With every minute that the gentlemen spent closed off behind the intricately carved doors of Mr. Darcy's grand library, Elizabeth felt her anxiety mount. Though Georgiana and Jane had noted the tension in their return, they soon turned their attentions once more to the pianoforte, their minds engrossed in the delicate strains of melody. Elizabeth, however, was not so easily diverted. She endeavored to master her impatience but found herself unequal to the task. Rising, she took to pacing, each turn drawing her nearer to the library, as if by force of will alone she might compel the doors to open and the men within to join them.
The afternoon sun yielded at last to the encroaching dusk, the sky darkening as if to match Elizabeth's mood. At length, Georgiana, having concluded her consultations with the cook, signaled that it was time to dress for dinner. Elizabeth could not suppress a twinge of envy as Mr. Darcy's butler was admitted to the library to confer with the gentlemen, while she and her companions were obliged to retreat, their maids attending to the elaborate arrangements of silk gowns and intricately woven tresses suited to the evening's formality.
When at last they returned to the drawing room, it was as empty as they had left it, and so it remained until, mere moments before they were to proceed to dinner, the gentlemen joined them. Darcy, with a manner at once attentive and yet restrained, offered Elizabeth his arm. He drew her as near as decorum allowed, guiding her to a place at the table so conveniently situated that their hands might, on occasion, meet in the reaching of a wine glass. And yet, though he placed himself so near, Elizabeth could not but notice that he avoided her gaze, nor did he speak with his usual warmth. Despite her every effort to draw him out, his replies were guarded, his words few, and his thoughts, she suspected, entirely elsewhere.
Over the course of the meal—executed with every refinement that an elegant table might demand—her impatience, first sharpened into irritation, settled into something dangerously akin to anger. The gentlemen, with an air of infuriating complacency, had confined their discourse to trifles, with detailed inquiries into the amusements of the ladies' day while withholding from her any hint of intelligence she most urgently desired—intelligence upon which the happiness of her sisters and herself might well depend. Dinner at length concluded, and Elizabeth, with great reluctance, withdrew once more to the drawing room with the other ladies, while the gentlemen remained behind for their customary indulgence in cognac and private conversation.
Elizabeth returned to her pacing until she could endure it no longer. Summoning all her resolution, she turned from Jane and Georgiana and re-entered the dining room. The gentlemen, startled by her abrupt return, barely had time to compose themselves before she announced, with unflinching resolve, "I beg your pardon, but I would ask for a moment with Mr. Darcy."
She did not, as he had evidently anticipated, resume her former seat at his side. Instead, she crossed the room with deliberate purpose, coming to stand on the opposite side of the table so that she might look directly upon him. With measured deliberation, she removed her gloves, placed her hands firmly upon the polished surface, and leaned forward, fixing him with a gaze that admitted no evasion.
Bingley, glancing between Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, appeared torn between amusement and alarm. "Miss Elizabeth, we were just preparing to rejoin you and the others. No doubt, we shall see you shortly." With that, he and the Colonel set down their glasses and promptly withdrew, leaving Darcy alone with her. At his nod, the butler too departed, closing the doors behind him with a quiet but decisive click.
Darcy regarded her with a mixture of caution and concern. "Elizabeth, I trust that you are well—that today has not been too difficult for you and Miss Bennet." He hesitated, uncertain of what further reassurance he ought to offer, while Elizabeth, restless with impatience, drummed her fingers against the table in barely restrained agitation.
She turned her gaze upward, her eyes tracing the elaborate flourishes of the ceiling's mouldings as though seeking refuge in their ordered symmetry. When at last she spoke, her voice was steady, yet laden with meaning. "Mr. Darcy."
Never before had he heard his name uttered in such a manner—each syllable a pronouncement, a reckoning unto itself. He braced himself, for he knew well that the woman before him was poised to strike, and he had not yet determined what defense he might summon.
"I can only assume," she continued, her voice now edged with emotion, "that your silence on matters of such greatest consequence is meant to protect me. But might I remind you, sir, it is not your words that pose any danger to me at this moment?"
A silence, fraught with unspoken words, fell between them. Darcy struggled against the impulse to assure Elizabeth that his actions were undertaken in her best interest. That she would, in time, be grateful to have been spared the ugliness of the matter. But even as the thought formed, he knew it to be hollow; such assurances would neither satisfy her nor, indeed, himself. He met her gaze, those dark, expressive eyes fixed upon him with a mixture of urgency and comprehension. In them, he saw the very qualities that had first drawn his admiration—her keen mind, her resolute spirit—and now, too, a tenderness that made him falter. Elizabeth studied him in turn, seeming to discern that he would not dispute her right to ask what she must.
With a quiet resolve, Darcy rose and crossed the room in measured strides. Taking her hands gently in his, he pressed his lips to the back of each before reaching to brush away the tear that had gathered at the corner of her eye. For a moment, they sat together in silence, the weight of the day pressing upon them both. At length, he drew a letter from his coat, turning it over in his hands before, with visible reluctance, sliding it across the table towards her.
Elizabeth unfolded the missive, her breath catching as her eyes scanned the page.
Mr. Darcy,
Your cousin requested that I send to this address any intelligence concerning our mutual acquaintance in Meryton, Mr. Wickham. I understand that you are apprised of the particulars and therefore take it upon myself to communicate an alarming fact that has only just come to my notice. Additional letters have been dispatched to the Colonel at the other addresses he provided.
