Chapter 6
Six
Elizabeth had scarcely drawn another breath in the midst of the discussion when the door opened, and her mother swept into the room.
She advanced without appearing to see anyone beyond her own family, and the instant she noticed her brother, she hastened directly to him.
“Oh, Brother,” she cried, in evident agitation, “you must speak to Mr Bennet. He has confined my dearest Lydia to her room and declares he will not allow her—nor Kitty—into society ever again.”
Elizabeth felt the familiar tightening in her temples. Of all moments for such a declaration…
“Sister, you have guests,” her uncle said gently.
Her mother started and looked round, as though the rest of the company had sprung up by magic. The instant her gaze swept the room and fell upon Mr Darcy seated by her least favourite daughter, astonishment chased every other expression from her face.
“Mr Darcy!” she exclaimed. “I am quite amazed that you should visit us after you so plainly disdained us in the autumn. Pray forgive my outburst just now—but will you introduce me to the ladies who have accompanied you?” She gestured towards his sister and her companion.
Heat rushed into Elizabeth’s cheeks. She could only imagine how the scene must appear to him, how every sound must confirm the worst opinions he had once held of her family, if indeed, they had truly changed.
She dared a glance in his direction, absurdly wishing that she might will him not to be troubled by this latest demonstration.
If he was discomposed, he did not show it. Instead, he rose and bowed to her mother with perfect civility, as though he had heard nothing amiss. “Might I introduce you to my sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy, and her companion, Mrs Annesley?”
“Oh!” her mother cried, already producing her handkerchief and fluttering it with dramatic agitation, to Elizabeth’s increasing horror.
She knew that flutter. Nothing good had ever followed it.
What came next made Elizabeth’s eyes fall closed in instant misery.
“Is this the sister Mr Bingley has taken to courting instead, after paying such very particular attention to my dear Jane last autumn?” Mrs Bennet demanded, peering about the room.
“Oh! Jane, my love, how difficult this must be for you! I recall when Miss Bingley wrote to you and told you that her brother was courting Miss Darcy, but I had not believed it.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes at once upon hearing these words spoken aloud. Jane had gone perfectly pale and sat there, her eyes fixed on the hands in her lap.
A glance towards Miss Darcy revealed cheeks nearly as rosy as her own, the poor girl shrinking beside her companion. Elizabeth longed to move, to speak, to do something, but she felt rooted to her seat, as though any motion might only worsen the catastrophe.
Her gaze flew helplessly back to Fitzwilliam, who was now standing as he faced her mother.
For one dreadful second, she feared he must regret every feeling he had ever professed. Surely he wished he were not here with them now, not in this room with her mother acting and speaking without thought.
Instead, he drew himself up with calm dignity, and when his eyes met hers, there was something in them that steadied her.
Whether it was reassurance, resolve, or, she wondered, merely the smallest plea that she trust him in this, she was uncertain.
She stood to offer some support, but his voice stopped her.
“I assure you,” he said, his voice firm but controlled, “that Mr Bingley has never courted my sister. She is but sixteen and not yet out in society. It is my hope that he will soon return to the neighbourhood; however, I have brought Georgiana today because I wished her to meet the family of my intended.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a violent leap at his confession. She had not expected him to speak so openly of their understanding before speaking to her father, but, she supposed, it would explain his being there.
“Mrs Bennet,” he continued, “I have not yet had the honour of speaking with your husband, but Miss Elizabeth and I renewed our acquaintance during her visit to Pemberley, and I have asked her to be my wife.”
Time seemed to falter for several moments upon this admission.
Elizabeth watched comprehension dawn upon her mother’s face—and then, to her astonishment, every trace of colour fled it, leaving her nearly ghostly white.
She barely had time to think, Oh, no, before her mother swayed.
Fitzwilliam was already in motion. Thank heaven he had been standing; he caught Mrs Bennet before she reached the floor and laid her on a nearby sofa.
The room erupted into chaos.
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her burning cheeks, torn between relief, humiliation, gratitude, and a hysterical desire to laugh at the impossibility of it all.
And then—as though matters were not already beyond bearing—the door, which had never properly latched behind her mother, moved again.
Elizabeth turned at the faint creak of hinges and felt her stomach drop.
Her father stood upon the threshold.
He made no comment nor did anything to intrude upon the scene; he was simply there, still and grave, and unmistakably a man who had heard far more than she could wish.
His gaze travelled the room in measured silence, noting the confusion: Fitzwilliam standing next to her mother upon the sofa, Jane in visible distress, Georgiana flushed with mortification, and finally, Elizabeth herself.
“What do you mean,” he asked, his voice dangerously calm, “that you have asked Elizabeth to be your wife, Mr Darcy?”
At the sound of her husband’s voice, Mrs Bennet sat up with remarkable alacrity, betraying the theatrical nature of the faint she had displayed not a moment earlier. Elizabeth, who had nearly credited it as genuine, stared at her mother’s recovery with mingled relief and exasperation.
But she had no leisure to dwell upon that at the moment. She would consider her mother’s theatrics later.
Instead, she crossed at once to her intended and slipped her hand through his arm, gaining strength from the steadiness of him. Drawing a deep breath, in which she attempted to restore her composure, she turned towards her father.
“Mr Darcy wishes to speak with you privately, Papa, but we had hoped first to learn more of what has occurred here while we were away,” Elizabeth said, meeting her father’s eyes with determination.
“I have now heard twice that you have informed my youngest sisters they are no longer out, but tell me—what has been done regarding Lydia? Has any injury been done to her reputation, or have you managed to keep news of her planned elopement with Mr Wickham confined to the family?”
