The Firstborn - Section VI

    By Mags

    Beginning, Previous Section, Section VI, Next Section

    Chapter XVII

    Posted on Wednesday, 16 January 2002

    An impressive line of carriages stood outside the inn, and servants bustled about loading baggage and tucking in smaller parcels wherever they could fit. The gentlemen's horses had been brought round, and Darcy made his intention known of riding ahead of the party in order to arrive at Pemberley later that day, instead of the next day as originally planned, claiming important business with his steward as his excuse.

    "Cannot this business wait until tomorrow, Mr. Darcy?" Miss Bingley could not hide her disappointment at his defection.

    "I am afraid not. I am sorry to leave the party, but I leave you in the capable hands of your brother. You will be only a day behind me."

    Miss Bingley was not so easily discouraged. "You should not ride alone, sir. There are highwaymen about."

    "You are probably right," agreed Darcy, turning to Henry. "Will you accompany me, Tilney?"

    Henry was on the point of suggesting that Bingley take his place, but stopped to consider Darcy's request. When he and Catherine had arrived at Darcy's townhouse, Henry had found his friend even more reserved and uncommunicative than he had been in Hertfordshire. Clearly some important event had occurred since the last time they had met, but a private audience had not been possible as they traveled northward in a great caravan, slowed to an extremely genteel pace by the very size and number of their group. Darcy's face was inscrutable, but Henry knew him well enough to sense that his request was not made arbitrarily.

    "Very well, Darcy. Let me speak with Catherine first." He went to Catherine, who was chattering gaily with her new friend, Miss Darcy. Georgiana was fond of Henry, and had overcome her natural shyness and extended herself to be gracious to his new wife. Catherine responded to Miss Darcy's overtures with her usual good nature, and the two girls being close in age, it was not surprising that a friendship should blossom. Mr. Bingley's sisters treated Catherine with a cold, repulsive civility, and at Henry's advice, she simply avoided them as much as possible, which fit perfectly with Georgiana's own inclination. Miss Bingley's fawning attentions did not please her, and she tolerated them only for her brother's sake.

    Henry took Catherine's hand and led her inside to a private parlour. "I am going to leave the party with Darcy. We are riding ahead to Pemberley, and will spend the night there."

    "Cannot I come with you?" asked Catherine with a very long face.

    "You are a competent horsewoman, Cat, but this will be a long and tiring ride. We will only stop for a bite standing up. I would be more comfortable if you stayed with the rest of the party."

    "This will be the first time since our marriage that we have been apart," said Catherine sorrowfully. "I shall miss you, Henry."

    "And I shall miss you, my sweet. But it is only one night. You have Georgiana for company, and if you went on to Pemberley tonight, you would be leaving her to the tender mercies of Miss Bingley. Consider that you are performing an act of Christian charity, which is always desirable in a clergyman's wife."

    Catherine replied archly, "Christian charity, indeed! You and Mr. Darcy want to drink port and smoke cigars in the drawing-room. You should find your friend a wife, Henry. Then he would not tempt you into such dissolute bachelor behaviour."

    "Find him a wife, eh?" laughed Henry, kissing her one last time. "I think Darcy can be trusted to do that entirely on his own."

    "How tired I am of posting inns," said Darcy as they dismounted. "Tonight I will be home at Pemberley at last! That will be very fine!"

    "You can pretend you are a creature of fashion," said Henry as he followed his friend into the inn, "but I know that at heart you are a simple country squire."

    "I have no opinion of a man who could not appreciate a home such as Pemberley." Darcy's expression was gravely earnest.

    "Mr. Darcy!" cried the landlord, who came bustling out to meet them. "Welcome, sir! You'll be wanting a private parlour? I have one all ready."

    "That will do very well," said Darcy. To Henry he added, "We might as well give the horses a proper rest. We shall still reach Pemberley in good time."

    There was no opportunity for talk while the landlord and his wife laid out cold meat, cheese, bread, and pitchers of foamy beer. However, they soon withdrew and left the men alone together.

    Henry poured beer into a pewter mug. "This is good, plain bachelor fare, is not it? It is probably for the best that Catherine did not ride ahead with us."

    "Mrs. Tilney is a charming lady," said Darcy politely.

    Henry grinned at him. "There was an unspoken 'however' at the end of that sentence. Come, Darcy, out with it! What grievance have you against my blameless, adorable wife?"

    "No grievance at all. I just wonder..." Darcy's voice trailed off.

    "Yes?" Henry encouraged him, really curious by that time.

    Darcy hesitated, then spoke quickly. "I just wonder if you will continue to find her charming and adorable after a few years. She is very young, and ignorant of the world, as you have yourself admitted. I expected you to choose a wife with a lively mind like your own."

    "You mean, a woman like my sister Elizabeth?" Henry asked his half-full mug.

    "Well," said a suddenly conscious Darcy, "Yes, as a matter of fact." He was silent for a moment, then burst out with, "Look at your father's situation! He is a sensible man of strong understanding married to an ignorant, silly woman, and it has made him bitter and cynical. I fear you will grow tired of your Catherine, and regret your choice. That is all."

    "Grow tired of an ignorant, silly wife? I dare say I should." Henry looked at Darcy's grave expression and burst out laughing. "I confess that Catherine's education has been indifferent at best, but I do not expect her to remain ignorant for very long. She has good principles and sound common sense. A better understanding will come with exposure to the wider world, which married life will supply."

    Darcy smiled. "And you married her entirely for her principles and sense. That she clearly worships you and flatters your vanity had no influence on your choice."

    "If you are ever so fortunate as to acquire a wife who worships you, Darcy, you will find that it is an entirely delightful experience. Your vanity needs no flattering, of course, so you need not consider it. Now, you did not ask me to ride ahead with you to express your concern about my marriage. What is troubling you?"

    Darcy gave a great sigh. "You are right. There is something I must tell you. I did not mean to tell anyone, but in light of your discovery about your true family, I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that I must tell you."

    "What is it?"

    "When we were in Kent, I made an offer of marriage to your sister Elizabeth."

    "You made an offer to Lizzy?" Henry was all astonishment. "I confess that such a match would be very much to my liking, but during our time in Hertfordshire Elizabeth made it quite clear that she liked you not at all."

    "Yes, but it was different in Kent." Darcy turned his mug between his hands moodily. "Elizabeth was much more inclined to accept my company. She had a teasing, almost flirtatious manner when we spoke. I thought that if I could persuade her to accept me, to represent to her that marriage with me would be advantageous not only to her but to her family, that once we were married I could teach her to love me as I loved her."

    Henry said quietly, "Would such a marriage make you happy? One formed on purely financial motives, even if it is only on one side, with the hope of future happiness that may never come to pass? You might as well have married your cousin, Miss De Bourgh."

    "I have no excuse to offer for my arrogance. I suppose that I am so accustomed to women like Caroline Bingley throwing themselves at my head that I fully expected a portionless gentleman's daughter like Elizabeth Bennet to accept my very obliging offer, and gratefully."

    "But she refused you?"

    "She did, and in such a way as to leave me in no doubt of her feelings. She told me that my pride disgusted her and that I had behaved in an ungentlemanlike manner. I was angry at first, but it was not long before I realized that Elizabeth was absolutely correct. When I asked her to be my wife, I made sure she knew precisely how degrading such a connection would be to my exalted family." He gave a short, bitter bark of laughter. "This, after she had spent a month being insulted by my aunt De Bourgh. Such were the connections so superior to her own! She opened my eyes; she made me see the pride that I always sought to regulate was beginning to blind me, and I bless her for it." He looked up at his friend and smiled. "Then I discover that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who in my embarrassment I half-hoped I would never see again though I still thought of her constantly, was the sister of one of my closest friends. It was quite a shock, to say the least."

    "To be sure," Henry laughed. "However, the next time you see Lizzy, I dare say she will have forgot her pique and be ready to receive her brother's friend with at least civility, if not friendship."

    Darcy shook his head sadly. "When I encountered her at your wedding, she looked upon me with utter loathing."

    "I doubt that, Darcy!"

    "She would not even speak to me. She stared at me for a moment, and then turned away." Darcy sighed and rubbed at his face tiredly. "I fear that she has formed a false opinion of me; an opinion born of malice and fed by my infernal pride."

    "What do you mean?"

    "Elizabeth accused me of failing to honour the provisions of my father's will with regard to Wickham. He poisoned her, and probably the rest of the neighbourhood, with half-truths and outright lies."

    Henry considered this. "I think it is time that you told me the entire story of your dealings with Wickham."

    "You know that my father provided for Wickham's education." Henry nodded. "My father's will directed that Wickham should have the next presentation of a valuable family living, along with a legacy of one thousand pounds."

    "That was generous of Mr. Darcy," Henry commented.

    "Indeed. When the provision of the will became known, Wickham told me that he did not intend to take orders, and asked for a settlement of three thousand pounds in lieu of the preferment. I agreed; I knew Wickham's character as my esteemed father could not, and knew that Kympton village would not be well-served by such an appointment. Three years later, the incumbent of Kympton died, and Wickham wrote to me, asking for the presentation. Naturally, I refused his request."

    Henry snorted. "I would imagine so! He had no right to ask for the preferment, when he had voluntarily given it up, and received compensation."

    "No, he had no right. Yet my refusal made me the object of his resentment, and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. I can only imagine what he told your sister." Darcy lapsed into a melancholy silence.

    "Darcy, have I your permission to write to Elizabeth and tell her that you have confided in me, and explain the true story of your dealings with Wickham?"

