Page 43

Darcy nodded. “You do not sound surprised,” he noted.

“I did not suspect Wickham to be the author of all these problems,” the earl clarified. “But it does not surprise me to find that he is. I always thought that your father judged him much too generously. A man with his history rarely reforms. What do you intend to do?” he asked, rather more bluntly than was his wont.

“I will find them,” Darcy said, “and I will settle his debts sufficiently that he has no reason to refuse to wed her, and I will see them married before the scandal can spread any further. I will settle some money on them, enough that he has reason to behave himself and so that Miss Lydia is not left entirely at the mercy of his character and initiative once this wedding is done.”

The earl considered this for a moment, his expression giving no clue as to his thoughts. “May I ask you a question, Darcy, before you go?”

“Of course.”

“Are you doing this because it is the right thing to do,” the earl asked, “or because it involves Miss Elizabeth’s sister, and you want to do something for her that she cannot do for herself?”

Darcy considered the question for a moment with the seriousness he always gave to his uncle’s rare questions. “I…I do not believe that they are separate reasons, sir,” he said finally. “Nor do I believe they ought to be.”

The earl’s expression eased to something more approving than his usual mild curiosity or sardonic amusement. “I believe you are correct,” he said. “I confess I was curious to learn whether you would see it that way, or if you would feel obliged to pick one choice or another.”

“So this was a test?” Darcy asked, with the first flicker of humour he’d managed since he had destroyed his own dearest hopes in the garden that morning.

“Of course, my boy,” the earl said. “All things are a test. However, I am glad to see that you have disregarded the misplaced belief that a good deed loses its virtue the moment it is also a pleasure to perform.”

“You think I am doing the right thing, then?” Darcy asked quietly.

His uncle tilted his head, regarding him calmly. “Wickham must be stopped, and you are likely the only man presently capable of stopping him quickly enough for it to matter. Additionally, Miss Elizabeth’s family needs help that her father, despite his many admirable qualities, has shown himself unable to provide. Those are reasons enough on their own, Darcy. You do not have to earn the right to act on them by attempting to prove that it will not please you to help Miss Elizabeth.”

He rose, and some of the dryness returned to his voice. “Both of you, go. Please endeavour to not get yourselves shot by some aggrieved tradesman or some such ruffian before you have accomplished anything useful. If you leave me with only Lionel, I will be most put out.”

Fitzwilliam burst into laughter, and even Darcy grinned. “We shall endeavour to remain unharmed,” Darcy promised as he followed his cousin out the door.

Twenty minutes later, Darcy was checking his saddlebags and listening to Fitzwilliam argue with one of the stable lads about which mounts to take, when he saw Elizabeth crossing the yard toward him. Her face was set in an expression of careful composure, and she seemed unable to meet his eyes.

“Mr Darcy,” she said in greeting, stopping a careful distance away.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, hearing the stiffness in his own voice, but knowing it was likely all that was keeping him from begging forgiveness like a pitiful swain.

She was quiet for a moment, then looked up at him with her usual resolute air. “I wished to thank you before you left,” she said. “I know you owe my family nothing, particularly after —” She stopped, her cheeks pinkening, and did not finish the sentence. “Yet you are going, at considerable trouble and probably considerable expense to yourself, for a girl who has been nothing but a problem and embarrassment to you, and for a family that has given you little reason to extend yourself on their behalf. I am grateful, Mr Darcy,” she said formally.

Darcy looked at her for a moment, not speaking. “You are wrong about one thing,” Darcy said.

She tensed but did not look away, waiting for what she likely thought would be another batch of insults.

“Lydia is a young girl, taken in by a dishonourable man. I know what it is like to have one’s sister be so abused. Wickham needs to be stopped, and I clearly failed to do that the last time I had the opportunity. But I will not pretend that is the whole of my reasons, as you deserve rather more honesty from me than I managed to give you this morning.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught audibly, and she turned her head away, breaking her gaze. Darcy made himself continue before either of them could retreat from what he had just said. “I will do everything in my power to find your sister and to see this come to the best resolution possible. I do not offer that as a transaction, or as a means of recommending myself to you. But make no mistake, Elizabeth…” He stopped and didn’t continue until her eyes rose to his again. “I do this because I can, and because it is the right thing to do, and because your sister deserves someone to help her. But above all, I do it for you.”

Elizabeth stared at him, at a loss for words for perhaps the first time since he’d met her. Fitzwilliam’s voice rose cheerfully behind him, demanding whether his cousin intended to start the journey by daylight or if he preferred to wait until dark to leave. Darcy looked at Elizabeth for one more moment, then turned away, mounting his horse. He turned it around and began to trot after his cousin, away from Pemberley.

Darcy looked back only once, to find Elizabeth standing where he’d left her, her arms wrapping around herself, still looking at him.

He carried that image of her with him the whole of the ride to London, thinking of her standing there, watching him as he slowly disappeared from view. Whatever else he had ruined, he hoped he had shown her that he would be there for her when things were difficult, and that she could trust him in that, if nothing else.

For now, it would have to be enough.

Chapter 22

The journey from Pemberley to Longbourn took the better part of two days. As they were conveyed in Mr Bingley’s carriage, Mr Bingley rode inside it with them. The arrangement was excellent in terms of travelling as quickly and comfortably as possible, with Mr Bingley’s fine horses carrying them quickly towards Hertfordshire and his money and experience making their way clear at the inns, but it did mean that for the better part of two days, Elizabeth sat across from a man who was trying very hard not to look at Jane, who sat beside Elizabeth trying very hard not to look at Mr Bingley, all while Elizabeth watched both of them and Mr Bennet sat reading his book, his fixed concentration showing that her father was determined not to be present in a reality he found distasteful. It was all enormously exhausting.

Upon being told the news about Lydia, Jane had burst into tears. Jane rarely cried, but when she did, it always took the form of sudden, silent tears, as though she was trying to ensure that even her distress didn’t inconvenience anyone else. From the first moment she started to cry, Mr Bingley had gone very still, his hands collapsed on his knees with a rigidity that communicated rather more than he might have wished about how much restraint it took to keep himself from going to her.

In the end, restraint had won out. Mr Bingley hadn’t touched Jane or gone to her or even spoken; he had only been there, quiet and present, until Jane had eventually composed herself, and Elizabeth, who would have said only moments before that nothing could make her feel worse than she already did, had looked away. It was one more instance of pain, one more thing added to everything else she had been carrying about them, about her family, about her own predicament.