It was apparent that Lady Catherine did not like it, she subsided with a clipped nod. “Then where does that leave us?”
Before allowing Fitzwilliam to respond, she turned to Darcy and growled: “Again, I will note that had you done as you ought this Mr. Wickham could not charm my daughter into eloping with him.”
Darcy opted against responding, much as he had the last time she had made this charge. Fitzwilliam too appeared eager tohead off such a line of discussion, for he hastened to answer their aunt’s question.
“It leaves us in the same position we occupied before. Anne has left with an unknown companion, which I believe to be George Wickham, and is making for Scotland so she may marry him. Even if it is not Wickham, whoever it is does not possess the means to purchase a license, for if he had, he might have taken her to any priest and had him perform the ceremony. If it is Wickham, he must be seething, knowing the solution is near to hand, but tantalizingly out of reach.”
“Excuse me,” interjected Bingley, “but could Anne not provide those funds?”
“Anne has no money,” stated Lady Catherine.
The cousins frowned at her. “What do you mean, Aunt? Rosings itself belongs to Anne.”
Lady Catherine waved him away impatiently. “Of course, it does! Yet Anne has no funds of her own for she does not visit Hunsford or Westerham, and I do not keep such money about the house where she may access it. Haveyouever seen Anne enter a shop or make a purchase?”
Darcy exchanged a glance with Fitzwilliam. He had not seen such things, but he had also not thought his aunt denied his cousin the ability to engage in such simple activities as shopping for ribbons in a haberdashery. As Fitzwilliam’s gaze seemed to caution Darcy to silence, he made no response to this startling discovery. When they resolved this business, however, he meant to demand answers and knew her assertions had also aroused Fitzwilliam’s interest. The earl would learn of it, which would be of immense assistance.
“Then what do we do?” asked Bingley.
“For the moment, we wait for word,” replied Fitzwilliam. He turned to Darcy. “Should your men find nothing in London, I suggest they travel the roads north looking for clues of Anne’spassing. There should be a trail to follow.”
“Would it not be better to set out at once?” asked Lady Catherine.
“At present, Darcy’s men know where to find us,” disagreed Fitzwilliam. “If we do not receive word soon, then I agree we should depart. For the moment, however, let us wait to see if they find anything.”
When Lady Catherine appeared unconvinced, Fitzwilliam placated her. “It is a long way to Scotland, Lady Catherine. The chances of them eluding us when we have several advantages are low. But if we hare off up the Great North Road and they confound us by traveling west to throw off pursuit, we risk giving them an unassailable advantage. An hour or two will make no difference in the end and may lead us to them more quickly.”
Lady Catherine accepted this advice with as little grace as Darcy expected. Following Fitzwilliam’s suggestion, he spoke to the butler and issued the orders. Then they sat back to wait for word.
Chapter VIII
Lydia Bennet knew what she wanted in life. Her sisters and father might scoff at the notion, but Lydia was unconcerned by their disbelief. Jane and Lizzy put much stock in romance, and Lydia could not deny the allure of finding a man to worship her and give her anything she wanted. Mary focused on morality and other dreary subjects of personal worth, and while, again, Lydia could see some use in such things, they were only secondary to the truly important things in life.
As her mother had asserted since Lydia was a child, her goal in life was to marry. Certainly, Lydia wished for a handsome man desperately in love with her, one who would give into her every whim—what woman would not want such pleasures? More important than that was to find a good man, one who would give her a home and children, and make her life complete.
That was why the upcoming time in Brighton was so important to Lydia, for who better to make her a good husband than a handsome officer? The lives they led were so interesting that Lydia wished to have a part in them, to see far-off lands and experience what she could not in dreary old England.
Now, Lydia was not stupid, for militia officers were not men who experienced such things. Their task was to defend England’s shores, and while there were good men among them, none could give her the adventure she craved along with the status and children that would result from such a union. In Brighton, Lydia could choose among legions of handsome officers, for there must be regulars among them. Then it would be a simple matter of recommending herself to one of them, ensuring the man wished to experience the same as she did, and acting to bring her plans to fruition.
These militia officers, she thought as she laughed and flirted with Denny, were merely a stop on a road, though one that carried its own benefits. By working her wiles on them, she honed her craft, making the chances of capturing a colonel of the regulars all that much greater. Denny was a good sort, handsome, kind, and obliging, but he did not seem to possess the ambition that Lydia possessed herself. None of the officers of the regiment did, for they were downy-cheeked boys, content with their current lots. Lydia wanted more.
When Denny begged to be excused, Lydia allowed him to go willingly, knowing she would meet him again and soon. There did not appear to be any other officers on the street that day, so denied her quarry, Lydia thought to return home where she could bask in the importance of being the only Bennet daughter invited to accompany the colonel’s wife to their summer encampment.
“I do not see Lizzy or Jane,” said Kitty, casting about looking for their sisters. “Do you suppose they returned to Longbourn?”
Lydia held in her snort of disdain, though only by the slimmest of margins. Elizabeth, and to a lesser extent Jane thought Lydia needed a minder; she doubted they would return home without her for anything other than a catastrophe.
“No,” said she aloud. “I suspect they are still in the shops.”
“What of Mary?” asked Kitty.
This time Lydia released her bit of contempt. “Likely still in the bookshop poring over dusty old manuscripts warning us all to become Puritans.”
Kitty, though she was not as openly derisive of Mary, also did not share her interests, and nodded. “Then we should look for Lizzy and Jane.”
Agreeing, Lydia stepped forward with her sister, looking for any sign of their elders. A sight soon disrupted her thoughts, for she saw Wickham on the side of the street arguing with a manbeside a carriage.
If there was one man for whom Lydia might give over all thought of adventure, it was George Wickham, for Lydia had never seen such a handsome man. For some time, she had toyed with the idea of making herself indispensable to him. Then he had seen dowdy Mary King and lusted after her ten thousand pounds, enough to send him running to Liverpool when Mary’s uncle had taken her away. For his affront, Lydia had determined to think of him no more, for one did not forgive such trespasses.
