“And I suppose that all those times when you were supposed to be with Mary King. . ."
"I was with Wickham. Yes, mostly."
“And when I saw you coming out of the lodgings that day with Denny. . .”
Lydia lifted her head then. "No, I was telling you the truth. On that occasion, I really had been visiting Wickham, because I was worried about him. He was convinced that the only way he could get out of debt and marry me, was to appear to be eloping with Miss Darcy, so her brother would pay a heavy price for him to call off. But I did deliberately mislead you, because I swore that I had not visited Denny in his lodgings, but I had been there before, only with Wickham."
Elizabeth, who had managed to keep calm until now, suddenly felt her anger boil over and she exclaimed, "Lydia, how could you?"
Lydia looked her straight in the eye. “I've already told you—I love him. Don't run away with the idea that he was entirely to blame. I wanted him just as much as he wanted me." Then her face crumpled and she cried, "Oh Lizzy, why hasn't he come?"
With that Elizabeth's anger evaporated. She put her arms round her sister. Lydia had made a mistake but it looked as if she would spend the rest of her life paying for it. Having her own suspicions about why Wickham had failed to appear, Elizabeth said merely, “Are you sure that he will have received your message?"
"He must have! I know that Miss King will have passed it on because. . .”
"Because?" prompted Elizabeth gently.
"Because she thought it excessively romantic that I should be in love with a rake,” murmured Lydia. "Lizzy, he isn't going to come, is he?"
Elizabeth could not bring herself to lie, but she said simply, "I don't know, Lydia. All kinds of things might have happened to prevent him from receiving your message, or from coming even if he did receive it. Have you written again to Mary King?"
"Yes," admitted Lydia. "I wrote to her over a week ago, and I have heard nothing. Besides . . ."
"Yes?" prompted Elizabeth again.
"I'm not at all sure that in ordinary circumstances either one of us would choose to keep in contact with the other."
Elizabeth thought for a moment. "Did you tell her that you were with child?" she asked eventually.
Lydia shook her head. "I haven't told anyone except for you. It is only in this last week that I have been absolutely sure. In any case, I suppose I thought that if I told someone it would make it more real, more final. And it has." She shivered and Elizabeth hugged her.
“I'm glad you've told me," she said. "We'll give Miss King another week to reply. If you have not heard by then, we will try to think of some other way in which to proceed."
They waited for a week, but the only letter that arrived was one for Elizabeth from Darcy, telling her that although his business at Pemberley was finished, he had gone down to London to meet Colonel Fitzwilliam there. Obviously Mary King either could not or would not answer. Eventually, Elizabeth raised the subject with her sister again.
"Lydia, what can we do? We cannot keep your condition a secret forever."
Lydia got up and walked across the room. She was reed slim, and Elizabeth was still anxious about her lack of appetite.
“I don't know, Lizzy. Perhaps I could go away somewhere?"
“To have the baby and . . ."
“To have the baby and keep it," said Lydia firmly. "Can you imagine that I would ever give up Wickham's child?"
Elizabeth did not comment on this. Both of them knew all too well that there was nowhere for her to go. Only one way of doing it occurred to her. There still remained some money from her portion. It might serve to keep Lydia hidden and provided for, if she lived frugally, until she could claim her own money, but it would be a bleak existence.
“I have an idea," said Elizabeth at last. "Lydia, do I have your permission to seek a solution—if I can?"
“I suppose so. As long as it doesn't mean telling Papa."
"Lydia, he'll have to know some time. . ."
"No!" cried Lydia, her voice rising almost on a note of hysteria. "Please not yet!" Her face crumpled. "Oh Lizzy, if only Mama were here."
As she cradled her sobbing sister, Elizabeth found herself wishing the same thing most profoundly.
"Try not to become too distressed," she murmured against her sister's hair. "I'll never desert you; I swear it."
