Pemberley fic, Ch 7
Jul. 5th, 2019 10:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anghraineAnother one in two days, though this was a little easier—there was, unavoidably, a good chunk of Austen's own words.
title: tolerably well acquainted (7/?)
verse: Comforts and Consequences
characters: Elizabeth Bennet, Fitzwilliam Darcy; Mrs Gardiner, Jane Bennet; Darcy/Elizabeth
stuff that happens: Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner discuss their visit at Pemberley, and Jane's letters arrive.
previous sections: one, two, three, four, five, six
Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner took their leave shortly thereafter, attended by Darcy all the way to their carriage. To Elizabeth’s gratitude, he neither did nor said anything to provoke inquiry, but simply handed each woman into the carriage and wished them a good day, his manner a little stiff but otherwise agreeable as he left.
“What an interesting morning,” said Mrs Gardiner.
Elizabeth was devoting some attention to not looking back as the carriage rattled away. It had occurred to her that she knew nothing of his thoughts in this moment, and she longed to know, or at least to gather enough information to guess. Instead, she faced forward.
She had no way of guessing her aunt’s thoughts, either, and she longed for those nearly as much. What did Mrs Gardiner think of him, now that her suspicions of an attachment had plainly been raised? Did she still approve? What would she think that Elizabeth should do? If only she could tell her all!
All, however, encompassed such embarrassment on the one hand and trust on the other that Elizabeth would not break her secrecy.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Miss Darcy is a sweet girl, do you not think?”
Mrs Gardiner gave a decided nod. “Very sweet—and very shy, the poor creature, though she is handsome enough.”
“That is what I thought,” said Elizabeth, obscurely relieved. “I know your friends said she was proud, but I think not.”
“No, indeed,” Mrs Gardiner replied. “She must be out, but I have never seen a girl who seemed to enjoy it less. Just think of Lydia!”
Elizabeth laughed outright. “They are almost exactly the same age, I think, but I cannot imagine any two people more different.”
“Nor I. Well, I quite look forward to seeing her again,” said Mrs Gardiner.
They both paused. It would be, Elizabeth realized, a good opportunity to join Mr Darcy with his sister, and see Mrs Gardiner’s response, but she was too wary and nervous to do it. Instead, she said,
“I was surprised that she received us in the saloon. It is a fine room.”
“Very fine,” agreed Mrs Gardiner, with a twitch of her lips that Elizabeth could not quite read. “Perhaps her …”
Her brother?
“Perhaps she was already settled there,” said Mrs Gardiner. She winced at a small jolt of the carriage. “Either way, it was an honour. I heartily enjoyed the fruit, as well.”
“They were wonderfully fresh,” Elizabeth replied.
The conversation continued in like fashion all the way to Lambton. They discussed Mrs Annesley’s good manners, and Miss Bingley’s and Mrs Hurst’s poor ones; they reminisced over each subject that had been discussed, and how everyone had looked as they said it; they talked of the saloon’s fine view and furniture, and the designs on the hall that led to it; they even imagined Mr Gardiner’s happiness on the river. Neither, however, said a word of Darcy—an omission so pointed that it made him all the more present, at least in Elizabeth’s mind.
She had rarely been happier to see the inn. Even the disappointment of, yet again, finding no letters from Jane only slightly dented her relief. Talk flowed more naturally then, and they easily passed from scrutinizing the call on Miss Darcy to general plans for the rest of their stay in Derbyshire.
They did come near danger, once.
“Tomorrow’s dinner, of course, will be at Pemberley,” said Mrs Gardiner.
After the morning’s ordeal, Elizabeth might have dreaded it, but she did not. In fact, she looked forward to returning to the beautiful place once more, and tasting whatever Darcy’s undoubtedly excellent cook had to offer, and playing the pianoforte with Miss Darcy, and seeing—
Well, she quite looked forward to it.