    "I have told her myself. I gave her a letter after her refusal--shamefully long, and written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit. I laid the facts before her, but cannot hope for a change of heart." He took a deep breath and leaned back. "I thank you for your offer, Tilney, but I must make amends myself. The next time I see Elizabeth, I must endeavour to convince her that I am not such a bad fellow as Wickham's lies and my own prideful behaviour have led her to believe. I only pray that it is not too late."

    Henry smiled. "Lizzy is a sensible young lady. I have every confidence in your powers of persuasion."

    Darcy laughed and rose. "Your confidence is encouraging! However, I dare say it will be some time before I meet with your sister again. Perhaps I can use those powers of persuasion to convince Bingley that we should have a shooting party at Netherfield in the autumn."

    "I do not think that Bingley will require much persuading." Henry followed Darcy outside the inn, where their horses stood waiting.

    As they approached Pemberley, Darcy's spirits lifted visibly. He clucked to his horse and broke into a gallop as they entered the wood on the edge of his grounds. Henry laughed, shook his head, and followed gamely. At the top of the hill, where the wood ceased, Darcy reined in and looked down at the house. He wore an expression of mingled pleasure and pride, and Henry could not grudge him the latter. The master of the vista before him was entitled to such an emotion.

    Pemberley House was situated so perfectly as to instantly catch the eye, on the opposite side of a valley into which the road wound with some abruptness. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Henry had long felt that there were few places for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.

    They directed the horses along the road, which led behind the house to the stables. A trio of idling grooms scattered hastily as they entered. "Mr. Darcy," said the oldest, stepping forward and pulling his forelock. "We didn't expect you till tomorrow, sir."

    "That will do," Darcy growled, not very convincingly. "These two have had a long ride. Feed and water them, and a good rubdown, mind." The other two grooms each led one of the horses away. Darcy pointed to a barouche-landau outside the stable. "Whose carriage is that?"

    The head groom replied, "It belongs to a gentleman who's come to see the house, sir."

    "Very well. You're tending to his cattle?"

    "Yes, sir," said the groom in an injured tone.

    Darcy smiled. "I should know that I do not have to tell you your business, Dunning. Carry on."

    "Very good, Mr. Darcy." The groom pulled his forelock again and ambled away.

    Darcy pulled out his watch and sighed. "I must see my steward," he said to Henry. "Go up to the main house. Reynolds will look after you; she has always had a soft corner for you," he added with a smile.

    Henry followed him out of the stable and stepped out onto the lawn. Three people stood nearby, looking back at the great house; one of them, a young woman, looked terribly familiar.

    Darcy came to a sudden stop in front of Henry. "Good God," he muttered under his breath.

    "Lizzy!" cried Henry, moving forward to greet his sister, who was staring at Darcy, her face overspread with the deepest blush. Henry grinned at Darcy over his shoulder. "Darcy, here is my sister Elizabeth. What a happy coincidence! You remember her, I am sure." He was very much amused to see that Darcy's face was as flushed as Elizabeth's and that his mouth hung open slightly in astonishment.

    Elizabeth had turned her head away from Darcy. "Hello, Henry," she greeted him, accepting a kiss on the cheek.

    "I am glad to see you. I knew you were touring in the north, but did not realize that Pemberley was on your itinerary."

    Elizabeth's face grew even redder. "We--we were in the neighbourhood, and my aunt wished to see the house."

    "Of course. I understand you perfectly." He turned to his friend. "Cat got your tongue, Darcy?"

    "May I enquire after your family, Miss Bennet?" asked Darcy in a low, hurried voice. His face was still flushed.

    "They are all very well, sir. I thank you."

    "Your friends in Meryton? They are all well?"

    For once in her life, Elizabeth failed to recognize an extremely diverting moment. She stared resolutely at the grass in front of Darcy's feet. "Yes, they are all well."

    "Your brother is well, as you see." Darcy waved a hand nervously in Henry's direction. "And Mrs. Tilney."

    "I am glad to hear it."

    Henry had walked over to the Gardiners and engaged them in conversation, and he was amused to note that they were as interested in what was passing between Darcy and Elizabeth as he was. Their conversation took on a distracted quality as they all strained to listen. Henry wondered if Elizabeth had told the Gardiners of Darcy's proposal. Probably not; Jane was a more likely confidante.

    "Are your sisters all well? Your mother and father?"

    "Yes, they are well, I thank you."

    Darcy mumbled a few more enquiries after the absent Bennets, repeating himself several times and appearing thoroughly ill at ease. Finally he bowed and walked away very quickly toward the main house. Elizabeth, who was no more composed than Darcy, turned on her heel and joined her friends.

    "Where are you staying?" Henry asked her. "Catherine is arriving tomorrow; may we call on you? I know she would like to see you."

    Elizabeth looked up at him in confusion. "Yes, of course. Do forgive me, Henry! I was just so startled--we are staying in the village of Lambton, at the Red Lion Inn. Please do bring Catherine to call. I would very much like to see her. But now, I think we should leave."

    "There is no reason to run away." Henry added mischievously, "I am quite sure that Darcy would like you to have a proper look about you."

    Elizabeth glanced up at him, her brow furrowed, then looked consciously at the Gardiners, as if warning him not to say too much. Henry took the hint. "I think Darcy expected me to follow him. I will bring Catherine to call." He hastened into the house.

    Darcy was in the entrance with the housekeeper. "And you showed them all over the house?"

    "Yes, Mr. Darcy. The young lady claimed an acquaintance with you."

    Darcy glanced at Henry. "Miss Bennet is Mr. Tilney's sister."

    "Is she, indeed! She never said so, I declare. And here is Mr. Tilney! How do you do, sir?" She turned back to Darcy. "Will you be wanting tea? Will the young lady and her friends be coming back to the house?"

    "I will invite them in for tea, but I do not know if they will stay," Darcy replied.

    "Very well, sir. I shall see to your rooms." She bustled away.

    Darcy turned to Henry with a wry smile. "So much for my fine plan to win Elizabeth's heart! I sounded a perfect booby out there!"

    "Then you know what you must do."

    Darcy nodded resolutely. "Yes. The initial shock has passed; I believe I can meet her with composure." He smiled at Henry. "I suppose it would be best to start over again and try to amend her first impression of me. Come, Tilney," he commanded, all at once the master of Pemberley instead of the stuttering lover he had been a few moments before. Henry followed the order willingly, and they set off for the wood in search of the party.

    Both Elizabeth and Darcy were a great deal more composed at this second meeting, and Elizabeth was even able to smile and admire the beauty of the estate; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when she suddenly blushed, and said no more.

    Darcy glanced at Mrs. Gardiner, who stood a little behind, and asked gently, "Will you do me the honour of introducing me to your friends?"

    Elizabeth looked at Darcy, then at Henry; she seemed startled, but performed the introduction. Henry noticed a small smile as she watched Darcy's face. Henry could guess what she was thinking: that Darcy took the Gardiners for people of fashion, and might find a good reason to make his excuses when he learned that they were the connections he so despised.

    Indeed, Darcy blinked in surprise, but bore up manfully. He walked by Mr. Gardiner and engaged him in conversation, and was soon pointing out the best fishing spots along the stream. "You must come here before you leave the neighbourhood," Henry heard him saying. "I can provide you with tackle, and if I am otherwise occupied, the gillie will take you in hand."

    Henry looked down at his sister and smiled. She shook her head and whispered to Henry, "Such civility must be entirely a compliment to you."

    "Mr. Gardiner is not my uncle, Lizzy."

    Elizabeth did not respond, but looked thoughtful.

    They all walked a little further, and then Mrs. Gardiner, who was no great walker, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. Henry hung back with the Gardiners, willing to give Darcy the opportunity to make himself agreeable to Elizabeth.

    Eventually they wound their way back to the house, where Darcy pressed them to go inside and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with the utmost politeness. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage and watched as they drove away.

    "So, tell me, Darcy," said Henry, "have you made a good start on winning Elizabeth's affection?"

    "I do not know," Darcy replied. "I cannot be sure. It may be too late--I may not have succeeded." He turned and walked slowly into the house.

    The carriages turned into the drive in a stately procession. Henry and Darcy, both anxious to receive their passengers, were on the lookout, and went outside to meet them.

    Catherine was the first to disembark; she ran to Henry, though Darcy's presence prevented her from indulging in an exuberant greeting. She smiled up at Henry sweetly, and he was pained to see faint rings beneath her eyes. "You look tired, Cat," he said.

    "I did not sleep very well last night."

    "Neither did I." Their eyes met; neither of them had to add, "because you were not there."

    "Welcome to Pemberley, Mrs. Tilney," said Darcy politely.

    "Good morning, Mr. Darcy! Thank you again for inviting us."

    "Tilney is welcome in my home at any time, as are you."

    "You are very kind, to be sure."

    Georgiana was just behind her friend, and greeted her brother brightly. "I am so glad to be home!" she cried as the servants began to carry in the luggage. "I have not been here since the winter! Everything is so green and lovely!"

    "You must ascertain if there have been any other changes since then," Darcy said with a smile.

    "Why, Fitzwilliam! What have you done?"

    "I would not spoil the surprise. Let us see how long it takes you to discover them."

    As it turned out, it did not take very long at all. The ladies went upstairs to wash off the dirt of the road, and Darcy winked at Henry. "Wait for it," he said. A moment later, they heard a girlish squeal of delight.

    Darcy grinned and beckoned Henry up the stairs. They went into a very pretty sitting-room, fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below. Catherine and Georgiana were exclaiming together over the new furnishings.

    Georgiana turned glowing eyes upon her brother, who was smiling at her indulgently. "It is lovely, Fitzwilliam!"

    "You took a liking to this sitting-room the last time you were here, and it has not been redone for some years. Mother liked this room," Darcy added thoughtfully. "She used to write letters here. But you wouldn't remember that, I dare say."

