Chapter 20
Lingmell Col
‘Can I sing to you, Lizzy?’ Sweet Lydia—her gentle voice soothed my soul and eased my pain. She sang one of the nursery rhymes Jane and I had hummed to her when we carried her about the house at Longbourn.
Hush-a-by baby on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
Down tumbles baby, cradle and all.
Certainly, I had tumbled, unconstrained, down the scree.
How long I lay on the cruel, unyielding ground, I cannot say.
My mind roamed: Mary held my hand; Kitty stroked my cheek; and Lydia sang her soft, soothing words of comfort and succour.
I began to hallucinate, for I heard Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice—but he was in Derbyshire, searching for Wickham.
“Lizzy, my darling!” Mama’s hand took mine; I felt her kiss my forehead—but she was alone at Sty Head Tarn.
“Mrs. Bennet, can you help us place her on the litter—she needs a mother’s hand.” Mr. Darcy’s deep voice—everywhere at once—taking control. How had he come here?
Then my brother’s voice, resonant, comforting: “You are a silly girl, Elizabeth. Did I not tell you that if you faltered on the way up Scawfell, I should never let you forget it? But you never faltered, Elizabeth… and I shall never, ever let you forget that you are so very remarkable.”
“Georgiana,” I whispered. “How is she?”
Darcy chuckled, leaning close. “Still laughing at Wickham’s look of terror when you flew down the slope and collided with him. At that moment, she saw him for what he truly was—a weak, cowardly little man. He’s lost all power over her.”
“I’m glad,” I whispered. “I’m so very glad.”
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