She looked up sharply and shook her head even as he placed a small book in her hands. It was a beautifully bound journal, obviously expensive and of the highest quality. She brushed her fingers along the spine and then flipped through the blank pages.
“It is so you can write down your feelings regarding your sister. My aunt gave me a mourning book like this when my parents passed, and I found it quite therapeutic.”
A tear escaped her eye as she pushed the book back into his hands. “I cannot accept it, Mr. Darcy. You know it is not proper for me to accept a gift from you. We are not . . . We do not have an understanding.” She swallowed, attempting to quench the emotions swelling in her breast for such a thoughtful gift.
With disappointment, he replied, “You gave me a gift; can I not give you one?”
“Mr. Darcy . . . ” She drew a steadying breath. “I cannot. I am sorry. I thank you for your consideration, but indeed, you know it would not be proper for me to accept it.”
He knew she would not be persuaded but endeavored once more. “I thought we had decided to discard propriety for this meeting.”
His voice was kind, but she shook her head. He acquiesced and returned the book to his breast pocket.
She smiled with unshed tears. “And I must also thank you for your hospitality earlier this week as well.” She paused with indecision and then straightened her shoulders as she continued. “I am lucky to count you among my friends, sir.” She was surprised how much she meant it too. Despite the way he frequently infuriated her, she did indeed count him a friend. As she tended so frequently to misinterpret his actions, she wondered whether her previous assumptions about him had been in error.
What joy her words brought him! He could kiss her for them. When she said such things with such sweetness to her tone, he wondered how he had ever thought she was anticipating his proposal back in Kent. He could see the difference now.
“Anyone admitted to the privilege of your presence, Miss Elizabeth, could not wish to be called less,” he said tenderly. Seeing her wet eyes, he instinctively reached in his pocket for his handkerchief and held it out to her.
She began to laugh as she shook her head, pushing his hand away. Elizabeth pulled out her own from her pocket, waving it, and cried with mock indignation, “That will not do, Mr. Darcy! How am I ever to keep out of your debt if you persist in throwing your linens at my person?”
Darcy threw his head back and laughed openly at her words. When he looked at her again, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her sweet, impertinent lips. “You found me out, madam. I wished to enslave you through twelve inch-square pieces of cloth.”
“It will not work, sir. I am keen to your plan now.” She laughed, feeling the natural release of her weary emotions. “I think we had better go in. We will be missed soon.”
“Of course. I will go first.” He stood, bowed to her and walked around the side of the hedge towards the house.
She left a few minutes later after a quiet cry, reflecting on the tumult of her mind regarding Lydia’s death, Mr. Bingley’s intentions and, of course, Mr. Darcy’s most solicitous almost-gift. Upon entering the parlor, she noted that everyone seemed occupied and her absence had gone unnoticed. She found Mr. Darcy standing in a corner speaking to one of her neighbors. Their eyes met briefly before she joined Jane and Mr. Bingley on the other side of the room.
When the gentlemen from Netherfield took their leave, she could not meet his eyes when he murmured his good-byes and bowed over her hand. With regret, she watched his broad shoulders as he left Longbourn and wondered when she might see or hear from him again.
It was then, with no small amount of surprise and curiosity that, upon returning from her afternoon walk two days later, she spied Mr. Hill receive a large package from a delivery boy, addressed from Mr. Darcy to her father.
Chapter 8
Elizabeth could not constrain her eyes from wandering repeatedly to the package on the side table of her father’s library. Unopened, it glared at her, and she was wild to know its contents. She brought a cup of tea to her mouth in another attempt to distract herself. She sat with her father in the early morning hours as she had often done over the years. They would share a cup of tea, read and visit together. This morning was no different — except for that blasted box!
Her eyes betrayed her again as they moved to the side table. What could it be? It was driving her mad that her father had not yet opened the package, and it had been delivered more than a week earlier! It was none of her business; she was sure. And she kept telling herself that. Once again dragging her eyes away from the package, she sighed into her cup.
