by Jane Grix
In the morning, Elizabeth decided that Lydia would not be the only Bennet on her best behaviour. Elizabeth was determined to ignore Mr. Darcy as much as possible. If he noticed that she was quieter than usual, he did not mention it.
Georgiana asked her if she was feeling poorly, but Elizabeth assured her that she was well.
Over the next week, she spent more time reading and walking in the gardens. When Mr. Darcy asked her to play a game of chess, she declined. One day, she was walking the two-mile path around the lake, when Mr. Darcy approached her. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.
It would be uncivil to say “yes” so Elizabeth said “no,” although she wished that she were anywhere on earth except walking next to him.
“I remember you once saying that you walked to escape,” Darcy said lightly.
Elizabeth looked at him sharply. Was it obvious that she was trying to avoid him? She said, “I think sometimes I talk too much.”
Darcy said, “I disagree. I enjoy our conversations.”
Elizabeth smiled briefly but did not comment. If she were honest, she would admit that she had enjoyed their conversations as well, even the confrontational ones.
After a long moment of silence, he said, “I must ask, Miss Bennet. Have I done something to offend you?”
“Not at all.”
There was another awkward pause, and he said, “At one time we spoke about Mr. Wickham. I wondered if perhaps you had suddenly remembered his grievances against me and if that had given you a disgust for me.”
“Oh, no,” she assured him. “I don’t like Mr. Wickham at all, and I certainly don’t trust his lies about you.”
“I’m glad.”
“No, and now that you mention him, I should tell you something that he has been saying about you.”
Darcy braced himself. “What is it?”
She hesitated. “I didn’t know how to bring it up before, but here it is: He told my sister Lydia that he was your half-brother.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “He said that once to me as well, but I don’t believe him.”
“I don’t either,” Elizabeth said. “Especially not when he tried to marry your sister.”
Darcy was startled now. “Georgiana told you?”
“She did,” Elizabeth said. “But don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone else, and I would never betray her confidence.”
“No, I know that,” Darcy said quickly. “I trust you, and apparently Georgiana does as well.” He said seriously, “That was a terrible time. I hold myself responsible.”
“I don’t understand. How could you be responsible for Wickham’s actions?”
“I should never have left Georgiana alone for so long or trusted her teacher.”
“Do you think Mrs. Younge was complicit?”
“Yes, she was an old friend of Wickham, and their meeting was all part of a plan.”
Elizabeth said, “Poor Georgiana.”
He said, “When I confronted Wickham, he told me that he might be my half-brother. Georgiana’s half-brother.”
Elizabeth shuddered. “How can any man be so vile?”
“I don’t know if he actually intended to marry her or if that was just another attempt to blackmail me.”
“What did you do?”
“I paid him two thousand pounds to keep him silent and told him that if I ever saw him again, I’d have him arrested.”
“And then you saw him that day at Meryton. No wonder you looked murderous.”
Darcy nodded. “I find it impossible to be civil around him.”
Elizabeth looked at him, understanding him better now. She was embarrassed to think that she had ever believed Wickham, even a little. She said, “Fortunately, Georgiana is safe now.”
“Yes.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes and she said, “Georgiana is a sweet, tender-hearted girl. I like her very much.”
“And she likes you,” he said. “I hope that over time, you can maintain your friendship.”
“I would like that,” Elizabeth said. Georgiana was becoming another sister to her, but she could not say that because it might remind him of what could have been.
“I wish,” he began and then stopped himself. He smiled ruefully and Elizabeth wondered what he had been about to say. He said in a calmer tone, “I wrote to Bingley as I said I would, and I hope that he calls on your sister.”
She was glad that they had something safe to discuss. She said, “Thank you. I have heard from her and yes, he did call on her. I understand that he intends to return to Netherfield and speak to my father.”
Darcy smiled. “That is excellent news, but you have not shared it with your mother?”