In all truth, the solution that Elizabeth had in mind did not involve speaking to her father. He still showed no signs of taking any interest in his family, and spent a good deal of time shut away in his study. Even had Wickham not gone to London, Elizabeth doubted whether she would have confided in Darcy. He would surely be relieved by the intelligence that his sworn enemy had successfully seduces her sister and not his.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Elizabeth wandered up to her room to collect her bonnet. There was no sign of any of her sisters. She smiled wanly. Jane must have taken them shopping in the village. She went back to the garden and picked a few flowers, then walked to the churchyard.
As she passed Crystal Cottage, she could not help wondering when Mrs. Clarke would go to join Darcy in London. She sighed to herself as she reached the churchyard gate. The only fiance that she had ever had and was ever likely to have was six feet beneath the soil.
She stood and looked at Peter's headstone. He had been, if not precisely handsome, certainly good-looking, with a kindly, open face. Even while she thought of him, however, a picture of Darcy came into her mind, and she knew beyond any doubt that those who said true love only ever came once in a lifetime were wrong. She had loved Peter, but she now loved Darcy with all her heart.
At that moment, she looked up and realized that Darcy himself was watching her from a short distance away. Her heart thumped at the sight of him and she almost went to him. Then she remembered the huge gulf that Lydia's situation had placed between them and she knew that if he spoke to her of love, then for Lydia, for Wickham, and Georgiana, even for Darcy himself, she had to drive him away.
He took a step towards her.
"Elizabeth," he said. “I must speak with you." She stood very still and waited for him to approach her. "Elizabeth, I wanted to beg your pardon for my behavior in Ramsgate. I. . ."
"You mean for the occasions when you insulted me, or for the time when you kissed me?” she asked coldly, her heart thumping even whilst she spoke.
"Yes, that was partly—" He flushed. "In my condition, I was conscious only of my desperate need of you."
""No doubt any female would have done!" she said with heightened color
"No!" he exclaimed, horrified. "No, you wrong me. You were the one I wanted; the one I needed. Elizabeth, I love you, most ardently. I . . ."
She had to cut him short before her resolution failed completely.
"Mama said we had misjudged you. She used to tell me what a gentleman you are," she retorted. "How wrong she was."
"I may not have acted like a gentleman, but my professions are true. I love you and I want to marry you. Please Elizabeth, listen to me!"
He took a step closer but she took one back.
"Kindly keep your distance, sir," she said haughtily. "I cannot tell what you might do, and I have no wish to risk being mauled, as on that occasion!"
"Mauled!" he demanded, becoming so angry that he forgot to be tactful. "I have no wish to offend you further, ma'am, but I would remind you that I was not the only one doing the kissing."
"Oh how dare you!" she cried, excess of emotion lending her anger authenticity. "Kindly refrain from approaching me again— upon any matter!" She turned to go, whereupon he took a step after her and caught hold of her shoulder.
"Elizabeth . . ." he said seizing hold of her. He pulled her against him and kissed her hard. After a moment he released her, looking almost as shocked as she did. She stepped back and dealt him a ringing slap across the face. Then dropping the flowers which until then she had still been holding, she ran past him, back to the gate.
He called after her, but
she did not turn round. He stood for a moment in thought, mentally abusing himself for his crassness. Then he bent to pick up the flowers. He heard his name spoken, and looking up, he saw Bingley standing close by.
"Forgive me, Darcy, but I was on my way to call on Jane when I witnessed part of your conversation with Elizabeth."
"You mean, you saw how woefully I disgraced myself," he answered, rising and handing him the flowers.
"Perhaps you weren't very wise," he ventured. "But I am sure that the situation is not irretrievable."
"If you'll forgive me, Bingley, I must beg to disagree. But I must go after her, if only to apologize—again."
"I quite understand your wish to do so, but I am convinced that you will do so much better when you both have cool heads,” his friend replied. "Come back to Netherfield Park for a glass of wine before you follow her." Seeing him hesitate, Bingley went on, “It will help you to regain your composure, and give her time to regain hers."
