"Do you mean to suggest he told you to stay away? I do not believe it."
"I have said all I am prepared to say on this subject." She made a show of choosing a new sheet of music.
"Then I shall ask my cousin himself. Good day, madam."
"No!" She rose to her feet and took a step towards him. "Please do not tell him you spoke to me."
Her panic must have communicated itself to him, for he stopped, regarding her with bewilderment. "My dear Elizabeth, there is no cause for alarm. You have said nothing he could object to, and he is a fair man."
She could not tell him of Darcy's suspicions about them. She searched frantically for an explanation which would not discredit her completely. But there was no point. It could not make matters any worse if the colonel disapproved of her. "My husband suspects me of preferring the attention of other men. If he knew we had spoken alone, he would be angry with me."
There was a long, humiliating silence, and finally she looked away. His voice, when it finally came, was carefully neutral. "Is there any truth to his suspicions?"
She rounded on him. "No, of course not!" Her anger leached away as quickly as it had come. Defeated, she said, "As I was unable to convince my husband of it, I doubt I can convince you. But now you are answered; please do not question me further."
"This makes no sense."
"If you will excuse me, Colonel." She slipped out of the room before he could say anything further.
***
The next day brought a letter from Jane. Elizabeth's eyes misted at her sister's familiar handwriting, although the direction was written ill. She held the letter in her hands as if it somehow contained an essence of Jane. Somewhere there were people who still loved her. Soon, too, she would see the Gardiners.
Finally she opened it, determined to read it slowly and savour every word.
Dearest Lizzy,
Something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. I do not know if you were aware she was spending the summer with her friend Mrs. Forster in Brighton, so she could continue to enjoy the company of the officers in the regiment who had gone thither from Meryton. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers. Imagine our surprise! To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. But I am willing to hope for the best. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. They were off on Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written.
Elizabeth hardly knew what to think. Lydia had eloped? Surely she could not be so foolish, so careless with the reputation of her family. It would hurt all her sisters' chance of marriage, undoing all the good her own marriage had done to the Bennet family name. Foolish, foolish girl!
Darcy would be furious at this scandal touching him. It would confirm his every prejudice against her family. The heat of shame rushed through her. How could she ever tell him?
***
She was still debating the question the following day when an express arrived for her. She snatched at the letter on the silver tray, expecting it to be further news from Longbourn. But the writing was not Jane's neat script but a hurried, uneven hand.
Dear Lizzy,
Is this not a marvellous joke? I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise. I venture you did not think when you left Longbourn that I should be the first of your sisters to marry! Just think—I will now go before Jane!
Elizabeth shut her eyes. Lydia had always been heedless, but she would never have thought her sister would sink so low. What had her father been thinking, to allow Lydia to go to Brighton?
But I must stop now, for my dearest Wickham has a question he must ask you.
Lydia
Wickham? Surely he could not have been the one to elope with Lydia. Poor Lydia—bound for life to a man who could not be trusted, whose lies had cost Elizabeth so dearly, the man her husband so detested. It could not be worse; Darcy would never let her see her family again.
The letter continued in a man's clear handwriting.
My dear Elizabeth,
I hope I may take the liberty to address you so infor mally, now that we are to be sister and brother. I am sure you have already heard the tale of our elopement. Sadly, your dear sister and I are not yet in Scotland, but still in London, held back by an unfortunate shortage of funds. There are many demands in the life of an officer. I cannot in good conscience proceed to wed while outstanding debts of honour await me and without proper means to support a wife. So, dear Elizabeth, I appeal to your generous nature. I believe twelve thousand pounds would be sufficient to settle my debts and to purchase a position in keeping with my married state. I hope you will communicate with me at the direction below so we may resolve this obstacle between ourselves with expediency.
With all best wishes,
G. Wickham
No. He could not possibly have meant it in such a way. That he had lied to her she had accepted, but that he would risk ruining a young girl and suggest such blackmail! It was beyond belief. She scanned the letter again, hoping against hope to discover a different meaning in it. But it was clear enough; he would only marry Lydia if Elizabeth somehow produced the required sum. Twelve thousand! Did he think Darcy so besotted with her that he would part with so much money? Wickham was due for an unpleasant surprise in that case.
So Lydia would be ruined, and the Bennet family along with her. Tears came to Elizabeth's eyes for her poor, foolish sister and the price Lydia would pay for the rest of her life. It would cost Elizabeth as well. Now there was no hope Darcy would accept her family. The scandal it would bring to the Darcy name would make it impossible. They would have to break all ties to her family. Even then, Darcy would never forgive her this.
