Page 39 of The Vanished Bennet Sister

"I want to be clear—"

"You have been very clear." She heard the register of her own voice: precise and unkind. She made no attempt to adjust it. "You have come to inform us of what Mrs Bingley intends. I suppose we are meant to thank you for that."

"There is no obligation to say anything." His voice was even. "I came because I thought you should know before others were told."

"And what a great deal you have discovered in the course of knowing us. How very thorough your interest in this family's affairs has proved."

A flicker of puzzlement crossed his face, soon followed by a tightening of his jaw. "I was not looking for anything. I encountered Mrs Bingley this morning by circumstance. What she told me was not sought. I came here because the information being circulated through Mr Thwaite's circle and the wider connections Mrs Bingley can reach could do great damage to Miss Mary, and to your family's position. The threat here is real and immediate."

"How very considerate. I hope, Mr Darcy, that you are now satisfied with what you’ve learned about our situation. My regards to Mrs Bingley as well. How kind of her to provide you, her dearest friend, with the complete details. It brings to mind a term about birds of similar feathers."

"Miss Bennet," he replied, with a restraint that she was too far into the anger to properly credit, "I came to warn you. I will not defend myself beyond that. But I would ask you to consider that whatever you believe my interest in your family's circumstances to have been, it has never been this. Not this kind of knowledge, not used in this way. Mrs Bingley intends to use this knowledge before the week is out. You have very little time."

She held his gaze. Opened her mouth.

"I thank you," she said in a dry tone that made it clear she was not being thankful at all.

He held her gaze for one further second, then he inclined his head and said formally: "Good luck to your family, Miss Elizabeth."

The front door opened and closed.

Elizabeth stood in the hall and looked at the space where he had been.

The guilt arrived within seconds. She held it up to the anger bubbling in her and found, to her considerable discomfort, that the guilt was more prominent. She had known she was being unfair and had proceeded regardless. He had come uninvited, breaking social laws of visiting, at his own personal inconvenience, to give them a warning they needed, and she had addressed him as though he had orchestrated the situation himself.

I hope you are now satisfied. She had said it precisely, and with intention, and it had been wrong. She had known it was incorrect before the sentence was finished.

But the time available for regret was limited at present.

Straightening, she set the guilt in the category of things to be returned to when circumstances permitted, alongside several other topics awaiting their proper examination, and turned towards the stairs.

The next thing to do was have her mother tell her the truth of Mary’s birth, after which they would decide together what was to be done.

Chapter Eighteen

Mary

The hired carriage had cost more than the average price, but she had paid the fee without extended deliberation, which was an indication of her present mind.

Under ordinary circumstances, Mary kept a detailed account of every personal expenditure. It was a habit formed and refined from years of being aware that she was the daughter of a gentleman who was comfortable, but not wealthy.

She was not like Elizabeth, who had kept a firm eye on their family’s finances thus far in London due to an accurate sense of responsibility. Mrs Bennet could be irresponsible when it came to spending and there was no better person than Lizzy to step in.

But Mary excelled in ensuring that her own behaviour in all matters: money, manner, music, literature… was well-managed. Until now, that is. She was too overwhelmed by the tumultuous feelings within her to worry about anything else.

After overhearing the conversation between Mr Darcy and Lizzy, and after returning to her bedroom, she moved quickly. She paid a young footman—Thomas, who was young enough to be flattered by a private commission and discreet enough not to make it a subject of conversation— to deliver a note to Elena’s London address. The note asked Elena to meet with her at St. James Park in the next hour.

After that, she had fled the townhouse through a side entrance before anyone had occasion to observe her.

Her bonnet was pulled low, a shawl wrapped around her, and she was carrying the small reticule she often did when she did not intend to be out long.

There was absolutely no plan beyond reaching the park and finding a bench to sit on until she was in sufficient command of herself to do anything else.

At present, she wasn't close to achieving that stage yet.

The park was rarely empty in the mornings, but the bench nearest the north gate was unoccupied. The bonnet's brim was wide enough for some privacy, and she was, after all, the Bennet sister that strangers generally did not look at twice. She took a seat, and the cold of the wood through her skirt was a fact she had only noticed once before it receded into the back of her mind, as there were more significant facts demanding attention.

She pressed a handkerchief to her face and breathed shakily.