“Then you find pleasure in provoking me?”
“Immensely, but not in the way you expect.” He waited for some retort, some display of indignation… but she could summon none.
He edged closer but stopped when she looked up. “I am a rascal, I suppose—always seeking a way to make your fine eyes flash and your courage flame. I admire your bravery and your spirit, and how all my arrogance never intimidated you.”
Elizabeth tried to laugh, but it came as something of a sob. “Never, you think?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Elizabeth? Have I given you pain?”
“Pain? You have made me wonder every moment I am in your presence what you are truly thinking. Sometimes I believe I can make sense of your ways. I think you are a—a pragmatic sort of man with a multitude of idiosyncrasies designed to conceal a naturally generous spirit, but that is all. Then, just when I believe myself to understand you, you turn about and declare thoughts and intentions that a man of your position has no business harbouring. And the very next moment, you harden once more and that glimpse I thought I saw of something—someone—else has vanished. How am I not to feel constantly bewildered?”
“If either of us is bewildered by the other, it is I.” He was studying her with a grave expression, his confident manner entirely gone. He made no answer for a full minute, but he drew a long breath and released it slowly. “Would you be so troubled by my manners if we were… say, if I were only Georgiana’s guardian to you? An employer, no more?”
Elizabeth tried to speak, but her throat was too tight. She cleared it nervously. “I suppose not. But we are more than that, are we not, sir?”
“Are we? Have you some feeling for me, Elizabeth? I had persuaded myself that you could not have, and I even tried to convince myself that I had none for you, but the latter effort was unsuccessful. Was I wrong in the first as well?”
Elizabeth’s skin grew hot, and she looked away, stammering out a barely coherent response. “Feeling! Why… improper—that would be most—what I mean, sir, is that we are… well, apart from you being my employer, we are neighbours, and r-relatives, and…”
“Are we friends, Elizabeth?”
She sucked in a breath, her lips quivering, and stared him in the eye. “F-friends. Yes, I… I think so.”
His entire figure seemed to relax, either in relief or disappointment. “Friends,” he whispered, then shook his head and sighed.
An instant later, he straightened and reclaimed his bearing. He turned from her and began to pace uncomfortably, glancing at her every few steps before he stopped and spoke. “As your friend, I must bring you the discouraging news that we have not yet had word of your sister.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “I feared you would say this.”
“I still have riders searching all the lands nearby, but there are simply too many houses and cottages. Even a cellar could conceal her, particularly if it has a lock.”
A cellar! What horrors had Lydia endured? Elizabeth nodded, clenching a fist to her mouth as the tears began to pour afresh. She had been snarled amid fury at Lydia for her foolishness and fury with herself for her blindness, but now all she could feel was failure and despair. Her poor youngest sister—only a child! Elizabeth’s body was quaking with sobs, and at last she broke. All the ugliness and horror of pain claimed her, and grief washed through her. She faltered, put her hand out blindly for something to lean against.
And then, she felt it. A firm shoulder, a strong arm about her; and Mr Darcy, who never lacked for an outrageous thing to say, silently held her to his chest as she wept. Patiently, gently, he allowed her to exhaust her grief, until she was sniffling and drawing back on her own. Even then, he gave her a handkerchief and waited in perfect solicitude as her tremblings subsided.
“Thank you,” she managed in a broken voice.
“Do not give up hope. One of the last rumours we heard before returning was that Mrs Younge—you know her as Mrs Brown—was seen departing on a post chaise two days ago. She was reported to be alone.”
Elizabeth was numbly biting down on the tip of her thumb as her eyes glazed over in thought. “Then it does not seem as if she would know where Lydia is?”
“Unless Wickham had intended to meet her en route somewhere.”
“What of Mrs Godfrey?”
“Do you mean Isabella Wickham? No word at all, which surprises me not a bit. She was never one to stay in the same place.”
Elizabeth squinted, then her eyes focused sharply on his face. “The first time I saw her, she was arguing with the innkeeper in Lambton. Is he her brother, as she claimed? Would she be hiding with him?”
Mr Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Samuel Jameson is an honest man. I cannot think he would be party to any scheme to harm a young lady. We did ask at the inn, but the proprietor swore he had seen neither George Wickham nor a girl of your sister’s description.” His gaze strayed; his jaw hardened. “However, he does keep poultry, or rather his wife does. They have large shelter and yard not far from town. It would be worth looking there.”
Nineteen
Darcywastednotaminute of that afternoon. Immediately upon seeing Elizabeth comforted and returned to the solace of her room, Darcy called Bingley and Fitzwilliam into his study.
“We have been approaching this badly,” he announced. “I am going to the inn for a drink.”
Bingley looked blankly at Fitzwilliam, then back to Darcy. “What, are you giving up so soon? You would not try to help Jane’s sister? By heaven, I will go search for her myself!”
