by Riana Everly
Mr. Gardiner seemed anxious to return to the tavern to assist the other men in capturing Wickham and rescuing Lydia, mumbling something about not being there to take responsibility for his own family—the contrast with her own father striking Elizabeth to the quick once more—but the thought of leaving his son so quickly upon the boy’s return just barely overcame the need to depart again. And so he, too, stayed, periodically visiting his wife and son in the sitting room, and otherwise pacing up and down the hallways and in his office, eager for any word from the men and chastising himself for not being with them.
Elizabeth took herself to bed, too exhausted to remain upright; but although her eyes closed, her mind did not cease its relentless whirling. Had it only been that morning that she had awakened in her bed at Longbourn? The events of the day seemed something out of one of Kitty’s dreadful novels, rather than events that she, herself, had been party to. She let her mind flit between her horrified apprehension upon learning of Samuel’s disappearance, the tension-filled anxiety of the Gardiners’ salon, the silent vigil in the carriage, and her desperate attempts to calm her young cousin and help him settle sufficiently to communicate with the gathering of men in the tavern. They had not known for certain, Richard had commented, where exactly Wickham had hidden himself, for there had been no sign of him at the rooming house the men had first discovered. That was the reason no attempts had been made on the building. To send armed men into a private house on the basis of a guess went against the King’s Peace. However, after finding the proper locations, Samuel’s report and the drawings he had made would be ample evidence against the miscreant and were more than enough for the soldiers to move on the building.
And then there was Mr. Darcy himself. How had he been party to this search? What had he to gain by helping retrieve her errant sister? She recalled his words, his face, on that last cold meeting in Pemberley when she had confessed her sister’s sins to him. He could not leave her presence quickly enough, she had thought. He had turned and departed from her presence with scarcely a word. What, then, had possessed him to come to her uncle’s house and offer assistance? Surely he had no further desire to associate with her! His reputation, and that of his sister, would surely be damaged by any connexion to Wickham. What could he be about? It must be the need to see Wickham finally called to account, to see justice done, to avenge his sister in some small way.
Images of his face raced through her mind behind her closed eyes. The haughty stare, the eyes that did not meet hers, the softening of those eyes and the beseeching plea to stay safe all paraded themselves before her, individually and collectively, melding into one. He was, of course, one man, the myriad aspects to his personality like the multiple facets on the prismatic crystals he had so proudly shown her so long ago, each unique unto itself, but each inextricably part of a larger whole. And, like the crystals, Mr. Darcy spread radiance and beauty around him, if only one were fortunate enough to see him in the right light.
She was lying there, still teasing out her thoughts when she heard a noise from the street below her window. Rising and pulling on her robe, she peered down through the sheer lace net curtains. The sky was still dark, tinged only with the faintest glow at the horizon, the stars pinpoints of light in the velvet sky, so unusually clear of fog and smoke. Down on the street, the light from the gaslights caught the outline of a carriage coming to a stop—the same carriage, she believed, in which she had sat those many hours by the tavern. The horses whinnied and snorted, to be quickly quieted by the driver, and a door opened, expelling a large man, a struggling bundle the size of her sister, and then another man, holding the girl in his control. She rushed down the stairs, forgetting her state of dress, arriving just as the sleepy footman opened the door to admit Darcy, Richard, and a very unhappy Lydia.
Within moments, both master and mistress of the house were present. Mrs. Gardiner began castigating her wayward niece the moment she entered the house, and then dragged her bodily up the stairs to the room she had set aside for the girl, ignoring the protestations of needing to go back to “Dear George” and complaints about people breaking into their rooms at such inopportune hours.
Mr. Gardiner, still dressed in the clothing from the night before, rubbed his red eyes and his stubbled chin and in a voice more cultured and polite than anything Elizabeth might have been able to manage, asked if the gentlemen needed to depart right away, or if they would appreciate a whisky, or perhaps a cup of coffee?