“No, not yet. Jane didn’t want me to tell her until an engagement was complete.”
Darcy nodded. “I see.”
Elizabeth said, “As soon as it is confirmed, I think we will be leaving Pemberley.”
“So soon?” he asked, as if he wanted them to stay longer.
She teased him, saying, “Admit it. You are relieved. I know we have not been your favourite guests.”
“You are mistaken. There is at least one Bennet that I will miss very much.”
He looked at her with such warmth that Elizabeth drew in her breath. He had loved her once. Did he still love her?
“Forgive me,” he said. “I should not have said that.”
“No,” she agreed, suddenly agitated. “Some things should not be said.” He was engaged to her sister.
She said hastily, “I think we should turn back.” She increased her pace, eager to return to the house.
He said a second time, “I wish,” but she interrupted him with a quick, “Do not say what cannot be unsaid.”
“Did Lydia tell you the particulars of our engagement?” Darcy asked pointedly.
Elizabeth nodded.
“Then you know what I wish.”
DARCY CURSED HIMSELF for being a fool. He should not have joined Elizabeth on the walk. He should not have talked to her.
But he had given in to temptation, opened his heart to her, and Elizabeth had fled from him. She had walked quickly up to the house, saying nothing, not even a good-bye.
Perhaps her father was right, and she did not like him.
But there had been a moment today when her beautiful eyes gazed at him and he felt that if only things were different, they could have been happy together.
He was a fool.
He marched up to the house, ignoring Mrs. Bennet and Lydia. He walked to his study and closed the door. After half an hour, he sent a footman to find Mrs. Reynolds. He could not have Elizabeth, but at least he could have some answers about other matters in his life.
In a few minutes, she appeared in the doorway. “You wished to speak with me?” she asked.
“Yes. Please come in and close the door behind you.”
She did as he ordered and stood before his desk.
“Please, take a seat.”
“Yes, sir.”
She looked at him with such goodwill and patience that he hated to ask what he must ask. He said, “We have never discussed this before, but I understand that there are some rumours that George Wickham is my father’s bastard.”
Mrs. Reynolds flinched. “I am sure that is a vicious lie, sir, against your dear father, and if anyone in the household is saying such things, they will be dismissed immediately.”
“As far as I know, it is not among the servants,” he said. “But I wonder if you know of any evidence of the rumour’s truth.”
Mrs. Reynolds said, “When I came to Pemberley, you were four years old and George Wickham was three. I have no knowledge of anything that happened before that, but I do know that your father was a fine gentleman. He didn’t dally with any of the maids, like in some other households I’ve seen.”
Darcy nodded. “Thank you.”
“You could have asked Mr. Symes as well, if he were still alive.”
Mr. Symes had been his father�
�s valet for thirty years. Darcy said, “Is there anyone else in the household who might know anything about this matter?”
Mrs. Reynolds thought for a moment. “The only one who might know would be Mr. Andrew, sir.”
Andrew Darcy was one of his distant cousins, an ancient man who had been hired to write a family history and catalogue Pemberley’s library decades earlier. He had a little office that was filled with books and papers. He ate meals by himself, preferring to work in isolation without interruption. Darcy spoke to him possibly twice a year. “Yes, excellent idea,” he said. “Please tell him I wish to speak with him.”
Within half an hour, Mr. Andrew Darcy was in his office. He was stooped and frail, paler than Darcy remembered. His hair was white and his teeth were grey. He carried a stack of papers neatly bound with twine. “Did you wish to read the manuscript, sir?”
“No, not yet,” Darcy said. “I know you are still working on it.”
The man sighed. “Yes, thank you. I am currently cataloguing the renovations made to the house and park by your great grandfather.”
“Excellent,” Darcy said. “But that is not why I asked to speak with you. I wish to learn more about my father.”
Mr. Andrew said, “What do you wish to know?”
There was no way to say it delicately. “Do you think George Wickham is my father’s bastard?”
