"No!" She hated that such a conclusive word was the first and only thing she uttered. Still, she did not truly have any other choice. "No, Bethanne, No."
"But he is not like his father." Her daughter's eyes - regal when presented in a London ballroom - appeared pleading and almost childlike now. "Francis loves me, Mother - and I love him."
"You are sixteen, child. What could you possibly know - about love?" Elizabeth Darcy wrestled her huff into a sigh.
"Aunt Wickham was married when she – "
"No!" Elizabeth stood and marched across the room, barely keeping her temper. Of all the things her doe-eyed daughter could have asked for, this was the least expected – and the least desirable, as well.
"Mother, you told me love was – "
"When could this have happened? How could you have even come to know him?" Elizabeth turned to face her daughter, fire in her veins. Her child, her eldest, the beloved first fruit of their young love – when was her pristine mind sullied with such horrid fancies?
"Francis and I met at London." Bethanne's voice, and hands, trembled as she explained. "I was residing with Aunt Bingley this spring, and he came to visit."
"From Longbourn," Elizabeth recalled, sorrowfully.
"Yes, from Longbourn."
Elizabeth shut her eyes, trembling at what her beloved daughter was asking of her this very moment.
Bethanne was too young, too naïve – what did she know of love? And she herself, Elizabeth, was a failure as a parent for not having foreseen this exchange occurring.
She had a long letter to pen to Jane.
"He was nothing but kind and gentlemanly, Mother."
Elizabeth gripped the back of the chair stationed right before her. Every word she could possibly utter felt ill-advised in light of her daughter's revelation.
She had striven so hard to be the perfect mother – attentive, dedicated, caring, and firm. Where her sisters had chosen to be negligent, she chose to be involved. Whatever traits her sisters had considered unnecessary in their children, Elizabeth had insisted be instilled in hers.
Edward was a weak and sickly child, limited in the activities he could pursue.
But Bethanne – her beloved Bethanne – was everything an accomplished young woman ought to be. Where exactly in her impeccable education had things gone wrong?
Why – why would a young woman with everything in the world seek to give her heart to a man whose father was the vilest creature on earth?
Elizabeth struggled to breathe evenly.
"Is there no possibility at all, Mother?"
Elizabeth trembled at the sight of her daughter's teary eyes – the confidence and joy with which she'd prance into the room now wholly replaced with heartbreak and despair.
"I – I shall discuss with your father," Elizabeth compelled herself to say.
"Francis Wickham?" Darcy growled, hands instantly fisted.
"They met at Jane's this past season." Elizabeth leaned helplessly against her pillow. She closed her eyes. The bedroom they shared felt warmer than it often was of late. "I should never have let her go unattended."
"She is a young woman - and ought to have had more sense for herself." Her husband ran a hand across his face. "Surely, she could not have been so easily led astray by a handsome smile or a flatterer's tongue!"
"I thought we raised her better – that I raised her better," Elizabeth lamented, the waves of guilt rising anew. "Have we not warned her, innumerable times, against the folly of those who seek shallow pleasure?"
"He tried with Georgiana – and now, with Bethanne." There was an almost tearful, frantic edge to Darcy's voice. Elizabeth reached for his hand. He clasped hers firmly. "Are the attempts at Pemberley's coffers never to end?"
"At the very least – they have not chosen to elope."
Her husband's look turned wild, and Elizabeth felt her error.
"Not that they could – or would – I – " She trembled. She used both hands to grasp her husband's. "I dearly, dearly hope such thoughts have not occurred to our daughter. God forbid that any of Lydia's impulsiveness have found its way through her veins."
Darcy sighed and groaned all at once, perhaps in concurrence. For an entire minute, they sat in the bed that had often yielded so much joy – with heavy, fearful hearts and limbs.
"How shall we tell her?" Darcy asked, as the night deepened. "I fear she would expect an answer in the morning."
"I am afraid so." Elizabeth wiped the tear on her cheek.
"I refuse to allow any of Wickham's offspring to come close to any of mine."
"And to think I had used to find solace in the fact that they never had more than one child." Elizabeth slipped down, reclining more than she was sitting now. "One was all they needed."
"It is unacceptable."
"Of course."
"And you believe Bethanne shall see reason?"
The answer, of course, was that she did not know. They could not know. The uncertainty in Darcy's own tone implied that he feared the truth as well.
Their daughter had written enthusiastically about her new acquaintances throughout her London stay. She had alluded to new and fascinating friends – and Elizabeth had never thought twice about what names these new friends could have had, choosing instead to trust Jane and her chaperonage.
Who knew that such danger was to be found in their closest circles – in the hands of someone who shared their blood?
"I do not know," Elizabeth replied, limply. "She was confident – unduly confident – that we would support her."
"How could we when she chooses – "
"I know. I know." Elizabeth sniffed. Her husband took her in his arms. "It is unacceptable."
"A child born of Wickham – " Darcy shuddered.
"He was raised by my father – left in Longbourn as a babe while his parents stayed in the North. I realized only today that he visited the Bingleys often. I supposed the frequency of his visits caused Jane to consider them unremarkable."
"And yet remarkable they were – this time."
"Most horrifically so." Elizabeth wiped her fresh tears. Her husband pressed her close in a comforting, and trembling, embrace.
"Did you promise our support today when she informed you of her – preference?"
"No – never." Elizabeth sighed. "Her disappointment was evident. Though her eyes – they carried hope, still."
"Hope that we would consent?"
"That we would consent – and perhaps even share in her happiness."
"Impossible!"
"I know. I know." Every thought only served to make Elizabeth's heart hurt more – for herself, for her husband, for her child.
"With Edward so frail, it is imperative that Bethanne marry wisely."
"And it is not as if we ask her to marry someone she does not love."
"No – we do not."
"If she had but guarded her heart, it would all – " More tears threatened to flood her face. "But how can I tell her – what if she pleads – or threatens to flee. How can I – "
"You are right. There is no other way."
Elizabeth waited for her husband to complete his thought.
"We must divide them."
"They are apart now."
"But we cannot be certain. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. We must see to their estrangement ourselves."
Again, Elizabeth waited.
"We must have Bethanne see the truth – for herself. But first, we must apprise Francis Wickham for his true self."
Elizabeth nodded. "How?"
Darcy's gaze was focused, intense. "Perhaps it is time to invite our nephew to Pemberley."