by P. O. Dixon
“I am grieved, indeed,” cried Darcy. “Indeed, grieved and shocked. But is it certain—absolutely certain?”
“Oh, yes!” Jane cried. “They left Brighton together on Sunday night and were traced almost to London, but not beyond. They are certainly not gone to Scotland.”
“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”
“My father remains in Hertfordshire, powerless to do anything which might further jeopardize his health, such is the devastating toll on his state of mind, and my mother is no better, for she insists that my father must hunt Mr. Wickham down and make him pay for what he has done. She has taken to her bed, according to my sister Mary, prostrate with grief and complaints of being ill-used. An express letter has been dispatched to my uncle Mr. Gardiner begging his assistance.”
Elizabeth, thinking more of her sister’s perilous plight than of her own self-recriminations, cried, “We all know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is in every way horrible!”
Darcy made no answer. He seemed not to hear her at all and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air gloomy.
Observing this, Elizabeth instantly understood it. His every reservation about her family’s unsuitability was on full display. With such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the most profound disgrace, he must surely regret aligning himself with such people. Every worried step he took in silent reflection of her family’s failings, she likened to him moving farther and farther away from her and the future they had planned.
Mere hours ago, she was in his arms. She felt so alive—as though she were in heaven. And now her feelings were akin to being in the pits of despair.
But reproachful thoughts of herself, though they would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia’s humiliation and the misery she was bringing on them all swallowed up every private care. Covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else.
After a pause of several minutes, she was recalled to what must be considered a living nightmare for her family by Mr. Darcy’s voice. While compassionate, it also bore a measure of restraint. “I am afraid I must beg to be excused, for I find there is a most urgent matter which requires my attention. No doubt, the two of you are most anxious to return to Hertfordshire to be of comfort to your family during this time when it is needed most. I shall speak with my butler and have him attend to the necessary arrangements for your safe and speedy travels.”
He walked to where Elizabeth stood, “I would have a word with you before I go—perhaps you may leave your sister for a moment or two, so we may speak in privacy?”
Elizabeth looked to Jane for confirmation, and upon receiving it, she followed Mr. Darcy into the hallway. She could not help but recall what her own behavior had been so little as a few hours earlier when the two of them were alone. Her wantonness. Her reckless abandon.
Surely he must consider that she was no better than Lydia—Lydia who had been the means of the Bennet family’s greatest shame. If he meant to end their engagement, she would not blame him.
A part of her whispered, he is too much of a gentleman to call off the engagement. Another part insisted, he is too proud, and rightfully so, to marry into such a debauched family as mine.
The former was her heart, the latter her mind.
Ignoring her heart, Elizabeth seized control of the discussion before Mr. Darcy had a chance to speak. “I release you, sir.”
Turning to face her, he asked, “What did you say?”
“I release you,” she repeated, “from our engagement.”
“Elizabeth, my love,” he said, reaching out his hand to her.
How she wanted to accept his proffered hand, to cling to it. She would not. She could not, for she was by now decided that she would not be the means of bringing any more shame on him than she had already done. She clasped her hands behind her back out of fear that the pained look in his eyes might melt her resolve.
“You are distressed. You need time to digest all the unpleasantness that has been brought to bear on your family as a result of Wickham’s treachery. I shall not press you on this matter at such a painful time. As I have said, I have a most urgent matter to attend—one I dare not delay a moment longer than I have already. Just know this, Elizabeth, I love you.”
Elizabeth meant to protest, but he silenced her intended objections with a touch of his finger on her parted lips. “I love you—with all my heart and soul.”
Chapter 24
Mean Understanding
Hertfordshire, Longbourn Village
Upon entering Longbourn House, Jane’s first impulse was to join her mother and thus she went straight to Mrs. Bennet’s apartment with Mary and Kitty following close behind. Elizabeth’s concern was with her father. She knew, as did everyone in her family, that she was his favorite. They were so much alike. When she was not blaming herself for not doing more to prevent the travesty that had befallen her family by telling her father what she had learned about Wickham’s vile character, she was berating herself for not being there when her father had received the news.
She pushed the door open, peeked inside to see if he was awake, and immediately felt her pain all over again for her own selfishness.
He looks so much older than when I left Longbourn. I blame myself. I blame Lydia and most of all I blame Mr. Wickham. My father trusted him. My whole family trusted him. And this is to be our reward. Pray my uncle has success in finding my sister. I know not how my father might suffer if she were never to be found.
“There you are, my Lizzy,” said Mr. Bennet, his voice weak and strained.
“Yes, Papa. I am here,” Elizabeth responded, her own voice tentative. She hurried to his bedside and sat in the chair next to it. She reached for his hand.
Waving off her comforting gesture, he said, “Now, now, my child. There is no need for all that.”
“But, Papa,” Elizabeth cried, “You look so very ill. Will you not allow me to be of comfort to you?”
He shook his head. “There is nothing the matter with me that time will not heal—time to consider the harm my own selfish intentions have inflicted on the family I was meant to protect. I should never have allowed Lydia to travel to Brighton with the Forsters. I have always considered her one of the silliest girls in all of England, who wanted nothing but opportunity to make her whole family look ridiculous.
