“You will spoil everything!” added Kitty.
Thinking quickly, Elizabeth put her hands on Lydia’s cheeks. Looking into her eyes, she asked, “Do you promise to guard the strictest silence if we allow you to listen from the next room? The strictest silence.”
Lydia nodded her head, pursing her lips together.
Dragging her sister into the next room, Elizabeth left Lydia with her ear pressed against the wall and her hands clamped over her mouth.
There was a knock at the door, but Hill waited until Elizabeth ran back down the hall and into the drawing room, where she struggled to control her breath and her heartbeat.
Soft mumbles and hesitant footsteps — slow and hushed, like anything somber — and Wickham appeared, red-eyed, disheveled, and donning a black armband. He looked so contrite, Elizabeth’s palm itched to slap his duplicitous face.
One hand over his heart, looking pale and grave garbed in black, he asked, “Where is she? Where is my dear wife?” His voice cracked, as though he had wept his entire journey … from wherever that had originated.
Wickham’s patience in waiting until such a time ashe could have received the news and returned from his barracks impressed upon Elizabeth his desire to maintain his farce. It made him vulnerable.
She would exploit his weakness.
Mama leapt to her feet, fluttering her handkerchief and babbling incoherently about her tremendous loss and crediting the newly widowed Wickham with all the sympathy heoughtto have felt for his dearly departed wife. Mama would have done well as a dramatic actress.
Wickham stepped inside the drawing room, his frown deepening. “Where is Lydia?”
Good grief, he did not expect them to display her body an entire week, did he? And in the summer?
“I had hoped—” Wickham’s voice choked, and his eyes overflowed.
It had been many months since Elizabeth could conjure up any sympathy for the man, but his eagerness to see the evidence of his handiwork chilled her to the bone. Any understanding she might have extended him, had he possessed a modicum of good, burned in a flash as her anger rose.
Papa stared vacantly at the cold fireplace while Mama wept bitterly at his side.
Bingley slid forward in his chair, nodding in lieu of a bow, his snub genteelly covered over by his grieving wife who clung to his arm for support.
Mary and Kitty embraced each other on the settee,their faces turned toward each other when they were not covered with their handkerchiefs.
Fitzwilliam stood beside Elizabeth’s chair, wearing his usual expression (which lent itself well to the occasion. She would have to compliment him on it later.)
Elizabeth felt Fitzwilliam’s tension seep into her muscles, saw the flicker of a smirk cross Wickham’s face. What a vile man.
Swallowing her ire, Elizabeth gestured toward the chair closest to the wall where Lydia listened from the other side, determined more than before to be kinder to her sister for having to endure the touch and attention of the slimy eel.
Wickham sat slowly, with the caution of one prepared to bolt away at the slightest provocation. “Please, where is my dear Lydia? I take it you buried her already?” He dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair. When he lifted his head, fresh tear trails stained his cheeks.
Elizabeth wondered why he bothered with the militia when it was plain to see he was born for the theater.
“In due time,” Papa said absently, reaching blindly to hold Mama’s hand to his chest. Mama lost no time imitating Jane’s pose with Mr. Bingley, and Papa soon found himself with his arms full. Had it not been imperative to maintain her act, Elizabeth would have smiled at the display.
Wickham shifted in his chair. “May I ask … I must know…” He ran his hand through his hair again, his voice tight. “How did it happen?”
His eyes were too grief-swollen to observe any remnants of his stings or the insect bites he must have suffered from the infested cot. But he could not disguise the infected, red dots on his hands.
“Bees,” sobbed Kitty.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “She grieved her separation from you since her arrival.”
“I only sought her comfort and welfare, for her and our … child.” He covered his face with his hands.
Elizabeth bit her tongue. Fitzwilliam’s fists tightened.
Mama mumbled, “Of course. Of course. Every child seeks her mother when she requires greater care.”
