by Jennifer Joy
"Would she have tried to walk back into town?" asked Mr. Darcy, shoving his hands through his thick hair.
"It is worth looking into. I cannot pretend to understand Lydia's reasoning, but she was upset when she left."
"You believe that she ran away?"
"I think it more likely than for someone to have kidnapped her."
What would Lydia have to offer besides her youth? Sure, that might be enough to tempt some, but there were too many other young ladies at the park with wealth and rank who would make more profitable targets than Lydia. Mr. Darcy did not ask for her reasons. He did not need to. He knew their circumstances.
The void in her stomach deepened, but she pressed on. Without another pause to comment, she hastened toward the entrance of the gardens to the bridge crossing the Thames.
Carriages scraped across the stones and, in the middle of the bridge, a lone figure stood leaning her body over the edge to look at the water.
"Lydia!" Elizabeth cried, rushing across to meet her.
Her feet stopped when Lydia saw her and leaned forward all the more.
"Lydia, stop! You will fall!" she shouted, moving once again with her arms out toward her sister.
She was close enough to see Lydia's expression as she spoke. "Come no closer, or I will cast myself into the river."
What insanity had overcome her sister? "Lydia, you are overreacting! Do not do anything rash!"
Her face crumpling up like a child's in a tantrum, Lydia dangled one arm over the edge while the other grasped onto the ledge. "Nobody cares about me anyway. I was supposed to marry first, not Mother. Now I have to go to a stuffy school with a bunch of girls whom I know I shall hate. It is not fair!"
Elizabeth stepped forward.
"Stop, Lizzy! I should die if you try to stop me."
"Lydia, think! You shall die if you jump off the bridge. Let me help you." Desperation made her lunge forward and reach for Lydia. She was too late.
Elizabeth felt the soft fabric of her dress run across the tips of her fingers as Lydia tipped over the edge of the bridge and vanished from sight.
Chapter 31
Darcy ran to the edge of the water. He could not hear what was said, but the precarious tip of the girl over the ledge of the bridge convinced him of the possibility of some drastic action. His boots got wet, and he reached down to wrangle them off without averting his gaze.
He heard a scream from the bridge, and the slap of Miss Lydia's body as she hit the surface of the water. Plunging into the Thames, the cold water flowing past him as he swam in broad, resolute strokes out to the middle, Darcy prayed he would reach the girl in time.
It grew increasingly difficult to see her in the murky water. His only aid was the light glow of her white dress, but the muddy water nearly swallowed her up. His arms burned under the weight of his clothes, but he kicked harder. She made no effort or struggle in the water, but slipped down so far into the depths that he could no longer see her.
He looked up at the bridge. Elizabeth shouted, but he could not hear through the water rushing past his ears and the gasps of his own breath. She pointed and he dove. He waved his arms back and forth as he pushed himself deeper into the Thames, searching for her.
Something soft tangled in his hand. Pulling on it, he reached along its length. It was heavy.
The need to breathe consumed him. One more second. He opened his eyes but he might as well have been blind. One more second. Only one more second. The pressure in his chest ached as he let out his last breath in a stream of bubbles up to the surface.
Needing to breathe before he added to the number of bodies in the Thames, he tangled his other hand in what he could only hope was Miss Lydia's hair and kicked with all his might until he reached the surface, pulling what he gripped in his hands with him.
His lungs were on fire and his eyes burned, but the relief he felt when he saw the moon reflect off Miss Lydia’s pale skin far surpassed his discomfort. Leaning so that he could float on his back, he pulled Miss Lydia up so that her mouth was clear of the water and paddled as furiously as one arm and feet entangled in the fabric of her dress would allow him.
Elizabeth was at the shore, the bottom of her skirt soaked in river water, when he finally felt ground under his feet. He stood and balanced Miss Lydia in his arms as he slogged through the mud in waterlogged stockings. Finding the closest dry spot, he laid her on her side and pumped her limp arm up and down.
“Dear God, help us,” Elizabeth repeated until he joined in her prayer.