Mr and Mrs Gardiner, and Elizabeth, had planned to begin the following day with a pleasant walk. They proceeded so far as the door, when two letters arrived for Elizabeth—both from Jane. One had been missent, and understandably so; Jane had written the direction in such a poor hand that Elizabeth herself could scarcely decipher it.
“Shall we leave you to enjoy your letters in the quiet?” asked Mr Gardiner.
Elizabeth smiled. “Thank you.”
Once they had left, she settled down into a comfortable chair and took out the missent letter with every anticipation of pleasure. It began naturally enough, with a My dear Lizzy dated to the third of August, and various accounts of small gatherings and engagements. Elizabeth read eagerly, laughing now and then as she read Jane’s muted descriptions of their mother’s wars with Lady Lucas and Mrs Long, not wishing herself back home, but feeling almost as if she were there.
Then, all laughter stopped.
Since writing the above, 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.
Elizabeth had never once thought of her sister as poor Lydia. What on earth—?
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; to own the truth, with Wickham!
Elizabeth nearly dropped the letter. More shocked and horrified than ever in her life, she caught a ragged breath and clutched the paper, then flattened it out again. Lydia had eloped? Eloped with Wickham?—Wickham, of all people? How was it possible? Why would he even consider a marriage without money? Why—
Imagine our surprise , wrote Jane. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! —But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.
Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.
Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves.
Elizabeth could scarcely grasp the words in front of her. How could his character possibly be misunderstood? Even Jane must know that. Should they condemn or forget Miss Darcy because Wickham had preyed on another young girl? On Lydia?
God, Lydia! And Jane, poor Jane; she could not be blamed for what she wrote at such a moment.
They were off 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’s ideas scattered beyond all possibility of reflection. She snatched up the other letter and tore it open.
By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland.
That much raised a coherent thought.—Of course they were not. Lydia could not possibly attract Wickham as a husband, but for such an attachment as this? That, Elizabeth could believe.
Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short letter to Mrs F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place they removed into a hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think.
Oh, Jane.
After making every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success; no such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them.
Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him.
Of Wickham? Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, then took a trembling breath and returned her gaze to the page.
Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if he could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to every thing?—Impossible. I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted.
My poor mother is really ill and keeps her room. Could she exert herself it would be better, but this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder.
One could wonder a very great deal!
I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu.
She need not press for it—they would leave immediately—but the letter continued on, the hand reduced to a scribble again.
I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not, but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and assistance would be every thing in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.
Elizabeth could scarcely read the four letters of her signature, nor did she need to.
“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” she cried aloud, springing up out of her chair. Her legs were alarmingly unsteady beneath her, but that could not be helped; she must find him, must bring him back as soon as possible. She stumbled towards the door.
Before she reached it, a servant opened the door, and Darcy stood before her. She could spare not even the attention for surprise. He could; at a glance, he visibly started.
“I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth managed to say, “but I must leave you. I must find Mr Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not a moment to lose.”
Her voice sounded thin and distant in her ears.
“Good God!” Darcy exclaimed. “What is the matter?” Then he shook his head. “I will not detain you a minute, but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr and Mrs Gardiner. You are not well enough;—you cannot go yourself.”
His shocked tone turned firm at the end, but for a moment Elizabeth disregarded this. She had to go! Her entire body trembled—trembled too much to carry her with anything like the alacrity necessary. She nodded and called their servant back, breathlessly directing him after the Gardiners, then collapsed into a chair as soon as he was gone.
Darcy did not leave with him, but remained at her side.
“Let me call your maid,” he said gently. “Is there nothing you could take for your present relief?—A glass of wine?—shall I get you one?—you are very ill.”
Elizabeth struggled for some measure of self-command, if not composure.
“No, I thank you,” she managed to say. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she started to cry, hopelessly. She could not have said how long she sobbed: several minutes at least. In the meanwhile, Darcy asked something, or told her something, or—she had no idea of it, in truth, beyond the low murmur of his voice. It must have been brief, because he remained silent otherwise, noticeable only as a quiet, concerned presence beside her.
Oh, Lydia. What could be hoped for even if they did find her? How could they? What of her life now, the poor silly thing? What of their family?