    Georgiana went to him and took his hand. "You are too good," she said softly. "I do not deserve such generosity."

    Darcy tilted her chin up. "You are a good girl," he said. "I can think of no one who deserves it more."

    Henry watched them, frowning. There was an undercurrent that he did not understand. Had Georgiana done something that she thought would bring her brother's censure?

    Darcy glanced at them consciously, and Catherine took Henry's hand. "Show me where I may wash up," she said, tugging him toward the door.

    "Of course," Henry replied, recovering himself, and they slipped out of the room and left the siblings alone together.

    When Catherine had washed and changed her costume, they met the Darcys at the foot of the stairs. They passed through the drawing-room on their way to the breakfast parlour, and Georgiana gave a squeak of surprise. "A Broadwood grand pianoforte! For me?" She ran eagerly to the instrument.

    "Of course," said her brother, watching her fondly. "I do not play. It stands to reason that a pianoforte would be procured for your benefit."

    Georgiana ran her hands gently over the keys. "Catherine, look! Oh, how I wish you could play it, too!"

    Catherine replied, "I am sure I will have a great deal of pleasure from listening to you play."

    "Thank you, Fitzwilliam," Georgiana said to her brother, her face clearly showing her pleasure.

    "You are very welcome. I hope you will indulge us during our stay."

    "Of course I will! I can hardly wait to play it!"

    "Practice later," said Darcy, taking her hand and leading her away. "You have not yet had your breakfast."

    "I had a cup of tea at the inn," Georgiana protested.

    "Tut! You need more than a cup of tea to keep up your strength. I'll not have you swooning over your instrument."

    When they were all seated at the table, Henry said to Catherine, "I have a piece of news for you. My sister Elizabeth is staying in the village of Lambton, very nearby. I have promised to bring you to call." Catherine smiled her pleasure, and Miss Bingley looked her alarm. Henry continued, "We shall go tomorrow, if that will suit you."

    "Tomorrow?" cried Catherine. "Let us go today! I would so much like to see Lizzy!"

    Henry began to protest, assuming that Darcy would not agree to the scheme; however, to his surprise, Darcy was perfectly agreeable. "Will you come with us, Georgiana?" Darcy asked his sister. "I would very much like you to meet Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

    Miss Bingley stabbed a piece of toast viciously with her fork.

    Georgiana, still warm in her gratitude toward her brother, was perfectly agreeable. Soon they were all collected to set off for Lambton, and Henry was not terribly surprised to find Bingley of their party. Henry watched Bingley carefully, looking for any particularity toward Georgiana. Miss Darcy's face was still flushed with pleasure, and her smile and sparkling eyes as she spoke to her brother were certainly attractive, but Bingley seemed more eager to see Elizabeth than to be with Georgiana.

    "Your sisters do not wish to come with us?" Henry asked Bingley.

    "No; Caroline and Louisa are rather done for this morning, I am afraid."

    They all piled into a large carriage, and a liveried servant shut the door and leapt up behind. When they arrived at the Red Lion Inn, the maidservant trembled visibly at the sight of Mr. Darcy, though he took pains to speak to her kindly. She showed them into a small parlour where Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner stood ready to meet them.

    Catherine, never one to stand on ceremony, rushed forward and embraced Elizabeth warmly. "Lizzy, you must meet my dear friend," she said, drawing Georgiana forward. Before long the three girls were chatting together, though it was clear that Elizabeth and Catherine were carrying the load of the conversation.

    Henry looked at Darcy apprehensively; he knew that Darcy particularly wanted Elizabeth and Georgiana to meet, and wondered if he were unhappy at having his place in the introduction usurped. Darcy, however, appeared perfectly sanguine, smiling as he watched them.

    "I hope I am man enough to admit when I am wrong, Tilney," he said softly. "Your wife is perfectly charming. She is unspoilt, generous, and kind: just the sort of young woman I would have as an intimate for my sister."

    Henry bowed, just as Elizabeth looked up and caught Darcy's eye. "If I may interrupt," said Darcy, "Mr. Bingley has gone on a short commission for his sister, but he should be joining us presently." Just then they heard Bingley's quick step on the stairs, and he was with them in a moment.

    Henry wondered how Elizabeth would meet Bingley, but any anger she felt could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He enquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with good-humoured ease.

    The entire party was as friendly as anyone could wish, and Henry could not help feeling glad that Bingley's sisters had stayed away, and there was a moment when he thought Bingley probably felt the same way. Henry overheard him observe to Elizabeth in a tone which had something of real regret, "It has been a very long time since I had the pleasure of speaking with you. I did not have the opportunity at your brother's wedding; indeed, we have not spoken together since the 26th of November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield."

    Elizabeth seemed pleased to find his memory so exact. A moment later, Bingley added in an undertone, "Are all your sisters at Longbourn?" There was not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark, but there was a look and manner which gave them meaning.

    "Lydia is visiting friends at Brighton, but the others are all at home." Elizabeth's eyes met Bingley's in perfect understanding, and Henry smiled to himself and turned back to the others.

    Darcy, for his part, wore an expression of general complaisance. His haughty company manners had been abandoned; he was as desirous to please, as free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as he was among any of his closest friends. Elizabeth's eyes rested on him occasionally, full of approval, and something else that gave Henry cause to think that Darcy's campaign to win her heart had an excellent chance of success. For his part, Darcy made no effort to hide his admiration for Elizabeth.

    They stayed above half an hour; when they arose to depart, Darcy said, "I believe Georgiana will join me in expressing my wish of having you all to dinner at Pemberley before you leave this country."

    "Oh, yes, please do," said Georgiana with a diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations.

    Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece questioningly, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming, however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.

    Bingley shook Elizabeth's hand cordially, and said, "I am delighted to know that we will meet again, Miss Bennet. I have still a great deal to say to you, and many enquiries to make after all our friends in Hertfordshire."

    Elizabeth could not help but smile.

    The gentlemen had settled it that Mr. Gardiner would come to Pemberley the next day for the promised fishing scheme. Darcy spent a great deal of time at the side of his new acquaintance, ensuring that he had the proper tackle and good sport. Mr. Gardiner had soon landed two trout, and he encouraged Darcy to tend his own rod. "I would not have it said that I abused your hospitality," he laughed, "especially since my wife and niece are within at this moment."

    "Your wife?" asked Darcy, startled. "And--and Miss Bennet? They are here, at Pemberley?"

    "Yes, they spoke of it last night. They planned to return Miss Darcy's visit this morning."

    "Indeed?" Darcy lapsed into an extended, brooding silence while the gentlemen joked and laughed. After a few moments he turned to Henry. "Perhaps I should return to the house, just for a moment. Georgiana is not yet accustomed to receive morning callers."

    Henry could not resist teasing his friend. "I think Miss Darcy is entirely capable of receiving her own visitors. You wish her to be more outgoing in company, do not you? This will be an excellent test."

    "Yes, I dare say you are right." He grew thoughtful again, and after some consideration, he handed his fishing rod to the gillie. "I think I should return to the house, just for a moment."

    Bingley glanced over at Darcy wryly, then shook his head and returned his attention to the stream. "You go on, Darcy. Carry my compliments to Miss Bennet."

    "I shall accompany you," said Henry, "as I am having rather poor luck." Darcy did not seem to hear him, but strode off toward the house.

    Coolness enveloped them as they entered. They handed their hats to the servant, and Darcy went to a small mirror hanging nearby. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and adjusted his neckcloth.

    Henry watched him silently, eyebrows raised. When he was finished with his primping, Darcy glanced at Henry consciously and muttered, "Do not look at me so."

    "How am I looking at you?" Henry asked innocently as he followed Darcy into the saloon, where the ladies were gathered around a table laden with refreshments. Though the pyramids of fresh fruit in season were inviting, the atmosphere was tense; Mrs. Annesley and Mrs. Gardiner were talking together, and Elizabeth and Catherine joined in occasionally, but Georgiana was too shy and the sisters too superior to contribute a great deal to the conversation.

    With her brother in the room, Georgiana made more of an effort to speak, especially to Elizabeth. Darcy sat by his sister and seemed anxious to forward her acquaintance with Elizabeth.

    Miss Bingley watched them, her brows drawn together. During a lull in the conversation she said with sneering civility, "Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the -----shire militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family."

    In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Henry instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts, and so did Elizabeth, judging by the slight flush that spread across her cheeks. To Henry's surprise, Georgiana seemed overcome by confusion, unable to raise her eyes, and Darcy directed an earnest gaze at Elizabeth. An idea formed in Henry's mind that there had been some connection between Georgiana and Wickham--but how could that be? And why would Darcy look at Elizabeth so, as though he were asking her to come to the younger girl's rescue?

    But it was Catherine who spoke up. "My husband and I were at Longbourn just last week, Miss Bingley," she said brightly. "We never lacked for company, even though the officers had gone away. I do not think we dined in a family party once during our entire visit, did we, Henry? It is very kind of you to think of it, however."

    With an effort, Henry managed not to laugh aloud, even as his heart swelled with pride. Darling Catherine! Without an ounce of malice in her soul, she had assumed that Caroline's verbal dart was nothing more than a pleasant enquiry after absent friends. As was her practice, Catherine projected her own good nature onto others, and unwittingly turned the dart back on its author.

    Miss Bingley subsided, her lips pursed in vexed disappointment. Henry reached for Catherine's hand and lifted it to his lips. Elizabeth, Darcy, and Georgiana were all looking their gratitude, and he did not wish to be behindhand. Catherine seemed surprised by the sudden attention, but she simply smiled and helped Henry to a piece of cake.

