“On the afternoon of the picnic.”
“And when did you have the opportunity of seeing her that afternoon?”
“She came to Pemberley, while you were with the magistrate.”
He launched himself to his feet. “Miss Bennet came here, and you did not see fit to tell me?” Darcy could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Mrs Reynolds, whom he had known since he was four years old, who was gentle and kind, and who never allowed anything to go awry at Pemberley, had sabotaged everything. He all but snarled a demand for her to tell him every word that was said and grew more enraged with each revelation.
“She asked to speak to you or Miss Darcy. I-I told her the family were not receiving visitors. She asked me to give you the message I have just relayed. Then she gave me a-a note for Miss Darcy, which said the same thing.”
“Youreadit?”
“I did, sir, heaven preserve me, I did. Then she—she returned your coat—”
Darcy spun away from her and gripped his jaw to prevent himself roaring at her in anger.Elizabethhad returned his coat! Not a servant—Elizabeth! In person, in the rain, seeking to see him before she left. And she had been sent away! “Where is the note she gave you for Miss Darcy?”
There was a pause before Mrs Reynolds eventually whispered, “I burnt it.”
“Good God!” he cried, beyond caring for manners. He whirled back to face her. “Why?”
“Forgive me, sir. I thought I was protecting you.”
“From what, exactly?”
“From Mr Wickham.”
Darcy recoiled as though struck. “What the Devil has Wickham to do with this?”
“He is the reason Miss Bennet was obliged to go home. He eloped with her sister.”
The room was not large enough for the surge of furious bitterness that overtook Darcy. The sound of his own, barely controlled breathing bounced back at him off the walls, and his voice, when he spoke, seemed to resound like thunder on the air, though he had not spoken any more loudly.
“Which?”
“The youngest I believe. Miss Lydia.”
“When?”
“At the beginning of August. They are married now.”
Darcy shook his head in disgust. “Miss Bennet revealed all this to you, and still you turned her away? You who know what sort of man Wickham is!”
“No, sir—she did not tell me any of this. She only asked that I pass on her farewell.”
“How do you know of it, then?”
Her entire frame slumped, and she exhaled feebly. “I stole her correspondence.”
Darcy had no capacity for shock remaining. He felt only bone-deep disillusionment as, with this ugly confession, one of the most trustworthy, respected, and enduring figures in his life revealed herself to be a total stranger.
Mrs Reynolds glanced up at him, and away again hastily, squeezing her eyes closed against whatever she had seen in his countenance. “The postmaster asked me to pass them on, but the seal on one was broken. I saw Mr Wickham’s name written, and I know he has given you nothing but pain. I was anxious that if Miss Bennet was connected to him, she should be kept away from you.”
Darcy’s lip twitched, baring his teeth. “You have surpassed yourself in that case. She is gone. And I am struggling to comprehend why you are troubling yourself to reveal any of this to me now, given the extent of your success.”
She had begun crying, he noticed. Not sobbing, but tears were spilling down her wrinkled and hollow cheeks. With his boyhood affection for her ripped away, he saw for the first time how frail she had become with age. He wished her senescence had not arrived hand in hand with treachery.
“Because they are not doing very well. Mr and Mrs Wickham have no money and no prospects, and there is unkind talk, affecting the whole family. Miss Bennet’s father has been made unwell. And I thought you would want to know. Because I understand now that my fears were unfounded—that Miss Bennet is not who I thought she was. That she is important to you. I thought, perhaps, you might be able to help her. That it might not be too late for you to—”
“Get out.”