Recognizing the wisdom of his friend's words, Darcy agreed to return to Netherfield. Following Bingley into the little parlor, where he rang the bell. The wine, when it came, was rather sweet for Darcy's palate, but he sipped it and thanked his friend with grave courtesy.
Bingley smiled. "You have excellent manners, Darcy, but I fear that it is not to your taste. Please do not deny it, but permit me to send for something different."
This Darcy would by no means allow his friend to do.
“There is nothing wrong with the wine," he insisted. “The fault lies in my inability to appreciate what is good."
“I am very sure that that is not true," Bingley replied, looking steadily at him.
They both knew that Bingley was not just talking about the wine.
"Sometimes," Darcy went on looking down into his glass, "one can fail to appreciate something until it is too late."
"Yes, that is so, but I am sure that is not the case in this situation."
"You would not advise me to despair, then?" he said, looking up at his friend. "Not even after what you saw?"
"Oh, I would never advise anyone to do that." Bingley was silent for a while. Then he went on, "Darcy, you know that my parents died three years ago. There have been times when I have been close to despair. Jane has been very good, but with her mother's death, it has been painful for her, too, and there were occasions when we found it hard to help each other. If I had not met Jane, I don't know what I would have done."
They were both silent for a moment.
"Bingley," Darcy said at last, “I would never want you to betray a confidence, but has Jane Bennet ever spoken to you about Elizabeth . . . caring for someone?"
Bingley shook his head.
"She has not," Bingley answered. "But I believe that there is someone for whom she cares very much. Darcy, I see that you have finished your wine and, much as I have enjoyed your company, I think that perhaps it is time you went after her."
Darcy put down his glass.
"Since we are speaking so frankly. I feel bound to say that I do not see how she can change her opinion of me now."
“I think that that is probably true," Bingley agreed. "But I do not think that your idea of what she thinks of you agrees with mine."
****
When Elizabeth had run half the length of the village street she realized what a spectacle she was making of herself. She also discovered that Darcy was not pursuing her. Not sure whether to be glad or sorry, she continued on her way home at a more decorous pace.
After all, why are you being so foolish? she told herself severely. The worst is over. He has told you of his love and you have rejected him. All you have to do now is treat him with repulsive coldness whenever you see him, and he will soon fall out of love with you and look for someone else. It sounded simple, but the very thought brought tears to her eyes, which she dashed away impatiently.
She was still trying to reason with herself along these lines when she reached home, and saw that a gentleman was at that very moment handing over his horse to be led into the stables. As she drew nearer he turned round and she saw that it was Wickham.
"Miss Bennet," he said, bowing over her hand. "Good day."
She looked at his face. He looked if anything older than when she had last seen him, and she was reminded of what Darcy had told her.
"Mr. Wickham," she replied politely. “I believe you have come to see my sister.”
“May I speak to her?" he replied.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Mr. Wickham, I must ask that you never to approach my sister again, except under certain conditions."
He met her gaze squarely. "Yes, I understand. But what if I come bringing words of love, and a ring for her finger. I suppose you realize I'll make a diabolical husband?"
“I think that you can be any kind of husband you choose to be," she answered.
"May I see Lydia?"
They looked at one another for a long moment, then she said at last, “I'll take you into the house."
"How is she?" he asked her as they walked together.
"Much the same," she answered. "No appetite, no energy, no interest in anything."
“I'll have to see what I can do about that."
Elizabeth took him into the house by a side door. Lydia, she knew would be lying down on the day bed in the little drawing-room which faced out to the garden. It had no entrance from the hall, but could only be approached through the book-room, so she knew that once she had taken Wickham there, if she stayed in the book-room then they would be left undisturbed.
"Wait here,” she said to Wickham, once they were inside the book-room. He looked handsome and rakish as ever in his red officer's uniform, but he seemed a little tense as well.
Elizabeth suddenly caught something of what he must be feeling. He was on the point of confronting the girl whom he had seduced and then, as far as she was concerned, abandoned. Might he have come all this way just to be rejected?