There was no hiding from it either. Elizabeth would have to tell him and see the disgust in his eyes. But first, she would take action herself. In that way, at least, she might redeem herself slightly in her husband's eyes.
She crossed to the inlaid writing desk and took out a sheet of paper.
***
Elizabeth paused outside the door to Darcy's bedroom. Her trepidation of the outcome was so great that it could make no difference what happened; it could be no worse than she imagined—more humiliation and a death knell to any hopes she harboured that Darcy might one day care for her again.
Ferguson opened the door to her knock. She glanced over his shoulder; Darcy was awake, so she had no excuse for delay there.
"Mrs. Darcy," the valet said, holding the door open for her.
"Thank you, Ferguson. I would like to speak to my husband alone."
He bowed. "Of course, madam." He closed the door behind him.
The distance between the doorway and the bed seemed to have lengthened since the last time Elizabeth had walked it. Her husband was half-sitting, propped up with pillows. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, and she fought the urge to straighten it. He would not appreciate the gesture.
She sat beside the bed. "You look well today, sir." In truth, his face was even thinner, and it pained her to see it.
"My health continues to improve, I thank you." Darcy's countenance was serious. "I hope you are well."
"I am, but I have news of a most unfortunate nature to discuss with you."
He stiffened slightly, his expression becoming more guarded. "Yes, madam?"
Elizabeth wanted to look away, but she would not be so cowardly. "Yesterday, I received a letter from my sister Jane
informing me that my youngest sister had eloped with an officer. It contained no details except that attempts to find her had proved unsuccessful." She handed him the letter, but he did not open it. She took a deep breath. "Today, a letter from Lydia came by express. At least, it purported to be from Lydia; in fact, most of it is written by Mr. Wickham, who makes an offer of an offensive nature." This time he perused the letter immediately, frowning as he did so.
She did not wait for his response. "I have already sent my reply. I told Lydia that under no circumstances would I agree to Mr. Wickham's request; but as I found I could not leave her to live on the streets, I would arrange for a small allowance to be paid to my uncle Gardiner to cover the cost of an anonymous retreat for her. Lastly, I wrote to my sister Jane and asked her to explain to my parents why they would not hear from me again." She was proud of herself; her voice had remained calm even though the pain in her chest was fierce.
"You have heard nothing further?"
"Nothing, sir."
He looked at the letter once more. "Would you be so kind as to inform Colonel Fitzwilliam I wish to speak with him immedi ately?" His tone was more absent than anything else.
"Of course." All that was left for her was to retire with dignity.
Chapter 13
ELIZABETH FELT TOO LISTLESS to stir from her room at dinnertime. Lucy brought her up a tray of food, though she had not asked for it, along with the news that Colonel Fitzwilliam would be departing at first light. She also brought a letter from Mrs. Gardiner, with the expected news that their Northern tour was indefinitely postponed. The need to remain in London and to search for Lydia took precedence. It did not make her cry; she felt too numb for that. She asked Ferguson to relay the news to Darcy. She did not wish to observe his reaction to the knowledge that he was free of the obligation of the visit.
She penned a quick response, including the direction Wickham had given as a possibility for their search but without a word as to how she came into possession of it. In closing, she sent all her best love and respect, with special messages for each of the children. She sealed it and gave it to Lucy to send before she lost her courage. There was no doubt in her mind that it would be the last communication she would have with them. After this disgrace, even she could see the danger to the Darcy family name. Her duty was clear, no matter how it tore at her heart.
Now she was truly alone. She had depended so much upon the idea of the Gardiners' visit, not only for the connection to people she cared about, but also for the opportunity to seek her aunt's wisdom about her confusing relationship with Darcy. Well, it was confusing no longer; she knew precisely what he felt.
There was nothing to be done for it. She had lost everything of value to her: her husband's love, her family, her home, and her faith in her own judgement and good sense. The brief taste of happiness she had experienced when she thought Darcy's affection for her was undiminished only made her present state the more bitter.
It was hardest to live with the knowledge of how much she must have hurt him. He had loved her ardently, of that she had no doubt, and now she understood the bitter pain of rejection. How much the worse it must have been for him to have thought he had her affection for those months only to learn the truth! How could she have been so cruel? Her present sufferings were well deserved.
Elizabeth managed a small semblance of a smile for Georgiana when the girl came to see her in her room.
Georgiana's hands were clasped tightly in front of her. "Are you angry with me, Elizabeth?"
"No, of course not." Elizabeth gestured to an empty chair.