“Coffee, please!” Mr. Darcy responded, at the same time as Richard breathed, “Lord be praised, whisky!”
It was quickly decided that both would suit quite well. Mr. Gardiner led them into his study and produced a decanter of amber liquid and some fine crystal glasses, and after taking a quick sip, he disappeared into the kitchens to procure the offered hot beverages, not wishing to wake his housekeeper quite so early. “I am able to make a pot of coffee,” he puffed out his chest. “I am rather self-sufficient when need be.” Elizabeth then ushered the two exhausted men to the sitting room off her uncle’s study, where the gathering of searchers had been wont to meet to discuss their strategy. Having finished their whisky, and almost oblivious to her presence—or, perhaps, quietly accepting of and accustomed to it—both men shuffled across the floor and pulled off their cravats and removed their coats before falling into two large chairs near the fireplace.
Elizabeth tended to the fire, and only after it was lit did she glance up at Mr. Darcy, now in his shirt sleeves. She gasped. Her shock was not at seeing him so unclothed before her, for her father had the habit of dressing only in his shirt and waistcoat whilst en famille, but at the stain of red that adorned one torn sleeve. “You’re hurt!” she exclaimed in alarm, to which he merely grunted, his eyes closed and his head thrown back in fatigue. She knelt by his side and gently rolled up the ripped sleeve, ignoring his faint murmurs of protest.
“It is not deep, Elizabeth.” It was Richard who spoke. “Nor is it serious.”
“Was there much blood shed in the rescuing of my sister?” She was mortified at the thought that men might have been injured because of her foolish sister’s antics.
At last, Mr. Darcy roused himself enough to speak. “No, very little. I believe that, other than Wickham himself, I received the worst of it.”
“But what happened? Did he attack you with a knife? A sword? That cannot be from a pistol!”
Unaccountably, he laughed. “It is a sad and sorry tale.”
“Well,” she admonished him, “you may tell me as I tend to your wound.” She dashed from the room to gather the supplies she required, then upon returning, led him to a small sofa and lit the large oil lamp on the side table, and finally settled next to him with a soft cloth and cool water to clean his injury.
Mr. Darcy spoke quietly, clearly embarrassed, as Richard strove to keep from chuckling. “Your young cousin’s plans of the house were perfect. Such precision is seldom seen, even in the army, so Richard tells me. With men stationed at the front door and the back, to guard against Wickham’s unlikely escape, the others managed to roust Mrs. Younge from her roost without the slightest disturbance, and then went up to capture Wickham and retrieve Miss Lydia. However, Samuel did not see the second door to the bedchamber, for he had not been in there, and so failed to indicate its presence on his plans. Whilst Richard’s men were breaking down the main door to the suite, Wickham bolted, leaving your sister without a thought, and dashed down through the second doorway.
“I was not one of the men sent in to capture Wickham, not being in the military and not being recently trained in tactical manoeuvres or the most current techniques in wielding a weapon. I was, therefore, standing outside of the building, wishing I might be of more assistance. I also noticed a small door to the side of the building, most likely where deliveries of coal and vegetables were made. Of a sudden, this small door—a hatch, really—flew open, and who should I see dashing out of it, but George Wickham himself!” He spat out the man’s name, as if it taste
d foul on his tongue. “I had no weapon but my foot, and the cad was not expecting to see anyone there and did not notice me. As he ran, I tripped him. But as he fell, a sharp edge of his sword caught my arm. He had grabbed it as he fled, but had not sheathed it. Nevertheless, he fell, I immobilised him until the others arrived, and our mission was successful. And as you see, Elizabeth, it truly is only a scratch.” He looked down to where her fingers were softly wiping the remains of the dried blood from his forearm. “However,” he said too quietly even for Richard to hear, “I do not object to your ministrations.”
To this, Elizabeth could say nothing, but she did not cease her task of gently wiping the injured limb, even long after her care was no longer needed.