Dread pierced down to his bones. She was not responding. A crazy bit of news he had read came to mind. With nothing to lose, he pinched her nose and lowered his mouth to breathe into hers.
She coughed, spitting out the filthy water of the Thames. Her eyes remained shut, but she breathed.
He leaned back and let Elizabeth curl her sister up in her arms, rocking her back and forth, and bathing her face with tears.
Darcy had never felt heavier in his life… not even when he had so nearly lost his own sister in ruin.
Through the weight of the moment, he searched around them for someone he could use to send a message to the rest of their party. He could not leave Elizabeth in her present state, nor would he ask her to leave Miss Lydia under his care while she fetched them alone.
His legs trembled as he stood and stepped closer to the bridge where he would have better success summoning some help. He walked behind Elizabeth's back, allowing himself the luxury of trailing his fingers so near her, he could sense her warmth. When she reached up to clasp his hand, he thought his legs would give out on him. He melted into her palm, though he remained upright by some determined force beyond his own strength.
"You will not leave us…" she started, her eyes wide.
"Never," he forced through his tightening throat. "I will never leave you."
The air grew thick like the weather during a thunder storm. When the pop of fireworks over the gardens began, they hardly seemed strong enough to compare to the beating of his heart and the energy coursing through his veins.
Elizabeth pressed her cheek to his hand, sending chills throughout his entire body. Through his rugged breath, he said, "I must find someone to fetch Mrs. Bennet."
Elizabeth released him, and he flexed his fingers before balling them into a fist to fill the empty space where her hand had been.
Stopping the first person he saw, he offered a sum for the lad to search through the gardens for Mrs. Bennet. After giving a brief description of her and Mr. Carissimi, he returned to the shoreline and stood watching over Elizabeth and her sister.
She rocked her steadily, one hand busy rubbing against Miss Lydia's wet arm and pale cheek. She breathed and coughed occasionally. Her eyelashes fluttered when Elizabeth spoke softly to her.
"She will recover," said Darcy, trying not to think of how another tragedy would affect Elizabeth.
Never stopping her swaying movement, she looked up at him with the calm assurance of someone in charge of a situation. It was exactly as he had seen her the day of her father's funeral. Her strength of character through adversity filled him with awe.
He did not know how the brazen act of Miss Lydia would affect Elizabeth— Lady Rutledge scoffed at propriety, but even she must have her limits— but he knew that she would come out fighting. He would be close should she need him. Or want him.
The ardor of his love for Elizabeth fanned the flames in his heart. Not even his wet clothes dampened it.
Wrapping his arms around himself to keep warm, he tensed his muscles before they quit working completely. The surge of power he had experienced only minutes before began to wear off, and he felt cold. His shoulders wished to sag under the weight of his sopping coat, but Elizabeth needed him to be strong for a while longer. He would not let her down as he had before.
Shrieks and the scrambling of high heeled feet in the dust sounded behind him.
"Oh, my Lydia! My dear, dear, foolish girl!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed as
Mr. Carissimi struggled to keep her from falling in the loose gravel and dirt descending to the shore.
Mother yanked Lydia out of Elizabeth’s arms, leaving her empty and cold. The water from her dress had soaked into Elizabeth’s, and she shivered without the warmth of Lydia’s body next to her.
Mr. Darcy looked like she felt. She could see the effort it took him to stand upright as he rubbed the arms folded across his chest. He had saved her sister’s life.
Mr. Carissimi stood beside him, wisely giving Mother some time with Lydia until his carriage was brought closer and he could convey them safely home. Joining them, Elizabeth wished that she could climb into Mr. Darcy’s arms so they could warm each other.
“How can we ever repay you, Mr. Darcy? You saved Lydia and mere words cannot express my gratitude,” she said, needing to say something.
Mother spoke from behind her, so that Elizabeth twisted to see her. “Yes, Mr. Darcy. Thank you so much for rescuing my little girl.”
