Page 74
“I would much prefer to walk, and you have your carriage.”
“Then I will walk with you.”
“I do not think—”
Before she knew what she was about, Mr. Darcy claimed her in his arms. He silenced her protest with a brush of his lips atop the tip of her nose. Elizabeth sucked in a quick breath and placed her hand atop her bosom, willing her heart to be still. She could hardly say no after that.
Upon their arrival, Darcy and Elizabeth entered the house, and right away she could tell something was amiss—as though a gloomy cloud hovered all about. The housekeeper, usually pleasant and amiable, bore a grave and serious expression. From the hallway, Darcy and Elizabeth could hear Mrs. Bennet’s unsettling lamentations.
“What shall become of my poor, poor Lydia?”
Elizabeth grabbed the housekeeper’s arm, but before she could muster a sound, the colonel from the brigade that had decamped to Brighton, Colonel Forster, sped past Darcy and her on his way out the door in such haste he barely acknowledged they were standing there.
“What on earth is happening?” Elizabeth raced into the parlour. “Mama, pray what has happened that has upset you so? Colonel Forster passed us in the hallway.” She drew a deep breath. “This has to do with Lydia! Pray she has met with no harm.”
Mary said, “It is the worst possible thing you could ever imagine.”
Chills poured over Elizabeth’s body causing her to tremble. “Lydia—dead!”
“No—it is even worse. Lydia has run away! She has thrown herself into the power of Mr. Wickham.”
It took more than a moment for Elizabeth to register what Mary had said. At length, she managed to breathe. My sister is not dead. My sister is alive. Is she safe? She has run away with the lieutenant. Poor Lydia—she has no money, no connections—absolutely nothing that would tempt him to behave honourably should he choose not to. Is that a fate worse than death?
A strong hand on her shoulder recalled her to the present. She looked at Darcy, who was seated next to her, for a long while as time stood still amidst the wailings of her mother and as the preaching by her sister Mary faded into the background. She heard him saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, “I am so sorry. You are understandably upset, but you must calm yourself. A glass of wine … shall I get you one?”
“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover her composure. “I am quite well.” She was anything but. Hot tears threatened to burst from her eyes. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern and observe her in compassionate silence.
Elizabeth wrung her hands. She could hardly summon the strength to utter the words. “Lydia is lost forever.”
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “I am grieved indeed.” He directed his next inquiry to Mary. “But is it certain—absolutely certain?”
“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night and were traced almost to London, but not beyond. They are certainly not gone to Scotland.” Mary pushed her glasses against her face and attempted to reclaim her usual solemn composure. “This is a very thoughtless act on my sister’s part, and one that has brought shame upon us all.”
“And what is being done? What is being attempted to recover her?”
“My father is preparing to go to London as we speak, where he shall beg my uncle’s immediate assistance. But nothing can be done. I know very well that nothing can be done. How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. This situation is in every way horrible!”
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her. He walked up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, and his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed this and instantly understood it. Her power was sinking. Everything must sink under such a proof of family weakness and such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder nor condemn, for what decent person would wish to associate with the Bennets ever again?
Now relatively composed, Elizabeth stood and faced Mr. Darcy. “I suppose you have long desired to take your leave.”
“No, how can you say such a thing?”
“Sir, this truly is a private matter—one that cannot possibly be of any concern to you. I begin to consider that your leaving will be for the best. This cannot be very pleasant for you.”
“I cannot leave you in such a state.”
“No, I thank you,” she said, endeavouring to recover herself. “However, you need not worry over me.”
“Perhaps I might be of assistance to your family.”
“There is nothing that you can do that is not being done. My father and my uncle will do all they can to discover them.” Instilling her voice with resolve, Elizabeth said, “Mr. Darcy, I really must attend my mother and sisters. Shall I see you to the door?”
Darcy reluctantly conceded the request. Assuring her that he would see himself out, he again expressed his sorrow for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and with a serious, parting look, went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again. She threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, and painfully rejoiced in its termination. She was certain that her family was ruined, owing to this wretched business. She did not dare entertain the hope that the gentleman who had absconded with her sister would marry the poor girl.
I recall Mr. Darcy having insinuated unpleasant things about Mr. Wickham’s character when I first mentioned the gentleman’s name in Bosley. However, he never provided any specifics, and I surely did not ask. Had I done more to learn about Mr. Wickham’s character, could I have prevented this tragedy?