If Mr. Gardiner noticed anything amiss when he arrived a short time later, carrying a tray of coffee and a plate of cheese, he said not a word. He merely glanced at his niece, sitting much too close to a partially unclad man, his bare arm in her hands, and asked if she, too, would take coffee or whether she would prefer tea. Then he smiled and asked Richard for his account of the assault.
Richard recounted the tale, then added, “Miss Lydia did not seem to appreciate her predicament, nor that her lover abandoned her at the first sign of trouble. She fought us the entire way here, demanding that we return her to him. You might wish to post a footman by her door should she attempt to escape.”
Mr. Gardiner sighed in exasperation. “That child was always wilful and unthinking. My sister could not have done a worse job raising her… apologies, Lizzy. I know she is your mother too.” He sighed. “I will inform my staff immediately to keep her under watch, until further notice.” He stepped out of the room for a moment, presumably to confer with the housekeeper, who had awakened whilst he was bustling in the kitchen. He returned promptly, and asked what was to become of the unhappy pair.
“It seems, sir,” Richard continued, his voice flat with fatigue, “that they must marry. They had been living as man and wife from the day of their… departure from Brighton. What will become of Wickham, we have not yet determined, but regardless of his eventual fate, he will meet it as a married man. A part of the decision rests with you, Gardiner, for it was your son whom he held prisoner. He faces stiff penalties for deserting his post with the militia; depending on your request, we can add various other charges to the pile. He might hang, or face transportation for his crimes.”
“Leaving Lydia a widow at fifteen.” The man shook his head. “I cannot think on this now. I must sleep, as I am certain you wish to do. Can I have my housekeeper set up rooms for you? No? Surely you are as dead on your feet as am I. Very well. I shall come by tomorrow, gentlemen, after conferring with my wife, and we shall talk more then.” Whereupon, with scarcely a nod of his head, he stumbled out of the room and up the stairs to his bed.
This left Elizabeth alone once more with Richard and Darcy. Both men rose and reclaimed their coats, bidding the young lady a good night—or good morning, as the case might be. Before he departed, Mr. Darcy raised Lizzy’s hand to his lips and bestowed a gentle kiss on her knuckles, but said not a word before leaving in his cousin’s wake.
“And that,” she whispered through the tears that flowed unbidden down her face, “was his final goodbye.”
The morning—or, rather, early afternoon—shed its light on the state of affairs as they stood. Lydia refused to accept any responsibility for her wrongdoing and demanded again and again to be returned to “Dear George,” and consequently, was locked in her room with a large footman standing duty outside. Escape from the window was deemed impossible although the possibility was checked quite thoroughly. Mrs. Gardiner, normally so calm and controlled, unleashed upon Lydia all the terror and anxiety she had felt upon the disappearance of her beloved son, leaving the girl in no doubt that had anything happened to the lad, it would all have been laid quite firmly at her feet. Elizabeth heard the haranguing from her own room, and wished, uncharitably, that only once her own mother might have taken the girl to task so severely.
Chastened, Lydia finally agreed not to try to leave again, but also seemed more than pleased to learn that she would, after all, soon be granted her wish of becoming Mrs. Wickham. However, Lydia also refused to see Elizabeth, unaccountably blaming her for the entire ordeal, and insisting that Lizzy leave the house.
“She is in no position to demand anything of me, Lizzy,” her aunt assured her, “but should you wish to go home, I shall keep Lydia here under lock and key until the soonest day we can arrange her wedding to… that man.” Her aunt then added, “If you do return home, would you consider taking Sammy with you? He is not quite returned to his accustomed control and might benefit from some time in the country, away from the places he associates with his ordeal.”
And so it was decided that the following morning, Elizabeth and Samuel would travel to Longbourn, there to await news of Lydia and Wickham. Of Darcy, she expected to hear nothing. The man had seen his nemesis brought low and had discharged whatever duties he may have felt to her family; he had offered no words of expectation to her. The kiss on her fingers was one of tender parting, a memory of what they might have shared, but never could. Once more her heart threatened to break, but she was, she reminded herself, made of sterner stuff, and would overcome her heartache.