    Elizabeth and her aunt left shortly afterward. Darcy attended them to their carriage, accompanied by Henry and Catherine. When they returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley and her sister abruptly stopped talking; they were probably abusing Elizabeth, Henry thought grimly. Georgiana had taken up her fancy-work and was pointedly ignoring them.

    "You know, Mr. Tilney," said Miss Bingley, "it would be a kindness to tell your sister that she should take better care to protect her skin from the sun. She grows quite brown and coarse. Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again."

    Henry opened his mouth to speak, but Darcy said coolly, "I perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned; no miraculous consequence of traveling in the summer."

    Miss Bingley, in her anger and jealousy, did not take the well-bred hint. "Tanned or no, Miss Eliza Bennet must always suffer under the comparison between herself and dear Jane. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive anything extraordinary in them."

    Catherine was all indignance, and would have spoken, but Henry shook his head at her and pressed her hand. She understood this conjugal shorthand well enough to stay quiet, though her expression showed as much as she might have said aloud. Henry, interested in Darcy's quick defense of Elizabeth, wanted to hear more; and knowing Darcy's heart as Caroline could not, he was perfectly willing to allow Miss Bingley to hoist herself on her own petard.

    "Miss Eliza herself admits she has few accomplishments, and her performance on the pianoforte is nothing remarkable. She is not at all the sort of young lady who would move well in the higher social circles." Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however; and from a determination of making him speak she continued, "I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; though afterward she seemed to improve on you, Mr. Darcy. I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time."

    "Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but that was only when I first knew her; for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance."

    Catherine forgot her anger, her eyes opening wide in surprise; she looked at Henry and opened her mouth as if to speak, but she stayed silent, consciously watching Darcy as he left the room. When he was gone, Catherine said in an overly loud voice, "Henry, I would speak with you for a moment."

    Henry swallowed a smile and followed her out of the room. When they could not be seen, she took his hand and urgently pulled him into an empty room nearby. She had an air of suppressed secrecy, and Henry could guess at the secret even before she spoke.

    "Henry," she whispered, "does Mr. Darcy like Lizzy?"

    "He does," said Henry, smiling down at her.

    Catherine laughed and clapped her hands; then the smile slowly left her face. "But...does Lizzy like Mr. Darcy?"

    "I cannot say for sure. You are a woman, Cat; what do you think?"

    "Well," said Catherine consideringly, "I think Lizzy likes him, a little bit. She is very much in the way of falling in love with him, though, and will probably do so before long." She laughed and threw her arms around his neck. "A romance, Henry!" she cried in delight, punctuating it with a warm kiss. "Could anything be more delightful?"

    "Nothing at all," laughed Henry, holding her close.

    Chapter XVIII

    Posted on Wednesday, 20 February 2002

    Henry Tilney was ever a student of human nature, and breakfast at Pemberley the next morning offered a fascinating selection of subjects. Darcy, dressed in his best green coat, fitted riding breeches, and polished top-boots, was in excellent spirits; Bingley was inattentive, a dreamy smile upon his face; Caroline directed forced smiles at Darcy but had little to say; and Catherine and Georgiana chatted gaily, seemingly unaware of the emotional currents swirling about them. Hurst, as usual, paid more attention to his food than to his companions.

    "What do you ladies have planned for this morning?" Darcy asked Catherine and Georgiana.

    Catherine looked at Georgiana expectantly. The younger girl blushed when she realized that she was the center of attention at the table. "I hoped to practice on my new pianoforte," she said shyly.

    "Then I place myself under your command, my sweet," said Henry, bowing in Catherine's direction. "It is a very fine morning. Would you like to ride about the grounds?"

    Catherine's face lit with pleasure, and Georgiana told her, "You may ride my mare. I dare say she needs the exercise."

    "I am off to the stables myself," said Darcy. "I shall see that the grooms are instructed to saddle the mare for you, Mrs. Tilney, and to provide anything that you need."

    "I thank you, sir. But I do wish--" Catherine hesitated.

    Darcy smiled at her encouragingly. "Yes, what is it? You need not be afraid to speak."

    "Oh, I am not afraid," she said. "But I wish that you would call me Catherine, as Georgiana does. You and Henry are such particular friends, and it sounds so formal to hear you always call me Mrs. Tilney! Mr. Bingley calls me Catherine," she added.

    "Hmm?" said Bingley, waking from his reverie upon hearing his name. "Beg pardon, Cathy, I did not attend."

    "You see?" cried Catherine triumphantly.

    Darcy laughed. "Well, I shall not call you 'Cathy,' as I haven't Bingley's dashing ways. But if you wish it, Catherine, I shall address you by your Christian name."

    Catherine and Georgiana were both all smiles and shining eyes. Miss Bingley and her sister exchanged a glance, and Caroline lifted her nose into the air and sniffed audibly. Darcy glanced at Miss Bingley, his eyebrows raised; her face grew red, and she looked away.

    Darcy rose from the table. "As much as it pains me to tear myself away from such charming company," he said with a smile at his sister and her friend, "I must be off. I bid you all good morning."

    "Riding out so soon after your arrival, Darcy?" Henry asked him, a twinkle in his brown eyes. "To anywhere in particular? I am sure that nothing could take you from your guests save an appointment of great significance."

    Darcy's lips twitched. "I have many duties that must be attended to, Tilney."

    "Ah, yes, duties. Duty is a fine thing, and certainly should be tended. Your--tenants--will admire the promptness with which you fulfill these duties, to be sure."

    "I hope they may," said Darcy with a bow.

    "I am persuaded that they will admire your exquisite tailoring as well. Are those boots new?"

    Darcy was very near laughter now, so he did not answer, but only shook his head as he left the room, clapping Henry's shoulder as he passed. Henry, to his credit, only flinched slightly under the additional pressure that Darcy inflicted with the gesture.

    When he was gone, Miss Bingley regained her natural sense of superiority. "My dear Mrs. Tilney," she crooned, "I know you are accustomed to country manners, and I feel it incumbent upon me to guide you in the way to go on among more worldly company."

    Catherine said nothing, but smiled politely.

    Caroline continued, "Mr. Darcy was too genteel to say so, but it is not quite proper for him to address his friend's wife by her Christian name."

    "Perhaps not," said Catherine agreeably, "but Henry and Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley have known one another for so long that they are very much like--brothers."

    Henry, who was drinking his tea, managed not to choke upon it. Miss Bingley frowned.

    Catherine continued, "It would be entirely proper for my husband's brother to address me so familiarly--do not you agree?"

    "Oh, certainly," said Miss Bingley coolly. "But Mr. Darcy and Mr. Tilney, however particular their friendship, are not really brothers. I confess that Charles's manners are rather too easy, but Mr. Darcy is not one to forget the proprieties."

    "That is very true. Yet Mr. Darcy agreed to call me by my Christian name. Clearly, he looks upon Henry as being a brother--or very close to it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must change into my riding habit. Good morning to you." Catherine left the breakfast parlour, her head held high and an admiring Georgiana trailing in her wake.

    Henry finished his breakfast, bid the remaining guests a good morning, and went to the chamber he shared with Catherine. She was in the process of donning her habit, and had only one arm in the sleeve; nevertheless, Henry seized her and kissed her with great enthusiasm.

    Catherine emerged from his embrace slightly flushed, but smiling. "What was that for?"

    "For being your adorable self."

    "I am myself every day, Henry."

    "Then I must kiss you every day."

    "You already do."

    Henry, unable to help himself, kissed her again, and left her to her toilette while he went to see about their horses.

    The grooms had obeyed Darcy's commands with great promptitude. A handsome chestnut mare, outfitted with a gleaming sidesaddle, was waiting outside, along with Henry's own saddle-horse. To his surprise, Darcy had not yet departed, but was just mounting his horse.

    "I expected that you would be halfway to Lambton by now," Henry greeted his friend.

    "I was just about to leave."

    "Thank you for seeing to our horses. Catherine will be along in a moment; shall we go with you?"

    Darcy hesitated. "I think today it would be best if I went alone. I hope you do not mind."

    Henry frowned. "No, I do not mind, but--so soon, Darcy? Is that wise?"

    It was his friend's turn to frown; though comprehension dawned in a moment. "No, no--I shall make no proposals today. I believe I still have some more work to do in that quarter. I have already suffered mortification at your sister's hands," he added with a wry smile. "I hope, if nothing else, that I have learned to choose my moment rather better."

    Henry laughed. "Godspeed to you then, Darcy!" he said as Catherine emerged from the house, the trailing skirt of her habit draped over one arm.

    Darcy tipped his hat to her, then turned his horse and rode away.

    "Is he going to call on Lizzy?" asked Catherine as Henry helped her into the saddle.

    "Yes, but you must not tease poor Miss Bingley about it."

    Catherine frowned as they cantered away from the house. "I am very fond of Mr. Bingley, but I really have not patience with his sisters! It is hard to believe that they are related!" She rode in silence for a moment, her brow creased in concentration. Finally she said, "Henry, do you think it possible that Mr. Bingley was kidnapped from his true family, and adopted, as you were?"

    "Alas, I fear that one Gothic romance per circle of friends is the best we can hope for."

    "I suppose you are right," she sighed, quite disappointed.

    They rode into the woods and ascended to the higher grounds, stopping when they gained the top of the hill. Catherine looked out over the valley and the opposite hills with the long range of woods overspreading them. "I know that such a view is not picturesque," she said earnestly, "but I must confess that I find it very pleasant, and all the green is most refreshing on a warm day."

    "It is a pleasant view, my sweet, but the artist's eye is too nice for such simple pleasures. It demands foregrounds, distances, and second distances; side-screens and perspectives; lights and shades."

