“Oh, that dreadful man,” Lydia said, chewing andswallowing. “After what he did to my poor, sweet George, you can hardly expect for me to wish to talk about him.”
What had Mr. Darcy done to Wickham? Elizabeth tried to remember. She recalled a strong dislike between the gentlemen, but it was more of a sense than a recollection.
Lydia continued, “However, I am determined to overlook Mr. Darcy’s displeasing temperament for your sake and for the sake of my child.” She patted her stomach and shoved the rest of the roll into her mouth. “George was the given name of Mr. Darcy’s father, was it not? I think that would make a fine name for a boy, do you not agree?”
Elizabeth did not know.
“His sister is named Georgiana, another variation,” Lydia mused.
Elizabeth could not remember.
“Of course, on the chance the baby is a girl, I could name her after Mr. Darcy’s mother. Anne is a fine name for a girl.”
Elizabeth nodded, her disappointment complete. Sleep had not cured her mind.
“I do not know how you cannot recall your own betrothed. I could never forget George. The first time I saw him looking so handsome in his scarlet regimental coat with the gold braids and brass buttons…” Lydia sighed, leaning against her mound of pillows with one hand over her heart.
Her words struck their mark, weighing so heavily on Elizabeth, only the refusal to hear more of Lydia’s taunts drove Elizabeth out of her sister’s bedchamber and down the stairs to the breakfast room. She sat numbly while the maid arranged platters around the table and the footman hovered. Elizabeth could not bring herself to lift a lid.
How long she sat there alone, she could not say, but her mother’s sharp voice interrupted Elizabeth’s melancholia. “Mr. Darcy is here.”
Half walking, half shoved by her mother, they crossed the hall to the drawing room where Mama pushed her onto a chair near the window. “You will appear to greatest advantage here … and with space enough for you both,” she mumbled while she poked Elizabeth into position, pinching her cheeks and fussing with her ribbons and running to sit an instant before Mr. Hill announced their caller.
“Mr. Darcy to see you, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth kept her eyes averted. She could not look him in the eyes yet, but she was extremely aware of him. He watched her, a smile softening his face, his expression full of hope.
She wanted to weep. She was engaged to a pleasant gentleman with everything to recommend him, a man she must have loved dearly to have accepted his offer of marriage. A man who did not stand entirely on society’s laws of propriety, given the early hour of his call —a laxity she approved wholeheartedly given her love for solitary walks.
Mama was quick to fill the silence. “Mr. Darcy, how lovely to see you so early. Does Lizzy not look fine?”
The way he looked at her set Elizabeth’s skin aflame.
“She does.” He was so definite. So confident.
Elizabeth hated to disappoint him, but neither was she content to avoid the truth and its consequences. To delay the inevitable when he warranted her honesty.
She turned to face him, and she saw the moment — the shift in his posture, the strain in his eyes — when he knew.
His memory escaped her still.
Stepping closer to her, he reached out his hand, then dropped it uncertainly. “I trust you slept well?” he asked.
The rapidity with which Mr. Darcy replaced discouragement with awkwardness was so unexpected, Elizabeth found her humor and remembered her purpose.
Tucking her hand, which tingled in anticipation of his touch, into her skirts, she returned his smile. “I did, thank you,” she replied, patting the empty spot on the settee in invitation, “though I found it difficult to quiet my mind long enough to rest properly. I have considered several suspects. There is, of course, Miss Bingley. She despises me, and I could not help but think thatshe would love nothing more than to take my place beside you at the altar.”
Mama shrieked and grumbled.
Mr. Darcy sat beside Elizabeth. “I have never given her cause to entertain expectations.”
“I know.” How or why, Elizabeth could not explain, but she knew Mr. Darcy spoke honestly as certainly as she favored signing the letter “L.”
But dwelling on such thoughts only led to frustration. She knew that, too. Returning to her preferred premeditated distraction, she added, “Cutting an axle seems far-fetched for Miss Bingley. I would sooner imagine her using a poison rather than exerting herself physically.”
Mr. Darcy rubbed his chin. “I can ask the servants at Netherfield Park if any of them saw her leave the house the morning of the wedding.”
“Perfect.”
