To Conquer Mr. Darcy

by Abigail Reynolds

The corners of his mouth twitched, and he pulled her into his arms for a kiss perhaps slightly more thorough than the circumstances required. Her cheeks were scarlet as they called their thanks to the cheering singers.

  “Now, my love,” he said as he drew her away from the window, “about this matter of tolerating my attentions…”

  * * *

  Elizabeth was feeling quite satisfied with married life the next morning, when, after having the pleasure of awakening slowly in her husband’s arms, she sat with him at breakfast, knowing that no one was expected beside the two of them, and that this could no longer be seen as improper. The warmth with which Darcy’s gaze rested on her brought a smile to her face, and she was not above seeking his hand under the table merely to celebrate the fact that she could do so.

  After breakfast, they planned to part briefly as Mrs. Reynolds had offered to introduce the staff to Elizabeth and begin the first stages of her education in the workings of Pemberley, which Elizabeth hoped to embark upon before they took their necessary trip to Longbourn to acquaint her parents with the news of their marriage. They had hardly had a chance to start the discussion before Darcy reappeared with letters in hand. “Mrs. Darcy, I have just discovered that the post brought these letters while we were in Matlock; I believe they are from Longbourn, and I thought you might wish to attend to them immediately,” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” responded Elizabeth eagerly. She took the letters, and, discovering they were both from Jane, asked Mrs. Reynolds to excuse her until later. With a smile for her husband, she settled herself in the parlor to read her letters. She had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Pemberley; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; now her sister was justified, as one of the letters was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

  The one missent must be first attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded, as well as her sister’s raptures over her dearest Mr. Bingley; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:

  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. 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!—Imagine our surprise. 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, though how you are to broach the matter to Mr. Darcy I can make no suggestion. My dear Bingley has been everything that is kind, and I am most thankful that he is here. 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.’

  Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows—it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first:

  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. 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 Lieutenant 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. 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. 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 to 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 his anger for having concealed their attachment, but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; I do not know how I would manage it, though, were it not for the aid and support of my dear Bingley, who has been everything one could possibly ask in this time of trouble. Adieu.

  I take up my pen again to make a request, because the 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 tomorrow 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. I can only rely on you, Lizzy, to determine what is best done regarding Mr. Darcy; I know this must be a blow to him, but if he has any advice or thoughts on how W. is to be found, I beg of you to send word to my father immediately.

  Elizabeth’s distress on reading this was great, and she scarce knew what to say or how to look. Lydia and Wickham! She grieved for her lost sister, she feared for the well-being of her family, and she could only be horrified by the prospect of Darcy’s response to this news. His sister-in-law, not only ruined, but by Wickham! The mortification would be nigh unbearable, and such proof of the weakness of her family must make him regret their alliance. How were th
ey to explain what could not be hidden to Georgiana?

  She could not hide this intelligence, however, and despite her fear over her reception she knew she must go to him immediately—but how could this not come between them in the most hurtful manner? Was one day of marital happiness all they were to have? She caught her breath on a sob, and before her courage could fade away, she took herself to his study, where she found him working behind his desk.

  He looked up as she appeared at the door, and, seeing her look so miserably ill, he said with more feeling than politeness, “Good God, what is the matter?”

  She looked at his beloved face and burst into bitter tears. He strode to her side immediately. “Elizabeth, what is it? You must tell me, dearest. Is it news from Jane?” Wordlessly she handed him the letters, and then sat down, unable to support herself any longer.

  Darcy, torn between reading the letters and comforting Elizabeth, who was clearly beyond any explanation of the matter, compromised by kneeling beside her and taking her hand while he scanned the letters. His face was fixed with astonishment as he read the first, and when he came to the second, a few words unsuited to a lady’s presence escaped him. She burst into tears on seeing his contracted brow, and she covered her face with a handkerchief, not wanting to see his face when he looked up at her with knowledge of her sister’s disgrace.

  His shock and horror was great, but his concern for Elizabeth was even greater. He put his arms around her compassionately, wishing for something he could say that would comfort her.

  “When I consider,” she said in an agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! 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! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all, all too late now.”

  “It is too late to stop it, but not too late to mend it, dearest. They shall be found, and he shall be made to marry her,” he said in what he hoped to be a reassuring manner.

  She shook her head in distress. “Nothing can be done; I 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 every way horrible!”

  He took her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. “Elizabeth, there is nothing easier in the world than working on Wickham—all it takes is money. If I know Wickham, he will not be hiding so much as waiting to be discovered so that he can make his demands. You must have faith in me, my dearest; you know that I have dealt with him before, and I can do it again.”

  She looked at him with eyes filled with pain. “I cannot ask it of you—you cannot take on the mortification of this; it is a matter for my family.”

  “Good God, what do you think I am? You married me yesterday, Elizabeth, and I am your family, and, if I may venture a guess, I am the ultimate cause for this dreadful affair, and it lies to me to remedy it,” he said forcefully.

  “How could you be the cause? It is Lydia’s weakness, Lydia’s folly, and my wretched, wretched mistake of failing to explain what I knew when my eyes were opened to his real character.”

  Taking a deep breath, he said, “Elizabeth, please listen to me. Does Lydia know of our engagement?”

  “I cannot say—I suppose she must, that my mother must have written her with the news; she no doubt sent it to everyone she could,” she said hesitantly.

  “And Lydia would no doubt have reported it to Wickham, knowing his opinion of me. You cannot suppose that she was the true inducement—she has no money that can tempt him, but she has that connection to me. No, Elizabeth, this has everything to do with me; this is just what he attempted last summer with Georgiana, but now he is trying to strike at me through you.”