    "Oh, I understand you completely; yet I find many attractive objects within my view here."

    Henry observed to himself that Catherine was by far the most attractive object in his view, but merely suggested that they continue their ride round the park.

    They made a descent among hanging woods to the edge of the water in one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Rather than take the horses through the narrow pass, they turned back toward the house.

    Catherine's looked back longingly. "I should like to come back here for a walk, Henry! I like the looks of that path! It is so very gloomy!"

    Henry smiled. "Very well. We shall endeavour to do so before our visit ends."

    They wound their way around the park for some time, letting the horses walk slowly as they took great pleasure in all the beauties of the Pemberley estate; suddenly, their attention was claimed by the sound of pounding hoofbeats, and they turned to see Darcy riding toward them at a gallop.

    "Tilney!" he cried, reining up as he reached them. "You must go to Lambton directly."

    "Has something happened to my sister?" cried Henry in alarm.

    "Not Elizabeth," said Darcy. "Lydia has eloped with Wickham. Elizabeth had word in a letter from Jane just as I arrived."

    Catherine cried out in dismay. Henry asked in a quiet, steady voice, "They are gone to Scotland?"

    Darcy's eyes were compassionate as they met his friend's. "No, not Scotland. The letter said that they have been traced as far as the London road."

    "But how could they be married in London without Mr. Bennet's permission?" asked Catherine. "Lydia is not of age!"

    "Forgive me, Catherine," said Darcy. "I do not like to speak of such things in your presence, but I am well acquainted with Wickham's character. It would not surprise me if he never intended to marry Lydia."

    "Then he must be a very wicked man indeed," cried Catherine. "I have never met Lydia, but I cannot believe that she could be so bad as to run away with a man who did not mean to marry her!"

    "Lydia would not be the first young lady that Wickham has beguiled," said Darcy.

    Catherine blushed as she realized his meaning.

    "Tilney, are you able to ride to Lambton?" Darcy asked him gently. "Shall I call the carriage for you?"

    "I can ride," said Henry. His eyes had lost all traces of their usual good humour, and his jaw was set firmly.

    "Very well. Catherine, may I escort you back to the house?"

    "I think I should go with Henry," said Catherine.

    Henry had appeared to be struggling with a decision since Darcy had told him about Lydia's elopement, but when he looked up, the struggle was over. "Yes, Catherine will come with me to Lambton. Thank you, Darcy."

    "Then you should be off," said Darcy. "Send word, or come back yourself." He hesitated, and then added, "God bless you. My thoughts are with you." He gripped Henry's hand and turned his horse back toward Pemberley.

    Henry and Catherine were immediately admitted to the Gardiners' lodgings. Henry went to his sister and embraced her.

    "I am so glad that you are here, Henry," said Elizabeth as she clung to him. "I suppose Mr. Darcy told you of our troubles?"

    "He did. I only wonder that my father has not written to me himself."

    Elizabeth smiled wanly. "You will soon learn that he is a most negligent and dilatory correspondent. That he has not informed you of this sad affair does not surprise me at all. Jane writes that is gone to London with Colonel Forster."

    "May I see the letters?"

    Elizabeth handed Henry two letters. He read through the first one quickly, and then the second with closer attention. "It seems that we must own ourselves greatly in Colonel Forster's debt," he said when he was finished. "He has done much of the ground work, tracing them as far as Clapham and then onto the London road. They are probably in town; I can think of nowhere else that they could be so well concealed. Do you return to Longbourn?"

    "Yes, as soon as can be."

    "Very well. Catherine and I will accompany you, if we may," he added, turning to Mr. Gardiner.

    "Of course," said Mr. Gardiner. "I expected you would." He drew Henry aside. "We shall see the ladies back to Longbourn, and then you and I can travel on to London to find my brother."

    "And Wickham," said Henry in a low tone that made Mr. Gardiner look at him more closely.

    Henry and Catherine returned to Pemberley within the hour to pack their things. Darcy was quietly helpful, and soon the Tilneys and their baggage were loaded into a chaise and four and the coachman instructed to carry them to Lambton without delay.

    "This cannot be kept secret long," Henry said to Darcy as he helped Catherine into the carriage. "Nevertheless, I would not see my family's business discussed openly."

    "You may depend upon me," Darcy replied. "I shall not speak of it to the others."

    "Thank you," said Henry. "Thank you for everything. I hope that Catherine and I can return to Pemberley under happier circumstances. I hope that--" he hesitated, and held out his hand. "Good-bye, Darcy."

    "Tilney," said Darcy in a low, urgent voice. "Do nothing rash. I know that you will try to find Wickham, but--listen to me, my friend. Do nothing until you have spoken to me. I shall be in contact with you soon."

    Henry observed his friend's face carefully. "Do you have an idea of their whereabouts?"

    "I do not," Darcy replied. "But I shall make enquiries amongst certain parties. Trust in me, Tilney, and do nothing rash. You are a married man, and have Catherine to think of. Please, wait until you hear from me."

    Henry nodded, shook Darcy's hand, and climbed into the chaise.

    Mr. Gardiner's coachman had raised the top of the carriage, for which they were all grateful, having lost any taste for sight-seeing. Elizabeth sat between her aunt and Catherine, and Henry sat opposite with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth's eyes were still red, and she clutched a handkerchief; Catherine held her hand and tried to say consoling things, but her own distress was so great that she could not provide her sister with much comfort.

    They talked over the affair tirelessly as they traveled, however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures by its repeated discussion. Catherine and the Gardiners were inclined to share Jane's dependence on whatever honour Wickham still possessed to bring the affair to a satisfactory conclusion. Elizabeth could not be so sanguine; she spoke bitterly of Lydia's wildness and indifferent education, and recounted Wickham's behaviour toward Mr. Darcy--a story new to Catherine, and one that shocked her into wide-eyed silence. "Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is," said Elizabeth, her eyes brimming with tears. "We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating."

    Henry did not join in the discussion, but stared out the window, a new coldness in his eyes that gave Catherine great private pain. She watched him in unhappy confusion, no more able to comfort him than she had been able to comfort Elizabeth.

    They traveled on as long as there was daylight, but as the sun dropped slowly behind the horizon and the shadows began to grow, they stopped at an inn and engaged rooms for the night.

    Henry changed into his nightshirt, absently leaving items of clothing lying about the cramped chamber. Catherine picked up behind him without comment or censure. She was a little afraid of this hard-eyed Henry who spoke to her, not unkindly, but in uncharacteristically terse sentences, and longed for the return of the laughing, teasing man she had married.

    Not knowing what else to do, she brought forth a volume of Udolpho. "Shall we read a chapter, Henry?"

    "Forgive me, Cat. I am not inclined to enjoy it tonight. We should be abed in any event; we must rise early tomorrow if we are to arrive at Longbourn before dark." He kissed her on the forehead, put out the candle, and lay down.

    Catherine stood for a moment holding the book. Finally she put it down and climbed into bed. The tears that had been close to the surface since they left Derbyshire brimmed over, and she turned on her side away from Henry. She lay rigid, desperately unhappy and utterly unable to sleep.

    After a time, Henry stirred, and she felt him moving closer to her. His arm slid around her waist; a simple gesture, but one that allowed the fear and anxiety to leave her body in a warm rush. She laced her fingers through his, taking comfort from the warm weight of him behind her and the understanding that the Henry she loved was not lost forever.

    They traveled as expeditiously as possible, and reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. "It is a comfort to me," said Elizabeth as the carriage turned up the drive, "that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. I dare say she has taken all the concerns of the household upon herself."

    They were met upon arrival by the Gardiner children, who jumped happily upon their parents and Elizabeth and stared shyly at Henry. They seemed to take an instant liking to Catherine, who was accustomed to small children and spoke to them kindly.

    Elizabeth had hastily kissed the children and run into the vestibule, and was talking with Jane. Henry went in after her and saw that Elizabeth's prediction was correct. Jane appeared pale and fatigued, but she forced a smile when she saw Henry. "How glad I am that you have come!" she cried, embracing him. "My mother has been asking for you, and Lizzy, and Mr. Gardiner."

    They all repaired to Mrs. Bennet's apartment, where she received them exactly as might be expected: with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage; blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing. "But now you are here, brother. I know you will be kind to us. And Henry! You must go after your father," she sobbed, clinging to Henry's hand. "I know he will fight Wickham, and he will be killed!"

    "Mr. Gardiner and I mean to go to London tomorrow, ma'am," replied Henry. "We will do everything in our power to recover Lydia."

    "Oh, my dear boy!" cried Mrs. Bennet. "That is exactly what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, make them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And tell my dear Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, Henry, how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all."

    "I believe that there are more important matters to settle than Lydia's wedding clothes, ma'am."

    "That is what I just said," replied Mrs. Bennet fretfully. "We will get them after she is married. And, above all things, you must keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in--that I am frightened out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings all over me; such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. Your father must not be allowed to fight Wickham! If anyone is to fight Wickham, it is you. You are by far the properest person."

    Catherine had stayed quietly behind Henry, not wishing to attract undue attention from her mother-in-law; but at this last careless sentence, her eyes grew wide, and she looked sharply at Henry, as one who has at last understood a difficult puzzle.

    "My dear Fanny," cried Mr. Gardiner impatiently. "You must cease all this talk of duels. I am sure that we will be able to help Lydia without resort to such terrific ideas."

    Mrs. Bennet, however, was inconsolable, and presently they left her to the kind ministrations of the housekeeper. The others went downstairs to the dining parlour, but Catherine pulled Henry into an empty sitting-room.

    "What is it, Catherine?" Henry's voice was rather sharper than usual.