“I knew she would never be easy until she had exposed herself in some public place or other, and yet I allowed her to go all the same. I even made light of my own circumspection, persuading myself instead that we might never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under such circumstances that were presented.”
“Papa, I fear you are making light of your own health even as we speak. You do not look well. What does the doctor have to say?”
“If you are referring to Mr. Jones, and I must assume you are, what does he know about what I am suffering?”
“Then, I take it that you did see him. What was his diagnosis?”
Again, Mr. Bennet attempted to wave off his daughter’s concern. Seeing that his efforts were in vain, he replied, “There was some mention of a shock and what it might portend should I not take to my bed. But, as I said, what does he know?”
Aghast, she cried, “Oh, Papa, this is grave. I am grateful that you are following his advice.”
“As the alternative would likely be to hunt the nefarious Mr. Wickham down and kill him as your mother suggests, I must consider this remedy is the lesser of two evils.” Here he reached his own hand out to Elizabeth’s. He gave it a light squeeze. “If this is to be my sentence for the shame of my own neglect, then I surely deserve it.
“Now, run along, my child. Go and speak with your mother. I fear she is in greater need of your consolation than I am at present.”
Honoring her father’
s wishes, Elizabeth entered her mother’s apartment in time to hear Mrs. Bennet lament to Jane and Mary on all the trouble her youngest had caused.
“Oh, how can one person be so selfish? And all along I supposed it was Lizzy who was the most selfish, most ungrateful child a mother could have.” Espying Elizabeth enter the room, she cried, “Oh, there you are, Lizzy. No doubt your priority was seeing your father—he has always been your favorite, and you have always been his.” She waved Elizabeth over to her bedside. “But none of that matters now. What does matter is my Lydia, who may very well be wandering the country all alone with no one to protect her. I never did trust that vile Mr. Wickham.”
A woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper, she cried, “Pray you were able to persuade Mr. Bennet to tear himself from his bed and to hunt the scoundrel down and kill him. No—better than that he must make Mr. Wickham marry my poor Lydia. That will teach him!
“Oh, my poor child. All she ever meant to do was find herself a husband.” Mrs. Bennet glanced at Jane before directing her gaze squarely on Elizabeth. “Which is more than I can say for either of you. Oh, I know it all. I know Mr. Bingley was in Kent with his friend—that proud Mr. Darcy! But where is he now?”
She looked at Jane in an almost disgusted manner. “How could you have found yourself in Mr. Bingley’s path once again and have failed to make him fall in love with you?”
Her patience no doubt at its end, Jane abandoned her position by her mother’s side and fled the room.
“Jane!” Elizabeth cried.
“Oh, let her go. If she suffers any shame for what she has done, then she very well ought to, as should you, Lizzy. You know how hard I have worked to make a match between Jane and Mr. Bingley. Neither of them apparently knows anything about being in love. You should have done everything in your power to help them along.
“Oh, but what do you know? You should have married Mr. Collins when you had the chance. Who is to say if there is another gentleman in the land who will ever want to marry any of the Bennet daughters, especially after what Lydia has done?
“This is a sign—a sign, I say, and I only have myself to blame for having five daughters and absolutely no sons. Oh, what was I thinking in marrying a gentleman whose estate is entailed away from the female line?
“This is all your fault, Lizzy. If you had married your cousin, Mr. Collins, none of this would be happening to any of us.
“Poor Lydia would not have taken on the burden of accomplishing what none of her older sisters dared to try. At least she tried and what have you done, Lizzy?” Not willing to neglect her other daughters in the room, she looked at both Mary and Kitty pointedly. “And what about you, Miss Mary? Miss Kitty? What have the two of you done? No doubt, Mary would have married Mr. Collins if that cunning Charlotte Lucas had not used her feminine arts and allurements to draw him in and make him forget the true reason for his coming to Longbourn in the first place: to choose a bride from among his fair cousins. And I have no doubt that you, Kitty, would have welcomed Mr. Collins’s proposal, as well.”
The expressions on both sisters’ faces spoke otherwise. They uttered not a single word, for what might they have said? Their grief-stricken mother was beyond consolation.
Indeed, it was an affliction that would render her bed-ridden for days, when at last came the news that none of the Bennet family had reason to hope for: Lydia had been discovered. She was to be married to Mr. Wickham.
“Oh, what a happy day!” Mrs. Bennet thereby proclaimed, throwing off her bedcovers and eager to start the day. There was so much to do—so many people to see and so many people to tell.
“Mr. Wickham! So charming. So handsome.” She danced a little right there in the middle of the floor. “My Lydia is a lucky girl. We are all lucky! What a happy day indeed.”
Chapter 25
Unabashed Contrivance
George Wickham sat across the carriage and watched as his young bride lay sprawled across the opposite bench fast asleep—thoroughly exhausted by their amorous adventures for the better part of their journey from London on the way to Longbourn. The rather enticing disheveled state of her gown offered quite a feast for his hungry eyes, even if his heart was not so engaged as it ought to be for a new groom.