Elizabeth turned to him, lost between fear and shame and misery.
“I have just had a letter from Jane, with with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My youngest sister has left all her friends—has eloped;—has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr Wickham.”
Darcy’s eyes went wide.
“They are gone off together from Brighton.” Elizabeth could not but recall his letter, his own young sister, everything that made this all the more horrifying. He would understand. “You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.”
For a moment he just stared at her.
“When I consider that I might have prevented it!” she burst out. “I who knew what he was! Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learnt—to my own family!”
It need not have entailed betraying his confidence, or Miss Darcy’s reputation. She could have explained the rest, at least mentioned the rest. It had seemed so insignificant at the time, though, too much of an exertion to too little purpose—oh, an exertion! God forbid!
“Had his character been known,” she said, “this could not have happened! But it is all, all too late now.”
“I am grieved, indeed; grieved—shocked,” he cried. “But is it certain, is it absolutely certain?”
She would have welcomed uncertainty, at this point.
“Oh yes!—They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond.” Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. “They are certainly not gone to Scotland.”
Even Darcy looked pale.
“And what has been done—” He paused. “What has been attempted, to recover her?”
“My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour,” Elizabeth said unhesitatingly. “But nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How are they even to be discovered? It is every way horrible!”
Darcy nodded, clearly unable to disagree. She was grateful, in an odd way, for that. Soothing nothings would have infuriated her. As it was, all her anger turned against herself. She had known. When she failed to persuade Mr Bennet, she might have spoken, but instead she continued merrily on her way, unconcerned with what lay beyond her convenience.
“When my eyes were opened to his real character,” she told Darcy, and broke off. But he knew only too well how that had occurred; she had no secrets from him. “Oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”
By now, Darcy was pacing up and down the room, frowning, plainly lost in his own thoughts. Elizabeth would not have thought she had the attention to contemplate them, but she did, instantly understanding what they must be. She was disgraced; they were all disgraced; his love for her was fading. She did not blame him for that; what love could stand against such evidence of family weakness? His reservations about her family must seem—apart from the Gardiners—veritable foresight.
It removed one complication, at least, but she did not welcome that. She could have loved him. Oh! she knew that now, for all the good it did.
Inevitably, however, her thoughts returned to Lydia, to everything that Lydia’s fall meant. She was crying again;—Elizabeth covered her face with her handkerchief. For several minutes, she thought nothing of the oddity of the situation, weeping in a room with Darcy. He did not trouble her, and Lydia’s fate—and their family’s with her—consumed all thought.
At last, however, Darcy broke in. Quietly, he said,
“I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I any thing to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern.”
Elizabeth scrubbed her face clean and gazed up at him. He had sounded compassionate, but also restrained, and looked very much the same—at once sympathetic and reserved.
“Would to heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part, that might offer consolation to such distress!” Then he shook his head. “But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”
She had entirely forgotten about it. But she wished no further suspicions to arise.
“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible,” said Elizabeth, without the slightest fear that he might do otherwise. “I know it cannot be long.”
“You may depend upon my secrecy,” said Darcy. “I am very, very sorry for your distress, Miss Bennet, and I hope it will have a happier resolution that there is, at present, reason to hope.”
This piece of disheartening honesty was so very much Darcy that, despite everything, Elizabeth almost laughed aloud. Instead, she nodded.
Before leaving, he paused and looked down at her. Knowing that this might be the last time they saw each other on cordial terms, she allowed herself to return the look.
His eyes were very steady and very blue.
“Please pass my compliments on to Mr and Mrs Gardiner.”
“I will,” Elizabeth promised.
With that, he turned around, and departed.
title: tolerably well acquainted (7/?)
verse: Comforts and Consequences
characters: Elizabeth Bennet, Fitzwilliam Darcy; Mrs Gardiner, Jane Bennet; Darcy/Elizabeth
stuff that happens: Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner discuss their visit at Pemberley, and Jane's letters arrive.
previous sections: one, two, three, four, five, six
“Tomorrow’s dinner, of course, will be at Pemberley,” said Mrs Gardiner.