The girl shifted uncomfortably. "You have not been down for a meal in two days, so I thought perhaps I had done some thing to offend you."
"No, indeed." Elizabeth searched for words. "I have been fit company for no one but myself. I beg your pardon for worrying you."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Elizabeth looked out the window to avoid Georgiana's eyes. "I suppose there is no point in secrecy, since you will discover it eventually in any case. My youngest sister is lost to us, my family is in disgrace, and I with them."
"Lost to you?" Georgiana exclaimed. "What has happened?"
"An officer convinced her to elope with him. She is young and foolish, but that is no excuse. Her thoughtlessness has ruined my family. It is not the sort of thing that would happen in a family like yours, except that your brother made the unfor tunate mistake of marrying me." She did not feel ready to tell Georgiana that this was much worse than a mere elopement.
Georgiana looked down and smoothed her skirts. "Anyone can be young and foolish, no matter how fine their family."
Elizabeth supposed the girl meant it as comfort. "That is kind of you to say, but I cannot believe you would ever find yourself in such a situation."
"You would suppose wrongly, then." Georgiana's voice could scarcely be heard. "Please do not be too vexed with your sister. In all likelihood, she meant no ill."
The very quietness of her voice pulled Elizabeth from her own hopeless misery. Poor Georgiana was clearly troubled. Perhaps she was afraid of what this would do to her own chances or still worried Elizabeth was angry with her. "You are very generous, more so than she deserves."
Georgiana's hands clutched at her skirt, then she stood. "Please excuse me. I must go."
Elizabeth laid her hand on Georgiana's arm. "Is something troubling you?" She might not understand Georgiana, but she could not ignore her distress.
"You would despise me, too, if you knew." Georgiana averted her face but did not try to move away.
"If I knew what?"
"Last year, when I was still young enough to believe in love, there was a man. He was an old family friend, or at least I thought he was. I did not know he and Fitzwilliam had fallen out. He told me he loved me and convinced me to go to Scotland with him. I knew I ought not, that it was wrong, but people make fools of themselves for love. I would have gone had not Fitzwilliam discovered it and stopped me. I cannot bear to think what I almost put him through."
Elizabeth's heart went out to her. "Please, sit down. You must not blame yourself for trusting a man who loved you."
"He did not love me. He only wanted my fortune. He admitted as much in the end." She spoke bitterly but resumed her seat.
"Oh, my dear. I am so sorry."
"It taught me a valuable lesson. Love causes nothing but pain. The next time, I will know what a man who says he loves me truly wants. How could I be fool enough to believe anything else of George Wickham? He had nothing, no money, the lowest of connections."
The name stopped Elizabeth short. "George Wickham? He was the man who did this?"
Georgiana paled. "You know of him?"
"I have met him. He is the officer with whom my sister has eloped." Their eyes met in shared horror.
So tricking young girls into believing they loved him was not something new for Wickham, nor was trying to manoeuvre his way into obtaining Darcy's money. Had he targeted Lydia because of Elizabeth's marriage to Darcy? Was this, too, her fault?
"I am very sorry. I hope it works out for the best for your sister."
"Thank you, though I doubt the outcome can be good. Still, I hope you do not let one selfish man keep you from believing in love."
Georgiana's mouth twisted. "I believe it exists, though rarely. What I doubt is my ability to recognise it, when the majority of gentlemen who express interest in me only care about my fortune."
No wonder Georgiana had been so ready to believe her a fortune hunter. Elizabeth wondered if her husband had been as cynical about love before meeting her. And she had taken his precious gift and trampled it in the mud.
***
Elizabeth made a rare outing into the park, seeking to walk off her restlessness. She was returning to the house when she saw the carriage drawn up in front of the house. Darcy stood beside it, his normally excellently fitting coat now hanging on his thinner form. Despite everything, she was glad to see him. She had n
ot realised he had recovered enough to leave his rooms.
Two servants carried a trunk to the carriage and loaded it on the back. Darcy reached for the carriage door and a footman supported his arm.
Elizabeth picked up her skirt and ran to the carriage. "You are not leaving?"
Darcy stepped up into the carriage. He leaned back against the cushion, looking tired, before responding. "Yes, I am. You need not worry."
"But you are not well enough to travel!"
"I am beyond any danger." Darcy's eyes flickered over her shoulder, drawing her attention to the servants behind her. Elizabeth drew in a half-sobbing breath. He was leaving, and she did not know where he was going or why.
Elizabeth's concern overrode her caution. "Please, if you must travel, can you not wait to regain your strength?"