Page 63 of Near Pemberley

The full meaning struck him with immediate horror.

Lydia looked at him through tears and humiliation so complete that she only just resembled herself.

“You would have been…” She stopped, unable to force the words out at first.

Darcy felt physically sick.

But because he now understood with dreadful vividness how narrowly she had escaped complete destruction. Another week – perhaps only days – and nothing might have remained recoverable at all.

Even then, he would have found some way to help her.

“Then you have not…”

Lydia shook her head. “No.”

“Thank God.” The words escaped him with quiet sincerity.

Lydia stared at him uncertainly, as though unable fully to comprehend that he was relieved rather than disgusted.

Something softened very slightly in Darcy’s expression then. Not amusement exactly, but the first trace of gentleness she had yet seen from him that evening.

“You are exhausted,” he said more quietly. “And I suspect you have eaten very little.”

Almost as if reminded by the words themselves, Lydia looked down at the untouched tray which had meanwhile been brought into the room.

“I am not hungry,” she whispered automatically.

Darcy looked at her. “Miss Lydia, you must eat something.”

The firmness of his tone carried so naturally the expectation of obedience that she reached almost instinctively for the cup of tea nearest her. Her hands still trembled badly enough that some of it spilt into the saucer.

Without remarking upon it, Darcy moved the plate of bread and cold meat nearer. He himself took a bite.

“You as well.”

For the first few moments, she obeyed only timidly, plainly more from nervous submission than appetite. Yet gradually, hunger overcame agitation, and Darcy realised, with growing anger, how long she must have been neglected.

Lydia broke off a small piece of bread, though her hands still trembled slightly. She looked at Darcy. “You are not at all like what Wickham and Lizzy said about you.”

Darcy glanced up briefly from his untouched wine. “No?”

She shook her head. “Wickham said you were proud and resentful. Lizzy, too, at first.” Lydia hesitated awkwardly. “But… not cruel.”

Something faintly weary passed across Darcy’s expression.

“Lately,” said he quietly, “I have learnt that I did not always behave as I ought.”

Lydia looked down again, turning the bread nervously between her fingers. “He said you owed him money.”

Darcy’s mouth hardened slightly. “I paid him several thousand pounds in lieu of the living intended for him. I owe him nothing.”

Lydia stared at him. “Then he lied even in that.”

Darcy inclined his head once.

For a few moments, neither spoke. The fire settled softly behind them while Lydia continued eating with increasing hunger, as though only now remembering how long it had been since she last felt safe enough to do so.

Meanwhile, his own mind had already begun moving rapidly ahead. The essential matter now was speed and secrecy. Lydia could not remain there. That much was certain. Nor could she yet be returned openly to Hertfordshire while Wickham remained undiscovered and the circumstances uncertain. Gossip travelled too quickly in London; one careless movement might still ruin everything irreparably.