“Lydia,” Elizabeth asked carefully, “what if you did see him again? It is not unlikely, you know. In fact, I believe it inevitable. How do you think you shall manage?”
“Lizzy,” Lydia drew to a halt and stared at her sister. “I know that tone. You know something, don’t you?”
“No,” Elizabeth answered slowly. “I cannot predict, of course, but what if you did? Would you be very troubled?”
“Troubled? I should lock him in a room with bread and water until I hear him beg my forgiveness! And then I might perhaps let him have a cup of tea, and keep him locked up until the child soils his nappy….” A wicked grin spread over her face for a moment, but then her expression fell again. “I suppose it is no good fancying such things. He will never come back, and I will never hear a word of concern from him after me.”
Elizabeth could not help a scowl. “I think he is concerned with no one but himself. I am sorry, Lydia.”
“I wish,” the girl sighed, “I wish he could at least see what he has done to me, and maybe feel just a little bit badly about it. It’s not fair, Lizzy, that he should have got all the sport, while I got this,” she gestured to her stomach.
“Would you wish for a man such as he bestowed with the honour of a child? I think he does not deserve it,” Elizabeth replied lightly.
Lydia’s face wrinkled. “Do you know, I never thought of it like that. I always thought of the babe as a nuisance, but I suppose a fine strapping son who might one day knock his father down to defend my honour might really be something. But what name shall he have? I cannot very well name him Bennet, but I cannot bear to call him Wickham. How everyone will talk, and what sort of a life is that for a child? No father to give a farthing what happens to him or to me. Oh, bother, there I go again! It isn’t right, Lizzy, he ought to look after me!”
Elizabeth could think of no reply—none that she dared voice—so she allowed her hand to rest upon her sister’s shoulder in comfort.Perhaps, a little inward notion threatened,perhaps one day, William might think of something. She only hoped that his sentiments remained unchanged, and that when he was recovered, he would be willing to again exert some effort on behalf of her sister. But that sort of thinking must wait for now, for he was still unaccounted for, and must have many obstacles left before him. Squeezing Lydia’s shoulder, she gently guided her sister toward the library.
Georgiana was alone when they found her. She did not appear to be reading, though she had a great book spread in her lap. Her fingers were forlornly lifting and the dropping the pages, as though fascinated by their texture but not their script. Clear blue eyes rose at Elizabeth and Lydia’s entry, and she closed her book to stand and greet them.
“Georgiana, are you well?” Elizabeth asked. “Forgive me, but you are looking rather pale.”
“My aunt wishes me to accompany her to London on the morrow,” Georgiana mumbled. “My cousin’s wife has died, and we are to pay our respects, then remain at Darcy house.” She swallowed. “I… I shall not be permitted to have guests there while in mourning.”
Elizabeth arched a brow toward Lydia, who crossed her arms over her stomach. The unspoken understanding passed between them—Georgiana was already in mourning, and this was but another excuse of Lady Catherine’s. “Georgiana,” she took a seat at the girl’s side, drawing her back down, “is there something you wish me to do? Lydia and I are, of course, content to return to Hertfordshire. Do not be troubled for that, but I am concerned for you. We would not leave you if you do not wish it.”
“What can be done? My aunt has determined what is to be, and there is little I can say about it. I have not yet reached my majority, you know, and Richard is still away. That letter he left about you matters naught, once she secures the support of my uncle.”
“I could speak to Lady Catherine if you wish,” Elizabeth offered doubtfully. She knew as well as Georgiana how futile the undertaking would be, but she could not permit herself to simply give up.
The girl’s shoulders drooped. “No, Elizabeth, it will never work.” She raised mournful eyes to her friend. “I am so sorry! I would never have sent you both away… but perhaps you needn’t go. Lydia ought not to travel, ought she? There is no reason you both could not remain here at Pemberley.”
“There are a multitude of reasons, but one in particular stands out. What of the investigation into your attackers? Do we know for certain that it would be safe for you to travel to London? I do not think it advisable until we know who might be behind it.”
“Pemberley might be no safer,” Lydia pointed out.
“That is quite true,” Elizabeth agreed. “I would feel better if we knewsomething. I wonder if anything has been learned from that fellow recovered from the hills. Do you know if the magistrate was able to question him?”
“He died last night,” Georgiana answered flatly. “That was why Mr Jefferson asked to speak with me this morning. The magistrate returned to him some hours ago to say that they can find nothing else.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Nothing at all? Surely there must be something. Have none of the coaching inns seen the other man? Someone traveling as frantically as he must have would be remarkable, would they not?”
“The horse ridden away turned out to be missing from our own stables—I wonder how that was not noted before—but no, nothing else. Perhaps there is nothing more to find. The magistrate suggested that it might be simple criminals, acting alone, and we have already stopped them. Mr Jefferson said that considering this, there was no reason why I could not go on to London with my aunt, but he did have a note from Mrs Annesley that her health is uncertain and she cannot travel at all just now. I should have felt better if she could have come to London with us.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. Had not Wickham’s note mentioned Mrs Annesley? Such a strange reference he had made! “And…” she probed cautiously, “has the steward been able to relieve his concerns about Mr O’Donnell?”
“Oh, he said very little about that, only that the magistrate had recommended that they permit him to return to his duties and do not arrest him. Perhaps they intend to watch him carefully, to see if his behaviour is suspect in any way.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth murmured. Oh, dear, she could not ask O’Donnell to take her note to Wickham! Even if sharp eyes were not thereby alerted to the clandestine meeting she planned, O’Donnell himself would be cast once more into doubt. If he were innocent as he claimed, he ought to be permitted the appearance of honesty. She knew that he would immediately leap to complete her request, but if any shadow were to touch him, it would not come from her.
She chewed her inner cheek, frustrated about what she ought to relate of her meeting with Wickham. Had either of the others the courage—or the restraint, in Lydia’s case—to listen to him? Could they believe a word he said, even if they decided to hear? And could she be certain that the hope that buoyed her own heart was genuine? She could imagine no greater betrayal than leading Georgiana to believe that her dear brother might be on his way to her, only to find herself mistaken.
“Georgiana,” Elizabeth ventured, “did Lady Catherine propose leaving early tomorrow?”
“Of course. It is four days to London when the roads are good, but they are likely to be muddy tomorrow for the carriage. She will wish an early start.”
“And does she seem at all unsettled regarding your safety?”
Georgiana scoffed. “She believes no one would dare trouble me with her about. ‘Daughter of an earl!’” she mimicked. “Oh, no, she cannot think me in any danger, particularly not once I return to London, away from the wilds of Derbyshire.”