Barely on the right side of thirty, the last thing in the world he would have ever imagined was finding himself in such an unenviable position as being married to such a foolish young girl, nearly half his age.
This predicament of his had started out innocently enough. While visiting the home of the head of his regiment, Colonel Forster, and his lovely bride, Mrs. Forster, by young Lydia’s unabashed contrivance, Wickham found himself completely alone with her. He knew enough about a woman’s proclivity to use her feminine arts and allurements to her greatest advantage when it suited her purposes. She wanted him. She wanted him badly, but it did not signify.
She was a gentleman’s daughter, after all, which meant she likely expected something in exchange for her favors: love and marriage… a house and children. He needed to marry a woman with her own fortune and although he was not opposed to dallying with young girls be they daughters of penniless gentlemen or even their servants, marriage to the likes of such women was so far beyond his expected realm of possibility as to be deemed laughable.
Surely he was not so handsome as he was for nothing, or so he always liked to tell himself. How could he do otherwise when the evidence of his good looks was borne out most everywhere he went? The ladies adored him. This was especially true of one woman in particular. The one woman whom he found nearly impossible to get out of his mind, despite not having spent time in her company for months. Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Had it not been for fate intervening by throwing Mary King, a newly minted heiress of ten thousand pounds, in his path, Wickham suffered not a shred of doubt that he, by now, would be counting Elizabeth among his long list of conquests.
The one woman who got away.
What a stain on his picture of himself. If not for the fact that young Lydia Bennet reminded him so much of her elder sister, he doubted he ever would have noticed her at all. It was not so much that she looked like Elizabeth, or even comported herself like Elizabeth. It was something else—something more—something only a gentleman like himself with a way with women was able to discern.
That fateful day at the Forsters, he could think of no better way to escape the inherent discomfort of being alone with the enticing young vixen than diverting her with talk of her elder sister.
“How is Miss Elizabeth?” Wickham recalled asking at the time. “No doubt, she has returned from her visit with her friend Mrs. Collins by now and once again she is enjoying her solitary rambles about the countryside in Hertfordshire. I recall Oakham Mount as being one of her favorite places.”
“La!” Lydia had exclaimed with energy. “Lizzy remains in Hunsford, having successfully petitioned Papa for a longer stay. Indeed. She even persuaded the Collinses to invite Jane for a visit as well. Who is to say when they might return because Mr. Darcy is staying in Kent, which is not to say anybody cares about what Mr. Darcy does, for he is nobody’s favorite, but he invited his friend Mr. Bingley to join him, which means Mr. Bingley is also in Kent.”
Wickham knew his former friend enjoyed a habit of visiting Lady Catherine de Bourgh at Easter, but Easter had been weeks ago. “What might possibly tempt Darcy to remain in Kent during the height of the Season?” he asked himself out loud.
In reply, Lydia said, “How should I know? All I know is Mama is exceedingly happy, for Jane and Mr. Bingley are together again which means there may be a wedding at Netherfield after all.”
Possibly two weddings, Wickham pondered. On the other hand, he knew how much Elizabeth despised Darcy.
Heaven knows I did my part of nurturing the seeds of discord between those two as best I possibly could.
Not that it was particularly hard, for the odds were stacked against anyone liking Darcy when he was in Hertfords
hire. His haughty unmasked disdain for those whom he considered beneath him in consequences simply would not allow such civility in his favor.
However, Darcy is quite amiable among those whom he considers his equals. He is almost entirely surrounded by people of his own ilk when in Kent. Elizabeth has likely been exposed to a different side of him. I know him too well to suppose he is spending all that time in Kent for nothing.
From that moment on, Wickham’s view of young Lydia Bennet was cast in an entirely different light. He was no stranger to taking a virgin, but never before had doing so been so easy as with young Lydia Bennet.
He recalled thinking at the time, while still basking in the warmth of his easy triumph, This is how it feels finding myself in the position to strike a harsh blow to Fitzwilliam Darcy. Even if I should fail to carry out my goal, I shall enjoy my endeavors every step of the way.
The sound of his wife slowly awakening drew Wickham to the present. A glance out the carriage window at the countryside whisking by assured him that if he were quick about it, he had time for yet another satiating release with his wanton wife.
Judging by the increasing discomfort he suffered as a result of his tightening trousers, he sorely needed it. Thinking of Elizabeth Bennet for more than a few minutes had that effect on him. Seducing his young bride while pretending she was her elder sister was his best recourse when he and the latter were miles and miles apart. He stretched his long legs, supposing that doing so might afford a measure of much-needed relief.
For the next week or so, possibly longer, he and Elizabeth would once again be in each other’s company—sleeping under the same roof, possibly a few quiet footsteps apart.
How shall I possibly endure the agony, the discord of longing for one sister while finding relief with the other? He was once Elizabeth’s favorite. He knew it. Everybody knew. What if those tender feelings are still there?