Elizabeth looked at Mr. Carissimi, who regarded Mother tenderly. Elizabeth could not doubt the depth of his admiration for her.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes lingered on her, not even leaving when Mother spoke. His confession had seemed so important to him minutes ago. How could he doubt his honor when time and again he proved by his actions that he was everything a gentleman ought to be?
Mr. Darcy’s speech cast him as an arrogant man with little or no regard for others, but his actions portrayed him as the best of men.
Elizabeth felt so divided, her skin was the only thing holding her together. She wished she could cry, scream, and laugh uncontrollably. She must keep her composure. Mother did not need another hysterical daughter, and the last thing Lydia needed was to see the responsible sister lose her fortitude before her eyes.
She looked at Mr. Darcy, who had sent the boy to find the rest of their party, so that they could leave. Mr. Carissimi had already sent for his carriage in which he would convey Mother and Lydia home.
Even with his coat sagging and his boots off, Mr. Darcy took command. His presence brought some comfort to Elizabeth, even if an evil little voice in her mind nagged that he only helped because he felt guilty. She could never do him the injustice of believing that guilt was his sole motivator, but she did not have much to recommend herself. The seed of doubt, once it took root in her heart, crushed her soul.
Her shame deepened as her understanding grew. All those months at Longbourn when they could not afford beef, tea, or repairs to a tenant’s home, miraculously, a basket would show up outside the kitchen door and they quit receiving complaints from their tenants. Elizabeth had not given it much thought, but it had to have been him. Mr. Collins would never be so thoughtful toward them— not even with the influence of Charlotte. It had been Mr. Darcy all along.
She could not remember a time she felt so low. She was really, truly alone. Mother was leaving her to begin a new life. Jane was happy with Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. Lydia, if she allowed herself, would be much improved with the association of other young ladies better prepared than she. Mary was happy with Uncle and Aunt Phillips. Kitty was very soon to be engaged. Everyone in her family had moved on. Except herself. She had isolated herself from her family in order to pretend to be part of another one. And through it all, he had been there like an anchor.
Elizabeth saw the glint of Miss Bingley's shiny gown sparkle off the glow of the moon and heard the boom of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s baritone and the concerned exclamations of Mr. Bingley and Lady Rutledge. Elizabeth prayed that Miss Bingley would act as civilly as she had the rest of the evening.
Watching her closely, Elizabeth stood next to her mother, who now had a slightly recovered Lydia in her arms.
Taking in the scene before her, Miss Bingley said, "My, my. Some do know how to steal all the attention." She clicked her tongue and shoved her pointy nose into the air.
Elizabeth’s blood boiled, and she clamped her mouth shut to keep the words bubbling up inside her from spilling out.
Chapter 32
Elizabeth's jaw ached with the force she used to keep her mouth shut. Her head pounded.
Miss Bingley scoffed at her silence. Looking from Lydia to Elizabeth, she asked, "What did she do? Topple over the side of the bridge?"
Mr. Darcy, in a tone as cold as the Thames, said, "What has transpired this evening is nothing to poke fun at or take lightly. We should all go home. The carriages should arrive at any time." He looked apologetically at Elizabeth, as if Miss Bingley merely voiced the thoughts of everyone in their group. To his credit, Colonel Fitzwilliam dropped her arm and stepped away.
"Well, I would never resort to such dramatic behavior only to make myself the center of attention. An accomplished lady need not stoop so low." Miss Bingley assumed her haughtiest air.
That was enough.
Trembling with anger, Elizabeth stepped so close to her the toes of their slippers touched. "No. Proper ladies prefer to get soused on port and pass out in their aunt's drawing room."
She knew she should regret her words, but she did not care. She saw the change in Miss Bingley's complexion along with the sounds of her huffs. She looked like a fire-breathing dragon. Nary budging an inch, Elizabeth would slay her with her sword-like tongue should she make any more comments against her or her family.
Lady Rutledge's voice pierced through the silence, and Miss Bingley broke eye contact. "That is sufficient. At this point, I hesitate to call either of you a lady. Let us make haste to our homes before we are seen like this."
