Chapter XX #2
How different everything might have been if she had possessed half his certainty.
When he believed something ought to be done, he did it.
She, meanwhile, had spent precious days debating, doubting, and persuading herself that inaction was wisdom.
The distinction had never appeared so painfully clear.
“Good God,” she murmured at last. “I should have asked for your help before we left.”
Darcy pressed his lips together, as though mastering an answer that came too readily.
“Yes,” he said at last. “But perhaps it is not yet too late. If we make a good decision, Miss Lydia may still escape a terrible fate.”
No resentment. No reproach. No expectation of gratitude.
“May I ask a question, Mr. Bennet?”
“Certainly.”
Darcy hesitated.
“I understand how Miss Lydia’s absence became known. What I cannot account for is how the nature of her departure became public.”
Mr. Bennet frowned. “The nature of it?”
“That she left in Mr. Wickham’s company – and without being married to him.”
“What could have been done?”
“Anything,” said Darcy before he could stop himself. The bluntness surprised even him. He moderated his tone at once. “I beg your pardon. What I mean is that society is often willing to accept an explanation, however imperfect, provided one is offered quickly enough.”
Mr. Gardiner looked thoughtful. “He has the right of it, Bennet.”
Darcy continued. “An extended visit. Illness. A change of plans. A stay with relations. “Almost anything would have served better than allowing speculation to attach itself to the truth.”
Mrs. Gardiner sighed.
“Unfortunately, speculation had already begun before we fully understood what had happened.” He sighed. “My dear sir, you have clearly never attempted to keep a secret in Hertfordshire.”
A faint smile touched Gardiner’s face. “I am not certain that is an answer.”
“It is the only one I possess.” Mr. Bennet leant back in his chair. “My wife was in hysterics almost immediately. She insisted Lydia had been abducted, murdered, ruined, or all three in succession. Mrs. Phillips was informed within the hour.”
Mrs. Gardiner closed her eyes briefly. “Quite unintentionally, I am sure,” she said.
“Quite loudly, certainly,” replied Mr. Bennet.
Even Gardiner’s mouth twitched.
Elizabeth rose and crossed slowly to the window.
Until this moment, she had thought only of Lydia’s folly and Wickham’s villainy. Now, unwillingly, she found herself considering the matter from another perspective.
Her mother’s panic. Mrs. Phillips’s alarm. The endless circulation of news from one household to another. Her father did not even attempt to regulate his wife. Although God knows how successful he would have been. Nevertheless, it had to be Mr. Darcy questioning them.
How much of the misery that followed had been inevitable? And how much had been helped along by their own family? The thought was not a comfortable one. She kept her eyes fixed upon the street below.
Gardiner rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Thomas, surely you could have impressed upon her the importance of discretion.” He fell silent for a moment before shaking his head. “No. That is unfair.”
The admission surprised everyone.
“I think we are all in error here, Mr. Darcy. By the time we reached Longbourn, the gossip must have already begun. Yet even then, I never once thought of limiting it. My thoughts were entirely occupied with finding Lydia.”
Mrs. Gardiner nodded slowly. “As were mine.”
“We were all in a panic,” Gardiner continued. “Concerned only with what had happened, and not with what people might be saying.” He sighed. “Looking back, perhaps we ought to have considered both.”
Darcy regarded him thoughtfully. “That is understandable.”
“Perhaps,” said Gardiner. “But understandable mistakes remain mistakes.”
Mr. Bennet did not reply.
Elizabeth glanced toward Darcy and was surprised to find him looking not irritated, but thoughtful. His eyes remained fixed somewhere ahead of him, and for once, he seemed to have no inclination to hauteur.
She had condemned him at Hunsford.
She had doubted him again after Lambton.
And once more, he had proved the better of them all. And in such a difficult situation, when he should not even have been there or concerned himself with the Bennets’ misery.
Darcy was silent for a moment.
He could not entirely absolve Mr. Bennet.
He could not help wondering whether firmer management at Longbourn might have spared the family at least some of what had followed.
Yet he could not deny that Mrs. Bennet and, if she was of similar attitude, Mrs. Phillips formed a combination against which ordinary measures might reasonably be expected to fail.
At length, he said, “Whatever might have been done then, the situation is different now.”
Mr. Bennet looked at him. “How so?”
“Because Miss Lydia has been found.”
“Indeed.”