Wickham, having met with considerable ill fortune at the gaming tables, has abandoned Meryton with indecent haste. I would not inconvenience you with this intelligence were it not for the troubling report that he was accompanied in his flight by a young lady of a family connected to your friend, Miss Lydia Bennet.
I have raised no alarm among the family nor my superiors, trusting that you may address this situation with greater discretion than either. If my information is correct, this letter will leave my hands but hours behind the travelers, and with good fortune may even pass them upon the road. Thus, I forgo unnecessary detail and assure you only of my willingness to be of service. I shall follow to London at first light and commence inquiries into their whereabouts. I am to be found at the address below. Should I receive no reply from you or your cousin by noon, I shall take it upon myself to inform the young lady's father and offer my assistance.
Lt. J. Denny
The letter, rather than offering clarity, only raised more questions. Elizabeth lifted her gaze to Darcy, her expression searching.
"Yes," he admitted at once, "Colonel Fitzwilliam and I have been observing Wickham for some time. We have long been aware of the danger he poses, but we judged it best to wait and watch rather than act prematurely." He exhaled, his voice tinged with regret. "If only I had acted. But my pride—"
Elizabeth stopped him at once. "You are not at fault. The blame lies solely with Wickham—and Lydia." Yet even as she spoke, her own distress could not be concealed. "But what news have you now? Do you know where they are?"
Darcy nodded grimly. He recounted, with measured precision, the afternoon's events—the meeting with Lieutenant Denny and Colonel Fitzwilliam, the discovery of Wickham in the gaming room, and the subsequent pursuit to his lodging. "Wickham refuses to release Lydia," he concluded, his countenance darkening. "And worse, she will not leave him. She is convinced of her attachment and will hear no reasoning against him."
Elizabeth let out a breath, her relief at knowing Lydia's whereabouts tempered by the bitter reality of her sister's headstrong nature. She pressed her fingers to her temple, already anticipating the difficulty of extricating Lydia from such a predicament. She lifted her gaze once more. "And Bingley knows everything?"
Darcy hesitated before replying. "Bingley joined our search only this afternoon. I was reluctant to involve him, particularly given his connection to Jane, but I have no doubt of his usefulness. His amiability and extensive acquaintance in town have allowed him to make inquiries without suspicion."
Elizabeth considered this for a moment before asking, "And where does this leave us now?"
Darcy's jaw tightened. "Wickham," he said, his voice weighted with disdain, "is stringing Miss Lydia along just enough to keep her pliable. It is a farce, but a dangerous one. We must separate her from him—and soon. I should say it must be done by tomorrow. But Lydia's refusal to leave complicates matters. If she cannot be persuaded—"
"She must be persuaded," Elizabeth interrupted, her urgency evident. "She is young, reckless, and foolish, but she is not impervious to reason. There must be someone she will listen to."
Darcy met her gaze, his own frustration mirroring hers. They had considered every possible avenue, and none had yet presented itself as a certain solution.
Then, suddenly, Elizabeth sat straighter, a thought forming in her mind. "Jane," she murmured. "Lydia will listen to Jane. It is the only way. Jane's gentleness is her great advantage—Lydia trusts her. Lydia will question the motives of any of you, and of me, but Jane has never spoken against Wickham. Even while convincing Lydia to leave, she would not wound her pride."
Darcy's brow furrowed, his displeasure evident. "You would send Jane—into that neighborhood, that hotel, while Wickham remains so near? My dear, I cannot permit it. Nor, I daresay, would Bingley."
Elizabeth met his objection with quiet determination. "Mr. Darcy, you said yourself that this must be done swiftly and discreetly. Jane is our best hope. It is not only the best course of action—it is the only one. You must trust me. We are her sisters. We know her best." She hesitated, then added, with measured softness, "Would you not do the same for Georgiana?"
At this, Darcy's expression changed entirely. A shadow passed over his face, a look of such deep, unguarded pain that Elizabeth immediately regretted the words, though she could not entirely understand why they should have affected him so. Yet, despite his evident distress, he inclined his head at last.
"You are right," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "There is nothing I would not do in such a case. And it is only right that you and Jane be given the opportunity to do the same."
"I shall go to Jane at once," Elizabeth declared without hesitation, "and tell her everything." She turned as if to leave, but then, with a sudden impulse, paused and looked back at him. "But oh! My dear Mr. Darcy," she said softly, her voice trembling with feeling. "I must thank you—again and again—not only for finding Lydia, but for permitting me to be of service, for trusting me." The warmth of her gratitude, the depth of her emotion, caught in her throat, and for a moment, she could say no more.
Darcy, scarcely able to master his own emotions, stepped towards her. With infinite tenderness, he took her face in his hands, drawing her near until his forehead nearly touched her own. His voice, when at last he spoke, was little more than a whisper, his breath warm against her cheek.
"There is nothing I would not do for you, my love," he murmured. "Nothing that could ever keep me from your side, in joy or in sorrow. I cannot conceive of a world in which you are not there to listen, to challenge, to guide me—to make me a better man."
For a moment, they remained thus, in quiet communion, the trials before them forgotten in the certainty of their devotion.