    She hesitated, wrung her hands, and finally blurted out, "I want you to promise me that you will not fight a duel with Wickham."

    Henry blinked in surprise. "You should not listen to Mrs. Bennet," he said gently. "She is distraught, and knows not what she says."

    "Nevertheless," said Catherine stubbornly, "I want you to promise me."

    Henry opened his mouth as though to speak, but said nothing. Catherine burst into tears, turned away, and buried her face in her hands.

    "Cat," said Henry brokenly, "what can I do? She is my sister, and she is only sixteen!"

    Catherine whirled around, her face contorted and wet with tears. "What does that signify? I was only seventeen when I left home for the first time, and I knew better than to elope with a man such as Wickham, or any man at all! How has such a sister a greater claim upon you than your wife?"

    "Of course she has not a greater claim upon me!"

    "Then promise me!"

    Greater men than Henry Tilney have surrendered when faced with the tears of a beloved woman. "Very well," he said at last. "I promise that I shall not fight a duel with Wickham. Do not cry, my love." He pulled her into his arms and held her close as she wept.

    "You know, Cat," he said when her sobs had subsided, "really I should consider myself the injured party in this dispute. You can have no opinion of my marksmanship if you are so convinced that Wickham would kill me in a duel."

    Catherine trembled, and for a moment Henry thought she had once more begun to weep; but when she raised her head to look at him, she was smiling. "You sound like yourself again. I have been so frightened when you spoke to me the past two days! You seemed so angry!"

    "I was angry; I am still; but not with you." He toyed with an errant curl that had escaped the confines of her lace cap. "I have not been so angry since I learned that General Tilney had sent you away from Northanger."

    "When you came to Fullerton a few days later, I thought you were like a hero in a novel." She smiled up at him mistily. "I cannot begrudge Lydia her champion. However," she added hastily, "that does not release you from your promise!"

    "No, my sweet." He kissed her. "You will find that I always keep my promises."

    "I know you do. You promised that we would be married, even when the General would not give his consent, and here we are." She wiped her eyes with her fingers. Henry immediately produced his handkerchief, and she put it to use. After a moment she asked, "Will you take me to London with you?"

    "You would be a comfort to me, without a doubt; but I would have you stay here at Longbourn and render what assistance you can to Jane and Lizzy."

    "Very well, Henry. I will stay, if you wish it, and be of use if I can." She wiped her eyes again and sighed. "I should probably bathe my eyes before dinner."

    They went into the passage, and Henry turned toward the stairs, but Catherine called him back. "Thank you," she said softly.

    Henry smiled, and touched her cheek, and left her.

    The next day's mail brought no word from Mr. Bennet, and Henry began to understand Elizabeth's comments about their father's negligence in correspondence. Even if Mr. Bennet had no pleasing intelligence to send, Henry would have been glad to be certain of that.

    Once the mail had been brought, there was no longer any reason to tarry. Henry kissed his sisters, and last of all Catherine, and climbed into the post-chaise. He lowered the glass, and Catherine reached up to clasp his hand. "Remember your promise," she said.

    "I shall, my sweet. Good-bye."

    The postilion leapt into the saddle, and the chaise rumbled down the drive. As they turned onto the road, Henry saw Catherine standing in the drive, a white handkerchief fluttering in her hand, but she was soon lost from his sight.

    Chapter XIX

    Posted on Wednesday, 13 March 2002

    The postilion knew his business; he guided the horses through the busy streets of London at a smart pace, finally drawing to a smooth stop in front of Grillon's Hotel. Mr. Gardiner paid the post-boy as a servant conducted Henry to the coffee-room, where Mr. Bennet sat with a pot of tea and a newspaper.

    Mr. Bennet glanced up at his son with all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure. "Well, Henry, I see we have torn you from the comforts of wedded life, and travelling on a Sunday as well! You shall be thoroughly debauched before we have done with you. Fear not, your bishop shall not hear of this from me."

    Henry was not in a mood to be amused. "Why did you not write to me, Father? I would have come to you directly."

    "Aye, I should have. I would have, eventually." Despite Mr. Bennet's sardonic smile, his eyes were weary. "I am not a good letter-writer, you know."

    Henry smiled in spite of himself. "Yes, I know."

    "Well, sit down. Give you good morrow, Edward," he added as Mr. Gardiner joined them. "Will you take a cup?"

    "I have told the post-boy to wait, Tom," said Mr. Gardiner. "Can I persuade you to come to Gracechurch-street? You will undoubtedly be more comfortable there."

    "I dare say I should. I would be even more comfortable in my own library, but I have given up all the well-earned comforts of old age to chase after my prodigal offspring."

    "Allow me to relieve you, sir," said Henry, taking his father's hand affectionately. "Return to Longbourn, where you may be as comfortable as you like, and allow me to perform my filial duty."

    Mr. Bennet smiled and patted Henry's hand comfortably. "You are a good boy, Henry. It is well that I did not have the raising of you. Your understanding of duty may not then have been so nice."

    "Do not speak so, Father."

    "No, no. We both know the truth, son. This sad business has been my own doing."

    "I will not allow you to blame yourself entirely, sir. I am quite certain that Lydia knew better than to run away from Brighton."

    "On the contrary; Lydia was always quite capable of performing whatever ill-advised action took her fancy at a particular moment. I should never have let her go to Brighton. Lizzy told me months ago that there would be a sad end to it. She is a better parent than I. No, Henry, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough."

    Henry bowed his head, unable to say any more.

    "Well, if you are determined to stay in town, then at least come to Gracechurch-street," urged Mr. Gardiner. "That way, we will all be under the same roof, and can more easily coordinate our plan to find Lydia."

    "You see?" Mr. Bennet asked Henry, nodding to his brother. "Edward, here, was not allowed to idle away his time in learning dead languages and history like you and I. He is a man of business who has made his way in the world; nothing has been handed to him. He understands how to set himself a task and accomplish it in an organized fashion. You are by far better off with him than with me as a field general. However, sit down, both of you, and we will determine precisely where we stand."

    "Not here, Tom," said Mr. Gardiner. "The chaise is waiting. Have your man get your things together and bring them round later."

    Mr. Bennet knew that he was defeated; he said only, "Very well," and followed the other men out to the chaise.

    The Gardiners' housekeeper was one of those rare and valuable creatures who, even upon very short notice, can contrive an excellent meal for three gentlemen who are weary in both body and spirit. There was no more conversation than necessary throughout the meal; but at last the table was cleared, the servants withdrew, and the gentlemen were left alone in the dining-room with a bottle of very good port.

    Henry poured a generous glassful and pushed the bottle across the table to his father. "Have you been able to discover anything about Lydia's whereabouts, sir?"

    "I have not." Mr. Bennet tasted the port. "This is very good, Edward, very good indeed. Will you put me in the way of a few dozen bottles?"

    "Alas, Tom, I have only a dozen or so left; however, I will give you the name of the merchant who provided it. Even if he has none of this particular label, I dare say he can accommodate you with something of equal quality." Mr. Gardiner smiled wryly. "He has connections along the coast whose talents bring much attention from the excisemen."

    "Very good, very good." Mr. Bennet sipped the port again.

    Henry, impatient with his father's dance around the subject of Lydia's elopement, said, "I beg your indulgence, sir. Do have the goodness to tell me if you have learned anything of my sister's situation."

    "I am astonished that they did not teach you the virtue of patience at Oxford, son. However, your curiosity is natural, and I shall satisfy it." He took another sip. "I have been to Clapham and Epsom, and was unable to gain any satisfactory information. We must, however, go on with the search. I have an idea that I might inquire at the principal hotels here in town. It is possible that they might have gone to one of them before they procured lodgings."

    Mr. Gardiner looked doubtful that the scheme would be successful, but he said, "I will be honoured to assist you in your endeavour. I will write to Colonel Forster, as well. Perhaps he will know whether Wickham has any connections who know of a location in town where he might have concealed himself."

    "It is to be hoped that Colonel Forster will be able to assist us," said Mr. Bennet reflectively. "Otherwise, we have nothing to guide us."

    Mr. Gardiner finished his port and rose. "I promised my wife that I would write to her when we arrived."

    Henry and Mr. Bennet went into the drawing-room. The housekeeper was on the alert, and soon brought out coffee. When she was gone, Mr. Bennet looked at his son keenly. "Well, Henry, tell me how the rest of the family goes on. I dare say your stepmamma has taken a fit of the vapours."

    "I understand that Mrs. Bennet does not venture from her apartment, sir. She suffers from, I believe the actual words she used were 'tremblings and flutterings,' and told me that at all costs, I must prevent you from fighting a duel with Wickham."

    "Mrs. Bennet's fears, as usual, are quite groundless. Dueling is a young man's game, and I am no longer a young man." His penetrating gaze rested upon Henry. "I hope that you have not considered such misplaced gallantry, son."

    "Certainly I considered it," said Henry quietly. "Did not you?"

    "There will be no dueling," his father said sternly. "Do I make myself clear?"

    "Such a command is appreciated, but unnecessary," said Henry with a smile. "Catherine has already had my promise."

    "That is well. If you will not listen to me, then I dare say you will listen to your wife."

    "Then what are we to do, Father? Even if we find them, how are we to make them marry? If Wickham intended marriage, he would have taken Lydia to Scotland. He cannot be a mere fortune-hunter, for Lydia has no fortune."

    "Indeed," said Mr. Bennet, stirring his coffee. "Wickham had his sights on the King chit, and her ten thousand pounds, yet he eloped with Lydia. I do not think that he ever intended to marry her."

    "Perhaps if we were able to give him something--enough for his present relief, and a sum in trust to provide ongoing support--he can be persuaded to be honourable."