Mr. Andrew did not hesitate. “Yes, sir.”
It was what Darcy had always feared. It explained why his father had always supported Wickham. “Why do you think that?”
“Your father always kept a mistress in Town, and when his favourite got with child, he arranged for her to marry his steward, Old Wickham.”
Darcy was astonished. His father always had a mistress in Town? That might explain his mother’s tears. “Why did I never know of this?”
Mr. Andrew shrugged. “It is all in the estate papers, if you know where to look.”
“What? Are there expenditures in the accounts for harlots?”
“I believe your father included them in entertainment. And there were yearly gifts to the steward.”
Darcy was a man of the world – he knew that many of his associates kept mistresses – but he had thought his father was a better man. He said, “My father never told me.”
Mr. Andrew said, “Your father died unexpectedly. I am sure that if he had known that his death was imminent, he would have told you.”
Darcy wasn’t so certain of that. “Do you know of any other illegitimate children?”
“There were three by your grandfather and at least two by your great-grandfather, but those records are not as reliable.”
Good heavens. “What became of them?”
“They were given up for adoption and those that lived to maturity were given a trade.”
Darcy said, “When I asked about other illegitimate children, I meant by my father.”
“No. None that I know of. After George Wickham’s birth, he was more careful, I presume.”
Darcy was appalled by what he had learned, but he was relieved to know that he had only the one half-brother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I am worried about Lydia,” Mrs. Bennet said to Elizabeth as they dressed for dinner. Mrs. Bennet straightened her lace cap and adjusted one of her ringlets. “She has become so moody. And tonight, she is refusing to wear the same dress as you. I don’t know what has come over her.”
Elizabeth didn’t know, either, but she had noticed that Lydia was increasingly irritated with her, not wanting to sit by her or talk to her. Elizabeth did not mind, for she was not happy with Lydia, either. It seemed grossly unfair to her that Lydia had tricked Mr. Darcy into proposing to her and that now she had the effrontery to complain about him. The right thing for her to do was to break off the engagement and set Mr. Darcy free, but Elizabeth knew she could not change Lydia’s mind by wishing.
For the first time in her life, Elizabeth wished that she could take Lydia’s place. If she were a heroine in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, she could douse Lydia with laudanum and take her place at the altar.
But that was impossible as well.
Mrs. Bennet said, “I am thinking that we all should return to Longbourn.”
“I agree,” Elizabeth said. She hoped to hear from Jane any day now, informing them of her engagement to Mr. Bingley.
Dinner was uncomfortable with little conversation. Afterwards, Georgiana played the pianoforte and Mrs. Bennet tried to interest Lydia in a game of piquet, with no success.
Darcy stared solemnly at the fireplace and Elizabeth wished that there was something she could do or say to change matters between them.
After coffee, Lydia announced that she was retiring to her room. “I have a headache.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a worried glance at Mr. Darcy and said, “I don’t know what has come over her. Lydia has never complained of headaches before.”
“Perhaps it is the weather,” Georgiana said. “I often get headaches when it is about to rain.”
Mr. Darcy said, “If you wish, I can send for an apothecary in the morning.”
Lydia said, “Oh no, do not bother. I am certain I will feel better in the morning.”
“Lydia has the sweetest nature,” Mrs. Bennet said. “And the greatest patience in the world, even when she suffers.”
Mr. Darcy did not comment, and Lydia left the room.
Later that evening, Elizabeth knocked on Lydia’s bedroom door. “Go away,” Lydia said.
“No, I insist,” Elizabeth said. “We must talk.” She opened the door to Lydia’s room and to her surprise, she found Lydia fully dressed for travel wearing a heavy pelisse and bonnet. There was a portmanteau on the floor by the bed. “What are you doing?”
“Shh,” Lydia said harshly. “I am running away.”
Elizabeth sank down on the bed. “But how? This is madness. It is the middle of the night and we are in the middle of Derbyshire.”