Elizabeth resumed her place behind Mother. Surely, Lady Rutledge would allow her to see Mother and Lydia home.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, seeing Mr. Darcy's state, rushed over to assist her with Lydia. He picked her up like she weighed no more than a feather. Mr. Darcy held out his hand to assist Mother up from the ground.
Mother brushed off her dress, thanking the gentlemen for their graciousness.
When Elizabeth tried to loop her arm through hers, Mother shrugged her off. "No, Lizzy. You chose your place, and you must keep it." She looked past Mr. Carissimi and his carriage to Lady Rutledge, who was already being handed into her waiting coach.
Mother's comment felt like a slap in the face. Was this her reward for defending her family?
Leaning out of her carriage, Lady Rutledge called for her. "Eliza, come."
Elizabeth hated being called Eliza. She hated being called like a dog. Even worse, she hated how she was obliged to obey.
Elizabeth felt isolated from the world. A week passed, and she had seen no one. Mr. Darcy had not called.
She received a note from Mother informing her that Lydia was fully recovered and only suffered from a runny nose of which she hoped she would be cured before she was expected at the finishing school the next day. Mr. Carissimi had purchased a special license, and they would have a quiet wedding in a matter of days. She had nothing else left but to wish them happy. She did not know if she would be allowed to attend Mother's wedding. Lady Rutledge had hardly spoken to her since their evening at Vauxhall Gardens.
When they took their meals together, the only sound was of the cutlery against the china dishes and their own chewing. Lady Rutledge’s silent stares and pensive ruminations were excruciating, and Elizabeth wished Lady Rutledge would say something… anything… no matter how disapproving or unflattering.
She should have kept quiet against Miss Bingley's insults.
Elizabeth received a letter from Jane that morning. She read it in the library, letting the sunlight pour over the pages and warm her through. Jane had returned early from the coast with Aunt, Uncle, and the children. Emma was much improved, as was she, and Aunt had plans to attend some of the public balls they had been invited to with the intention of introducing Jane to potential suitors. Elizabeth sensed Jane's excitement and nervousness through the pages, and her heart warmed for her. Jane was so beautiful, she was sure to be a sensation wherever she went. She did not suffer from bouts of temper and an uncontrollable tongue. N
or would she act impulsively and cause herself to live a life of misery with no escape.
A maid tapped on the open door, cutting Elizabeth’s self-condemnation short. "Lady Rutledge has requested to see you, miss."
Folding Jane's letter and hiding it where Mr. Darcy’s handkerchief used to rest, she followed the maid upstairs to Lady Rutledge's sitting room.
Lady Rutledge laid her newspaper down and looked up at Elizabeth. Even after the maid left, she sat contemplating Elizabeth without a word.
If her intention was to intimidate, then she did not know Elizabeth's character well enough. Elizabeth raised her chin and returned her stare, locking eyes with Lady Rutledge.
Finally, she spoke. "I am going to send you away, Eliza."
Elizabeth was not surprised. Still, her pulsed slowed, and she felt the blood drain from the top of her head down to her toes. "When?" she asked.
"I would send you away immediately, but Charles would only insist that I find another companion, and I would rather avoid that. It is my intention to carry on as I did before my brother and sister-in-law left for the New World— without a nanny keeping watch over my every move." Her words snapped like a whip, and Elizabeth felt her cheeks sting.
"When do you expect them?" she asked, proud that her voice held steady.
"Any day now. Their journey was not to be a long one. I advised them against it, but they were determined to go." She waved her fingers, bored with the details. "As it is, I do not feel that I can give you a recommendation. You are not well-suited as a companion."
"May I ask why, with so little endeavor for civility, I am thus dismissed?" The answer would be as severe as her question, but she needed to know.
Lady Rutledge leaned forward, captivating Elizabeth's gaze with her intensity. "My mission in life is to see my niece appropriately settled. I had thought that you would be a wholesome influence on her and distract her from a certain gentleman I believe to be unsuitable for her— a purpose you fulfilled for a time.”
