“She truly is not well, Papa.”
“Truly?”
“Mr. Hawkins came from London to see her. Mr. Bingley asked him to come, thinking his presence could help us continue our little farce about Mama being too ill for visitors.”
“And what is this learned man’s opinion of my wife?”
“Do not be caustic, Papa. He is, in fact, very kind to her. She has worked herself into a state, and no one could wonder at it, but now she really does have a sore throat.”
“She must be delighted to be really ill for once.”
“Papa!”
“Forgive me, Lizzy. I am in a foul temper. If I am lucky, I, too, shall be struck ill and put to bed. Is Mrs. Gardiner still here at least? She is occasionally sensible.”
“My Aunt left this morning to return to her children. Mr. Hawkins said she had better go before she catches what Mama has and takes it home to the nursery.”
“I suppose the neighborhood now knows that Lydia is lost to us.”
“I would have thought so, but Mr. Bingley has been the hero in that regard. He visits the Philipses, the Longs, and Sir William and Lady Lucas so often, and with such agreeable cheer, that they are all too distracted by his attention to think of Longbourn. And he gives the ladies very detailed reports of Mama’s throat and such and says he has a license to visit us—which he does every day without fail—only because Mr. Hawkins has known him since his school days and never once seen him fall ill.”
“Are we to be overrun by encroaching young men? Mr. Darcy all but ordered me home. I have never encountered such an officious person in my life.”
Elizabeth could not help but smile just a little. “Heisvery officious. But he has the irritating habit of being very right about almost everything, so we must indulge him a little.”
“How accommodating you are. I thought you did not like him at all.”
“Oh, but I like Mr. Darcy very well Papa,” she said.
Mr. Bennet looked up at his daughter and shrugged. “Well, I suppose I shall have to like him too, but I do not really want to. He found Wickham, you know.”
“Papa! Why did you not say so? Mr. Darcy found Wickham?! But what did you discover?”
“He tried to meddle with Lydia, and she bit him.”
“She what?”
“She bit him. The wound festered, and Wickham is likely already dead.”
“Good God.” Elizabeth felt around behind her for a chair and sat down heavily. “Do we know nothing more?”
“The rascal set her down somewhere past a hamlet called Hickstead after she injured him. She is very lucky he did not strangle her. Well, I say she is lucky, but that may not be true at all. A swift end is sometimes a mercy. Your uncle is searching London—and what a benighted job that is—and your Mr. Darcy is traveling through the turnip fields of West Sussex searching for clues.” He stared at his bookshelf for a moment. “And I am sent home to pretend all is well. Our little house of cards will fall at any moment, Lizzy. I shall almost be glad of an end to this horrible waiting.”
Chapter 19
Cross Post at the Cowfold and London Roads…
Darcy discovered Hickstead to be little more than a marker on a lonely stretch of road between Brighton and Crawley. For the third time in as many days, he rode from Hickstead northward to the cross-post Wickham remembered. He had gone west from the London Road down every single track, path and road. He talked to farmers, cottagers, milk maids and carters, and no one had seen a girl alone. The second time he went out, Darcy went east and found only a smattering of hovels and cow sheds, most of them deserted. He then decided to try one last sweep westward.
His way led him down the road to Cowfold. He stopped at the Red Lion for a second time, questioned everyone he saw, and was once again greeted with closed suspicion. They shrugged and harrumphed, and otherwise told Darcy that, not only had they not seen whoever he was looking for, but they resented his nosy inquiries. Darcy went as far as the Worthing Road and turned back.
Deciding on the following day he would try one more time before he would need to return to London to meet with Mr. Gardiner, he made up his mind to go further north from the cross post, having thoroughly canvassed the last place Lydia was known to be and come up empty. At some terrible point in time, he would need to go the cemeteries and have the recent unmarked graves dug up. This dreadful eventuality drove him on, and he once more crossed the London Road at the cross post and went a few miles eastward. When he topped a gentle rise, he looked down and saw a donkey cart in the distance. He expected nothing at all, but when he got near enough to hail the driver, he pulled up and said, “I am looking for a young lady who might have been hereabouts as much as two weeks ago or more. She would have been alone, and perhaps worn a frilly dress.”
“Took ?at to Horsham,” said the bent little man.
“What?”
“Gone to Horsham. Couldna’ keep ?er fed, and so I told ?er.”
