Chapter X
The same morning at the inn brought with it every appearance of tranquillity.
Elizabeth descended earlier than usual and found her aunt and uncle already assembled in the sitting-room, where breakfast had been laid near the open window overlooking the street.
The air was mild; sunlight rested pleasantly upon the opposite houses; and the sounds rising from below – the distant roll of wheels, the voices of tradesmen beginning their day – possessed that ordinary character which seems, in happier moments, a promise of continued peace.
Her spirits, though thoughtful, were lighter than they had been for many days.
She had taken more care with her appearance than she was willing entirely to acknowledge, even to herself.
After hesitating longer than was necessary before her wardrobe, she had at last chosen her best day dress – one which her aunt had once declared particularly becoming – and afterwards reproached herself more than once for the choice.
It is true, she told herself repeatedly, that she was merely going to Pemberley.
Yet the argument brought little satisfaction, because it explained nothing.
Mrs. Gardiner looked up as Elizabeth entered and smiled. “Well, Lizzy,” said she, “you are prepared for your visit considerably earlier than yesterday’s walk.”
Elizabeth coloured slightly. “I did not wish to keep anyone waiting.”
“No,” returned her aunt mildly, “I dare say not.”
Mr. Gardiner, who was engaged in buttering toast with great seriousness, looked between them with amusement. “Your aunt means only that you appear very ready for Derbyshire society this morning.”
“I hope,” said Elizabeth, attempting lightness, “that Pemberley will survive the honour of my presence.”
“It survived ours,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “and therefore may reasonably survive anything.”
Elizabeth smiled and seated herself near the table, though her attention continually wandered towards the window. Every passing carriage seemed capable, for one absurd instant, of belonging to Pemberley.
She wondered whether Darcy expected them early. Whether he, too, listened for wheels upon the gravel. Whether he had thought of yesterday as frequently as she had.
These thoughts ought to have embarrassed her. Instead, she found herself dwelling upon them with alarming readiness.
She had only just lifted her coffee cup when a servant entered carrying two letters upon a tray.
“For Miss Bennet, ma’am.”
Elizabeth took them without particular attention at first, but the instant her eyes fell upon the direction.
Jane’s hand.
Both letters were from Longbourn.
A sudden uneasiness seized her.
“From Jane?” asked Mrs. Gardiner.
“Yes.” Elizabeth attempted to smile. “Though I do not know why she should write twice.”
The first letter bore an earlier date. The seal upon the second appeared hastily broken and imperfectly closed again, as though written in agitation.
A cold uneasiness passed through her.
She opened the first.
Her eyes travelled over the page almost mechanically. Then her expression altered.
Mrs. Gardiner set down her cup. “Lizzy? What is it?”
Elizabeth did not answer.
She had reached Lydia’s name.
The room seemed very still.
Mr. Gardiner rose halfway from his chair. “My dear?”
Elizabeth looked up at them at last, and the horror visible in her face alarmed them more than any words could have done.
“Oh! Jane, Jane. What is this?”
Her hands trembled so violently that she could not really continue. She forced herself to read aloud in broken fragments.
“‘Lydia has left Brighton with Wickham… they are gone together… Colonel Forster believes they were not married when they left…’”
Mrs. Gardiner gave a low exclamation of distress.
“No,” Elizabeth whispered. “No, no…”
She seized the second letter, breaking the seal with shaking fingers.
The agitation with which it had evidently been written communicated itself instantly to every person in the room.
Jane’s fears had increased.
No trace of them had yet been discovered.
Colonel Forster now believed Wickham never intended marriage at all.
Elizabeth let the letter fall into her lap.
For several moments, nobody spoke.
The full misery of it seemed too dreadful for immediate comprehension.
Lydia.
Lydia ruined.
And with her, every sister connected to her.
Mrs. Gardiner reached her first. “My poor Lizzy!”
Elizabeth rose abruptly and turned away, pressing one trembling hand against her mouth as though to suppress some uncontrollable emotion.
“Oh! How could she… how could she be so lost!”
Mr. Gardiner took up the letters himself and read rapidly, his countenance growing graver with every line.
“This is dreadful indeed,” said he at last. “Dreadful and most unfortunate.”
Elizabeth turned back. “It is my fault.”
“No, my dear…”
“Yes! I ought to have known. I ought to have exposed him long ago. Had I revealed Wickham’s true character when first I learnt it, this might never have happened.”