Asking her father about it would surely arouse his suspicion. Frustrated and unable to do anything but think and look at the package, she politely excused herself from her father’s company and left for a walk.
The expectation of the pleasant exercise her walk would bring was essential if she were to accomplish the job she had set for herself that day. Indeed, she needed the exercise to help her forget about that box, too — and the man who sent it! if she was being honest with herself. He had intruded upon her thoughts far more than was comfortable. It was all because of that mysterious package; she was sure of it. Why else would my mind choose to think on him?
But that day she could not dwell on Mr. Darcy and his peculiar behaviors or his disturbing words while he was lately with her. It had been almost a fortnight since her sister’s death, and she had determined that she alone would take up the task of cleaning Lydia’s room. Nobody had ventured into that room since the day of the accident as Lydia had remained in the sickroom on the main floor. It was too painful for any of her sisters, and especially her mother, to consider entering the room. Elizabeth knew it to be a taxing undertaking, considering her own emotional stores; nevertheless, it must be done.
She set out at a brisk pace, hoping to bring peace to her mind and strength to her heart for the grim day ahead.
* * *
He was disgusted with his surroundings — and even more so with the lack of punctuality of the person whom he was to meet — and Darcy’s mood was taking a decided turn south. He dared not touch the soiled tablecloth covering the wobbly table in front of him. He had barely summoned the courage to order a glass of brandy from the grubby looking bar maid; her suggestive propositions and unwashed odors were making him ill. Where is that blasted man?
After eyeing the glass suspiciously and reminding himself why he must bear these mortifications, he tentatively took a sip of his drink. Upon his arrival at Netherfield, Darcy had sent his valet to gather information about Wickham or his whereabouts from within the exclusive, secretive world of the servant class. Some hard-earned confidences led Darcy to this fetid part of London.
It was not much of a surprise, considering there was no other place Darcy thought the man could be so well hidden. His man also discovered that the scoundrel, instead of simply disappearing to London, had slipped away with bit of muslin; the now-missing servant girl from the Meryton Inn had boasted that Wickham wished to marry her. Darcy knew better.
He took out his watch and looked at the time again. Regretting the action almost immediately, he groaned and then returned it to his pocket. He felt several eyes upon him, eyeing the gold chain of his watch fob still visible. He should have known better than to draw attention to himself in such a way. His valet had taken careful measures to dress him in less than auspicious clothing in an attempt not to stand out. He sat up, straightened his shoulders to show their broad, sheer strength, and glowered at a few patrons, intimating they should reconsider their interest in him.
Darcy was yet hopeful that Wickham had merely left Hertfordshire to avoid his mounting debts. There had been no evidence Wickham was responsible for Miss Lydia’s death. It was only a sinking feeling in his gut that told him otherwise. He wanted to believe his instincts were wrong because, if his former friend had a hand in Lydia’s death, Darcy’s own hopes for a particular member of that family would surely be los
t. For who would connect themselves with someone who could have prevented her sister’s death when he had the chance simply by revealing the character of the man responsible?
He was investigating for Elizabeth’s family as much as he was for his own hope of happiness. His valet’s work had taken him thus far to meet a man who claimed to know Wickham’s whereabouts. Darcy was there instead of his man because the informant was at least clever enough to recognize when he might get some blunt for his knowledge, refusing to meet with anyone other than the gentleman wishing for the information. At least his identity was concealed. The last thing Darcy needed was for Wickham to hear that he was looking for him. That would only cause Wickham to burrow himself deeper.
Darcy wished he were back at Netherfield attending to Elizabeth. He wondered what she thought of the package he sent to her father. He hoped she would not be angry with him for his presumption. Bingley had invited him to come back at any time; however, he could not go back until he had some answers.
But first he had to find the reprobate.
