Mr. Bennet rode a horse lent to him by Colonel Forster. He scanned the road as he went, half his mind looking for some clue as to the whereabouts of his daughter and half mulling over his failure as a parent. Never a man to favor industry, he was a self-indulgent scholar who had not married wisely, and after failing to father an heir, he had relinquished his authority in the management of his estate. Master of Longbourn in name only, his chief tenants managed the land, his wife managed the house, and his girls fended for themselves. Little did he care until suddenly he was forced to exert himself and to feel, for once, that a little endeavor to improve his youngest daughter might have spared him this miserable trek.
Hindsight made for a dismal companion over the next couple of days. He wearily plodded along the road, changing horses twice before the outskirts of London came into view. After looking into the tavern that was the last place George Wickham was seen, Mr. Bennet relinquished his hired hack at a posting house and hailed a hackney to take him to Gracechurch Street in Cheapside.
His brother Gardiner was still away of course, but the housekeeper offered him hospitality, and Mr. Bennet roused himself the following morning and wrote to his eldest daughter.
My dear Jane,
I have been from Brighton to London and have heard the very same story as told to me by Colonel Forster. Lydia embarked in the evening of Friday last but did not emerge from the coach upon reaching London on the following afternoon. Wickham stopped to rest at a place I would not describe to you for the world. Even there, no one claimed to have seen him with a woman. I can only conclude then, that Lydia is as a needle in a haystack. She could be anywhere in the space of fifty miles, and if she is in London, we have no chance whatsoever of finding her.
I know you must be wondering what to do to salvage your sister’s reputation. I have no answer and suggest you defer all inquiries as best you can. Everyone will know the truth sooner or later. At some point, claiming she is dead may be the most practical approach, but I am not so resigned as to instruct you to wear black just yet. When my brother Gardiner returns, he will help me to look again, and that is all I can say. As to finding Wickham and demanding some clue as to where to look, you must give up all hope, Jane. His trail is cold from the back door of a tavern, and the warren of streets and low lodgings that spreads out from there is never-ending.
He concluded this forlorn news with a flatly worded apology for failing her.
His poor daughter, who had a tender heart and mildness of spirit, nearly collapsed upon reading such a dreadful letter. “I need Lizzy,” she said to the empty room. “Why has she not come?” Her sisters Kitty and Mary had taken to languishing long in bed for lack of liveliness and something to do, while her mother dozed fretfully all day long, convinced Mr. Bennet had already been killed in a duel with Wickham. No sense could be gotten into Mrs. Bennet, and Jane had not drummed up the courage to tell her mother anything other than the simple fact that Lydia and Wickham had not reappeared. Jane ran the house and sent trays to her mother, but she knew they could not carry on this way indefinitely. The day her father had left home, she had sent a letter to Lizzy in Limpton, Derbyshire, and had hoped to see her sister, aunt, and uncle come back by now. At the very least, she should have received a reply, should she not? Thinking she had misunderstood the travel plans of her relations, she dug out her aunt’s letter containing the particulars of their holiday.
“Lambton!” Jane exclaimed. No wonder her letter had not brought Lizzy flying home! She pulled out a piece of paper, copied out her father’s letter in a fair hand and scribbled a desperate note of explanation. She then went downstairs with her father’s purse and asked Mr. Hill to have her letter sent express.
Chapter 11
Lambton, Derbyshire…
Elizabeth had visited Pemberley three times and Darcy’s head was spinning. Her miraculous arrival, her even more miraculous willingness to be in his company, and her perfect kindness to Georgiana swelled his heart to bursting. He had arrived home benumbed and blighted, turned the corner by the rose garden, and there she stood—the woman he still loved and probably always would love, the woman who had rejected his offer of marriage.
Not willing to waste this unlooked for opportunity, Darcy exerted himself to the height of his capacity. Determined to show her a better side of himself, he also meant to show her that he harbored no ill will. His early success in pleasing Miss Elizabeth, satisfying though it was, soon felt like a paltry achievement. He craved her presence, and even though he knew a renewal of his addresses was grossly premature, in spite of all he told himself of patience and biding his time, he found himself galloping off on the fourth day to call on her.
Darcy had nothing in mind other than presenting himself. He vaguely hoped to be able to walk her down to the shops, or to talk lightly about anything over tea. His ambition was purely to look at her, and he was thrilled to hear she was in the Gardiner’s private parlor alone. Darcy expected to see Elizabeth Bennet’s eyes twinkle at him with mischief, as if to tease him for his eager attendance on her. What he saw instead, however, knocked the breath out of him.
Elizabeth was bent over a letter, openly weeping!
“Miss Bennet!” he exclaimed as he rushed forward. “What is the matter?”
“Oh, oh…” She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “Where is my uncle? Sir, can you find my uncle?”
“Of course I shall, but let me send someone. I cannot leave you in such distress.”
He stepped out in the hall and called the innkeeper. When he was assured that Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner would be found and brought back to the inn as quickly as possible, he stepped back into the room and went to Elizabeth. He pulled a chair close to her, took her hands in his, and begged to know what had distressed her so.
“My sister Lydia,” she said with a sob, “has gone. She has left her friends in Brighton and gone with Mr. Wickham.” Fresh tears overtook her while Darcy struggled to contain his rage.
“When?” he asked sharply.
“More than a week has gone by,” she said. “Nearly ten days, I think! Time has been spent looking for her, and Jane’s letter was poorly directed. I have only now learned of it—” Tears again coursed down her cheeks, but she straightened up a moment later and said in a small, grave voice, “But that is not the worst of it, sir.” She pushed two letters into his hands and looked up with such helpless despair he did not demur at the task of reading her private correspondence. A few moments later, he comprehended the matter in its entirety, and such was his disgust that he was forced to quell a strong wave of nausea.
Eventually, he found his voice. “This is terrible, terrible news. Is there anything I can get for you while you wait for your uncle? A glass of wine or—”
“There is nothing that could ease my distress, but I thank you. You will convey my regrets to your sister?”
He nodded and rose. In his mind, he was halfway to London. He knew exactly where to find George Wickham, and his hands itched to wring the man’s neck. “You have long been wishing for my absence, Miss Bennet. I shall leave you now.”
“Of course, Mr. Darcy,” she said with a hitch in her voice. “You will not wish to know us now for the sake of your sister.”
His preoccupied mind whipped back from whence it had wandered.
“Not know you! Of what are you talking? I am off this moment to London to see what can be done to find your sister.”
“You will help us?” she whispered.
“I shall look for her until she is found, Elizabeth. I bear the blame for Wickham’s importunities upon your family. I swear to you: Iwillrecover her.”