Mrs. Gardiner attempted to calm her, but Elizabeth could not listen.
Every recollection connected with Wickham now returned with painful clarity: his easy manners, his practised openness, the false confidence with which he had gained favour wherever he went. And she, who had once defended him so warmly, now saw too late the full danger of his character.
Her shame seemed almost unbearable.
“We must leave,” said Mr. Gardiner decisively. “There is not a moment to lose.”
“Yes,” cried Elizabeth. “Today… this instant.”
Mrs. Gardiner was already giving orders for servants to begin packing.
The quiet expectation of the morning vanished at once into confusion and alarm. Drawers were opened hurriedly; trunks brought down; footsteps sounded continually upon the stairs.
Elizabeth stood motionless amidst it all, one hand still clutching Jane’s second letter. The paper had become crumpled in her hand before she realised she was crushing it.
And then another thought struck her with sudden force.
Pemberley. Mr. Darcy. The invitation.
Everything around her seemed still.
He would know. Sooner or later, he must know everything. Wickham’s elopement. Lydia’s disgrace. The ruin brought upon her entire family.
A violent blush of shame rose over her face.
Only yesterday she had begun – foolishly, dangerously – to hope that something between them might yet be repaired.
She had seen his altered manner; she had begun to suspect he might still feel for her, and despite every warning, her own heart had begun at last to soften towards him with an openness she had never expected to feel again.
Now all such hopes appeared not only impossible, but humiliating.
How could she ever endure his pity?
Worse – how could she bear his recollection that he had once warned her against Wickham, and been rejected for it?
For one desperate instant, another thought arose.
Darcy might help them.
The possibility appeared before her so suddenly, so temptingly, that for one desperate instant, she believed he alone might help them find Wickham.
He knew Wickham. Better than anyone.
If there existed some clue to be followed, some acquaintance to be consulted, some place in London where Wickham might be found, Darcy might know it already.
For one desperate moment, she imagined what relief it would be simply to place the letters in his hands and ask for help.
Then pride checked her at once.
No.
She could not expose herself so completely.
She could not carry her family’s disgrace voluntarily before the man whose good opinion she had only just begun to recover. She could not bear to owe him such an obligation – or endure the humiliation of seeing compassion replace whatever esteem he might still once have felt.
And perhaps worst of all was the fear that he would now repent ever having renewed their acquaintance at all. She was startled by the severity of the pain the idea occasioned.
Mrs. Gardiner approached her again gently. “Lizzy, we must send some explanation to Pemberley.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. “Yes,” she said faintly. “Yes, of course.”
Her aunt seated herself at the writing table.
After several moments’ consideration, she wrote only what necessity required: that urgent family business obliged them to quit Lambton immediately, and that they were deeply sensible of Mr. Darcy’s civility and regretted exceedingly being prevented from waiting upon him at Pemberley as intended.
Nothing more.
Elizabeth was grateful for the restraint.
She could not have borne a fuller explanation.
By the time the note was sealed, the room no longer resembled the peaceful breakfast parlour of an hour earlier. Trunks stood half-packed near the door; servants hurried in and out; Mr. Gardiner had already begun making enquiries regarding fresh horses for the journey south.
Amidst the confusion, Elizabeth moved almost mechanically.
Only once did she pause beside the window.
The morning remained beautiful.
Somewhere beyond the distant hills stood Pemberley – calm, ordered, untouched by disgrace. Somewhere within it was Mr. Darcy, perhaps at that very moment expecting her arrival.
Pemberley and Mr. Darcy seemed to belong suddenly to another world entirely.
Elizabeth pressed her hand briefly against her eyes.
Whatever had begun to revive between them yesterday seemed suddenly beyond recovery. And this time, she feared, forever.
***
Darcy rode faster than prudence entirely approved.
Though outwardly composed when he had ordered the carriage and mounted his horse, inwardly his uneasiness had now deepened into something far more difficult to master.
Delay alone could not account for such absence.
Some hindrance might naturally occur upon the road; yet he could not persuade himself that Miss Bennet would willingly fail an engagement merely from carelessness or indecision.
Something had happened.
Again and again, he attempted to reason himself into calm. A broken trace. An indisposition. Some trivial interruption exaggerated by impatience into significance.
Yet none of these explanations satisfied him.