“He was a regular brick,” Lydia agreed. “Such a pity that he took that fall!”
“Pardon me?”
“Oh! Do you not remember when Mr Bingley explained it all to us? I suppose not, for you had gone upstairs with the head ache. He had it from Mr Darcy’s cousin—a colonel, he said, and I wish I could meet him, for a colonel’s uniform issomuch more dashing than a lieutenant’s!”
“Lydia!” pleaded Elizabeth.
“Oh, well it was only that Mr Darcy was on his way to my wedding that morning when his dog tripped him on the stair. The butler said he fell all the way down and was killed instantly.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. So, that was the official story, was it? No, she had not heard that version of events, for she had fled to her room all the rest of that horrible day to exhaust her despair into her pillow. Since then, she had assiduously avoided any public conversation where Mr Darcy’s name might be mentioned. It was Jane’s private report—also from Mr Bingley—which had broken her heart and plunged her even deeper into the wretched despondency that had plagued her for two months.
“So… he was at his home, you believe?” Elizabeth rasped, trying to regulate herself.
“Of course,” Lydia answered stoutly. “Why, where else would he have been?”
Elizabeth clenched her eyes.Out trying to rescue you!resounded on her tongue, but she could not dare voice it. What right had she to burden Lydia with the misdeeds of back alley tyrants and vagabonds? Lydia had been careless, but she was a child! Darcy’s death was not her doing. Someday, perhaps, Elizabeth might also learn to pardon herself in the matter—but that would be a day far in the future. While she could still blame herself, his memory remained fresh and alive, and she rather preferred that bitterness to the emptiness that would surely follow.
“Lizzy? Why, Lizzy, whatever is the matter?” Lydia had straightened in some alarm. “You think me the most miserable creature alive, do you not?”
Elizabeth jerked her head slightly, trying to conceal the fact that she was wiping moisture from her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Why would you assume that, Lydia?”
“It is true, you know. I have been insufferable and ungrateful. You always did say I was rash and unruly, and now I see it. What I might have given for arealgentleman to take notice of me, for now I understand the difference. Alas, I seemed to only attract the wrong sort, and it is too late now to mend my ways!”
“You do not know that. Mr Wickham was brought up in good company with noble expectations. It is not impossible that he might one day repent of his wrongs.”
Lydia snorted. “Oh, yes, it is.”
“Well, let it not be said that I wished for any man’s demise, but many things can happen to an officer of the Regulars—if, indeed, he didjoinhis regiment. It is doubtful, but not impossible, I suppose. I have heard that war can break a man’s heart and shatter his bravado, so that even the fiercest fighter returns eagerly to the comforts of wife and home.”
“I should not give him so much as a blanket by the hearth,” snapped Lydia. “He can sleep in the stables for all I care!”
Elizabeth permitted herself a slight tug at the corner of her mouth. “I would not even spare the straw, but that would be your business.”
Lydia giggled nervously, her tension at finally conversing with her most disappointed sister somewhat eased. As she did so, her gangling adolescent frame quivering with shy merriment, she clasped a hand protectively over her middle.
Elizabeth froze in horror. “Lydia,” she whispered, staring at her sister’s hand. “Why are you holding your stomach? Tell me you are not with child!”
Lydia blanched, dropping the offending hand and trying to appear nonchalant. “No! Of course, I’m not!”
Elizabeth’s gaze hardened. “Youare!” she hissed. “How long have you known?”
“Oh!” the girl buried her face in a palm. “I ought to have expected that you would guess. You always were the cleverest of—”
“Lydia! How long?”
She passed a hand under her nose, blinking. “A few weeks, I think. I was not sure at first. Aunt told me the signs, but I did not experience all of them.”
“But I thought you had your courses! Mama made a particular note of the linens, you must expect, and we all heard of it.”
Lydia shrugged. “I faked them. When Mrs Hill killed the rooster, I… oh, Lizzy,pleasemay we not speak of this any further?”
“Whenwereyour last courses?” Elizabeth demanded—rather harshly, it must be said.
“Just after I arrived in Brighton.”
Elizabeth groaned. “Have you told anyone? Mama and Papa must hear the truth! You have not been ill as they expected, and they believe by now that you escaped such a fate.”
“No.”
