It was during the second course, just as the syllabub was being served, that Mrs. Bennet leaned toward her sister and asked with idle interest, "So how is our Lydia faring under your care? She’s spent half her days with you, I’ve heard—quite a comfort, I’m sure."
Mrs. Philips paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "With me?"
Elizabeth, seated only two places down, went still.
Mrs. Bennet gave a vague wave. "Well, she’s always saying she’s off to your house. You’ve not noticed her?"
Mrs. Philips shook her head slowly. "I’ve not seen the girl in a fortnight."
Mrs. Bennet let out a dismissive laugh. "Oh, she must have been mistaken—or perhaps she was simply walking by. Lydia always finds somewhere to be."
But Elizabeth felt the warmth leave the room. Across the table, Jane’s smile faded, though she quickly looked down at her plate. Mary set down her fork with precision. Kitty’s fingers twisted in her lap. Beside Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy, who had been quietly attending to a conversation with Mr. Gardiner, lifted his head.
They all felt it. Something was off. But for Jane’s sake—for the celebration that still surrounded them—none of them said a word.
Later that afternoon, Elizabeth found her sister alone in the morning room. Jane was folding a bonnet that had already been packed once, her composure frayed at the edges.
"Should I stay?" she asked quietly, not looking up. "If something is wrong with Lydia..."
Elizabeth stepped forward. "You mustn’t let this overshadow your joy. You and Mr. Bingley should take your honey month as planned. I will speak to Papa."
Jane hesitated a moment longer, then nodded.
The truth came to light the next morning.
Kitty had gone out to the back garden, drawn by the sound of voices near the old shed. What she saw made her stop short—Nathaniel Pratt, the butcher’s son, loiteringnervously at the edge of the path, smoothing his hair and craning his neck toward the side gate.
When he spotted her, he straightened guiltily.
"She said she’d be here," he muttered.
"Who?" Kitty asked, though she already feared the answer.
"Miss Lydia," he said. "Said she’d meet me again. You won’t tell, will you? She’s real fun, I swear it’s nothing wrong—just a kiss or two."
Kitty stood frozen. Her mind was already racing—to the times Lydia had vanished in the afternoons, to the whispering in the halls, to the way she’d lingered at the windows when the tradesmen passed. And Nathaniel Pratt—of all people. The very boy Lydia had once teased her about. Kitty felt her cheeks burn, a strange mix of anger and embarrassment curling in her chest.
By the time Elizabeth and Mary coaxed the rest of the truth out of her, it had grown even worse. Lydia had not only been sneaking out to meet Nathaniel Pratt, she had also been hiding in the trees near the far lake where the tradesmen often swam on hot days. She had laughed, flirted, and worse—practiced what she called “just harmless flirtation,” all the while claiming to be with Aunt Philips.
Elizabeth, white with anger and dread, went straight to her father.
Mr. Bennet listened in silence, then let out a slow breath through his nose. "Send her to me," he said, his voice more tired than angry.
The confrontation was brief. Voices were low, but the outcome was clear. At the end of it, Mr. Bennet called up the stairs himself.
"Lydia Bennet—you are confined to your room until further notice."
The door slammed not long after, and the house fell into a strained quiet.
Chapter 60
The garden at Longbourn was in full bloom that August morning. A gentle breeze stirred the branches of the old elm by the southern wall, and the scent of lavender and honeysuckle drifted lazily across the path. Darcy and Elizabeth sat together on the wooden bench just beyond the shade—close, though not indecorously so, their voices low and easy in the hush of the hour.
“I cannot stop thinking of it,” Elizabeth said at last, her gaze fixed on a bee busily at work in the roses. “How near we came to disaster. Again.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed slightly, but he did not speak at once. She had said as much before, in quieter moments at Pemberley. But here in the hush of Longbourn’s garden, the words held a different weight.
“It was not your doing,” he said finally.