“How dare you address me in such a manner, Elizabeth?” her father replied sharply. “And if you are so concerned for our reputation, why speak of it so freely before this haughty man and his equally haughty sister?”
“Mr and Miss Darcy are already aware of what has taken place—or at least of as much as I have learnt from Jane’s letter, since we received no word from you,” Elizabeth returned. “They have come to offer their assistance, Papa.”
She paused, considering how best to proceed, but her frustration soon came to the fore.
“I warned you of the consequences of relinquishing all authority over Lydia and permitting her to go to Brighton without proper supervision. You said yourself that she would expose herself in some fashion, and now she has done so. My question is this: what harm has been done to our family—and to my own reputation—by these events, and what have you done to repair it?”
Her father looked at her for several long moments. Then, without another word, he turned upon his heel and quitted the room, the door closing behind him with alarming force.
The sound seemed to reverberate through Elizabeth.
“That was not well done, Elizabeth,” her uncle said quietly.
“I will allow him some time to cool his temper, and then I will speak to him, but you must apologise.” He raised his hand when she would have spoken and continued, “Even if your words were true, you ought not to have addressed your father in such a manner, and certainly not so openly before your family—and before Mr and Miss Darcy.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. For several moments, she was silent, conscious of every eye in the room upon her.
The expressions turned in her direction ranged from shock to discomfort, though here and there she perceived something warmer—respect, perhaps, or even approval. At last, she nodded her agreement.
“I lost my temper, and I ought not to have done so,” she admitted; yet even as she spoke, heat returned to her voice.
“Were any of my concerns not valid and should they not be shared by us all? Beyond confining Lydia and declaring Kitty cannot be out, what has he done to resolve this situation? Do we know any more than we did a few days ago when he returned home with Lydia?”
The effort of it all seemed to suddenly overtake her. She closed her eyes briefly, then sank back into her seat. She sensed rather than saw Darcy cross the room and seat himself beside her, as though determined she should not bear it unsupported.
“Mama, Jane—can either of you tell me what is being said in Meryton? Do others know? What gossip is there?”
“We have had no visitors since Colonel Forster’s letter arrived,” Jane answered gently while Mrs Bennet sat quietly, wringing her hands.
“When Papa left for Brighton, he ordered that none were to be admitted, and the Hills were told to say that someone in the family was unwell. A few callers came in the first days, but after hearing we were indisposed, they did not return. I cannot say what, if anything, is known in the village.”
“I will pay a call on Mr Philips shortly and see what he can tell me,” Mr Gardiner said. “For now, let us deal with matters here.” He turned to his sister. “Have you been able to speak to Lydia, to find out any of what transpired?”
Her mother only shook her head, but Kitty, after a visible struggle, finally spoke from where she sat near Georgiana. Her voice was soft, and they had to strain to hear it.
“I have spoken with her once or twice since she returned,” she began, twisting her fingers together, “but mostly she has done nothing since she came home but cry over being prevented from running off with her ‘dear Wicky.’”
Kitty hurried on, the words tumbling faster, as though she might outrun them. “She said Mrs Forster would not help her arrange to be alone with him, but instead lectured her—just as Mary always does—about the impropriety of it all.”
Here Kitty faltered. A deep, painful red crept slowly across her cheeks.
“They had… that is…” Kitty swallowed, and she dropped her voice even lower. “They meant to anticipate their vows once they left for Scotland, and Lydia was in the greatest distress that they never had the opportunity, for she is convinced that, now she is gone, Mr Wickham will quite forget her.”
Most in the room shook their heads at the child’s folly, but Mrs Bennet began to wail at this revelation.
“Oh, my poor Lydia,” she cried. “To be used so—and with no one to assist her. When Mr Wickham is recovered, he will come for her, I am certain. If he meant to marry her, he will not rest until it is done.”
“No, madam, he will not,” Darcy said quietly but firmly.
“I regret the pain it must give you, but Mr Wickham would not marry without a considerable fortune. He is a spendthrift—and that is among the most tolerable of his faults. Had he managed to leave Brighton with your daughter, I doubt he would have married her, but would have used her until he no longer had any use for her.”
Darcy shook his head for a moment as though considering how much to reveal.
“I know that he spoke of his connexion to my family and spoke as if I did him ill, but he lied. He never took orders nor did what was necessary to become a clergyman, and I did not deprive him of a living. Wickham asked for, and was granted, a sum of three thousand pounds in lieu of the living, and he squandered those funds just as he had every other sum of money he had ever been given. He is a debaucher and a rake, and you should be relieved not to have gained him as a son in law.”
At this, Mrs Bennet began to wail anew, and after several moments in which no effort could soothe her, Jane and Kitty coaxed her to her feet and began to guide her from the room.
Elizabeth made to follow, but her uncle’s hand closed gently about her arm.
“Allow your sisters to attend to your mother, Elizabeth,” he said. “I will speak with your father, and then I shall go into Meryton to consult your uncle Philips and learn what may be discovered there. I am sure you will be required later.”
Before Elizabeth could reply, Mary returned. “As Aunt Gardiner and I were coming downstairs, we met Mama with Jane and Kitty,” she explained. “My aunt has gone to assist Jane, and Hill is to bring her some tonic. We hope she may sleep for a time.”
“Then perhaps the three of us should speak to Papa,” she said, glancing towards Darcy. “Mary, Kitty—would you sit with Miss Darcy and Mrs Annesley? I would not have left our guests alone, but I feel that I ought to speak to Papa.”
She met their eyes, silently begging for their understanding. All three nodded their agreement.
With a relieved sigh, Elizabeth turned and left the room beside her uncle and Mr Darcy, her heart already bracing itself for what awaited them in her father’s bookroom.