* * *
Elizabeth stood before her sister’s door, her hand on the knob. She turned the handle and entered, bracing herself for the feelings she was sure would overwhelm her. Standing just inside the room and looking around at the treasures and baubles belonging to her late sister, instead of being overwhelmed with grief, her heart filled with longing. Lydia’s disorganized writing desk was covered with ribbons, bonnets and adornments. Her closet hung open where she must have pulled out her spencer with haste when she left for her walk.
Elizabeth walked around the room and lightly touched the furniture where dust had begun to accumulate. The dust saddened Elizabeth with the knowledge of how much the world kept turning even when one was gone. She indulged in a few tears before she set about her work. She had to get through this.
A noise at the door alerted Elizabeth to Mr. Hill bringing in a trunk to consign her sister’s treasures. Sue, an upstairs maid, was behind him, waiting to help Elizabeth with the task. She was grateful for the presence of the maid as it helped her to hold her emotions in check.
Together they placed items in the trunk as they worked through the room. Elizabeth came to a table next to the bed. There was a small traveling box meant for perfumes and hairbrushes sitting underneath the table. She sat down on the floor to open it, intending to save anything her sisters might find as comforting keepsakes. Inside, she found a small book, bound with worn leather and strapped to a pencil.
Leaning back against the side of the bed, Elizabeth carefully removed the strap with the pencil and opened the book. Her heart tore and her hands stilled as she realized she held Lydia’s journal — her dear sister’s heart’s desires, thoughts and wishes. Tears rolled down Elizabeth’s cheeks as she closed the book and hugged it to her chest. Oh, poor, poor Lydia.
When her tears had ceased, Elizabeth stood to place the journal in Lydia’s trunk. She kissed it tenderly before placing it under some lace, out of sight. She excused the maid and closed the door to her sister’s room after she left. She had managed all she could that day.
* * *
When Darcy finally reached his home, he wished for nothing but a hot bath — maybe two. Never before had he been as discomfited by a place as he had been in the pub that day. After waiting nearly an hour past the scheduled time, he yielded. Peeved, he stood and tossed a few coins on the table. It was then that a man who had been sitting at the table next to him the whole time stood and addressed him by the alias surname he had given himself.
Darcy wanted to rage at the scamp for having been there the whole time, toying with him in such an establishment! Instead, he clenched his jaw and acknowledged the man.
“I had’a see for m’self how much a bloke like y’self wanted to know whats I know, see?” he explained. Darcy grumbled to himself but got to his purpose directly.
The man vouched for the whereabouts of Wickham as of four days earlier. He said they had been in the same gaming hell when Wickham had won a hefty purse. The grungy fellow sitting before Darcy had secreted himself in a corner of the room and then followed Wickham to a boarding house not far away. This Perkins, as he referred to himself — and which Darcy was sure was not his real name either — made his living skulking about, detecting the interests of others. He had been hired by another gentleman to follow Wickham; it would seem Wickham owed the other gentleman a significant amount of money, and Perkins was to inform him when Wickham’s luck turned, so he might reclaim his debts.
Somehow, Perkins heard that another gentleman by the name of Burns — in truth, Darcy — was looking for Wickham too. That was how Darcy’s man had been introduced to the informant who wanted to meet this fellow Burns. And so Darcy went as ‘Burns’ to meet this carrier regarding Wickham.
He pulled at his cravat and wrestled out of his now filthy greatcoat as he shook his head in aggravation. Perkins had found himself ten pounds richer for the information he had gathered. He demanded that price from Darcy before he would reveal what he knew. It was not a wasted investment in Darcy’s mind if it brought him another step closer to Wickham. But it left him needing to investigate an even seedier part of town. Even more disagreeable to Darcy, it required ‘Burns’ to have to employ Perkins again as a go-between. And worse, it meant Darcy would have to go back to the same disgusting haunt to meet with his new employee.
The only comfort Darcy gained from the day’s events was that there was still no further evidence that Wickham had anything to do with Lydia’s death other than his presence. Nothing was unusual in Wickham’s behavior since coming to town; he gambled as was his wont. Unfortunately, Perkins did not have any information as to the whereabouts of the servant girl from the Meryton Inn. It would seem Wickham had dispensed with her, and alas, she was now lost in London’s underworld, not likely to be found again.