After the morning’s ordeal, Elizabeth might have dreaded it, but she did not. In fact, she looked forward to returning to the beautiful place once more, and tasting whatever Darcy’s undoubtedly excellent cook had to offer, and playing the pianoforte with Miss Darcy, and seeing—
Well, she quite looked forward to it.
After the morning’s ordeal, Elizabeth might have dreaded it, but she did not. In fact, she looked forward to returning to the beautiful place once more, and tasting whatever Darcy’s undoubtedly excellent cook had to offer, and playing the pianoforte with Miss Darcy, and seeing—
Well, she quite looked forward to it.
Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner took their leave shortly thereafter, attended by Darcy all the way to their carriage. To Elizabeth’s gratitude, he neither did nor said anything to provoke inquiry, but simply handed each woman into the carriage and wished them a good day, his manner a little stiff but otherwise agreeable as he left.
“What an interesting morning,” said Mrs Gardiner.
Elizabeth was devoting some attention to not looking back as the carriage rattled away. It had occurred to her that she knew nothing of his thoughts in this moment, and she longed to know, or at least to gather enough information to guess. Instead, she faced forward.
She had no way of guessing her aunt’s thoughts, either, and she longed for those nearly as much. What did Mrs Gardiner think of him, now that her suspicions of an attachment had plainly been raised? Did she still approve? What would she think that Elizabeth should do? If only she could tell her all!
All, however, encompassed such embarrassment on the one hand and trust on the other that Elizabeth would not break her secrecy.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Miss Darcy is a sweet girl, do you not think?”
Mrs Gardiner gave a decided nod. “Very sweet—and very shy, the poor creature, though she is handsome enough.”
“That is what I thought,” said Elizabeth, obscurely relieved. “I know your friends said she was proud, but I think not.”
“No, indeed,” Mrs Gardiner replied. “She must be out, but I have never seen a girl who seemed to enjoy it less. Just think of Lydia!”
Elizabeth laughed outright. “They are almost exactly the same age, I think, but I cannot imagine any two people more different.”
“Nor I. Well, I quite look forward to seeing her again,” said Mrs Gardiner.
They both paused. It would be, Elizabeth realized, a good opportunity to join Mr Darcy with his sister, and see Mrs Gardiner’s response, but she was too wary and nervous to do it. Instead, she said,
“I was surprised that she received us in the saloon. It is a fine room.”
“Very fine,” agreed Mrs Gardiner, with a twitch of her lips that Elizabeth could not quite read. “Perhaps her …”
Her brother?
“Perhaps she was already settled there,” said Mrs Gardiner. She winced at a small jolt of the carriage. “Either way, it was an honour. I heartily enjoyed the fruit, as well.”
“They were wonderfully fresh,” Elizabeth replied.
The conversation continued in like fashion all the way to Lambton. They discussed Mrs Annesley’s good manners, and Miss Bingley’s and Mrs Hurst’s poor ones; they reminisced over each subject that had been discussed, and how everyone had looked as they said it; they talked of the saloon’s fine view and furniture, and the designs on the hall that led to it; they even imagined Mr Gardiner’s happiness on the river. Neither, however, said a word of Darcy—an omission so pointed that it made him all the more present, at least in Elizabeth’s mind.
She had rarely been happier to see the inn. Even the disappointment of, yet again, finding no letters from Jane only slightly dented her relief. Talk flowed more naturally then, and they easily passed from scrutinizing the call on Miss Darcy to general plans for the rest of their stay in Derbyshire.
They did come near danger, once.
“Tomorrow’s dinner, of course, will be at Pemberley,” said Mrs Gardiner.
After the morning’s ordeal, Elizabeth might have dreaded it, but she did not. In fact, she looked forward to returning to the beautiful place once more, and tasting whatever Darcy’s undoubtedly excellent cook had to offer, and playing the pianoforte with Miss Darcy, and seeing—
Well, she quite looked forward to it.
