannot promise me that.”
“I can promise you what I intend.”
“This is not only Lydia.” Her voice failed her a little.
“It will touch all of us, and it will touch you, if you remain bound to me. You have not even spoken to my father. You have Georgiana to think of—her reputation, her future. You could be free of the whole of it, and no one would think the worse of you. Indeed, no one other than the four of us need ever know.”
For a moment he did not answer.
“All day yesterday I watched you at the picnic,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head.
“Making my uncle feel a gentleman, lifting Henry out of danger, assisting your cousin to bring Miss Elinor in out of the storm. You took care of every person on that lawn. And the whole while, I believed I had thrown away any chance of having that care for myself.” She drew a breath.
“Just now you gave that chance back to me, but I cannot repay you with my family’s disgrace. I cannot.”
His silence frightened her more than any refusal could have. Mr. Darcy was a careful man. She had asked him to count the cost, and now she must watch him do it. All she could do was wait.
“I have thought of Georgiana,” he said at last. “I have thought of all of it. There will be a cost, I will not insult you by pretending otherwise. Doors that stand open to me now may close. There will be talk, and some of it will reach her.” His hands closed over hers.
“I tell you this only so you shall never imagine I chose you without knowing the price. I knew it when I set out to see you this morning.”
“But that price is significantly different now than it was only an hour ago. What if you cannot bring Lydia home?”
“Then I shall marry you sooner, and so publicly that whoever wishes to cut your family must cut mine as well. They will not find it worth the trouble.” He paused. “We will protect your other sisters, though I fear I can do little for Miss Lydia if it comes to that.”
Elizabeth stared at him.
“I will not give you up,” he said, his voice deep, hoarse. “Do not ask it of me.”
The laugh that came out of her was almost a sob.
It was terrible. Lydia was hidden somewhere in London with Mr. Wickham. Jane was frightened. Her father was in London, and her mother was desperate with misery. Yet beneath all of it was one thought, selfish and bright and impossible to deny: she would not lose him.
Tears spilled out over her cheeks.
Mr. Darcy seemed to understand, all the stern purpose in him softening without disappearing. He drew her closer, not into the wild happiness of before, but into something warm and steady. His arms closed around her, and she rested against his chest for one breath, then two.
“I thought you would wish to be free,” she whispered.
“No.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I should never be free, were I not with you.”
It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to her.
Elizabeth lifted her face, and he brushed a kiss to her lips. Then once more. When he drew back, purpose had returned. “I must go.”
“I know.”
“I shall write you the moment there is anything to tell.”
“And if there is nothing?”
He smiled. “Then I shall write to tell you so.”
His carriage arrived more quickly than she had expected—apparently, he had asked Hannah to send a man to Pemberley for it.
“There is no sense in losing the daylight. I mean to be in London by tomorrow night if I can manage it.”
Elizabeth walked out with him to the inn yard.
“Promise me you will not worry more than you must,” he said.
“That is a great deal to promise.”
“I know.” He took her hand. “Then promise me only that you will eat when your aunt tells you to eat, and sleep when she suggests it. The worst of the work will be out of your sight for a little while, but it will not be neglected.”
“I shall do as you ask,” said Elizabeth.
He looked at her with frank suspicion.
This cheered her immensely. “You need not look so astonished. I spent an entire day watching you manage twenty guests, a lightning storm, and Miss Bingley—who was, I must say, less governable than either of the Atherton children.” She put her hand on his arm, relishing being allowed to do so.
“I have reached the conclusion that you are the most alarmingly competent person of my acquaintance. If you tell me to eat and sleep, the sensible course is probably to eat and sleep.” She smiled.
“I ought to warn you, however, that this easy agreement shall not last, and I advise you to enjoy the novelty.”
His answering smile was fond and knowing. “I will, however, hold you to it in this case,” he said softly.
Because the carriage stood ready and there were people everywhere, he took her hand and bowed over it.
It was formal enough for the yard. Nothing an ostler could gossip over.
But his mouth touched the back of her glove and remained there a fraction longer than courtesy required.
It was nothing to anyone watching, but Elizabeth felt the warmth of his breath through the thin kid and had to remind herself, quite firmly, that she was standing in an inn yard in full view of half of Lambton.
He straightened but did not release her hand.
“You are certain Miss Darcy will not be distressed by your leaving so suddenly?” Elizabeth asked, mostly to have something to say.
“My sister will understand. Mrs. Annesley will help her to host Bingley and his family until they leave for Yorkshire on Monday. In fact, Bingley may be heading south as well. There will not be much for Georgiana to manage.”
“South?”
“I told him that you believed your sister was truly in love with him, and he seems to still be in love with her. What he does now is up to him, but I should be surprised if he did not open Netherfield.”
“And the colonel?” she asked.
Mr. Darcy turned with a little nod at the carriage, and Elizabeth saw, through the open door, that the gentleman in question was inside, one boot propped on the opposite seat and his hat tilted over his eyes.
“My cousin has no idea what is happening yet,” Mr. Darcy said. “But he will have heard that I called for a travelling carriage from Lambton, and has undoubtedly decided that I cannot be trusted to meet whatever adventure awaits without his supervision.”
Despite everything, Elizabeth almost smiled. “I am glad you will have his assistance.”
They walked over to the carriage, where Colonel Fitzwilliam shifted beneath his hat and Elizabeth suspected that he had not been asleep at all.
“My cousin is occasionally useful,” Mr. Darcy said, sounding amused. “In matters involving officers, debts, and men without honour, I have learned not to travel without him.”
“I am constantly useful,” said the colonel, sitting up, “but only occasionally thanked. It is a hard life, Miss Bennet, but I bear it with fortitude.” He leaned back into the corner of the carriage, offering them as much privacy as an open door and his complete enjoyment of the situation allowed.
Elizabeth’s smile came then, small but real. There was nothing more to say, and still she could not bear to part from Mr. Darcy.
“I shall bring her home,” he said.
She squeezed his hand. “I know.” She had faith.
He released her at last and entered the carriage as she stepped back. She watched as the colonel shifted his legs to make room, and Mr. Darcy leaned forward to where the colonel sat on the rear-facing seat.
Elizabeth heard nothing, but she saw Mr. Darcy’s mouth as he said the word.
Wickham.
The teasing went out of the colonel at once, as did the idleness. For one moment she saw the military man, solemn, alert, already measuring the road ahead.
Then the step was raised, the door closed, and the wheels began to turn.
The carriage rolled out of the yard, carrying with it her family’s hopes, her own good name, and the man she most trusted to defend them both. She stood in the bright cool morning and watched the dust settle where he had been.
Aunt Gardiner came out to stand beside her and put a hand on her arm. The church bells were tolling a quarter hour. A lame horse was being led off to be looked at. The day went on around them, ordinary and enormous.
I shall be Mrs. Darcy, Elizabeth thought, if the world holds together long enough. It was the strangest thought she had ever had. She was, despite everything, delighted by it.
She let her aunt take her in so that she could pack.