He raised his eyes to hers, still speechless. She was carrying his child! How could he not have guessed at Fitzwilliam’s meaning? He tried to remain standing, but his legs shook. He was to be a father?
“George!” she cried, her hand over her mouth, and her eyes full of tears.
He regained his voice. “Lydia? Oh, Lydia, my girl, look at you!” he breathed.
She stepped close to him, almost into his arms, then drew back a fist and delivered a sound blow to his jaw.
She did not hit that hard, truly, but the shock of it knocked him from his feet. He tumbled to the floor, testing his lip for blood and glancing back up at her. She was shaking her head, her expression a confusion of anguish and relief as she wept. “George, I should kill you!” she rasped.
She should. She was right, and he knew it. “Lydia, I….” He stopped. No apology would do. There were no words that could pay her back for all the grief he had caused her. He looked at his feet, splayed on the floor before him, then back up to her face, and he cried out in alarm. “Lydia, no!”
The man with the pistol had recovered his senses, and was in a high temper at the insult. He pushed Lydia aside and leveled the pistol again—at his heart, this time. George Wickham: seducer, cheat, liar, gambler, and worthless coward, gritted his teeth and prepared to meet his end.
“No!” shrieked one final cry, and the pistol discharged.
George opened his eyes just in time to catch his wife as she crumpled into his arms, a bloody mass already spreading over her robe.
Chapter sixty-six
Cheapside, London
Elizabethliftedherheadfrom the pillow and listened. The sound came again—a low, rasping noise. She sat up and drew a blanket over her shoulders. It was decidedly coming from the next room, and she knew those sounds all too well.
Deciding to take the risk, she stepped from her own room and knocked softly on the door. “Senhora? Are you well?”
The door opened almost immediately to a young woman who was hastily wiping her eyes and attempting a brave face. “I did disturb you, Miss Bennet?”
“No,” Elizabeth smiled, “I could not sleep. It sounded as though you were also awake, so I hope you will forgive the intrusion.”
Amália stood uncertainly in the doorway, apparently wondering what was proper.
“Well,” Elizabeth faltered, seeing that her presence was not as welcome as she had thought it might be, “I wish you pleasant dreams. Good night.”
The other woman started then. “Oh, please, do not go! Do you wish to come in?” She stepped back and reached to the bed, tugging the counterpane neatly into place to make a more dignified seat for them.
Elizabeth accepted somewhat shyly. It had always been a matter of course to spend long hours of the night with her sisters, and she had even engaged in the practice with Georgiana on several occasions, but she barely knew this foreign lady. She could think of almost nothing they might have in common, apart from their mutual sleeplessness. She settled onto the bed, tugging her blanket more closely about herself, and tried to think of something to say. Amália was looking uncomfortably around the room, seeming to suffer the same difficulty.
“How are you finding London?” Elizabeth ventured. “Of course, perhaps you have seen very little of it, but has your stay so far been agreeable?’
Amália nodded jerkily, seeming relieved that Elizabeth had gone first. “Everything looks different here, but I like it. This house,” she nodded toward the walls, “it is pleasant.”
Elizabeth smiled proudly. “It is, but I believe it is more than wood and plaster and stone that makes it so. I have always loved spending time here, for I know of no more gracious hostess than my Aunt Gardiner.”
“Oh, yes, that is what I wished to say,” nodded Amália. “She is… gentle. She is like my nurse when I was a child. It is cheerful here.”
“I am glad you have been made to feel welcome.” Elizabeth hesitated, evaluating the fleeting expressions playing through the other woman’s features. “I hope I do not ask too much, but have you much family of your own in Portugal?”
A pained wince tightened her eyes. “My father… and my brother, Ruy.” She wetted her lips and struggled for a moment, but Elizabeth stayed her.
“You need not tell more. It was not my wish to cause you discomfort.”
Amália blinked and touched the corner of her eye. “My mother is gone, and I had no sister,” she offered.
“Oh, dear, I had five sisters! I am afraid our house never wanted for feminine companionship, but we had no brother. I think it would be a fine thing to have always a young man devoted to defending my honour and saving me from scrapes.”
Elizabeth realised her error when Amália’s shoulders rounded and her features crumbled. She was breathing in long, deep breaths, trying to retain her composure, but she was losing the battle.
“I am so sorry,” Elizabeth pleaded, searching about for something the young lady could use as a handkerchief. “Let us speak of something else.”
