Page 76 of Resilience

For the first time since arriving at Pemberley, Lydia crossed its threshold not as someone merely sheltered, but as someone seen.

Chapter Thirty-One

Monday 10 August 1812

The draperies were open, admitting a pale light that gleamed on the polished wood of the escritoire and the brass fittings of Darcy’s traveling case. Elizabeth stood near the window of the private parlour they shared, tying the ribbons of her bonnet with careful precision, while Darcy reviewed a final note on his desk, his brow faintly drawn.

“It is better that we did not decline,” he reassured his wife. “Lady Camden was a dear friend of my mother, and she pressed the invitation with uncommon warmth. To withdraw now would invite speculation…and I am persuaded the change will do you good, Elizabeth. You have been too much indoors, too little in society since Mrs Wickham came. It is not in your nature to be so isolated.”

Elizabeth glanced at him, her expression gentle but thoughtful. “Two weeks has not been so very long to receive fewer callers,” she said. “I am certain that life will return to normal soon enough, once Lydia becomes accustomed to feeling safe. I do not object to the plan. It will be good for Lydia too, for she relies too much upon me, and it would help her to spend more time with Georgie and Priscilla.”

“Just so,” Darcy replied, sealing the note. “I quite agree that our absence will be beneficial.”

There was a knock at the door, quiet and hesitant.

“Come in,” Darcy called.

Richard entered, his usual bravado conspicuously absent. He paused just inside the door, as though uncertain whether to proceed.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said. “I wished to speak with Darcy before he departs.”

Elizabeth understood at once, and offered a small smile. “I shall speak to Mrs Reynolds,” she said, and quietly withdrew.

When the door closed, Richard exhaled and crossed the room in two long strides.

“You cannot possibly mean to leave me in sole command,” he said in a low, urgent voice, not unkind but undeniably strained. “Priscilla and Georgiana are steady enough…but Mrs Wickham…”

Darcy stood and clapped him upon the shoulder. “You will not be alone,” he said evenly. “Mrs Reynolds is watchful, the servants have accepted Mrs Wickham, and although Mrs. Annesley will be absent–”

“Which is precisely the problem,” Richard interrupted. “Forgive me. I do not mean she is troublesome. God knows, she is the opposite. Mrs Wickham is…” he faltered. “She scarcely speaks. She startles at the sound of a door. And when she does look at you…”

“I know,” Darcy said quietly.

Richard looked up, searching his cousin’s face. “She is so young, Darcy. And I am—” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I am accustomed to managing soldiers and hard men, not ghosts. Collins and his wife are not even at the parsonage. It was a damned inconvenient time for him to travel to Lichfield to see his bishop.”

Darcy regarded him for a long moment, then spoke with deliberate calm. “You are not being asked to cure her, Richard. Only to be present. To ensure the ladies are safe. To let her see, if only by degrees, that men are not entirely villainous. She is technically a matron, there is no impropriety.”

“And if she breaks while you’re away?” Richard asked. “If she cannot bear even this small separation from Elizabeth?”

“I do not believe that will happen.” Darcy’s voice softened. “But if it does, then you send for us and we return at once. Lady Camden will understand.”

That finally seemed to steady Richard. He nodded. “I will do my utmost. Though I confess, the responsibility weighs heavier than any battlefield has ever done.”

Darcy closed the escritoire. “That is because this responsibility requires kindness rather than courage. Do not worry, Richard. You possess more kindness than you credit yourself with.”

Fitzwilliam managed a faint smile. “I pray that you are right, Darcy.”

The second day without her brother and his wife had stretched itself thin.

Georgiana sat by the small worktable near the south window. She had carefully chosen her situation; neither Lydia’s room nor her own. Neutral ground, as though that might make the invitation easier to accept.

“I made this a fortnight ago,” she said gently, holding up the little gown. “For Mrs Turner’s baby. She is expecting in perhaps a month. Lizzy will deliver it with the next basket.”

The stitching was neat, the embroidery modest but precise. Simple, tiny green leaves curled around the hem of the garment. Georgiana watched Lydia’s face as she spoke, searching for even the faintest spark of interest.

Lydia sat opposite her, hands folded, eyes upon the floor.

“Yes,” Lydia murmured, after a moment too long. Or perhaps she had not murmured at all, and Georgiana imagined it.