Chapter XV #2
The woman stared at him another moment before the sight of money rendered further confusion unnecessary.
“As you wish, sir.”
Darcy was shown upstairs by a narrow passage dimly lit with wall sconces whose candles had long since burned low.
The sounds of music and laughter from below softened gradually as they ascended, though not entirely enough to disguise the character of the house.
Somewhere distant, a woman laughed too loudly; elsewhere, doors opened and shut with hurried discretion.
The room into which he was finally conducted had evidently been arranged to imitate luxury, though the imitation itself only rendered everything more depressing to his eye.
Heavy curtains shut out most of the evening light.
A fire burned low upon the grate, while the lingering scent of perfume failed entirely to disguise older odours beneath it.
The furnishings were costly enough, yet nothing possessed the quiet comfort of genuine elegance.
Everything seemed arranged for display, immediate pleasure, and forgetfulness.
Darcy remained standing after the woman withdrew, unwilling even to sit.
Everything about the place oppressed him. He felt not temptation, but fatigue – a profound weariness with himself, with London, and with every attempt to escape thoughts which returned regardless of place or company.
Instinctively, his mind turned again towards Derbyshire – towards Elizabeth.
How infinitely removed she seemed from everything surrounding him now: from the overheated room, the artificial laughter below stairs, the practised corruption hidden beneath fashionable appearances.
He remembered instead the clear morning light at Lambton, the seriousness in her eyes during their last conversation, the quiet sincerity with which she had spoken to him.
Then the door opened again. The girl entered quietly.
The transformation, though simple, was startling. The paint had been removed entirely. Her curls, freed from excessive ornament, fell naturally about her face; the plain gown she now wore revealed not a hardened woman, but a frightened child attempting unsuccessfully to appear worldly.
She looked up.
Darcy felt the blood drain from his face.
No.
He could neither move nor think.
The girl stared at him without recognition for one bewildered second. Then her eyes widened.
“Mr. Darcy?”
Lydia Bennet.
For an instant, neither moved.
Then, Lydia gave a broken sob. “Oh, God!”
Before Darcy could recover sufficiently to speak, she crossed the room almost blindly and caught hold of him.
For one astonished moment, he could only stare, but then instinctively, he steadied her. The gesture appeared to cost her the last remains of her composure.
Tears burst from her. Not the theatrical tears of wounded vanity to which Miss Lydia might once have resorted in girlish distress, but genuine, terrified weeping which shook her whole frame.
The trust implicit in the action struck him almost painfully. Miss Lydia Bennet, whom he had always known as noisy, heedless, and absurdly fearless, clung to his sleeve as though he were her last refuge in the world.
“She said… I did not know what to do… he promised he would come back…” Her hands trembled violently where they clutched his sleeve.
Then all colour vanished from Lydia’s face. She stepped back.
“I am here to entertain you.” She quivered uncontrollably.
He shook his head. “Miss Lydia,” he said quickly, lowering his voice at once, “you must compose yourself.”
Tears burst from her with such violence that the words became almost intelligible.
“He said he would come back! He promised me…”
“Who?”
“Wickham.”
The name struck him almost like a physical blow. Darcy stared at her. For one dreadful moment, he could not properly comprehend what he had heard.
Wickham.
Miss Lydia.
Here.
Then everything began assembling itself with terrifying rapidity.
Lambton. Miss Elizabeth’s sudden departure. The unanswered silence afterwards.
Her crying.
His hand tightened so violently upon the back of the chair that the wood creaked faintly beneath his grasp.
Good God.
Darcy looked at the terrified girl before him and felt something cold settle heavily in his chest.
Wickham has done it at last.
With dreadful clarity, he saw the catastrophe as Elizabeth herself must have seen it. Lydia fled. No marriage. A family threatened with disgrace from which there might be no recovery.
Oh, Elizabeth.
The thought of her rose above all others instantly.
At last, he understood.
The sudden departure from Lambton. The unanswered silence afterwards. Every hope he had dared permit himself was swallowed at once by distress and confusion.
And through it all, Elizabeth had known what Wickham truly was, yet been powerless to prevent any part of it.
And Wickham still walked free somewhere in London.
All the restrained melancholy of the past weeks hardened into something colder and far more dangerous.
