Darcy said nothing.
Elizabeth watched him. “You cannot protect her by making her world smaller forever.”
His expression tightened. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” He looked down at his hands. “I nearly lost her because I treated her as a child. After our father died I became brother, guardian, parent, judge. I thought if I arranged everything correctly nothing could touch her.”
“And then Wickham did.”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth’s voice softened. “That was his fault.”
Darcy looked at her.
“You may regret trusting Mrs. Younge. You may regret not telling Georgiana more of Wickham’s character. But the shame belongs to the man who deceived a fifteen-year-old girl, not the brother who failed to anticipate every wicked thing another man might do.”
Darcy’s eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, there was gratitude in them so naked that Elizabeth had to look away.
He said, “You make it difficult to remain proud.”
“I shall put that among my accomplishments.”
Upstairs, Lydia Bennet locked another letter from Wickham into the bottom drawer of her dressing table.
There were four now. The first had been charming.
The second wounded. The third angry beneath the charm.
The fourth frightened her.
You cannot understand what has been done to me, sweetest Lydia. Darcy has always hated me and has now contrived to ruin me again. If I could only leave this place and begin elsewhere, all would be well. There may be a way, but I require the help of one person brave enough to trust me...
Lydia read the line twice.
Her first response had been excitement.
A secret. A plan.
Wickham trusting her above every other girl in Meryton.
Then she had gone downstairs and found Darcy teaching Kitty how to play chess.
He was not patient exactly. Darcy did not possess Bingley’s cheerful tolerance for mistakes. But when Kitty moved her bishop incorrectly, he did not mock her.
“No,” he said.
“Remember, diagonally.”
“Oh.”
Kitty moved it back.
Lydia watched from the doorway.
Darcy noticed. “Do you play?”