  She stared at him in horror—she had not thought so ill, even of Wickham, as to think that his vengeance would extend so far. Darcy, misinterpreting the look on her face, leaned his forehead against hers, and whispered sorrowfully, “Can you ever forgive me, my dearest, for bringing this upon you?”

  “You have done nothing to cause this,” she said fiercely. “You are not to blame for Wickham’s behavior, nor for Lydia’s, and I will not have you fault yourself for it!”

  He held her close to him, wishing that he could take this grief from her. “Elizabeth, I need to consider what must be done. Is there nothing I could bring you for your present relief? A glass of wine, shall I get you one?”

  “No, I thank you, nothing but you,” she said none too fluently.

  He removed himself to the chair beside her, where he could continue to hold her hand while he considered matters. Finally he said, “The Gardiners will return here tonight; even if I sent a messenger to Matlock now, it would not bring them back in time to leave today, and there is no point in worrying them before anything can be done. You and I shall leave for London tomorrow morning, where we will meet your father and begin efforts to discover them.”

  “Jane asks me to return to Longbourn, and I have no doubt she needs my help and support in dealing with my mother,” she said tentatively.

  Darcy shook his head decisively. “Jane does not know the full situation, and she has Bingley with her for support. I will need you with me to deal with Lydia; I doubt she would listen to anything I have to say—and I will need you myself, I have no doubt. Perhaps the Gardiners could go to Longbourn instead.”

  It will take me some time to accustom myself to the idea that my first loyalties must now go to him, and not to my family, she thought. I must remember that I am his wife now, as unconventional as our wedding may have been. With an unpleasant shock, it came to her how their abrupt marriage would look to her family in light of these new events, and what her father would feel faced with another daughter who had been rushed to the altar.

  The day seemed interminable to Elizabeth. She would have preferred to be taking some form of action, but apart from overseeing the packing for the trip to London, there was little she could do but wait and worry. Her mind kept flying to Lydia, fretting over her safety as well as her future, for what future could there be for her, either as Wickham’s wife or as a ruined woman? Wickham would never be able to provide for her in any sort of acceptable manner—her lot would be continual poverty and the misery of a marriage to a liar and wastrel, and this was to be the best possible outcome. The humiliation and misery that Lydia was bringing on her family also pained her; not only would it materially affect the marriage chances of Kitty and Mary, and delay, possibly indefinitely, the wedding of Jane and Bingley, but its effects on the Darcy family must be considered as well. She could only imagine the extent to which Darcy would be mortified by the continued connection to Wickham, and there was no question that the news would be hurtful to Georgiana. Darcy had been clear that he did not wish to blame her in any way for it, but Elizabeth could not help but worry whether his ability to keep separate his feelings about Lydia and about her was strong enough to keep this affair from contaminating his affection for her.

  Her anger and shock at Lydia’s behavior led to further unpleasant thoughts as she considered her own conduct in recent days and weeks. She was appalled by Lydia’s choices, yet how were they so very different from her own? Was it not mere good fortune on her part that her lapses, though every bit as grave as Lydia’s, were to go quite unpunished while her sister suffered irreparable damage? She had begun to feel less troubled by her permissive behavior as it became clear that the consequences would not be severe, but this situation could not but bring back to her awareness the gravity of her own errors.

  The Gardiners and Georgiana returned in the late afternoon, and after Darcy had taken a few minutes to greet his sister, he asked the others to join him in his study, where Elizabeth was awaiting them. One look at her face was enough to convince Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner that all was not well, and after they had perused Jane’s letters and heard an explanation from Darcy detailing his connection with Wickham, as well as the past behavior of that gentleman, they readily offered any possible help in resol
ving the situation. While in general agreement with the plans drawn up by Darcy, Mr. Gardiner felt that his presence in London could be useful, and after some discussion it was resolved that he would travel to town with Darcy and Elizabeth while Mrs. Gardiner proceeded to Longbourn, accompanied by servants from Pemberley for her safety and the sake of propriety. She would stay there as long as required before returning to London with the children, and it was agreed that she would not reveal Elizabeth’s marriage at present, given the apparent level of distress already present in the household.

  After the Gardiners left to refresh themselves before dinner, Elizabeth remained with Darcy, drawing comfort in her distress from his presence. She was still there when Georgiana came in to tell her brother about her stay at Matlock. Seeing Elizabeth’s tear-stained face and her brother’s grave countenance, Georgiana immediately inquired as to the cause of their distress.

  “It is nothing of any import, Georgiana, merely a minor difficulty,” Darcy said reassuringly. “You need not trouble yourself over it.”

  Georgiana looked unconvinced, knowing well the extent to which her brother strove to keep unpleasantness from her. “If it is not so serious, please tell me, then, else I shall continue to worry about it.”

  “Georgiana,” her brother said with a warning in his voice.

  She gave him a pained look. “You cannot keep me a child forever, William,” she said softly, turning to leave them.

  Elizabeth said, “Georgiana, wait. I believe that she has a point, William. She cannot be protected from this for long, and it is my belief that she has the strength to handle it.”

  “I hardly think that this is the time…” Darcy fell silent as he noted the look on Elizabeth’s face. “Well, if you think it best, I will trust your judgment.”

  Elizabeth gave him a grateful look and took Georgiana’s hand. “We received some bad news from Longbourn today, and I fear that it will prove particularly distressing to you. It seems that my youngest sister, Lydia, who was in Brighton while you were at Netherfield, has eloped, or perhaps more accurately, has run off, with none other than Mr. Wickham.”