The old anger – once controlled, long disciplined into contempt – returned now with astonishing violence.
Not because Wickham had injured him personally.
That belonged to years ago. Even after what had nearly occurred at Ramsgate, Darcy had still believed contempt and distance sufficient protection against further harm.
But now Wickham had touched Miss Elizabeth’s family.
Through selfishness, vanity, and cowardice, he had dragged her into humiliation and grief.
And because Darcy, who knew him best, had failed to stop him before greater harm was done. The thought struck him with immediate bitterness.
Had he spoken openly sooner – had he cared less for secrecy, less for Georgiana’s feelings, less for propriety and pride – might this have been prevented altogether?
Meanwhile, Lydia continued trembling before him, frightened now perhaps as much by his silence as by her own situation.
And another thought cut through the confusion with terrible force.
Miss Elizabeth believed herself ruined by this. Perhaps she believed he despised her now.
Darcy found breathing suddenly difficult.
Lydia was still trembling before him.
Whatever Wickham had done – whatever disgrace now threatened the Bennets – he would not abandon Miss Elizabeth to bear it alone.
“Miss Lydia.” His voice became firmer, quieter. “You are safe.”
The words seemed to break the last of her composure.
She covered her face with both hands and burst again into violent tears, the kind which seem to exhaust not merely feeling, but strength itself.
For several moments, she could neither speak coherently nor remain steadily upon her feet.
Darcy guided her almost instinctively towards a chair near the fire.
Only after she sat did he fully perceive the extent of her condition.
Her appearance, though outwardly restored to decency, still betrayed fatigue and neglect beneath every attempt at arrangement.
She seemed thinner than he remembered her, especially in the face.
Her eyes were swollen from repeated weeping; her hands trembled; and beneath all the agitation, there lingered the unmistakable look of someone who had slept badly and feared much for too long.
Lydia looked around the room wildly, as though recollection had returned all at once.
“Oh, God…” The horror in her expression sharpened.
Darcy understood immediately what had occurred to her mind: where they were, how he had found her, what she believed he must now think of her.
Before panic could wholly overcome her again, he crossed quietly to the bell and rang.
A servant appeared moments later. Darcy stepped partly into the doorway, shielding Lydia from observation as much as possible.
“Tea,” said he calmly. “And something proper to eat.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door closed again. Darcy returned to her.
Lydia had lowered her face completely now, as though unable to endure meeting his eyes.
He allowed silence for a few moments to steady her as much as possible before speaking again.
“Now, Miss Lydia,” he said at last, drawing a chair opposite her, “you must tell me exactly how you came to be here.”
She seemed barely capable of beginning. Her fingers twisted helplessly together in her lap while fresh tears gathered continually despite her efforts to restrain them.
“I thought he meant to marry me,” she whispered at last. “Truly, I did.”
Darcy said nothing.
Encouraged perhaps by the absence of immediate reproach, Lydia continued in broken fragments.
“We eloped. I thought it exciting. I was flattered. At the beginning, everything seemed… happy. Wickham said we should go north for a little while until Papa became less angry. He laughed at my fears and said everybody would forgive us once we were married.”
A bitter stillness settled over Darcy’s expression.
“We stayed at an inn first,” Lydia continued. “Nearly two weeks, perhaps more. I did not think anything wrong then. He came and went often, but he always returned, and he said there were only difficulties about money.”
Darcy listened in silence, though inwardly every word deepened both his anger towards Wickham and his understanding of Elizabeth’s misery.
“One morning he left again,” Lydia said, her voice trembling violently now, “but this time he did not come back.”
She stopped altogether for several moments before forcing herself onward.
“I kept making excuses for him.” For the first time, something sharper entered her voice. “He always had one himself.”
The bitterness vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“I thought he had merely been delayed. Then the innkeeper demanded payment.” She swallowed hard. “I told them Mr. Wickham would settle everything when he returned, but they laughed at me.”
Darcy’s hand tightened slowly upon the arm of his chair.
“He took all my money. When I wished to leave, they would not allow it. They said the bill had not been paid and that I could not go until someone settled the debt.” Her breathing grew uneven again. “Then a lady came.”
Darcy looked at her piercingly.