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He gave her a strange look but then said, “Wickham may have presumed a greater degree of acquaintance than we actually possessed.”
Elizabeth stared at the trunks of the trees behind Mr. Darcy, attempting to map this information onto the events of two years ago. The only time she had seen Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham in the same place had been on the street in Meryton when the two men had not spoken. But she did recall Mr. Wickham paying particular attention to the other man’s behavior. Had he assumed an attachment to the Bennet family that did not exist? Perhaps he speculated that Mr. Darcy was interested in Jane?
“Possibly,” she said finally. “But that still does not make you culpable for Mr. Wickham’s actions.”
He took a step toward her, grabbing her elbows as if he needed to command her attention. “Eliz—Miss Elizabeth, it is all my fault! All of it! Do you not understand?”
She retreated backward a half step, a bit alarmed at his sudden vehemence.
“If I had laid Wickham’s character bare in Meryton, then Lydia would have been protected,” Mr. Darcy continued. “Her actions would not have harmed your family’s reputation or hastened your father’s death.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you underestimate the degree of Lydia’s foolishness or my father’s indulgence.”
He dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “If I had acted, you might not be living under Collins’s thumb, forced to labor in your own home.” She could not miss his glance toward the callouses on her hands. She should not be astonished that he had deduced the truth of their source; he was a clever man.
But Elizabeth bristled. “I am not ashamed to work. I am taking care of my family.”
“Of course. Your concern for your family does you credit. But it should be unnecessary!” He stared down at his boots, breathing rapidly. When he glanced up again, his expression was determined. “I want to help your family.”
She shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but—”
He interrupted. “I need to help. Let me make amends—for my sake, if not for yours.”
Now that was an argument she had difficulty rejecting. For a moment Elizabeth was frozen, staring at Mr. Darcy, unable to respond. Who was this man? She barely recognized him. The Mr. Darcy she remembered could be polite—even witty—but she had glimpsed little genuine emotion from him. In truth, she would have listed pride in his family name as his strongest emotion. But here he stood, confessing his guilt and regret—and professing a seemingly earnest desire to ameliorate her family’s situation.
The abrupt s
hift in perspective left her dizzy and disoriented. Searching for a place to sit, she found a large, mostly flat boulder by the side of the path. Not caring anymore about dirt on her gown, she sank onto it.
“Please allow me to help your family,” Mr. Darcy pleaded, as if she would be doing him a great favor. She had never imagined the Bennets could give anything to a man such as Mr. Darcy.
“I am rather at a loss to think what you might do,” she confessed. “Although I would be grateful if you could lend help to my Uncle Gardiner in his search for Lydia. He has expended significant time and money to no avail.” Elizabeth clasped her hands together, willing them not to tremble. Unable to help her youngest sister, she had scarcely allowed herself to think about Lydia over the past months.
Mr. Darcy lowered himself to a nearby boulder and took one of her hands in his. “I already have agents searching for her. Do you have any ideas where your sister might be found? Once she is located, I will do what I can to improve her situation.”
Elizabeth stared at the man blankly. The words barely made sense. For so long she had lived without hope, receiving nothing but condemnation from those who learned of her sister’s actions. After her father’s death, only the Gardiners had tried to find Lydia, and their resources were limited.
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters had begged Collins to search for Lydia or send Elizabeth to London so she might do so, but he had refused every entreaty, saying that Longbourn should not bear the expense and inconvenience for the girl’s foolish actions. In a fit of impatience, he had even told Elizabeth, “If the girl knows what is best, she will have the good sense to die in the gutter.” Elizabeth knew she should love her cousin, but for that statement alone she believed she might never experience more than indifference toward the man’s well-being.
At first Elizabeth had husbanded money for her own trip to London so she might seek out Lydia, but it quickly became apparent that Longbourn’s inhabitants needed her constant presence. And it was true that she would not know where to start such a search.
Now Mr. Darcy dangled the possibility that Lydia might be helped after all. It just required the right person—a person with will and means that had not been previously available.
Apparently her silence worried Mr. Darcy, for he resumed talking at a rather frantic pace. “I could pay Wickham to marry her. Or if that does not suit, perhaps an establishment in the country with a companion. Naturally, I will also undertake the costs if there…is a child.”
This was generous beyond Elizabeth’s wildest imaginings. She had long ago acknowledged that Lydia could never return to Longbourn, but the idea that they would know their younger sister was safe and well…that would be such a relief to the entire family, a gift beyond imagining. “That is a most generous offer, Mr. D—”
To her horror, Elizabeth broke down. Tears flowed down her face, and sobs wracked her body. She ducked her head, but there could be no disguising what was happening. Why did it have to be now? In front of this man? She had not shed a single tear since her father’s death, remaining stoic through all their grief and suffering. She had provided a shoulder so that her mother and sisters might unburden their unhappiness. And now…
Why must I cry now—when I have received the first good news in months? When I am faced with an unexpected kindness? Foolish tears!
She ordered herself to cease blubbering at once, but her body did not obey. A handkerchief was thrust into her hand. Crumpling it in her fist, she dabbed her eyes and dried her cheeks. Mr. Darcy was so proper and contained. How mortified he must be to witness this sudden outpouring of emotion! This was far worse than breaking down in Jane’s or Mary’s company.
But then warm arms embraced her, supportive and soothing. Long and powerful, these arms would never be mistaken for Jane’s or her mother’s. They pulled her against Mr. Darcy’s chest. She stiffened for a moment; this was so inappropriate. What if someone should happen upon them?
But, oh, it felt divine to lean on someone else for just a moment. The soft fabric of his waistcoat pressed into her cheek, and she inhaled his subtle masculine scent, musk and sandalwood. I would never grow tired of that scent. She indulged in another long inhale.
I should pull away. But the mere sensation of another’s touch was remarkably comforting, reminding her that she was not alone. He merely held her, not taking advantage or doing anything untoward. She could not prevent her body from relaxing against his.
