Darcy closed his eyes and swallowed. Misguided as the girl’s affections were, she was clearly still attached, or believed herself attached, to her husband. He knew something of unrequited love and lost hope. In those dark months after Elizabeth’s refusal, he had felt that none could ever care for him. He had wished to vanish from all humanity, desiring that none could see him to pity him… but then she had come back into his life, for an exquisite few days. Never would he forget the soul-wrenching ache of finding her once again, only to be torn from her for what he thought might be forever!
“Madam,” his voice faltered, but his words tumbled almost effortlessly from his lips, “you must not allow your worth to be determined by another’s affections, or lack thereof.”
Lydia’s sobs quieted at his words, but she did not lift her head. “It is all a waste,” she muttered. “I wasted myself on him.”
“Love is never wasted,” he offered. He felt deceitful, somehow, even acknowledging the feeling she held for that rascal as love, but in her eyes, that was what it was. She had given of herself, and Wickham had left her nothing in return. “Love is invested, not spent,” he mused quietly. “It has wrought some good in my own life, even when it was not returned.”
Her head had lifted and she was staring at him. “That is the silliest thing I ever heard. What good is love without being returned? It is thrown on the ground and trampled, that’s what it is.”
“Cannot both parties benefit from the expression of love? Even if it is not willingly received, it might not be considered a waste. Mr Wickham had the opportunity to employ your gift wisely, and we do not know that your affections have not had some positive influence upon him. He did—” Darcy almost choked on his next words— “offer his services to the benefit of another. Perhaps his motives were not… entirely mercenary.”
Lydia shook her head. “He will never change.” She sniffed. “I know that. I shall have the child of a worthless man, and he shall be long dead by the time his son is born. He will never know—” Another helpless cry interrupted her words, and she covered her face with both hands now. “Please,” she begged, “there is nothing anyone can do. Just leave me alone!”
“I am afraid I cannot do that, for you are dear to one who is dear to me. You must learn, madam, that love never leaves another to suffer alone. Nor does it tolerate false reticence for the sake of self-pity. I must see you comforted and attended, and I cannot allow you to make a martyr of your feelings. Perhaps the future is not what you would have wished it to be, but you cannot isolate yourself from those who would comfort you.”
Lydia’s mouth had dropped open in shock. “If that is not the most pompous, audacious speech I ever heard! I cannot think how Lizzy tolerates your arrogance, Mr Darcy.”
“She scolds me on that topic with regularity, I assure you.”
Her eyebrows shot up, and for just a moment, he could imagine Elizabeth standing there, great with child and arguing with him in the hedges. Her younger sister had something of the same clever spark, the same unruly curls, the same hot-headed boldness. Little wonder that Lydia Wickham had not meekly surrendered her feelings and accepted her fate.
“Mrs Wickham,” he added, more gently now, “I pray you to come rest yourself. You will not face the future alone, and you discredit those who care for you when you give way to despair.”
She glanced down, sighed, and then nodded. “Very well, Mr Darcy.”
She allowed him to take her by the elbow, which was well, for her steps faltered somewhat, and more than once she tried to take them along a wrong turn. She spoke not another word, but the tears dissipated with the fortitude of youth as they neared the house.
“I think I can manage now, Mr Darcy,” she shook him off as they neared the last bend.
“You will not retire without speaking to Miss Elizabeth or Georgiana?” he enquired.
“If they are available,” she promised half-heartedly. “Iwastrying to catch cold out there, you know, but perhaps it is just as well I did not.”
“Indeed,” he smiled faintly and allowed her to out-pace him toward the house. He had fallen a step or two behind her when she turned abruptly.
“Oh! My bonnet! I believe I dropped it. Oh, I shall have to return for it, but I think it would take me an age to find it again.”
“Have no fear, Mrs Wickham, I can retrace our steps in a matter of moments.”
He turned back, both relieved that she was safely entering the house, and grateful that he needn’t keep up conversation with her any longer. She certainly had the Bennet disposition! If only her passion had been tempered with grace and education, as had her elder sister’s….
He smiled as he walked, this thought leading him to the rather diverting question of Elizabeth’s own innate passion. By all appearances, the young Mrs Wickham had leapt eagerly into the arms of connubial felicity. Perhaps her sister would share some of that same enthusiasm—at the proper time, of course.
Another turn to the left, and one to the right… and then darkness descended over him.
Darcy cried out in terror. Strong hands wrenched his arms behind him, then he was falling forward, down on his face.
He could not breathe, was too panicked for several seconds even to fight back. It was all happening again! The rope was pinching his hands together, a knee was shoved into the centre of his back. The sack over his head tightened, and then someone was pulling him roughly to his feet. He cried out again, only to be struck in the back of the head. “Walk!” a voice ordered.
Darcy’s knees failed. It was just as well, for if he did walk, he would be bound to go in the direction his latest captor desired. If he fell, even if he were beaten for it, he would still be in his own garden, however long it took for someone to discover him.
He was being hoisted to his feet again, then the hands abruptly fell away, and he dropped to his stomach, helpless to brace himself. There were sounds of an altercation, and he could make out one or two oaths in an Irish brogue. He could spare no thought for what was taking place over his head. He spun about, shaking his head and trying to rip the sack, free his hands—anything!
A body fell somewhere to his left. There was the sound of crunching hedges, another Irish curse, and then soft, glorious hands were at his chest. “William! William, can you hear me?”
He arched up toward Elizabeth’s voice. He was still breathing in wild shrieks, still writhing furiously, but her sweet fingers were reaching up to pull the tight sack from his face. “William, please, I cannot—oh, hold him, Mr O’Donnell!”
Darcy was still struggling, but a firm weight lifted him from behind. In an instant, his hands were free. He stilled, just long enough for Elizabeth to find the knot securing the sack over his head, and she ripped it from his face.