    "I have nothing to give him," said Mr. Bennet. "And I do not think that such a one as Wickham will be satisfied with a small annuity."

    Henry rose and paced the room restlessly. "I have some money," he said finally. "I received an inheritance from my foster mother. However, I settled a large sum on Catherine when we married. It is in trust, and provides an annual amount for her personal expenses, and will go to our children in time." He stood in front of the fireplace, staring morosely at the empty grate. "I should have kept some of it in reserve for just such a circumstance as this. Catherine would have been well provided for with half as much."

    Mr. Bennet spoke sharply. "Never censure yourself for being generous to those you love. You will have a family soon enough, and your present income should not be reduced. When the entailment was broken, we decided that some of the estate's assets would be liquidated upon my death to provide daughter's shares for your sisters. Instead, I will dispose of them now, and use the money to buy off Wickham. We can contrive something else for the other girls."

    "They deserve an equal share," said Henry fiercely. "And you should not be deprived of the income to which you are accustomed during your lifetime, solely to allow Wickham to continue his dissipated ways. No, there must be another way, sir."

    "I cannot think of one, Henry. In any event, it is all moot until we find Wickham and call him upon the carpet."

    "I can only hope that Lydia is still with him, and that he has not abandoned her."

    "In such a circumstance Lydia would have written to her family. She is young, and must have someone to depend upon."

    Henry said bitterly, "Lydia will never be able to depend upon her husband, sir."

    "No, she will not." Mr. Bennet rose and placed his cup upon the table. "She must instead depend upon her family." He placed his hand upon Henry's shoulder and squeezed gently. "And her family must depend upon one another."

    Henry hated London in the summer. The heat lay in a suffocating blanket over the city, and the mingled odours of man, beast, and their combined offal, trapped between tightly-packed buildings, rendered the air supremely foul. He longed for the quiet of a garden thick with the perfume of summer flowers. He longed for the bubbling music of a river, swirling round his legs as he cast for trout. He longed for the simple joys of summer in the countryside. Most of all, he longed for Catherine.

    She wrote every day, faithfully reporting the activities of the inmates of Longbourn. Mrs. Bennet was still prostrate, waited upon by Jane and Elizabeth. Catherine was attending to the greater part of the housekeeping, since Mrs. Bennet had not the heart for it, and her daughters had not the time or inclination. Mrs. Philips visited daily, bringing bits of gossip from Meryton, where Wickham had been proclaimed the wickedest young man in the world, and where tales of his debts and intrigues were the talk of the place where only a few months before he had been considered almost an angel of light. Henry's sisters sent their best love, and begged for even the slightest scrap of intelligence about Lydia. It was a request contained in every letter, and one that Henry had thus far been unable to honour.

    The search for Lydia was now at an utter halt. After a few days of futile inquiries among the hotels in town, Mr. Bennet was forced to abandon his scheme. The arrival of a letter from Colonel Forster raised their hopes briefly, though its contents quickly dashed them. The Colonel had been unable to discover that Wickham had a single relation with whom he kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any of them. In the wretched state of his own finances there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him, to a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear Wickham's expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in the town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Henry could not allow himself to be surprised at the revelations contained in the letter. His upbringing had made him intimately familiar with the activities of military men, both respectable and otherwise.

    Henry still held out hope that Darcy's inquiries had been fruitful, but when nearly a week passed with no word, he was unable to depend upon help from that quarter. He wrote to his foster brother in Northampton, asking for letters of introduction to Captain Tilney's military acquaintance in London. It was strictly a last resort; Captain Tilney did not associate with the militia, and a common acquaintance with the likes of a George Wickham was not to be expected.

    Mrs. Gardiner wrote that she wished to bring the children home, and Henry was able to persuade Mr. Bennet to meet her carriage halfway and use it to return to Longbourn. When they had seen him off in a post-chaise, Mr. Gardiner went to his warehouses on business, leaving word that he would return to receive his family around dinner-time.

    Henry was in the drawing-room writing a letter to Catherine's when his thoughts were interrupted by the bell. A moment later, the housekeeper came into the room. "Mr. Tilney," she said, "there's a messenger here for you. He says he's to deliver a letter into your hands and wait for an answer."

    Henry's first thought was that the letter was from Lydia, or even from Wickham, and he eagerly followed the housekeeper to the entranceway. He instantly recognized the messenger's livery, even before he recognized the hand on the direction.

    "You brought this all the way from Derbyshire?" he asked the lackey, wondering why Darcy had not simply used the post.

    "No, sir," said the servant respectfully. "From Mayfair."

    Henry was all astonishment. "Mr. Darcy is in town?"

    "Yes, sir."

    Henry carried the letter back into the drawing-room, consumed by a great curiosity. He shut the door, broke the seal on the letter, and opened it. It proved to be short and to the point.

    Tilney,

    I have discovered the whereabouts of Wickham and your sister. I would speak with you before I reveal their directions. Meet me at White's at three o'clock today.

    F. Darcy

    Henry pulled out his watch; it was a little before two. Likely Mr. Gardiner would not have returned in time, but such intelligence should not be delayed. Thus, at precisely three o'clock, Henry entered the venerable old club on St. James's Street. He was not a member, but when he asked for Mr. Darcy, he was immediately conducted to a small private parlour.

    "Well met, Darcy," said Henry, shaking his friend's hand. "You must have caused quite a scandal, allowing yourself to be seen in town so late in the summer!"

    Darcy smiled. "I am glad to see that you have retained your sense of humour."

    "Only with great exertion, I assure you." He accepted a glass of wine from a hovering servant.

    Darcy dismissed the servant, and did not speak again until the door was shut and they were alone. "As I said in my note, I have discovered your sister's whereabouts. She is still with Wickham."

    "Are they in town?"

    "They are. But before I give you the direction, you will tell me how you shall act when you see Wickham."

    "I do not really know," Henry admitted. "We have been consumed with finding Lydia, and will act according to the circumstances when they are known." He looked up at Darcy and added with a smile, "I shall not call out Wickham, if that is your concern. Catherine exacted a promise that I would not fight him."

    "Women are wiser about such matters than we men."

    "Indeed." Henry sighed. "When I first learned of the elopement, I was nearly blind with anger. I do not know if I was angrier with my sister or with Wickham. Lydia left a note for Mrs. Forster saying that they were going to Scotland, so she thought Wickham's intentions were honourable. Still, she knows better than to conduct a marriage in such a back-door fashion!"

    "Does she?" asked Darcy mildly. "Romantic young ladies can be powerfully swayed by love, or what they perceive as love."

    Henry looked at Darcy doubtfully. "I never thought to hear you defending Lydia's waywardness."

    "Her behaviour was wrong; that does not admit of a doubt. But as I said to your wife, Lydia would not be the first young girl that Wickham has beguiled." There was something in his expression that gave the words new meaning.

    Comprehension dawned ominously. "Darcy, you do not mean--Georgiana?"

    Darcy did not speak for a long moment. Finally he said, "About a year ago, Georgiana was at a young ladies' seminary in town. She suffered an illness, an inflammation of the lungs, in the winter; when the spring came, I removed her from the school and formed an establishment for her in town with a Mrs. Younge to be her companion. Georgiana was still pale and thin, and it was thought that sea-bathing would be beneficial to her health, so I arranged for her to make a stay at Ramsgate, in the company of Mrs. Younge." He poured another glass of wine. "I should have gone with her myself."

    "What happened in Ramsgate?" Henry asked gently.

    "Wickham went there as well, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge. We were most unhappily deceived as to her character." Darcy took a sip of wine. The recitation was clearly painful to him, but he continued. "Wickham was able to recommend himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child. She was persuaded to believe herself in love, though Wickham was concerned only with her fortune, and perhaps with revenge upon me. Providentially, I went to Ramsgate a day or two before they meant to elope and Georgiana acknowledged the whole to me."

    Henry smiled. "I am pleased to hear it. Georgiana always had a high regard for you. Nonetheless, I can imagine what you felt."

    "Indeed. There was no lasting harm done; nevertheless, I had no intention of exposing my sister to public censure. I wrote to Wickham, and he left Ramsgate immediately. Mrs. Younge, of course, was turned off at once. No one knows of the affair, save those involved, and your sister Elizabeth."

    Henry raised his eyebrows. "You told Lizzy of this?"

    "Yes, in defense of the charges falsely levelled against me by Wickham. I have every confidence in her discretion, though I dare say she has told Jane."

    "Jane would never betray such a confidence." Henry sighed. "I can only wish that Lydia had as much sense as Georgiana, and realized her mistake even at the last moment."

    "They are both young and romantic. In such a case, good sense is not always at command." Humour quirked the corners of Darcy's mouth.

    Henry forced a laugh. "You are correct. So tell me: how did you discover Wickham's whereabouts?"

    "While Mrs. Younge was still in my employ, I took on her young cousin as a scullery maid at Pemberley. The girl was a satisfactory employee, and there was no reason to turn her off after the unfortunate incident at Ramsgate. From her, I was able to learn that Mrs. Younge had taken a large house in Edward-street and was letting lodgings. I went to that house when I arrived in town, thinking that perhaps Wickham had taken up residence there. This turned out not to be the case, though Mrs. Younge had seen Wickham since he came to town and knew of his whereabouts. By much persistence and the liberal application of guineas, I at last ascertained the necessary intelligence." He handed Henry a folded piece of paper. "According to Mrs. Younge, Lydia is living there with Wickham."

    Henry took the paper, but did not move. "I will go to them," he said, "though I know not what I shall do. Lydia's honour is beyond redemption. She must marry Wickham; but how am I to force him to do so?"

