Page 60 of Near Pemberley

The thought of her rose above all others instantly.

At last, he understood.

The sudden departure from Lambton. The unanswered silence afterwards. Every hope he had dared permit himself was swallowed at once by distress and confusion.

And through it all, Elizabeth had known what Wickham truly was, yet been powerless to prevent any part of it.

And Wickham still walked free somewhere in London.

All the restrained melancholy of the past weeks hardened into something colder and far more dangerous.

The old anger – once controlled, long disciplined into contempt – returned now with astonishing violence. Not because Wickham had injured him personally. That belonged to years ago. Even after what had nearly occurred at Ramsgate, Darcy had still believed contempt and distance sufficient protection against further harm. But now Wickham had touched Miss Elizabeth’s family. Through selfishness, vanity, and cowardice, he had dragged her into humiliation and grief.

And because Darcy, who knew him best, had failed to stop him before greater harm was done. The thought struck him with immediate bitterness.

Had he spoken openly sooner – had he cared less for secrecy, less for Georgiana’s feelings, less for propriety and pride – might this have been prevented altogether?

Meanwhile, Lydia continued trembling before him, frightened now perhaps as much by his silence as by her own situation.

And another thought cut through the confusion with terrible force.

Miss Elizabeth believed herself ruined by this. Perhaps she believed he despised her now.

Darcy found breathing suddenly difficult.

Lydia was still trembling before him.

Whatever Wickham had done – whatever disgrace now threatened the Bennets – he would not abandon Miss Elizabeth to bear it alone.

“Miss Lydia.” His voice became firmer, quieter. “You are safe.”

The words seemed to break the last of her composure.

She covered her face with both hands and burst again into violent tears, the kind which seem to exhaust not merely feeling, but strength itself. For several moments, she could neither speak coherently nor remain steadily upon her feet. Darcy guided her almost instinctively towards a chair near the fire.

Only after she sat did he fully perceive the extent of her condition.

Her appearance, though outwardly restored to decency, still betrayed fatigue and neglect beneath every attempt at arrangement. She seemed thinner than he remembered her, especially in the face. Her eyes were swollen from repeated weeping; her hands trembled; and beneath all the agitation, there lingered the unmistakable look of someone who had slept badly and feared much for too long.

Lydia looked around the room wildly, as though recollection had returned all at once.

“Oh, God…” The horror in her expression sharpened.

Darcy understood immediately what had occurred to her mind: where they were, how he had found her, what she believed he must now think of her.

Before panic could wholly overcome her again, he crossed quietly to the bell and rang.

A servant appeared moments later. Darcy stepped partly into the doorway, shielding Lydia from observation as much as possible.

“Tea,” said he calmly. “And something proper to eat.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door closed again. Darcy returned to her.

Lydia had lowered her face completely now, as though unable to endure meeting his eyes.

He allowed silence for a few moments to steady her as much as possible before speaking again.