Mr and Mrs Gardiner, and Elizabeth, had planned to begin the following day with a pleasant walk. They proceeded so far as the door, when two letters arrived for Elizabeth—both from Jane. One had been missent, and understandably so; Jane had written the direction in such a poor hand that Elizabeth herself could scarcely decipher it.
“Shall we leave you to enjoy your letters in the quiet?” asked Mr Gardiner.
Elizabeth smiled. “Thank you.”
Once they had left, she settled down into a comfortable chair and took out the missent letter with every anticipation of pleasure. It began naturally enough, with a My dear Lizzy dated to the third of August, and various accounts of small gatherings and engagements. Elizabeth read eagerly, laughing now and then as she read Jane’s muted descriptions of their mother’s wars with Lady Lucas and Mrs Long, not wishing herself back home, but feeling almost as if she were there.
Then, all laughter stopped.
Since writing the above, 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.
Elizabeth had never once thought of her sister as poor Lydia. What on earth—?
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; to own the truth, with Wickham!
Elizabeth nearly dropped the letter. More shocked and horrified than ever in her life, she caught a ragged breath and clutched the paper, then flattened it out again. Lydia had eloped? Eloped with Wickham?—Wickham, of all people? How was it possible? Why would he even consider a marriage without money? Why—
Imagine our surprise , wrote Jane. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! —But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.
Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.
Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves.
Elizabeth could scarcely grasp the words in front of her. How could his character possibly be misunderstood? Even Jane must know that. Should they condemn or forget Miss Darcy because Wickham had preyed on another young girl? On Lydia?
God, Lydia! And Jane, poor Jane; she could not be blamed for what she wrote at such a moment.
They were off 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’s ideas scattered beyond all possibility of reflection. She snatched up the other letter and tore it open.
By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland.
That much raised a coherent thought.—Of course they were not. Lydia could not possibly attract Wickham as a husband, but for such an attachment as this? That, Elizabeth could believe.
Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short letter to Mrs F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place they removed into a hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think.
Oh, Jane.
After making every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success; no such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them.
Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him.
Of Wickham? Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, then took a trembling breath and returned her gaze to the page.
Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if he could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to every thing?—Impossible. I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted.
My poor mother is really ill and keeps her room. Could she exert herself it would be better, but this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder.
One could wonder a very great deal!
I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu.
She need not press for it—they would leave immediately—but the letter continued on, the hand reduced to a scribble again.
I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not, but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and assistance would be every thing in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.
Elizabeth could scarcely read the four letters of her signature, nor did she need to.
“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” she cried aloud, springing up out of her chair. Her legs were alarmingly unsteady beneath her, but that could not be helped; she must find him, must bring him back as soon as possible. She stumbled towards the door.
Before she reached it, a servant opened the door, and Darcy stood before her. She could spare not even the attention for surprise. He could; at a glance, he visibly started.
“I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth managed to say, “but I must leave you. I must find Mr Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not a moment to lose.”
Her voice sounded thin and distant in her ears.
“Good God!” Darcy exclaimed. “What is the matter?” Then he shook his head. “I will not detain you a minute, but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr and Mrs Gardiner. You are not well enough;—you cannot go yourself.”
His shocked tone turned firm at the end, but for a moment Elizabeth disregarded this. She had to go! Her entire body trembled—trembled too much to carry her with anything like the alacrity necessary. She nodded and called their servant back, breathlessly directing him after the Gardiners, then collapsed into a chair as soon as he was gone.
Darcy did not leave with him, but remained at her side.
“Let me call your maid,” he said gently. “Is there nothing you could take for your present relief?—A glass of wine?—shall I get you one?—you are very ill.”
Elizabeth struggled for some measure of self-command, if not composure.
“No, I thank you,” she managed to say. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she started to cry, hopelessly. She could not have said how long she sobbed: several minutes at least. In the meanwhile, Darcy asked something, or told her something, or—she had no idea of it, in truth, beyond the low murmur of his voice. It must have been brief, because he remained silent otherwise, noticeable only as a quiet, concerned presence beside her.