She went into the drawing-room. Lydia was lying on the day bed, a book in her hand, her gaze fixed on the view outside and her mind obviously miles away.
"Lydia,” Elizabeth said softly.
Her sister looked round. "Lydia. I have a visitor for you,” Elizabeth beckoned to Wickham, and then stood to one side to let him come in. He waited on the threshold, looking at the girl on the day bed, so much paler and thinner than he had remembered.
For a few moments, Lydia was very still, and he could not be certain of the nature of his welcome. He could not know that Lydia had dreamed of his coming so often and awakened to find that it was not real, that she was unwilling to trust the evidence of her own eyes.
Encouraged a little by the fact that she had not actually turned away from him, he took a step forward and spoke her name. With that, her book fell unnoticed to the floor and she was on her feet, her face filled with color, glowing and transfigured.
"Wickham! Wickham, my Wickham!" she cried.
He took two steps forward and caught her in his arms.
Elizabeth looked at them for a long moment, before leaving the room and quietly closing the door behind her. She leaned against the door with her eyes shut. For a few moments, all she could think of was her dearly loved sister, and of how she seemed to have found happiness with the man of her choice, contrary to all expectations.
Then suddenly, there came the recollection of how she had seen Darcy, of how he had said that he loved her, and she had sent him away. With the advent of George Wickham all barriers could be swept away; but what if Darcy believed that she really was disgusted by him? What if he never came back? Suddenly she was filled with such a longing to see him and touch him that she wondered how she would ever be able to draw another breath.
Then, out of nowhere it seemed, she heard a voice very close to her saying, "Elizabeth, my dear, are you well? What is wrong?" She opened her eyes to see Darcy bending over her solicitously. Because she had been thinking of him and wanting him so much, the sight of him operated so powerfully upon her that
she forgot all about correct custom and form. So it was that instead of greeting him politely and assuring him that she was well and inviting him to have a glass of wine, and setting about a courteous explanation of her previous conduct, she simply put up her arms and pulled his head down and kissed him.
This was not the kind of greeting that Darcy had expected. He had parted from her in the churchyard, convinced that she was disgusted by his advances and wanted nothing more to do with him. The best that he had come hoping for was that she would forgive him and honor him again with her friendship.
To say that he was surprised at her action therefore would definitely have been an understatement. With an alacrity only equaled by his enthusiasm, he put his arms around her, held her close, and kissed her back with a fervor equal to her own. Eventually they drew apart, and suddenly the enormity of what she had done dawned upon her. She blushed bright red, and would have fled the room.
Darcy however, sensing her urge for flight, took hold of her firmly but gently by the arms and said, "No, Elizabeth. Three times we have kissed, and two times you have run away from me. You're not going to do so again."
She looked up into his face and put up a tentative hand to touch his cheek. "William—I hurt you," she said, and they both knew that she was not just talking about the way that she had slapped him. She moved away from him and this time he did not prevent her.
“The things that I said—such dreadful things! You must have thought me mad!"
"No, I did not think you mad, although you have bewitched me, body and soul,” he replied cautiously. "But you will forgive me if I tell you that I feel a little confused."
"Oh I know, I know,” she said, shaking her head. "I . . ."
He took hold of her hands, which she had been wringing together, and led her to a sofa where they sat down.
"Listen,” he said, when they were settled, sitting decorously a foot apart. "I think I know something of what you are feeling. I approached you at the wrong time and in entirely the wrong place.” He looked down at his clasped hands. "Elizabeth, I know that you loved Peter Stratford, and that he was young, amiable. . . everything I'm not, in fact. I told myself that I could never come other than a poor second to him, but that I could at least be there when you needed me, to care for you and protect you, and that perhaps you would eventually come to look upon me as more than your friend. Thanks to my arrogance, conceit and insensitivity, I even put that at risk."
The Ramsgate Affair Page 11