Blast and hell, Wickham! Must you always cause me trouble? He sank into his hot bath and hoped it would serve to wash his mind clean of all this business. As had become his habit since he had met Elizabeth, whenever Darcy was troubled, he turned his thoughts to her. It was the only thing that would truly bring him peace. He pictured her back home in Hertfordshire, gaining strength in the face of her loss.
* * *
Elizabeth crossed the last ‘t’ of her name with her quill and blew on it to dry the ink. While she blew, she looked towards that irksome package on the side table again. Her father still had not opened it, and it had been another week. Two weeks and he has not opened it! What could he be about? The whole situation was maddening. She had turned to her only hope for information: Miss Darcy.
They had written each other only once since Elizabeth left London with Georgiana’s brother. Georgiana empathized with coping with the loss while Elizabeth had shared an accounting of the mourning hours — minus, of course, her meeting with Mr. Darcy — and the emotional trial of sorting out Lydia’s room. She did not know whether it was the profound connection she felt after having wept with her at the piano in London or Georgiana’s sincere kindness and understanding expressed in her letters that caused Elizabeth to be so open after such a short acquaintance. Whatever the reason, Elizabeth was growing to love Georgiana dearly.
In the letter she had just signed, she hinted to the package her father received. She contrived to sound as if she knew its contents, thus possibly encouraging her friend to expand upon what she knew of it. For surely, she knows what her brother sent. Elizabeth certainly hoped it was so.
She stood and placed her letter on the mail tray. Looking to where her father sat near the hearth, she thought about his changed demeanor. He had been a bit more subdued than usual, and oddly enough, so had her mother. She had heard them talking late at night and felt encouraged by the behavior. She had never seen her parents interact so frequently. It caused her to wonder whether there was some good to have come out of the whole, sad affair. For the first time in her nearly one and twenty years, Elizabeth had parents who acted as if they cared about one another.
Her eyes, for probably the tenth time, returned to the box. Looking down at the letter on the tray, she thought how Miss Darcy’s reply could not come for another week at least, and a week was certainly a long time to wait for information that her friend might not even know.
“Papa?”
Mr. Bennet looked up from his book — a book so engrossing that he had ceased to turn the pages the past twenty minutes she noted — and smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes.
Keeping her back to him so he would not see the flush of her cheeks, Elizabeth walked over to the beguiling package and inquired offhandedly, “What can Mr. Darcy have sent you, Papa?”
“I know not. To be honest, I had forgotten it was there, poppet.”
Forgotten? The package was as prominent in the room as an elephant! She swallowed and continued with feigned indifference. “Do you not think you ought to find out?”
“I suppose so, though I cannot think what the man would wish to send me.”
Elizabeth smiled and took the package in her hands, wondering at its weight. Her curiosity was at near boiling point as she paced herself to step leisurely to her father.
He shrugged when she reached him and waved her off. For a moment, she panicked and thought he might not wish to open it at all. To her relief he merely said, “You open it, dear. I find I care little to know its contents.”
Elizabeth then sat, perhaps too eagerly, in the chair next to him. Her nervous fingers tried to open the strings of the package. She was finally able to fumble her way through the cords and to pull apart the paper. When it fell away, her breath caught in her throat and her heart began to beat faster. Her eyes could not believe what she saw, and not because they were now filled with new tears.
Mr. Bennet looked at his favorite daughter and saw the raw emotion on her face. Looking at her lap and the opened package, he nervously asked, “What did he send, dear?”
Elizabeth had to swallow a few times to gain control as she whispered, “He has sent us each a mourning book to remember Lydia by.” She caressed the six spines of the gilded bindings. At the bottom a letter was enclosed. It had a strong, clear script in a decidedly masculine hand that read, “Mr. Bennet.”
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