Page 58 of Such Low Connections

“Are you quite sure?” her aunt inquired. “There could be no mistake?”

Utterly downcast, Elizabeth shook her head.

“Lydia was staying with Mrs Forster, the wife of the regiment’s colonel. She left a letter saying that they were going to Gretna Green to be married over the Scottish border where no one could stop her. I cannot see how that could be misunderstood.”

“The foolish girl!” muttered Mr Gardiner, his brow knitted anxiously as he read Jane’s letter for himself. “Only sixteen years old and without the consent of her parents. What could Mr Wickham be thinking?”

“Can they be stopped?” asked Mrs Gardiner of her husband and Elizabeth. “Can some message be sent to them, or some responsible persons overtake them on the road?”

Again, Elizabeth had to answer in the negative.

“It is far too late for such things. Look at the dates. As I said, this letter went astray and has been badly delayed in reaching Lambton. Likely they are married already, and there is nothing to be done. My poor father!”

Remembering then that she still held a second letter from Jane in her hand, Elizabeth broke that one open too and saw it was dated only a day after the first. Resigned to Lydia’s unfortunate choice, she began reading but soon made another involuntary sound and looked up to her companions, aghast.

“They are not married,” Elizabeth told them all faintly, distantly aware that Darcy’s eyes looked as horrified as she felt. “Whatever Lydia planned when she left the Forsters’ house has not transpired. Poor, foolhardy Lydia! She and Wickham were seen travelling to London and have sent no word to anyone since. They are presumed now to be hiding there without any intention of marriage. Oh, the wickedness of him!”

“Has anything been done to discover them?” Mr Darcy asked keenly, leaning forward in his chair. “Has anyone searched?”

“My father has gone to London with Colonel Forster to look for them,” Elizabeth answered, wiping away a tear. “The colonel must return to his regiment, and I doubt my father will have any greater success alone. I don’t know what more can be done, even if Lydia were found. She is lost.”

“Lost” did not begin to cover the desolation that Elizabeth felt at such awful news. Lydia was ruined, and the Bennet family along with her. This escapade had put her poor, unthinking sister beyond the pale of any fit society. What man would ever marry any of the sisters now, with such infamy attached to their family name?

At a stroke, Elizabeth’s own future had been even more blighted than that of Mr Darcy, who at least had the defence of money and property. The prospect of any future friendship with the Darcy family was gone, too. Mr Darcy himself would not wish to entangle himself with another scandal and would certainly not want his sister to be touched by such a socially poisonous shadow.

“You have my greatest sympathies, Miss Bennet,” Mr Darcy told her now, rising and reaching for his coat as though he had read the very thoughts in her mind. “You will not want the company of strangers at this time. I will leave you to your private business. Of course, you can be assured of my discretion. Good night.”

“Goodbye, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth answered, feeling that it really was the final farewell. “Thank you.”

With only a small bow of acknowledgment and farewell, he was gone. Even without his final assurance, Elizabeth knew they could rely on Mr Darcy to be discreet and refrain from spreading news of Lydia’s disgrace. Both his nature and his own recent experience would keep him from such behaviour.

This knowledge did little to temper the bitterness of his swift departure, however, any more than Elizabeth’s private admission that she could not blame him for it.

“I will order the coach and horses to be readied immediately,” Mr Gardiner announced then, his face grave and urgent. “I know London far better than your father and will take over his search. They must be found and made to marry. It is the only way.”

Elizabeth nodded and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, knowing both that her uncle was right, but also that the chances of achieving either goal must be slim.

“Come, Elizabeth,” added her aunt. “I will call for the maid to help pack our cases, and we can leave as soon as possible. We might make two stages tonight before we take rooms on the road.”

Chapter 18

“A fresh horse, sir,” Darcy ordered peremptorily as he swung himself to the dusty ground at the last staging inn before London and passed his reins to the waiting stable hand. “It must be hardy and fast, and ready within the half-hour. I’ll be inside.”

Nodding eagerly, whether through interest in his work or the handful of shining coins Darcy bestowed so readily, the manservant moved quickly towards the stables. In the dining room of the inn, Darcy purchased bread, cheese and ale for a rough breakfast, as hurried and crude as any other meal on this journey.

Since parting from Elizabeth Bennet and bidding a hasty and unexplained farewell to Georgiana, Darcy had been largely on the road, changing horses at all the main staging posts and paying extra for the fastest mounts. He had even ridden through part of the night, only stopping to rest for four hours. Time was of the essence in this matter.

His loathing for George Wickham had, perhaps, driven him almost as hard as any sense of duty or revenge. Wickham had injured Darcy’s name, his sister, and now an innocent – if indecorous – family of his acquaintance. Yes, Wickham’s latest offence somehow infuriated Darcy as much as if Lydia Bennet had been his own flesh and blood.

He was honest enough to admit that it was likely the indirect injury to Elizabeth Bennet that fired his blood as much as the dishonouring of Lydia herself. Elizabeth’s appearance at Pemberley had taken him by surprise. It was not something he would have wished for, any more than he imagined she would have done.

Not wanting her to think him resentful or ungracious, Darcy had done his best to be hospitable. With the good-natured civility of the Gardiners, the youthful friendliness of Georgiana, and Mrs Annesley’s impeccable manners, those few days at Pemberley had passed far more pleasantly than either of them could have expected at the start.

Part of him had really wanted to apologise for the terms and presumption of his earlier proposal. Even raising this, however, might have been a further trespass on Elizabeth’s goodwill and peace of mind. If she was minded to forget that episode, he would try to do the same.

It was enough to have won something of her good opinion; he had no right to ask for more. Two days in Elizabeth Bennet’s company had at least dispelled any sense that she held Darcy in contempt.

When she thanked him for his intelligence on Wickham, the civility of her address seemed to close that earlier chapter of their acquaintance entirely. Darcy intended to respect that closure, just as he respected her advice that he should resolve his own problems before seeking a wife.