Mr. Gardiner had departed for Darcy’s house, where he expected to remain for much of the remainder of the day, discussing Wickham’s fate, and Elizabeth did not expect to speak with him about any such decision before her departure. And thus it transpired. By noon the following day, she and her cousin were enjoying the sights of the countryside near Meryton, and shortly thereafter were alighting from the carriage into the welcoming and very noisy arms of the anxious and inquisitive Bennet family.
Chapter Twenty-Five
All Good Things
Samuel prospered at Longbourn as his parents had hoped. He adored his cousin Elizabeth, and she was most competent at helping the lad deal with the consequences of his ordeal. She encouraged him as only she knew how and helped him discover ways to calm himself when he found his memories of his night of captivity too much to bear. She knew when to talk to him, when to leave him in peace, when to guide him to a quiet place to regain his composure, and when to offer him his fuss toy.
The doting affection of his Aunt Bennet—as kind-hearted as she was silly—and the cool and undemanding retreat of Uncle Bennet’s study, where he might indulge in intellectual pursuits to satisfy his mind, also worked their wonders on the boy. Elizabeth was hopeful that when he returned home after the upheaval of Lydia’s wedding, his parents would find him much the same independent and self-reliant lad who had so merrily gone off on holiday with his friend only weeks before.
News of Lydia’s upcoming marriage spread swiftly through the neighbourhood, but the tale was managed with sufficient oversight that if people decided to believe that the couple were engaged in Brighton and had chosen to be married from London because of Mr. Wickham’s military duties, they were not corrected in their assumptions. Gradually, the story became accepted, and the Bennets returned to their previous status within the community, although with the added advantage of having at least one daughter nearly married.
Even Mr. Bingley renewed his addresses to Jane, excusing his absence of the previous weeks as stemming from a desire not to intrude upon the family’s distress at such a difficult time. He had never, he assured Jane, considered leaving again on account of Lydia’s actions, whatever the result of those actions might have been. When asked what his sisters might have to say, he snorted and commented that he had placed too much reliance on their opinions before, only to be deceived. This brought a glow to Jane’s eye and a smirk to Lizzy’s lips.
Elizabeth’s only true regret now was that Mr. Darcy should be lost because of the affair; there was no one else whose knowledge of a sister’s frailty would have mortified her so much. But even had Lydia’s marriage been concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect himsel
f with a family where, to every other objection would now be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with the man whom he so justly scorned. No, he was lost to her, and lost forever. And whilst her heart broke, she could not blame him. He had not only himself of whom to think but also of his sister, whose marriage prospects might be harmed by a connexion with such a man as Wickham, and whose heart and sensibilities might be damaged as well.
Of an evening, when all else was silent, she would dwell on what might have been, had only she accepted him when he uttered his first odious proposal at Hunsford. However, the reality remained that he would have honoured his commitment but resented her for it forever, and that was something she could not bear to contemplate. To have him thinking ill of her was worse than knowing he cared, albeit from afar. She must, she schooled herself, grow satisfied in the notion that of all of her family, she would be the only one to suffer for Lydia’s foolishness, and that the stain of a connexion with the vile Mr. Wickham would not touch her sisters, would not damage the long-sought happiness of her dearest Jane.
And yet in her deepest heart, she lamented her loss. Mr. Darcy was everything she could want in a man. He was intelligent and caring, and although he had his faults, he was aware of them and strove to become even better than nature alone had allowed him. She was convinced that she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet.
∞∞∞
At last, the pall lifted from Longbourn. One morning, not too many days after the news of Lydia’s forthcoming marriage had been received, Mr. Bingley came to call and asked to speak privately with Jane. The entire household was, of course, all aflutter at this request, and when Elizabeth entered the drawing room some time later in search of some paper, she saw she had interrupted a most private conversation, for there were Jane and Bingley standing together over the hearth. They hastily turned round and moved away from each other, but the looks on their faces told it all.