“I will not marry Mr. Darcy.”
“No, of course not,” Elizabeth agreed, relieved that Lydia had finally come to her senses. “Not if you don’t wish. But you don’t have to sneak away. You can speak to Mr. Darcy in the morning and we can go back to Longbourn.”
“No,” Lydia said defiantly. “I am leaving tonight.”
“But how will you travel?”
Lydia hesitated for a moment and then confessed, “I am meeting Wickham in the rose garden at midnight. He will have a carriage.”
“Wickham?” Elizabeth gasped. “But how?”
“Kitty has been sending me his letters.”
That explained their frequent correspondence. “Oh no, Lydia, you can’t.”
Lydia said mulishly, “I can and I will. He still loves me.”
Elizabeth said, “You can’t trust him. He won’t marry you. He wants to marry an heiress.”
“We will be all right,” Lydia said. “Wickham has friends.”
And enemies, Elizabeth thought. And mountains of debt. “Please, Lydia, do not be rash.”
“Are you going to stop me?”
Elizabeth knew that she could call out to her mother, but should she? Was it right to let Lydia marry Mr. Darcy when she loved Mr. Wickham instead?
Suddenly, Lydia grew pale and she put a hand over her mouth. “Oh no,” she said and started to retch.
Lydia bent over to reach for the chamber pot under the bed, but she was too late. She knelt on the floor, vomiting, staining the carpet, the bedding, and her coat.
Elizabeth was so stunned that for a moment she did not know what to do. She then dampened a cloth with water from a basin on a side table and knelt beside Lydia until she finished retching. “You are ill,” she said, trying to comfort her. “Give up this idea of Wickham and go to bed.”
Lydia glared at her as she wiped her face. “I am not ill,” she snapped. “I am with child.”
Good heavens. Everything made more sense now – Lydia’s secret meetings with Wickham and her anger for his engagement
to Miss King. Elizabeth sat back on her heels. She said, “Then you must not marry Mr. Darcy.”
“No. I am going to marry Wickham.”
Elizabeth still thought that was unlikely, but she would not stop her. Lydia should be with the father of her baby, and Wickham should take responsibility for her. “If that is what you wish,” she said finally. She heard the chiming of a clock. It was midnight.
Lydia pointed to her coat. “But look at me. I can’t go like this. I need to bathe and change clothes.”
“I will help you,” Elizabeth said.
“There isn’t time. I am worried Wickham won’t wait.”
“If he loves you, he will wait for you,” Elizabeth said.
“No,” Lydia insisted. “You must go to him and tell him that I am on my way.”
“It will take just as much time for me to go there as for you to change.”
“No,” Lydia cried. “I stink. I can’t have him see me like this, and you must explain.”
“Does he know you are expecting?”
“No, not yet. Tell him I love him, and I am still packing.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “This is foolishness, Lydia.”
“No, please, I beg of you,” Lydia said desperately. “If I show up like this, he will turn and run. He hasn’t seen me for weeks. I must look my best.”
Elizabeth did not want to help her, but she was afraid that if she did not, Lydia would take even more time to get ready. And perhaps she was right to fear that Wickham would abandon her if she was ill. “All right,” she said. “I will tell him.”
Lydia smiled. “Thank you. You are my dearest sister.”
It was with great misgivings that Elizabeth put on her own coat and slipped downstairs, carrying one small candle for light. She walked quickly but quietly, afraid that she might be discovered by a footman.
But she was successful and within a few minutes, she was outside, walking to the rose garden, her shoes making a crunching sound on the icy lawn.
She saw Wickham first. He stood, head uncovered, wearing a great coat and hessian boots. There was a lantern on the ground beside him, giving off a hazy glow. For a moment, in the shadows, he looked like Mr. Darcy. He saw her and said, “It is about time. I have been waiting for more than twenty minutes.” He frowned at her lack of baggage. “Where are your clothes?”