Chapter XVI #2
The plain travelling dress provided for her suited neither her taste nor her figure particularly, yet the simplicity of it rendered her infinitely younger and more vulnerable than the painted finery in which Darcy had first seen her the night before.
Her curls had been arranged modestly beneath a bonnet too large for her face; her eyes remained swollen from recent tears and lack of sleep.
Most painful of all, perhaps, was the evident fear with which she looked upon the respectable house before her, as though uncertain whether she truly belonged there at all.
Darcy stepped forward. “Miss Lydia.”
At the sound of his voice, some portion of the terror in her expression eased.
“You are welcome here,” he said gently.
Lydia swallowed hard and looked away at once, as though the kindness itself were difficult to bear.
Behind her, the maid shifted awkwardly, plainly curious despite evident efforts towards discretion.
Darcy turned towards her calmly and placed several guineas into her hand.
“You have conducted yourself properly in this matter.”
The woman coloured in surprise.
“You understand,” he continued, his tone remaining perfectly civil though unmistakably firm, “that no mention of where she was collected should ever leave your lips.”
The maid glanced instinctively towards Lydia before nodding rapidly.
“No, sir. Certainly not.”
Darcy held her gaze another moment.
“If silence is preserved, you will find me generous. If not, you will find me considerably otherwise.”
The implication required no explanation.
“Yes, sir,” she repeated quickly. “No word shall be spoken.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, dismissing her.
The carriage withdrew afterwards, leaving Lydia standing uncertainly beneath the grey London sky while Fletcher carried in the modest trunk containing all that remained of her belongings.
She seemed unable to move for a moment.
Darcy understood then that she had begun fearing, during the drive perhaps, that some fresh humiliation awaited her here also.
He softened his voice deliberately. “My sister is expecting you.”
Lydia looked up quickly. “She truly knows?”
“Yes.”
“And she still wishes me to stay?”
After only the briefest pause, Darcy answered, “Yes.”
Something in the steadiness of the answer appeared to affect her deeply.
Without further words, he led her inside.
The warmth of the house met them immediately after the chill dampness outdoors. Footmen moved discreetly in the distance, carefully avoiding direct attention.
Lydia’s steps slowed almost involuntarily as they crossed the hall.
Everything around her – the quiet elegance, the polished order, the absence of vulgar noise or scrutiny – seemed awfully far removed from the misery of the past weeks.
Darcy noticed how tightly she clasped her gloves together.
She is frightened, he thought. Not merely ashamed. Frightened.
Mrs. Annesley and Georgiana waited in the smaller morning room overlooking the square.
At Darcy’s knock, Georgiana rose.
For one suspended instant, the two girls simply looked at one another.
Darcy noticed the contrast between them.
Georgiana, pale, gentle, composed despite visible nervousness.
Lydia, exhausted, ashamed, struggling not to shrink beneath observation.
Yet both terribly young.
Mrs. Annesley crossed the room first with calm kindness, entirely free from curiosity.
“Miss Bennet,” said she gently, taking Lydia’s cold hands between her own, “we are very glad you are safely arrived.”
The simple warmth of the words seemed nearly to undo Lydia at once.
She attempted to answer but failed entirely.
Georgiana stepped forward then, shyly but with unmistakable sincerity.
“I am very happy you are here,” she said.
Lydia stared at her in astonishment. “You cannot be.”
“Yes,” Georgiana answered.
Lydia’s lips trembled violently. She looked as though she barely understood how kindness could still be offered to her at all.
Mrs. Annesley guided her gently towards the fire.
“You are chilled through. Sit down first, and everything else may wait.”
Lydia obeyed almost mechanically.
Darcy remained near the doorway, watching silently while Georgiana poured tea with hands only slightly unsteady. He had imagined half a dozen possible disasters. None of them included Miss Lydia weeping because someone was kind to her.
There was something extraordinarily moving in the sight.
Neither girl possessed the ease to comfort elegantly. Georgiana remained naturally timid; Lydia too overwhelmed by shame for conversation. Yet precisely because of that awkwardness, their gentleness towards one another appeared more genuine than polished sympathy could ever have done.
Georgiana crossed quietly towards Lydia with the tea.
Their eyes met briefly.
And suddenly, Lydia burst into tears again. “Oh, you ought not to be kind to me!”
Georgiana looked startled but not offended. “Why not?”
“Because I have behaved abominably.”
Fresh sobs interrupted the words entirely.
Mrs. Annesley moved immediately beside her, but Georgiana surprised even herself by kneeling before Lydia’s chair.
“No,” she said, though tears had risen in her own eyes as well. “You have been unhappy.”
Lydia covered her face at once.
Darcy turned away, then towards the window, not wishing either girl to be observed too closely in such distress.
Behind him, Lydia’s broken weeping gradually softened beneath Georgiana’s quiet reassurances.
And with every moment, Darcy’s resolve hardened further.
Whatever society might say of Lydia Bennet now, he would not permit Wickham’s cruelty to define the remainder of her life.
And somewhere in London, Wickham remained at liberty.