    "I understand that Wickham is currently embarrassed for funds," said Darcy, sipping his wine. "Bribe him."

    "I fear that I do not have sufficient funds at my disposal to satisfy such a one as Wickham, and neither does my father. Am I to bankrupt myself, and my wife and children, to satisfy Wickham's greed?"

    "Allow me to provide the funds," said Darcy. "If I had exposed Wickham in Meryton, this would not have happened."

    "No, Darcy. This concern belongs to my family, and while I am grateful for your assistance in determining Wickham's whereabouts, I cannot allow it."

    "Then, you must meet him."

    "I cannot. I gave my promise to Catherine."

    Darcy smiled. "I believe that both your family's honour and your promise to Catherine may be satisfied." Darcy outlined his scheme as Henry listened intently.

    The directions provided by Mrs. Younge led them to a narrow road in a part of London that made Gracechurch-street appear the very height of fashion; thus, the arrival of Darcy's elegant town-chaise caused no inconsiderable stir. As Henry and Darcy stepped down, they were surrounded by children clutching at their coats, hands out and eyes lifted in supplication.

    "Mind your purse," Darcy muttered unromantically.

    A burly footman--indeed the same who had delivered the note to Gracechurch-street--leapt in front of them, waving a stout ax-handle. "Stand back, ye rascals!" he cried. "Make way for the gentlemen!"

    "Joseph, you'll come inside with us," Darcy said to the footman, who nodded even as he glared at the retreating children.

    Darcy unceremoniously thumped the door with his walking stick. It popped open immediately; likely the landlord had been watching from the window. Darcy presented his card and said, "Pray tell Mr. Wickham that Mr. Darcy and Mr. Tilney desire an interview. Have you a parlour?"

    "Yes, your honour," said the terrified landlord, handling the card gingerly as though it might explode in his hand. "Right this way."

    The room into which he ushered them was shabby, but mostly clean. Joseph took up a post just outside the door. After a few moments, Wickham slouched into the room. Darcy cordially invited him to take a chair, but he remained standing. His expression was an odd mixture of fear and defiance.

    "How did you find me?" he asked.

    "When you have purchased friendship for money," said Darcy mildly, "you must remember that it can be further bartered. Your dear friend Mrs. Younge provided us with your directions, at no inconsiderable expense, I may add."

    Wickham sneered. "The Younge, as you already know, is an untrustworthy slut. I am astonished that you dirtied your feet, Darcy."

    Henry wondered briefly what the young ladies of Meryton, who had swooned as one over the scarlet-coated, gentlemanlike Wickham, would think of this sneering, foul-mouthed fellow with the uncombed hair and the wine stain on his waistcoat. He also wondered what Lydia thought of him, and for the first time sincerely pitied his sister. "I would like to see Lydia," he said.

    Darcy went to the door and summoned the landlord. "Go to the young lady who is staying with Mr. Wickham," he said, "and tell her that her brother desires her presence."

    The landlord had regained his equilibrium. "Her brother, are you?" He glared at Wickham. "A havey-cavey business, this is. His wife, he called her. If she's his wife, I says to the missus, then I'm King George. I run a respectable place here. I know the Quality thinks naught of such goings-on, but it's not what we're accustomed to."

    "You will not be further troubled by the young lady's presence," said Darcy.

    "Aye, that is well," grumbled the landlord. "And if you'd see your way clear to pay the reckoning, your honour, I'd be much obliged. Not a farthing have we seen yet from this one, and not likely to, from what I can tell."

    "You will be paid what you are owed," said Darcy, betraying a touch of impatience. "Pray fetch the young lady."

    The landlord retreated up the stairs, muttering under his breath. Presently Lydia came flouncing down and into the parlour. "Hello, Henry," she said with an air of defiance not unlike Wickham's.

    Henry crossed the room swiftly, drew her close, and kissed her on the forehead. Lydia stood stiffly in his embrace. He stepped back, holding her by the shoulders and looking her over carefully. He was relieved to see that there was no evidence of ill-usage, though her gown was crumpled and grimy around the hem.

    "Your family has suffered much anxiety on your behalf, Lydia," he said softly. "Why did you not send word?"

    "I left a note with Harriet Forster," she said impatiently, drawing away from Henry and going to stand with Wickham.

    "Indeed you did," said Henry pleasantly. "I have seen the note, which stated that you were on your way to Gretna Green." Wickham looked sharply at Lydia, then glanced away, shaking his head. Henry noted this, but continued. "The landlord of this fine establishment has a notion that you and Mr. Wickham are married. Are you indeed Mrs. Wickham, Lydia? If so, then I will leave you with your husband."

    "We are not married yet," said Lydia. "But we soon will be. It does not much signify when."

    "Very well. Pack your things. I shall take you to your uncle's house, and you may await your nuptials there."

    "Why should I do that?" cried Lydia. "My aunt and uncle never go out, and keep no company. I want to stay with Wickham."

    Henry's voice grew stern. "Lydia, I am here in the place of your father, and you will obey me as you would obey him. Now fetch your things."

    "She does not want to go with you," Wickham interjected. "I have offered her my protection. You've no right to interfere."

    Wickham recoiled at the cold glare that Henry turned upon him. "I am her brother," he said in a low, steady voice, "and you, sir, are not her husband." He turned to his sister. "Go on, Lydia."

    Her expression was sulky, but she left the room with a flounce of her muslin skirt. It was not very long until she returned with a single small bag. Whatever her reasons for the elopement, it was clear that she had not expected to embark upon an extended journey.

    Darcy summoned the waiting footman. "Joseph, you will see Miss Bennet to the chaise. Wait for me there."

    "Yes, sir," said Joseph, but Lydia did not move.

    "Wickham," she said coquettishly, "will you not walk out with me?"

    "No, he will not," said Henry angrily. "Go out to the chaise and wait for us, do you hear?"

    "You are insufferable, Henry," she cried. "I am going to tell my mother!" With this affectionate sisterly pronouncement, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room. Joseph tried to relieve her of the bag, but she would not allow it. The door was shut once more, and the three men were alone.

    "You have what you came for," said Wickham. "There is no longer any reason for you to stay."

    "Indeed, there is," said Henry. "We have much to discuss. First of all, we must set a wedding date."

    Wickham laughed. "A wedding date? I have no intention of marrying--not to your sister, at any rate."

    "Then why did you elope with her? Why did you not leave her at Brighton?"

    Wickham poured a glass of wine and tossed it off. "I found myself obliged to leave the regiment for--personal reasons."

    "We have spoken to Colonel Forster," said Darcy. "We know of your outstanding debts of honour."

    Wickham darted a venomous look at Darcy. "Yes. I was in need of funds for my journey, and Lydia seemed to have plenty of blunt. Her mother was forever sending it to her. She always had new dresses and bonnets and other fripperies. I asked her for a loan, and she was able to extract my circumstances. I had been drinking, you see." He poured another glass of wine. "She insisted on accompanying me. I never told her that we were going to Scotland. London was at all times my object."

    "In other words, you took a young girl's money, and her honour, without a thought for anyone but yourself." Henry's voice was contemptuous.

    "I needed the money, yes. I do not deny that having a travelling partner has its--benefits." His eyes challenged Henry, and his sneer was more pronounced than ever.

    With an effort, Henry controlled his anger. There would be a better time and place to indulge it. "You chose your travelling partner badly, Wickham. Lydia is by no means without friends or resources. Did you think that you could ruin her without suffering any consequences? I like you not as a brother, but so it must be."

    "I have always thought to make my fortune through marriage," said Wickham. With a glance at Darcy, he added, "Especially since some have conspired to keep me from making my own."

    Darcy actually laughed at this. "Save your breath to cool your porridge, sir. Tilney and I both know the truth."

    Wickham smiled coldly. All he had left were words, and he would use them as weapons as he could. "Why have you become involved in this affair, Darcy? Are you still trying to insinuate yourself with Elizabeth Bennet? Yes, perhaps this scheme will succeed. She is an intelligent young lady, and cannot be moved by your riches alone."

    Darcy said nothing, though he had gone white around the mouth.

    Perceiving Wickham's plan to distract them, Henry steered the discussion back on course. "I cannot make your fortune, Wickham, though Lydia's family would not see her starve. We will give you what assistance we can. Shall I arrange for the banns to be cried?"

    Wickham took a seat, put his feet up on a small table, and poured another glass of wine. He leaned back, perfectly at his ease and clearly feeling himself in control of the interview. "I will marry Lydia," he said, sipping the wine, "if you agree to pay me the sum of ten thousand pounds."

    "You know that my father cannot pay such a sum, nor can I."

    Wickham spread his hands genially. "Then what are we to do, Tilney? Are you going to call me out? Though I know not what such a meeting shall solve: either you are dead, or I am dead, and your sister is still unmarried and ruined. I suppose that Darcy acts for you. I fear that I cannot name my friends; I have none left."

    "That is no one's fault but your own," said Darcy sharply.

    Henry held up a quelling hand toward Darcy. "We will meet," he said to Wickham, "but you will need no second. Darcy?"

    Darcy rose and went to a small table in the corner, upon which stood a quill and ink-bottle. He wrote something on the back of one of his calling cards and handed it to Wickham. "Be at the location I have written on the card at noon on the day after tomorrow. Present the card to the proprietor, and you will be admitted."

    Wickham stared at the card, and then Henry, in astonishment. "13 Bond-street?"

    "Will you meet me there?" asked Henry. "And will you agree to abide by the outcome of that meeting?"

    Wickham laughed. "Aye, I will meet you. And I will agree to abide by the outcome. You may regret it."

    "We shall see," said Henry, and strode out of the room with Darcy following closely behind.

    Continued In Next Section

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