“And because I do not believe she should return to Hertfordshire immediately.”
The room fell silent.
Mr. Bennet’s brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
“At present,” Darcy continued, “she is among people who know the truth and do not condemn her for it. I am not persuaded the same can be said of Meryton.”
“She created the difficulty herself.”
“Yes,” said Darcy.
The agreement seemed to rob the objection of some of its force.
“Her presence in Hertfordshire would only inflame the situation further. She is still unmarried.” Darcy leant forward.
“She acted foolishly. Yes. But I do not believe she will benefit from becoming the object of every curious glance and whispered conversation in the county.” Then he added, “She is aware of the enormity of her mistake.”
Elizabeth stared at him. That he should speak with such compassion of Lydia – Lydia, whose folly had brought injury upon them all – astonished her. She had once believed him deficient in tenderness; now the generosity of his heart stood before her so plainly that she scarcely knew what to think.
Mrs. Gardiner nodded slowly. “I have wondered the same.”
Darcy continued. “She has suffered a severe shock. Whatever errors she has committed, she is not presently in a condition to endure public humiliation.”
Mr. Bennet said nothing.
“She could remain with us,” said Gardiner.
“Or,” Darcy added carefully, “she would be welcome to remain where she is for as long as necessary.”
Elizabeth looked up.
Darcy’s expression remained composed.
“For a few weeks at least, London offers her something Hertfordshire cannot.”
“And what is that?” asked Mr. Bennet.
“Oblivion.”
The word hung in the room.
“In London,” Darcy continued quietly, “she is merely one young lady among thousands. In Meryton, she is the subject of every conversation.”
Mr. Bennet frowned. “That may serve for the present. It does not solve the difficulty.”
“No,” Darcy agreed. “It does not.”
The admission surprised them.
For a moment, he was silent.
“Miss Lydia cannot return home immediately. Not while she remains unmarried and the circumstances are still fresh in everyone’s memory. Nor can she remain hidden indefinitely.”
Elizabeth felt a chill pass through her.
“What, then, is to become of her?” asked Mrs. Gardiner.
“That,” said Darcy, “is the question we must answer.”
His gaze moved briefly from one face to another.
“At present, I am concerned only with giving her time. Time to recover. Time for the excitement to lessen. Time for us to consider what may yet be done.”
“And if nothing can be done?” asked Mr. Bennet.
Darcy did not answer immediately. The silence itself was answer enough. At length, he said, “Then difficult decisions will have to be made.”
No one appeared eager to ask what those decisions might be.
The discussion continued for some time afterwards, though with less disagreement than before. Plenty of refreshments were brought in, and a little port was served to steady nerves still unsettled by the discussion.
Darcy explained as much of the situation as prudence permitted.
He informed them that the search for Mr. Wickham was continuing, though not for the reasons they might once have expected.
The possibility of a marriage was no longer under consideration.
Having learnt the full extent of Wickham’s conduct towards Lydia, he was persuaded that such a union would condemn her to a life of unhappiness.
His purpose now was altogether different. Mr. Wickham had already ruined enough lives. Darcy intended, so far as he was able, to ensure that he could not so readily ruin another.
No one present offered any objection. Even Mr. Bennet, who had questioned much else that afternoon, appeared to find little fault in that determination.
More practical matters followed.
After some discussion, it was agreed that Elizabeth should visit Lydia the following day.
Mrs. Gardiner wisely observed that Lydia would take comfort in seeing one of her sisters yet might be overwhelmed by receiving too many visitors at once.
Mr. Bennet, therefore, consented to postpone his own visit until the day after.
The arrangement appeared sensible to everyone.
There remained little more to settle.
The conversation gradually dissolved into quieter reflections, each person occupied by thoughts of Lydia’s future and the uncertainties that still lay ahead.
Darcy rose first. The others followed.
Expressions of gratitude were once again offered, though more soberly than before. Darcy accepted them with his usual reserve, seeming no more comfortable receiving thanks than he had been upon entering the room.
Only Elizabeth remained silent.
When at last he turned towards her, she found herself unable to say any of the things she had thought she might.
Too much had happened. Too much remained unsaid.
“Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
Nothing more.
Yet as he bowed and took his leave, she found herself watching him cross the room and disappear through the doorway.
The door closed behind him.
For several moments afterwards, Elizabeth remained where she was. She took a wavering breath.
She decided to trust Mr. Darcy.