Oh, Lydia. What could be hoped for even if they did find her? How could they? What of her life now, the poor silly thing? What of their family?
Elizabeth turned to him, lost between fear and shame and misery.
“I have just had a letter from Jane, with with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My youngest sister has left all her friends—has eloped;—has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr Wickham.”
Darcy’s eyes went wide.
“They are gone off together from Brighton.” Elizabeth could not but recall his letter, his own young sister, everything that made this all the more horrifying. He would understand. “You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.”
For a moment he just stared at her.
“When I consider that I might have prevented it!” she burst out. “I who knew what he was! Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learnt—to my own family!”
It need not have entailed betraying his confidence, or Miss Darcy’s reputation. She could have explained the rest, at least mentioned the rest. It had seemed so insignificant at the time, though, too much of an exertion to too little purpose—oh, an exertion! God forbid!
“Had his character been known,” she said, “this could not have happened! But it is all, all too late now.”
“I am grieved, indeed; grieved—shocked,” he cried. “But is it certain, is it absolutely certain?”
She would have welcomed uncertainty, at this point.
“Oh yes!—They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond.” Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. “They are certainly not gone to Scotland.”
Even Darcy looked pale.
“And what has been done—” He paused. “What has been attempted, to recover her?”
“My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour,” Elizabeth said unhesitatingly. “But nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How are they even to be discovered? It is every way horrible!”
Darcy nodded, clearly unable to disagree. She was grateful, in an odd way, for that. Soothing nothings would have infuriated her. As it was, all her anger turned against herself. She had known. When she failed to persuade Mr Bennet, she might have spoken, but instead she continued merrily on her way, unconcerned with what lay beyond her convenience.
“When my eyes were opened to his real character,” she told Darcy, and broke off. But he knew only too well how that had occurred; she had no secrets from him. “Oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”
By now, Darcy was pacing up and down the room, frowning, plainly lost in his own thoughts. Elizabeth would not have thought she had the attention to contemplate them, but she did, instantly understanding what they must be. She was disgraced; they were all disgraced; his love for her was fading. She did not blame him for that; what love could stand against such evidence of family weakness? His reservations about her family must seem—apart from the Gardiners—veritable foresight.
It removed one complication, at least, but she did not welcome that. She could have loved him. Oh! she knew that now, for all the good it did.
Inevitably, however, her thoughts returned to Lydia, to everything that Lydia’s fall meant. She was crying again;—Elizabeth covered her face with her handkerchief. For several minutes, she thought nothing of the oddity of the situation, weeping in a room with Darcy. He did not trouble her, and Lydia’s fate—and their family’s with her—consumed all thought.
At last, however, Darcy broke in. Quietly, he said,
“I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I any thing to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern.”
Elizabeth scrubbed her face clean and gazed up at him. He had sounded compassionate, but also restrained, and looked very much the same—at once sympathetic and reserved.
“Would to heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part, that might offer consolation to such distress!” Then he shook his head. “But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”
She had entirely forgotten about it. But she wished no further suspicions to arise.
“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible,” said Elizabeth, without the slightest fear that he might do otherwise. “I know it cannot be long.”
“You may depend upon my secrecy,” said Darcy. “I am very, very sorry for your distress, Miss Bennet, and I hope it will have a happier resolution that there is, at present, reason to hope.”
This piece of disheartening honesty was so very much Darcy that, despite everything, Elizabeth almost laughed aloud. Instead, she nodded.
Before leaving, he paused and looked down at her. Knowing that this might be the last time they saw each other on cordial terms, she allowed herself to return the look.
His eyes were very steady and very blue.
“Please pass my compliments on to Mr and Mrs Gardiner.”
“I will,” Elizabeth promised.
With that, he turned around, and departed.
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on 2019-07-07 06:39 am (UTC)no subject
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on 2019-07-08 06:11 pm (UTC)Plus icons!